12 Days 'til Christmas ✓

chapter seven

I guess it doesn't work in close proximity, though, when I have to directly interact with Maureen behind the counter because if I don't, she'll gossip to her co-workers and before I know it, I'll have a phone call from Mum asking me what I'm doing acting grumpy in my pyjamas in a corner store. So I paint on a smile for Maureen as she asks how I am and what I'm up to, and I fob her off with vague answers because I know she's hardly listening anymore, and she tells me to have a good day when she gives me my change and pats my hand.

What is it with old people and touching everyone? It's bad enough having to hug my seven trillion aunts and uncles and cousins at every family gathering. I don't need Maureen's papery fingers stroking the back of my hand, but I'm too polite to do anything but give her a strained smile and get out of there.

All in all, from leaving the house to arriving back, I was probably only gone for ten minutes. It just happens to feel like a trawl across the country, like I'm returning home after a lengthy expedition armed with terrifying tales, rather than breakfast.

The coat gets hung up on the hook under the stairs and the dressing gown goes back on, and so does the kettle. While Casper catches up on sleep, which I'm fairly certain he's lacking, I pour myself a milky coffee and feel like a housewife from the fifties when I drink it in front of the kitchen window, staring out at snow-covered trees and glistening icicles forming wherever the snow starts to melt and changes its mind.

The bird bath is frozen over, too. I make a mental note to set fresh water outside, and hang up new bird feeders and netted fat balls for the pair of hardy little robins who call my garden home. They may be year-round residents, but I swear I only see them in the winter, with their iconic, puffy little orange chests and their sweet chirps. I can't take my eyes off them, a lump rising in my throat as I watch them fly from branch to branch, singing to each other.

Casper comes down with a blanket wrapped around him, face scrunched up in a yawn when I turn around at the sound of his socked feet on the kitchen slate – it looks great, but it absorbs all of the cold in winter and makes it agonisingly icy in winter.

"Sleep well?" I ask, glancing back at the garden only to see that the robins are gone.

"Mmm. Your spare bed is nicer than my actual bed. But I think I need to find some thicker pyjamas." He lets go of the blanket, draping it over a chair. "I woke up frozen solid."

"Are you sure you didn't just have a really good dream?"

He throws a tea towel at me; I catch it and wipe down the counter by the sink. "It'll be a while before I have one of those again," he says with an exaggerated sigh, rubbing his chilly, goose-bumped arms. "I'm doomed to a lifetime of flaccid nightmares for the foreseeable future."

He's caught me out and I stumble at what to say, before I eventually settle on, "Want a coffee?"

"Yes, please."

"What time's your shift today?"

"Eleven to seven." We both glance at the clock on the microwave, red lights blinking that it's just after nine. It feels a lot earlier, time warped by the snow. "Any chance I could get a lift in at about ten forty?"

"Of course. I just assumed that was part of the arrangement," I say, putting the kettle on to boil again. "You don't drive, right?"

"No. But I never assume anything. I'd be a dick to just assume you'll drive me ten minutes to work five days a week, while already letting me crash at your place." He hesitates for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Like I said, I'm not at work until after New Year's, and you're a friend in need, so I'm here to help you with whatever you need. Isn't that what Christmas is all about, anyway? The spirit of generosity and helping people in need?"