chapter ten

t e n

*

It's such a relief to get home to the warm light of my Christmas tree. It feels like a beacon, pulling me into its embrace, and I can't shake the urge to walk straight up to it, to search for the twins' ornaments. For a sickening moment, I don't see them, and there's a flicker of irrational panic that I broke them and erased the memory, that I forgot to put them up.

But there they are. Right at eye level. So delicate, and yet they've lasted for years, in the same pristine condition they were in when Emmy and Ally delivered them to me. I reach out and touch the glass, first the glittering snowflake and then the bright orange chest of the robin.

"I'm cooking," Casper announces as he unwinds his scarf and his coat, hanging them up on the hook. It's such a domestic move that for a moment, it feels as though he's always lived here. He belongs here; he's part of the furniture.

"What?" I feel a bit out of it, wrenched from one emotion to the next. This isn't part of the routine, having someone else in the house to interrupt my fifteenth of December ritual. Even if, sometimes, that ritual involves little more than pouring a glass of wine and putting on a Christmas film and crying my eyes out.

"I'm making supper," Casper says. "I checked the cupboard and the fridge – I hope that's okay – and I saw tagliatelle and mince and passata and Worcester sauce. Reckon if I dig around a little more, I can find an onion and some peppers. Right?"

"Um, yes. Right. I was thinking of making a Bolognese," I say, trying to erase the frown that comes with my disorientation. I was going to cook. And now he is. And it's nice. I don't want to protest, because the idea of not having to cook right now is akin to sinking into a hot bubble bath after a long day. Actually, that sounds perfect right now.

"Well, I'm going to make a Bolognese instead. Spaghetti a la Casper, if you will." He ducks into the kitchen and starts digging around like he owns the place, and I follow to see him find my vegetable drawer, stocked with onions and peppers. "There we go!"

With a green pepper in one hand, a red pepper and an onion in the other, he starts to juggle. "Did you know I'm secretly a circus juggler?"

"What? Seriously?"

With a laugh, he lets the peppers drop onto the table. "Nope. But the fact that you almost believed me just then is a clear sign that you need to go and have a nap or a bath or something. Whatever happened today – and I'm not prying, I swear, I just want to make sure you're all right – it seems to have taken it out of you."

He's not wrong there. It's like this every year. I'm totally drained, even though all I've drunk is coffee and all I've done is sit with my mother, eating cake. The thought of Casper cooking for me, and the ridiculous sight of him juggling my vegetables, and the weight of everything I can't bear to tell him, it's all enough to bring another tear to my eye.

Before I know it, my vision's blurred and my hand is pressed over my mouth to control a sob, and Casper's looking at me like I just burst into flames. The roles have been reversed and just like I didn't know what to do when he rocked up on my doorstep, he doesn't know what to do except drop the onion to put his hands on my shoulders.

"Hey. It's okay. I think? You know what, I have no fucking clue, but I do know that I'm a good cook. Do you trust me in your kitchen?"

I nod, the movement enough to prompt the tears to spill. Casper hands me a sheet of kitchen roll.

"Okay, then I've got this under control. I'm going to whip up the best Bolognese you've ever had, and you're going to go and take a bath and find your onesie, okay?" He gives me a warm smile, his hands still on my shoulders, and I nod again. "God, sorry, I didn't mean to sound so patronising. I'm not trying to baby you. But I've never seen you cry and it's scary, and I know that when you told me to have a bath and put on some PJs, it helped."

"Thank you," I manage to croak.

"For what? For crashing your house, or for stealing your advice, or for taking over your kitchen?"

"For being here."

*

I have a whole box of Christmas bath bombs in the bathroom, and I select a refreshing peppermint pine tree to drop into the hot water pummelling the tub. When it's halfway full, I sink into the sudsy water and my whole body tingles from the heat of the water, my nose tingling from the strong minty smell.

Closing my eyes and holding my breath, I sink under the surface, letting hot water flow over my face for as long as I can bear it. The heat stings my sensitive cheeks, and then my eyes when I open them. The bath bomb has turned the water faintly green, the fizzy suds worsening my already terrible vision, but it feels good to be submerged. Every noise is muffled, Casper's music barely audible through the floor, until I break the surface with a gasp. I can barely last a whole minute underwater before I have to catch my breath, sucking in lungfuls of air before I sink again.

