Page 99 of The Unlikely Spare
It’s a Christmas miracle.
Now the party is winding down, with people executing that delicate social ballet of departure. They don’t want to seem too eager to leave and appear ungrateful, but they also don’t want to linger and outstay their welcome. Blake makes her excuses first, then Davis practically sprints for the door, muttering how he’ll be back for his shift soon. Singh leaves, discussing security rotations with Malcolm, while Cavendish follows a few minutes later, phone pressed to his ear.
The suite feels too large with most of the crowd gone. MacLeod remains planted by the window, nursing the dregs of her whisky. Eoin moves through the space collecting abandonedplates, and I find myself tracking his movements the way he usually tracks mine.
My body still carries the memory of him: the slight soreness, the faint marks on my collarbone and hips, the echo of fullness that makes me shift restlessly.
I try to ease that restlessness by gathering empty glasses.
“It is weird watching royalty do actual tidying,” MacLeod announces to no one in particular. “It’s like seeing a unicorn use a hoover.”
“I’m perfectly capable of basic cleaning tasks,” I reply.
“Capable is a strong word,” Eoin says. “I think it’s more likely to be ‘theoretically aware that cleaning exists as a concept.’”
The half grin he gives me is a dangerous thing.
MacLeod finishes her whisky and stands. “Right then. Early start tomorrow.” She nods at us both. “Happy Christmas, sir. O’Connell.”
Then she’s gone, leaving behind a silence that stretches between Eoin and me like a held breath. The silence seems to have texture now, threaded through with the echo of gasped names and tangled sheets.
My phone buzzes, breaking the tension. Callum’s name lights up the screen with a photo attachment of him and Oliver in matching Christmas jumpers that look deliberately hideous. At least, I hope it was deliberate. Oliver’s expression suggests he’s been thoroughly charmed into this indignity.
I flash the screen at Eoin. “My brother has a gift for making Oliver do things that would have his former constituents questioning their voting choices.”
Eoin examines the photo. “The former PM in a reindeer jumper. That’s definitely something I never thought I’d see.”
“Callum’s power knows no bounds.” I set the phone aside.
I’m curiously reluctant to shatter this moment, Eoin as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him, with a trace of a smile on his face.I have a rather desperate need to keep him here, talking about brothers and bad jumpers and anything else that he wants to talk about.
“Do you have any Christmas traditions with your brother?” I ask.
His fingers go still on the glass he’s just picked up. “We drink. Remember the people who should be there.” He raises his gaze to mine, and I recognize the shadows in them only too well. “Mam died when I was twelve. Da followed her a few years later.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know platitudes are meaningless.
“Long time ago now.” But his voice carries the weight of old grief.
I know how grief ages differently than time, how “long ago” can feel like yesterday when a memory is triggered.
I move to the window and stare out at the city and harbor sprawled out, the volcanic island of Rangitoto in the distance. “My father died in a skiing accident when I was five,” I say.
“I know,” Eoin replies, his voice quiet.
Of course he knows. The whole world knows. My father’s death has been dissected in unauthorized biographies and trotted out at dinner parties by people who think tragedy makes for good conversation. My father, the playboy party prince, showing off, skiing too fast.
It’s what he did, pushed everything past its limits, until he eventually went too far.
“He loved Christmas.” I don’t know why I’m saying this, but now I’ve started, I can’t stop myself. “He made everything into an adventure. Once he rappelled down the side of Sandringham dressed as Father Christmas. Security nearly shot him.”
Eoin makes a sound that might be amusement or sympathy.
“Everyone has these stories about him. But I hardly remember him.” The confession feels like it’s been excavated from some sealed vault I’d rather forgotten existed.
But it’s true. I’ve only got flashes of memories left. The smell of his cologne. How his laugh filled entire rooms. The way his hand felt enormous when it held mine.
“People tell me I’m exactly like him,” I continue. “But I have no idea if that’s correct. And I’ve heard so many different versions of him that I have no way of actually knowing which one is true.”
