to feel if I relive that Christmas again. Except I know it will be different. I’ve got to prove to Lynn that I can cope with anything, and I suppose I’ve got to prove that to myself, too. And I’ve got to sort Will Armstrong out once and for all. Whatever Sam said before, this is personal now. Nobody is going to mess up my business. (I quite like the sound of that, my business.)
‘You can do it, love. I know you can.’ Lynn squeezes my hand. ‘Do you remember what it was like? That little log cabin? It was lovely, wasn’t it?’ Her wistful smile is reflected in her voice. ‘And that very nice couple who ran it then, you won’t remember them.’
‘I do. They were like Mother and Father Christmas.’ Warm, cuddly, ever smiling. I’d felt like I’d been wrapped in a blanket of love and protection, and even back then, so young and confused, I’d clung to their kindness.
‘They were sweethearts, but getting on a bit even then. They sold the place a few years ago, to two brothers. It seemed to be much the same for a long time – the younger boy, Ed he was called, was running it. I had some lovely chats with him, but then something happened and his brother took charge.’
‘Will.’ I’m not really listening to her, all I can think about is the last day I was there, at the resort. When I hadn’t wanted to walk away, because how would Mum and Dad know where to find me if I left with Auntie Lynn?
It wasn’t until later that I realised one of them would never be able to look for me, and the other didn’t care.
‘Will, that’s right. Well, he’s a totally different kettle of fish to Ed.’
‘Cold fish rather than kettle I’d say,’ I mutter, but I’m pretty sure she’s heard because she’s giving me her ‘look’. ‘And he’s ruined the place.’
‘Well, we don’t know all the facts, do we, love? And from the brief emails we’ve swapped I’d say there’s more to him than meets the eye.’
Oh God. Emails! Has he said anything to Aunt Lynn about those? Oh shit. What exactly did I say to him? What’s Auntie Lynn said to him?
‘Sarah, are you all right, love? You don’t usually gobble up my cakes like that.’
I swallow hard, and I mean hard – this pastry is quite a challenge. I hadn’t realised I’d been shoving food in my mouth as a stress-reliever. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
How do I put this, without making her snatch my early Christmas present away before it’s made legal?
‘After you saw all those horrible reviews, that made you clean the oven, I emailed the resort.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t cleaning the oven because of the reviews, love. I did it for some thinking time, to work out what to do about Christmas.’
‘Oh. But I thought . . . Well, it is important to you?’
‘Of course, it is. I’ll never forget that first Christmas, Sarah, but it’s all,’ she taps her forehead, ‘up here. I have the trinkets we brought back, and I have you.’ She smiles. ‘The biggest trinket of all. But places change, and we can’t expect a stranger to preserve our memories for us, can we?’
I shake my head.
‘But it was a lovely place, and very popular with clients, so I’m sure if you can chat to this Will and sort it out, it will be wonderful. Otherwise we’ll have to start sending people to see the Northern Lights, won’t we?’ She stands up. ‘Now, I don’t want to be rude, love, but I promised to bake some cakes for the homeless, so I’ll talk to you tomorrow, shall I?’ She’s already handing me my bag. ‘Lots to do before I go away. And I’m so pleased you’re keen to go back to the Shooting Star, Sarah. I think it means you’re ready to move on, don’t you?’
In my heart I know what she wants me to do. The thing she’s gently hinted at over the years, the thing the shrink less gently hinted at. She wants me to talk about what happened to Mum, to ask all the questions, to forgive her last actions. And she wants me to talk about Dad. To talk to Dad. To stop harbouring the hate, the mistrust; the feeling in my heart that it’s always my fault, that I can never be quite good enough. That it’s always better to move on before people find out that I’m not the person they were hoping I was and leave me.
She wants me to stop picking boyfriends that I know from the start aren’t within a million miles of being ‘the one’ and to think about the future. Live in the moment has always been my motto. I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with all this responsibility and dealing with the past shit.
If anybody else was asking, I’d be out of here. But this is Lynn. And Aunt Lynn wants me to do some adulting stuff, so I guess it’s time to try.
It’s as she pushes the door firmly shut behind me that I realise that I never got to explain to her what I actually said in my emails to Will. And she has no idea how rude and impossible Will Armstrong is, and that he thinks I’m the most unprofessional travel agent ever. She is clueless about the fact that I’m heading towards the worst Christmas ever.
And that, before I go, I have to burn another of my bridges.
‘It’s blue.’ Callum is propped up on one elbow staring at me. Well, when I say me, I mean my hair. He seems to be mentally circling me, like a sheepdog.
‘Callum, are you listening?’ It’s taken me ages to work out the best way to break the news, and now he’s not even listening.
‘It’s blue!’
‘Yes, I know. I—’
‘It was blonde, shoulder-length and had pink bits last time I saw you.’ He’s frowning now and looking a bit miffed. ‘And that was only two days ago.’
‘Pink hair is so old hat.’
His text yesterday morning had made me uneasy, and then my chat with Auntie Lynn had decided it for me, even though in my heart I’d known for a while that we were running out of time.
After I’d left Lynn I’d called my friend Liz, who also happens to be my hairdresser. It was time for a change and I always find it easier to deal with moving on if I’ve done something different. It’s an outward sign of the inner feeling. Or at least, that’s what the shrink said after the teenage me had screamed ‘you’re not my mother’ once too often, and Aunt Lynn had declared we needed professional help.
‘But it’s black and blue, and . . .’ Callum leans around to see better, ‘short.’
‘Don’t you like it?’ To be honest, it doesn’t really make much difference if he does or not, because the deed has been done now and there is no going back. And I like it. But it would still be nice if he did, too.
‘Is that a green streak?’ He’s now pulling at it as though we’re monkeys having a grooming session.
‘It might be. So, you don’t like it?’ He’s obviously not going to listen to what I really need to say to him until we’re got the hair thing over with.
‘I didn’t say that. It’s er, just a shock. Hang on. I need to check if the carpet matches the drapes, don’t I?’
I put a hand out to stop him, because there is a sensible discussion we need to have, but he’s already lifting the sheet with a grin on his face, shaking his head.
Callum is my toyboy, the cocktail shaker I picked up in a bar, the guy who I love to shock and who likes to be shocked.
I grin back as he dives under the covers and wait for the yell – or shocked silence. I never quite know how he’ll react. Which is half the fun.
In a way, we’re perfect for each other. Or we were. Until that text.
Until