And I scream. The water swallows the sound, stealing the wail that rips out of my throat when I am so low, when I feel so rubbed raw by life in the moments that I think of my daughters. Just today. This is the day that I let myself feel what I try to ignore every other day of the year, the torture of loss and the ache of what-ifs; the feeling of futility and the sting of hopelessness. I think of the girls, and I scream until my lungs give out and I gasp too soon.

A spluttering cough takes over when I lurch up, bathwater splashing over the sides as I hack up a lung, mint stinging my eyes as tears pour down my cheeks. Desperate coughing turns into an anguished cry that I stifle with a towel. The cotton is rough on my face but I hold it there until I get a grip, until I can drop the damp material and be sure that another sob won't crack my chest.

I'm not sure my old therapist would approve of my coping mechanisms, but they work for me: I throw myself into my favourite season with more gusto each year, allowing myself this one day, the anniversary of my daughters' births and deaths, to mourn when I need to. If I need to. It's been five years and so far there's no if about it, but someday I hope I'll be able to wake up on the fifteenth of December without a stone in my chest, that I won't need to scream in the bath until I choke. One day, I'll check the date and I won't be struck by that dreadful sense of despair. I hope. It's the closest I get to prayer.

Somehow, an hour has passed by the time I get out, once I've washed my hair and been defeated by the thought of shaving. My pyjamas are waiting on the radiator, a dream to slip into warm flannel beneath a thick dressing gown that feels as soft as a puppy, and as I tie wet hair off my face, I catch sight of my reflection. There's no hiding red, bloodshot eyes without digging out a pair of sunglasses or cutting myself a dramatic new fringe. But Casper's already seen me cry, a rare occurrence at any other time of year, and I'm too drained to care what he thinks.

It's been seventy-five minutes since he sent me upstairs when I make it back down to the kitchen, my hair less wet but my eyes no less red. Once I get rid of the peppermint tang that fills my nostrils, I'm hit by the most incredible smells. Frying onions and peppers; rich tomato sauce; a hint of something I can't place. And an undercurrent of warm, woodsy incense. Casper's figured out where I keep everything, it seems, as well as how to use my oven, which he's standing over with a spatula in his hand.

Music is playing out of a small Bluetooth speaker and he's bopping along to it, swinging his hips and bobbing his head to one of those songs that I know from the radio, but I can't place it. Probably One Direction, or one of their solo hits. A good, catchy tune whose words, judging by his mumbled karaoke, he doesn't know as well as he thought he did when the song started. He blags his way through to the end, occasionally using the end of the spatula as a microphone, and it's only at the end that he turns around and sees me.

"Beth!" His hands fly up as though I'm pointing a gun at his head. Not the best reaction, considering he's holding a spatula. Tomato sauce splatters up the wall, a clump of onions sliding down the tile as a slice of green pepper flops onto the counter. "Hi. Shit, sorry, I'll clean that up," he says when he regains his composure.

He hits pause on the music and grabs a sponge to wipe up the mess, shaking debris into the bin. It really seems like he lives here, the way he washes out the sponge and gives the pasta a stir with the sauce-covered spatula.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks when I step closer to peer at his concoction, which smells so good it almost makes me cry again. My emotions are completely out of whack today, something I know to expect but don't usually have to explain to someone who doesn't understand the situation.

"Mmm. Yes, thanks. Good advice. The bath."

"Good. I'm glad." He smiles and says, "Kinda seemed like you realised Christmas is a crock of shit. I thought I was going to have to show you the grinchy ropes. But"—he gestures at my bright red dressing gown, complete with black belt and white fur edges—"I guess I was mistaken."

I laugh dryly, grateful for his attempt at humour. "Never in a million years."

"I almost came up at one point. Sounded like you were dying up there." His expression loses some of its joviality as he regards me with a glimmer of concern.

"I choked on the water," I say, assuming it was my coughing fit he heard, unless the bath didn't muffle my scream as much as I thought it did.

With a pout, he says, "Oh, Beth. You know bath water's for the outside, right?" He mimes washing his body. "And when you're done, you just let out the plug. You don't have to drink your way out."

"You're hilarious."

He takes a bow.

"You also smell like a very good cook."

"Oh." He raises his eyebrows at me. "I smell like a good cook? What exactly does a good cook smell like?" he asks, sniffing his armpits.

