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She walked over and put her arm around Freya’s shoulder. ‘What is wrong with you, Jacob? We wanted to do something nice for you—to surprise you.’
But it was almost as if he hadn’t heard her. He was still shaking his head at the twinkling lights. He crossed the room and flicked the switch on one of the plugs, plunging that part of the room into darkness.
Almost as dark as your mood was her fleeting thought as he turned on her again.
‘How dare you do this? Didn’t I tell you I don’t celebrate Christmas? I don’t even like Christmas.’ The words were said with such venom she actually found herself pulling back a little. But it only lasted a second. Because after that the red mist started to descend.
All the hours of work and preparation. The build-up of excitement between her and Freya all day. And he was ruining it all with some angry words and some hand movements. Destroying all their hard work.
She dropped her arm from around Freya’s shoulder and stepped right up to his face. ‘Oh, I get that. I get that you don’t like Christmas. Enough, Jacob!’ she snapped. ‘You’ve made your point. You don’t like Christmas. Well, pardon me for not being a mind reader. And pardon me, and my daughter, for trying to do something to say thank you for letting us stay. We won’t make that mistake again!’
She turned at the sound of a little sob behind her and dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around Freya’s little body. She would kill him. She would kill him with her bare hands for his pathetic overreaction.
Jacob flinched. It was as if reality had just slapped him on the forehead and he realised the impact his reactions had had on Freya. For the tiniest second he seemed to hesitate, but Bonnie glared at him, furious with him for upsetting her daughter, and he spun on his heel and stalked back along the corridor, slamming the front door behind him.
The blood was pounding in her ears. She’d never been so angry with someone—not even her pathetic husband when she’d found him in bed with her so-called friend. Freya’s shoulders were shaking and her head was buried into the nape of Bonnie’s neck.
Over Christmas decorations? Really?
She didn’t care that this was his house. She didn’t care that on every other occasion Jacob had been a kind and hospitable housemate. This blew everything else out of the water.
He’d upset her daughter.
Jacob Layton was about to find out that hell hath no fury like an angry mother.
* * *
‘Isn’t it about time you went home?’
He lifted his head from the bar and the barman gestured his head towards the clock. The guy obviously wanted to close up.
The old guy shrugged. ‘Can’t be that bad.’
Jacob picked up the now-warm remnants of beer and washed them down. ‘You have no idea.’
He looked out through the murky window. It had started to snow. He didn’t even have a jacket. In his haste to leave the house he hadn’t stopped to pick one up.
How far had he walked? He had no idea. He’d never even been in this pub before. Let alone nearly fallen asleep at the bar.
He gave the barman a little nod and shivered as he walked out of the door and the wind whistled around his thin jumper. With his suit trousers and business shoes it was hardly winter gear. But he hadn’t stopped to think about much before he left.
That was the trouble. He couldn’t think. He’d taken one look at all those Christmas decorations and a whole host of unwanted memories had come flooding back.
It was ridiculous. It was pathetic. He’d spent every year of his life around Christmas decorations.
But not in his space. Not in his home. In other places, they were bearable. In other places there were other things to do, other things to think about. At home, they would be right under his nose constantly—forcing him to think about things he’d long since pushed to the back of his mind.
The cold wind started to penetrate through his thin jumper, making him shiver. His insides were cringing.
Freya.
Her little face had crumpled and she’d started to cry.
He was ashamed of himself. Ashamed of his behaviour. He hadn’t even stopped to think about her. And everything about that was wrong.
What embarrassed him even more was the fact that if it had been just Bonnie, he might not be feeling so ashamed. It had taken a five-year-old to teach him what acceptable behaviour was. What kind of human being did that make him?
The kind that had spent the last three hours in a bar, like some sad and lonely old drifter sitting on a bar stool alone, nursing one bottle of beer after another.
Pathetic. Was that really the kind of man he wanted to be? Was that the kind of man that would have made his mother proud?
All of a sudden he wasn’t feeling the cold any more. All of sudden he was lost in distant memories as his feet trudged through the snow, his dress shoes getting damper by the second as the memories of his mother burned deep in his mind.
She had complemented his closed-off father beautifully with her calming good nature. She was always able to put a smile on his father’s often grumpy face, or give a measured argument against his forceful opinions—skills that Jacob hadn’t seemed to inherit.
If his mother had still been alive he would never have ended up at loggerheads with his father over his refusal to follow the family tradition into the military. His mother would have argued peacefully, but successfully, for his entry to medical school and the opportunity to pursue his own career options.
His father had never really accepted his decision—particularly when Jacob had opted to become an obstetrician. It wasn’t heroic enough for his father. It wasn’t front line enough, or pioneering enough. He didn’t see the joy in bringing life into the world, compared with so many other specialities that frequently dealt with death. Just as well his mother had left him enough money, not only to put himself through medical school, but also to allow him the freedom to place a deposit on a house and have the option of being part of one of the finest universities and hospitals in the country.
She would be proud of him. She should be proud of him. She would love what her son had achieved.
But she would also expect him to treat everyone with the same respect he’d given her. With the love and compassion he’d given her.
The long street ahead was coated with snow. The orange streetlights cast a warm glow across the snow-topped cars. People spilled out of the pub ahead of him, laughing and joking. Full of cheer.
When was the last time he’d been in Cambridge city centre on a Saturday night? He couldn’t even remember. Now he looked around him, C
hristmas was everywhere. Every shop window was decorated and a few of the flats on the main street had glistening trees in their windows.
He hung his head as the cold bit harder. Festive cheer. It should be spreading warmth through his soul. What on earth was he going home to?
His footsteps quickened as a horrible thought shot through his head. What if they’d left? What if they’d left because of his behaviour?
The beer sloshed around in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten at all in the last few hours and that last thought made him feel physically sick.
The thought of going home to an empty house after a month wasn’t at all appealing. It was strange how things had changed without him really noticing. Please don’t let them leave. He would much prefer it if Bonnie was waiting at home ready to tell him exactly what she thought of him. He could take it.
He might even try and explain why he’d behaved like that—if, of course, she gave him a chance to speak.
The snow was getting heavier. It was kicking up under his feet and lying on his shoulders and eyelashes. His feet moved even quicker. How far had he walked?
It was a relief to finally turn into his street. Only a few windows were uncovered, letting their warm light spill out onto the snow-covered street. From a distance, he could see his tightly pulled white blinds.
He swallowed. His mouth had never felt so dry. Drinking beer certainly hadn’t helped. More than anything right now he just wanted to know what lay behind his door.
He had to stop himself from breaking into a run. His brain was spinning. What would he do if they’d left? What would he say if they’d stayed? A thousand excuses and explanations were running through his brain. But somehow he knew they wouldn’t wash with Bonnie.
Nothing but the truth would do for her.
He pulled his key from his pocket as he walked up the steps. He paused at the door. The house was silent. Not a single sound from inside.
The traditional door handle was icy cold. He pushed down on it and the door clicked open.
