Page 68 of Where Do We Go From Here?
W: Um, well… Except you kind of did.
H: OK. Maybe we did, a bit. But it was only because of Covid.
W: Yeah. Right.
H: Anyway, she’s told me what she wants – Fiona has. But I need to run it by you first. So don’t, you know, go off on one before you know what I’m going to say.
W: Go on then. What does she want this time?
H: She wants a flight. To France. She wants to come visit you. Though frankly, God knows why.
W: God! Really?
H: I know. Crazy, huh? I’m thinking of taking her to a shrink instead because she’s clearly losing her mind.
W: Harry…
H: Hey, I’m joking! She wants to spend Christmas with her mummy. You can’t be that shocked.
W: For Christmas, though? She wants to come forChristmas?
H: Yeah. I think she feels bad about last year. Well, we all do, actually. And she’s a bit worried about you, out there on your own. And … I don’t know… I think she thinks it might be nice. To reconnect with her mummy over mince pies or frogs’ legs or whatever it is the French eat.
W: Gosh.
H: Plus, if truth be told, she’s not Amanda’s biggest fan.
W: Amanda being Todd’s girlfriend?
H: Yeah. He’s bringing her to …mineours… to the house. Fifi thinks she’s snobby. Which she probably is, a bit. So… Anyway. Lots of good reasons. Lots of perfectly reasonable reasons. And the flights are doable – I’ve checked. A bit pricey, but totally doable. But of course, in the end, it’s up to you. Because you’re the one who will have to entertain her.
W: …
H: So?
W: …
H: Hello? Ground control to Wendy. Anyone home?
W: Sorry. I’m a bit stunned, actually.
H: But in a good way?
W: Yes. But gosh… Look… I don’t know what to say, Haz. I…I don’t have a car.And I feel like shit right now.And I’m living in a studio.And I don’t have a tree or decorations. Or cake.And Fiona will hate it here anyway.I have no idea how to organise any of this.Plus Fiona hasn’t had a good word to say to me in ages.And what if we argue the whole time?
H: Look, if you don’t fancy it that’s perf?—
W: No, of course I fancy it. I’d love that. Yes! Obviously, it’s a yes.
…
The phone call over, she lies back and stares at the ceiling and tries to catch her breath. She checks the calendar on her phone. She has eight days to get better, organise a car, get food in and clean the place (and herself) up. She probably needs a haircut. She’s starting to look a bit wild. And the car part is going to be expensive, but it’s possible, she supposes. It’s all just about possible. As long as it doesn’t snow again, it is, anyway.
She drags herself out of bed and takes an unpleasant lukewarm shower before wrapping herself warmly and stepping outside into the sunshine. She’s been feeling so ill that she hasn’t even noticed the weather until now.
The snow is all but gone this morning and there are only tiny patches remaining in the undergrowth to prove it wasn’t also a dream.
The walk to the bakery feels much farther today and by the time she gets there she’s soaked in sweat and her legs have gone all rubbery. But the bakery, thank God, is open, so she buys pasta and sauces and instant noodles, fresh bread, chocolate and, to cheer herself up, a couple of bottles of that lovely Beaujolais, plus a croissant to eat en route.