My cheeks flush at my faux pas, and I try not to fumble my words when I say, "I meant that based on the smell, I bet you're a good cook. You're making very good smells in here."

"Ah, yes." He rubs his stomach. "The Boutayeb oven."

My laugh comes out weak. I can feel Casper's eyes on me, scanning my face as he decides what to say. I pray he won't ask how I am, that he won't look deep into my eyes and implore me to talk, because I'll break down. I feel like I'm balancing on a tightrope right now, and the slightest consternation from him would push me into the abyss.

Instead, he turns back to the sauce and gives it a stir. "Ready for the famous Boutayeb Bolognese?"

*

I'm not sure what magic Casper's worked, but his Bolognese is incredible. The pasta is perfectly soft and there's something extra in the sauce that gives it the slightest kick of heat. I can pick out the Worcester sauce and rich tomato puree, the lighter passata and the strong celery. But there's something else, and I frown to myself as I try to figure out what it is.

"Is it okay?" Casper asks, mirroring my frown. "It's not too spicy, is it?"

"What did you add?"

"Just a tiny bit of chili powder. Just for a bit of flavour," he says. "Is it too much?"

"No, no, it's amazing. I just couldn't tell." My next mouthful makes more sense, when I recognise every flavour. "I didn't even realise I had chili powder."

"You have a very well-stocked rack."

Now it's his turn to splutter over what he's just said, his eyes widening as he hopelessly backtracks. "Your spice rack, of course."

"Of course."

Shaking his head, he covers his face and lets out a quiet, awkward laugh. "Sorry, god. I, uh ... yeah. You had everything I needed in here. Are you much of a cook?"

"Kind of have to be, really," I say. "I know I have a lot of coffees out, but I almost never eat out. I can justify spending three quid on a coffee and a nice atmosphere for a couple of hours, but not so much twenty-odd quid in a restaurant that wants me out quickly so they can use my table."

"Fair enough." He twirls spaghetti round his fork, anchoring it with a spoon, and manages not to get sauce everywhere when he eats. It's a masterclass in eating spaghetti neatly, one that I'm no good at following, apparently.

"You're clearly an incredible cook," I say, my eyes on my plate. "This really is amazing. Best Bolognese I've ever had."

"Ninety percent of that is probably just because someone else made it for you," he says. "Any time Eric cooked for me, it instantly tasted ten times better just because I hadn't been slaving over it myself. Thanks, though."

"I mean it. This is objectively the best Bolognese."

"Cheers, Beth. Hey, d'you reckon I could pop up to your room after supper and check out your books? I'd love to see what you've got to offer."

"Yeah, of course. I have a really good set of encyclopae- oh, wait, you won't need them. You're already a wise man."

A long groan escapes him as he slowly sinks in his seat, pushing his plate aside to drop his head onto the table, and he kicks my shin. "Your mum and I need to have a word."

"I'm forever indebted to my mother for sharing this incredibly important information," I say, and it feels so good to laugh at his expression when he looks up at me.

"I figured if you hadn't realised after four years, you probably never would. I didn't bank on your mother being a bible-reader."

Tapping my nose, I say, "Never assume anything, Frankincense." I can't help but laugh, even though it's stupid, and Casper says nothing. He doesn't have a witty retort or another kick. He just gives me an odd smile and finishes the last bite of pasta. I pray he won't say something deep or ask how I'm doing, and to stop him, I get up from the table and take our plates to the sink.

"Come on, let's check out the books."

"I'll clean up first."

"No, not at all," I say. "You cooked; I'll clean. But later. We're going to find you something to read now."

"Okay." He chuckles and allows me to pull him to his feet, his wrist warm in my hand. I drop it like a hot potato when I overthink the action, and I lead him up to my bedroom. I try to keep it in a relatively tidy state, and this morning I even made my bed. Anything I can do to make the fifteenth a little easier is worth giving a go.

"Oh, wow. Holy shit, Manger. You really do have a ton of books." Casper stares goggle-eyed at my bookcases, each one two metres tall and laden with books in every size and genre. Every attempt at an organisational system has gone to shit so now I just put them where there's a space, with one shelf dedicated to absolute favourites.

