CHAPTER1
EMILY
‘Christmas is cancelled,’ I shout before sliding down the outside of Felix’s bedroom door, tucking my knees under my chin, and bursting into tears. Everything goes blurry except for a small black dog shape moving quickly towards me, carrying something pink. For a fleeting second, I wonder whether Baxter, the miniature dachshund, has finally decided to work with me and not against me, and is now rushing to my aid with the box of pink tissues from my bedroom. The sound of a heavy object being dragged across the floor in Felix’s bedroom distracts me. ‘I don’t care about Christmas,’ Felix yells, making me flinch. A sinking feeling takes hold of me – he’s using his desk chair to strengthen his bedroom barricade. This child protest is going to go on for hours. I try to muster the energy to go downstairs but I just want to sit here and weep.
A thud is followed by him screaming, ‘I HATE YOU, AUNTY EMILY.’
Wiping my damp cheeks and heavy eyelids with the sleeve of my cardigan I bite my tongue and refrain from yelling, ‘YOU’RE SO HARD TO LOVE RIGHT NOW.’
Looking down I see Baxter sitting by my foot. A pair of my cerise knickers are hanging from his little jaws. He’s pinched them from the basket of clean laundry on the floor in the bedroom. Why did I even entertain the thought Baxter would help me in my time of need?
I try to grab him, but he hurries back into the bedroom, trots up the makeshift ramp of books, which Felix made for him, and dives in amongst all my clean washing. Why did I leave that basket on the floor when I know Baxter enjoys burrowing deep inside it to hunt for my underwear and Felix likes to encourage him?
After more noises from inside his room, Felix’s heavy sobs drift onto the landing. Shame, sadness, and frustration knot themselves together inside my tummy. For the last week every night has ended like this; a huge argument which results in us crying, saying hurtful things, him going to make a lot of noise in his bedroom and Baxter chewing up whatever he can get his tiny black paws on.
Theweekbit is a lie. Felix and I have been at each other throats for months. Sometimes morning and night. Sometimes all bloody day!
Physical and mental exhaustion has turned my body into lead. I’ve had enough. Assuming the foetal position on the carpet outside my nephew’s door I try to close my eyes… but I can’t ignore the array of dirt marks in my sister, Vivi’s, oatmeal-coloured carpet. Why have I never noticed these before? This carpet is the one she boasted about buying last year. According to her it was heavenly for bare feet and the saleswoman swore it contained some new carpet technology which meant it wouldn’t show up the dirt so easily. ‘That carpet saleswoman lied, Vivi,’ I say, with a heavy sigh. ‘Also, not a great colour choice. I think you should have opted for the darker brown. I remember talking to you about it last year. We both laughed at how we were getting our adult kicks from talking about carpets. Once we’d composed ourselves, you said you knew best and ignored my suggestion.’ Pressing my cheek against the carpet I sit up holding my itchy cheek. ‘It’s NOT soft, Vivi. More like sandpaper.’
I can hear a chuckle from behind the door. It makes me jolt with shock. My heart breaks into a wild gallop. Felix is talking to me. My goodness, this is a miracle.
‘Aunty Emily, you shouldn’t carpet-shame Mum.’
‘Why not?’ I say, with a wry smile. ‘Felix – have you seen the state of the landing carpet?’
He giggles. ‘It’s not as bad as the carpet she chose for me.’
I let out a mock gasp. ‘What?’
The sound of him laughing against the door makes me forget about why we were cross with each other.
‘It’s an awful purple colour,’ says Felix, before pulling away whatever was resting against the door. He stands before me, puffy eyed and pink faced. I cast my eyes over his ghastly violet carpet which looks more like something Great Granny knitted. What possessed my sister to buy her nine-year-old child such a horrid carpet?
‘Yuck. Felix, I want to apologise for your mum’s carpet crime. As your aunty I feel like I have let you down by not noticing it.’
He chuckles. I watch him slide down his door, sit cross-legged opposite me in the doorway to his room and whistle for Baxter. My eyes take in Felix’s river of freckles which flow over the bridge of his nose and pools around his cheeks, and his chaotic coppery hair (which can’t decide whether to stand upright, lean to one side of his head, or just collapse over his forehead, and has decided to do all three and hope for the best).
Baxter returns carrying a blue pair of my knickers which makes me mutter bad words under my breath. To a stranger, Baxter would be viewed as an adorable dog. He looks like someone has dipped him into black treacle but has not managed to coat all of his tin-can-sized body as there are patches of milk chocolate brown on the sides of his paws and belly. His eyes are like two precious black gems which glint in the light. With Baxter, looks are deceiving. A stranger wouldn’t be able to comprehend the amount of carnage and chaos this tiny dog creates.
Felix smiles. Ignoring Baxter’s ‘come and play’ face, he flicks his eyes to his battered old blue trainers and furry, orange socks.
‘Arguing is becoming a daily occurrence for us,’ I say, wrapping my old bottle green cardigan around myself.
Felix shrugs and tugs at one of his dirty grey laces, which a few weeks ago were white. The sounds of carol singers outside drifts through the open window on the landing. Shame hasn’t finished with me yet. This should be a magical time for Felix. Vivi loved Christmas. You’d hear her singing Christmas pop songs from down the street, she’d have spent far too much money on glittery decorations in the Christmas aisles of The Range, her tree would take over the living room, Felix, her only child, would be spoilt rotten, and she’d cook an extravagant dinner which would fill everyone up until New Year’s Eve.
Tomorrow is the day before Christmas Eve. As this is Felix’s first Christmas without his mum, I should have put up a brightly coloured tree downstairs. There should be a turkey crown sat in the fridge, presents gift-wrapped in stockings, Christmas cards hung on pieces of red ribbon and a festive dog collar on Baxter. I should be busy making happy memories for us, not creating more pain. Nausea creeps up my throat.
‘Why did we start arguing tonight, Felix?’ I can’t even recall how tonight’s screaming match began.
He leans inside his bedroom and grabs my silver iPad. ‘You got mad at me for using this,’ he says, in a tiny voice, sliding it over to me.
I catch sight of Facebook still open. Felix follows my gaze and quickly shuts it down.
If Felix thinks tonight was all my fault he can think again. ‘If you’d handed it to me and not flung it across the room, we could have still been downstairs.’
‘You were already cross, Aunty Emily,’ he mumbles, returning to fiddle with his lace. ‘You were doing your angry sewing again.’
Felix knows how to force a smile onto my face. ‘Angry sewing – is that a thing I do?’
