The journey to Castleton this year will take us approximately three hours, two train changes and a car ride, which, given last year’s absolute shitshow, is totally worth it. Quite frankly, I’d rather walk barefoot over broken glass than go through that again. I’m sure we’ll eventually get back to longer car journeys, but for now we’re playing it safe.
Things are going well between Ed and me. Actually ‘going well’ doesn’t quite cover it. A more accurate description would be more like ‘fucking amazing’ or ‘astonishingly filthy’. It’s not just the physical side that’s back on track, however; emotionally, we’re in a brilliant place. We’ve reconnected in a way that almost feels like it did when we were teenagers– the way we used to completely get each other but we weren’t lazy or complacent about it. Back then it excited us. We revelled in it because it was ours and ours alone. Over the past year we’ve worked through our problems, some more successfully than others, but now, it feels like we’re finally back at that place. That place where he can soothe me with music or where even the slightest touch can set off something explosive. It’s a delightful place to be.
This Christmas we’ve decided it’s time to throw out a few family traditions. No more separation. This year I want both families together for Christmas Day. I want us all to eat, open presents, sing carols and fall asleep in front of the television together. I want Tom to get to know Ed’s family because they’re my family, too. Yvonne and Chris have kindly opened their home to everyone and I feel like it’s going to be the best Christmas ever. Ed and I also decided that Christmas this year just wouldn’t bethe same without the two people who helped ensure we stayed sane enough to see another one.
Having to stop to charge the car for half an hour but should be in Castleton around six. Graham says he wants to go hiking so I’m dumping him as soon as we arrive L xx
I take out my laptop and try to log on to the free Wi-Fi, tutting every time it kicks me out, which is roughly every thirty seconds.
‘Christ, it’d be quicker sending a carrier pigeon,’ I mumble, typing in my email address for the umpteenth time.
‘Aw, Kate. . . you promised,’ Ed whinges. ‘No work over Christmas, remember?’
‘Ah, but it’s not work,’ I assure him. ‘It’s a good deed for a fellow classmate. I’m like the Christmas Fairy.’
‘Hmm, that’s not even a thing,’ Ed replies.
‘Yeah, and next you’ll be telling me that Santa doesn’t exist. I’m sending over some study notes to James; he missed the lecture on Tuesday and will surely fail his entire degree without them. See, I’m helping out my fellow man. This change of direction is paying off already.’
Leaving Parish Scott Taylor was easy– mainly because I was fired for walking out when Gubba got sick, but also because, deep down, I knew I was done. It just took me far too long to admit it. Surprisingly, Tara Mitchell-Brown also left Parish Scott Taylor when she found out why I was sacked. I was rather touched.
‘That’s bullshit. You did the right thing, I get it. My Nana Jean is a queen, babe. If she got sick, there’s nothing that could keep me from her.’
Six months later, Tara was officially divorced, walking away with almost £2m, the house in Jesmond, a Range Rover HSE and even a brand-new foot spa, and I was enrolling at the London School of Economics to retrain in Human Rights Law.We still keep in touch, and she still throws one hell of a party.
Ed unwraps his sandwich and sniffs, his eyes darting back to my phone as I type. ‘James, huh? Who’s James? Don’t think you’ve mentioned him.’
I smirk. ‘Haven’t I? He’s on my course. Bit older– maybe mid-thirties. He’s super smart, really nice guy and. . . homely looking. . .’
Ed manages to laugh and blush at the same time. Although I’m now completely at peace with the whole Carly business, it doesn’t hurt to wind him up every now and again.
Finally, I connect and email James my notes, wishing him and his husband a merry Christmas.
By the time we reach Leicester, Ed has officially won the sandwich battle, given that my neon atrocity is rather delicious, spider corpses and all. For his prize, I buy him an overpriced chickpea wrap, politely asking the onboard shop staff to burn and bury his three-cheese abomination.
‘Heard anything from your dad?’ Ed asks, taking his wrap.
I shake my head. ‘Not a peep. He’s officially disappeared again. I’m sure he’ll resurface at some point.’
‘Probably,’ he replies. ‘But I think it’s more likely that Gubba killed him.’
I snort with laughter.
‘Now, hear me out,’ he continues. ‘I’ve been thinking about this. She has that look about her, you know, like the matriarch in a crime movie. No one would suspect her. It’s perfect.’
‘Perfect, except for the fact that Gubba couldn’t batter a fish,’ I reply. ‘Never mind kill someone. And we’re hardly the Sopranos.’
‘Look, if we get to Castleton and she’s vanished with her passport, we’ll know.’
I sit back and sigh. I haven’t heard from my dad in nine weeks, which I should be used to by now, but I really thought he wasmaking progress.
‘Maybe I should just check the hospitals. I mean maybe he just went out for milk and—’
‘Took the telly with him? Kate, you saw his flat. He cleared out the good stuff you bought him and left the rest for the council to deal with. I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually but please don’t let this ruin your Christmas.’
I nod and kiss Ed on his chickpea mouth. ‘I won’t. Promise.’
An hour later, we change trains at Sheffield, pleased that we’ll be in Hope in around thirty minutes. Ed gives me the aisle seat, knowing the two coffees I’ve had will come back to haunt me soon. As we wait for the train to depart, Ed becomes fidgety.