While he scans the spines, I sit on the edge of my bed and watch him. My body is heavy with the need to lie down and bring this day to an end, to wake up on the sixteenth and be able to see more clearly than I am right now. My eyelids droop as Casper pulls out a book to read the back, and when I stand to stop myself from falling asleep right here, my gaze falls on the wall shelf by my bed. At one end is a small pile of books I've started and have yet to finish, beside a couple of succulents I've been fastidious in keeping alive. At the other end is a rainy day fund piggy bank and a vase of fake flowers for permanent room brightening. Right in the middle, in pride of place, are the plaster casts made of my babies' hands and feet.

They're always there. They've been there every single day since I moved here, the only thing that never moves in my bedroom. Furniture gets shifted around; books get donated; the vase moves to my desk. But those tiny hands, those impossibly small feet, are always there. And yet now I'm flushing hot and cold as though I'm on the edge of a panic attack. This feels all wrong. Casper shouldn't be in here. Not today. Oh, god, I need him to go, but I can't muster up the words. I can't tear myself from the most visceral reminder of Robin and Noelle.

Casper turns around with a book in his hand, primed to ask a question, until he logs the look on my face and he follows my line of sight. His eyes land on the plaster casts. I feel sick, my stomach twisting at the thought of him asking, of having to explain. I'm going to cry again any moment now, my eyes already filling up, and I need him to go. This was a terrible idea.

He opens his mouth to say something, to ask a question he probably thinks is totally innocuous, but I shake my head and cut him off before he can get a single syllable out.

"I don't feel well," I say. It's true: I suddenly feel like I could collapse, like this is all too much and I need to be alone. "Can you go? I need some space."

He looks hurt. Fuck, I don't want to hurt him but I can't do this. I can't have him in my room, standing in this space when the day isn't over yet.

"Are you okay? God, Beth, you've gone really pale," he says, dropping his hand to his side. "Are you all right? Do you need me to do anything?"

"I just need to lie down," I say, forcing my words out before I cry. "Can you go? You didn't do anything, I just need some space." My hand goes to my sternum, rubbing hard where I feel the centre of this dreadful ache. "I'll be down later, I just need a moment. Please."

"Yes, yeah, of course," he says, nodding quickly. I feel sorry for him; I hate to do such a one-eighty on him, but I didn't think this would happen. I didn't think. "Give me a yell if you need anything, okay? You don't look very well."

"I'll be okay. I'm sorry. You don't need to worry. I just..." I can't reach the end of the sentence because I don't know how to end it, how I can explain this to him without outright saying I'm grieving for the daughters I lost and I can't do that with you in my room, and I need some time to be alone with what little I have left of them.

I can't say that. I can't say anything more without my voice cracking, but Casper doesn't need to be told again. He shoots me a look of concern as he leaves with the book, pulling the door shut behind him. The moment it closes, I take a shaky breath and clap my hand over my mouth, and my eyes stream. An ugly noise escapes me, a strangled moan of built-up agony as I cross the room and touch the cold plaster. Every little wrinkle and nail is captured in the cast, immortalising fingers that never clutched mine.

The girls were already gone by the time I got to hold them, after my father and a nurse had dressed them in matching onesies and placed tiny hands on their heads. They looked like they were sleeping. I thought there was a chance the doctors were wrong, and they would wake up any moment; they would scream and I would be a mother.

But I held them and I wept as my body leeched the heat from theirs, and my mother tried to hold it together for my sake. My father was so strong. He took photos for me, he cradled their little bodies as though he was a proud new grandfather rather than a devastated dad. He's the one who arranged for the plaster mouldings; it's because of him that I have a slim book with pictures of the girls dressed like regular newborns, that there are pages with their handprints and footprints. I didn't know until weeks later, when I was released from hospital and reality hit and I broke down, distraught that I had nothing to remember my girls by. He presented me with the book, something he and Mum had kept until I was ready for it.

It lives in my bedside cabinet now, in the bottom draw. It's the only place where photos of Robin and Noelle exist in this house and I lie down on my bed when I ease it out of its drawer, carefully opening it to the pages I know so well. For the first year, hardly a day went by that I didn't pore over every image, every stroke of ink. Now I keep it for days like this, when I stare at the pictures until my eyes blur and I press my face into my pillow, my hand over my favourite photo. The girls are lying together like two peas in a pod, their faces so peaceful.

It's so serene, so real, and it comforts as much as it hurts. But it's a little less painful year after year.

*

I told myself this would be a novella but it's already over 30,000 words long - this will definitely be a full length Christmas novel! I hope that's alright with you guys!

What's your favourite Christmas song?