‘And who are “they”?’ demanded my mother. ‘These employers who want to take you away from your family at such a special time of year and such a special occasion?’
It seemed unfair that they, rather than I, seemed to be getting the blame, but I wasn’t going to argue.
‘They’re called the Princes,’ I said. ‘They live at Lyonscroft.’
‘Not Princess Marie-Elise Colombo della Rovere?’ gasped Dorothea, turning the makeshift fan on herself.
‘That’s the one,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Although I’ve been told to call her Marilise.’
‘Didyouhave anything to do with this?’ she said, turning on Araminta, who was making a paper aeroplane out of a page torn from a bridal magazine.
‘How could I have?’ she protested, launching the plane, which promptly nosedived into a bowl of dried rose petals. ‘I only met Laura tonight.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past you,’ snarled Dorothea before returning her attentions to Steph, who was pretending she was about to faint. ‘Come on, darling, you’ve had an exhausting evening. I’ll help you to bed and then I must get home to Giles.’
She shot another venomous look at Araminta who, seemingly oblivious to her ire, was picking up empty prosecco bottles to check for dregs, before Dorothea steered Steph out of the room.
‘I’d better go as well,’ said Araminta, giving up on the final empty bottle. ‘Shall we swap numbers?’
We did so, then I waved her off in a taxi before returning reluctantly inside. As I entered the dining room, my mother, slumped in a chair, looked up at me.
‘Youspeak to her, Charles.’
My poor father, dragged away from his book, looked at me sympathetically.
‘What’s all this about, then, Lor?’ he said, absentmindedly eating a handful of sugared almonds. There wouldn’t be any left for the guests at this rate.
‘Nothing much,’ I said, and started to tidy up the table. ‘I’ve got a nursing job over Christmas like I always do, that’s all.’
Dad looked helplessly at Mum, who tutted.
‘But this Christmas isn’t just Christmas, is it? It’s Steph’s wedding; she thought you were going to be here with her every step of the way. And so you should be. We all know that it’sa difficult time of year for you, but…’ Her voice began to rise. ‘You’re beingvery selfish.’
There it was. Out loud. What my mother and sister truly thought: that grieving for my husband, finding events such as weddings and Christmas difficult to handle, was selfish. The truth was that they branded anyone who didn’t put them at the centre of everything, or who threatened to move the spotlight for even a moment, as selfish. Steph had even intimated that it was some failing on my part that Paulo had died when he did:you’re a nurse. Couldn’t you at least have got him through Christmas so that it wasn’t spoiled?I have been branded as selfish repeatedly throughout my life, which has shaped it. I went into nursing, one of the most selfless careers there is, to prove something, but now I was older I was beginning to realise that what I needed to be wasmoreselfish, rather than less, for my own protection.
‘I’m sorry that’s how you feel,’ I replied. ‘But I did find something close to home, so I’ll still be able to help.’
My father came over and put an arm around me.
‘It’s such a shame that Christmas is tough for you now. You loved it so much when you were a little girl.’
My eyes filled with tears and I relaxed a little, to lean against his reassuring sturdiness.
‘You did,’ said Mum, her voice softer. ‘You were transfixed by the presents under the tree, but you didn’t want to guess what they were, so you would never touch them, just stare, and then when it came to opening them, you’d do it so, so carefully.’ She chuckled. ‘Steph couldn’t wait to rip the paper off to get at what was inside, but you’d peel the tape slowly in the hope of preserving the paper, and enjoy unwrapping gifts almost as much as finding out what they were.’
I nodded.
‘I know.’ My voice broke, and Dad gave me an extra squeeze. ‘I’m sorry about never being here, but I’m still trying to cope.’
‘We all miss Paulo,’ said Dad, wiping his own eyes.
‘We do,’ said Mum. ‘But you’re such a wonderful woman, Laura, we want to see you happy. When will it be time to let him go and move on with your life? It’s been three years, nearly.’
It had, but whilst other people saw three long years, they had been to me like the blink of an eye, and every time I found that I was enjoying something – particularly Christmas – the guilt at not being able to help Paulo threatened to overwhelm me and I turned to work as a salve.
‘I’m happy for Steph, really I am,’ I said. ‘But I’m also fine with my life as it is.’
‘Fear can make moving on as difficult as grief can,’ said my father. ‘But only you can know at what point being fine with your life isn’t enough and find the courage to face it.’
