He is literally on the other side of the door. Why can’t he just come in and talk about this instead of this stupid text only arrangement?
My own mood crashes to the floor.
I thought it might cheer us both up, I reply.
Wrong, he writes back.You should have discussed this with me first.
Really? I breathe slowly through my nose. Talk about an over-reaction …
The tip worked by the way, I say, in a bid to change the subject swiftly.
The what?
The bicarbonate of soda on my coat? The stain is gone so my coat lives to see another day.
I wish you’d messaged me before decorating the place.
I hear him rummage about in the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans and muttering to himself as he does so. I feel claustrophobic and confined in this living room now that he’s back. Gosh, I didn’t honestly think I’d done much harm with a few fairy lights here and there. It took me ages to make that wreath on the door.
I’ll be using the kitchen for the next hour to cook a late dinner, he tells me in his next text.
My eyes sting with tears. He’s being a prick, but I don’t want to argue with him. I don’t have the energy, nor do I want to make matters worse.
Yes, I should have let him know what I was doing, but it’s not like I’d planned it. I surprised myself more than anyone when I found myself lost in the moment that made me feel good about myself again.
Now, I just feel stupid.
Work away, Charlie. The kitchen is all yours.
I press send, switch on the TV, search through Netflix and snuggle down to watchHome Alonefor the hundredth time in the hope it might make me feel better. It was a family favourite when I was growing up and I need some comfort now.
As I lie down on the sofa, pull a fleecy blanket around me and fluff up my pillow, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself. It was a giant leap forward for me to find the urge to make decorations like I used to, plus the conversation with Lorraine in the craft shop really filled me up inside.
But I feel silly and selfish now that I’ve had my knuckles rapped by Charlie. I should have been more sensitive to his feelings since we’re both sharing such a tiny space.
The bubble is burst. The brief glimmer of festive cheer is gone. I pick up my phone and message him one last time.
I’ll take everything down by morning.
I must have fallen asleep during the movie.
I wake with a crick in my neck, remembering how I’d dreamed that an evil version of Macaulay Culkin was chasing my sister Sarah and me while tugging a huge Christmas tree behind him.
I long to tell her so, but I know if I message her now I’ll get the usual plea from her to come home and spend Christmas with my family, when I’ve made it very clear that I’m not ready for that just yet.
If she knew I’d come to Granny Molly’s cottage, she would have a fit.
Sarah knows how much I need space at this time of year, so she doesn’t push, but if I give an inch then she’ll try to convince me to walk a mile. I really do miss her so much.
My latest message from her was just today, in a very vague check-in as she knows I go underground at this time of year.
You OK? We miss you.
All good, I replied, with a close-up photo of George wearing tinsel on his collar. I was careful not to give away any of the background as my sister could spot this cottage and its surroundings in a heartbeat.
The TV has gone on standby and the only sound in the cottage, apart from the ticking clock above the hearth, is the muffled sound of Charlie’s deep voice from the kitchen. He must be on the phone, which is no mean feat considering the mobile reception here is glitchy to say the least.
His voice comes closer as he moves into the hallway, I assume, for better reception.