12 Days 'til Christmas ✓

chapter eighteen

“There was a snowstorm last night.” Casper crunches his toast. “Apparently most of Saint Wendelin got two to three feet. Total chaos.”

“Whoa. What about work? Are you going? Are we snowed in?” I put my hand against the cold glass, scanning what little I can see. My car is covered, only the wing mirrors poking out, and the snow seems to come almost halfway up the front door. It wouldn’t be impossible to get out of the house, but we wouldn’t get much further. The roads are unploughed.

“Julio called. He and Gloria can’t get it, and town will be dead today anyway, so he’s not opening the cafe.” He bumps his hip against mine. “No escaping me today, I’m afraid. No escaping this house. We’re a wee bit trapped.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. “And it’s so. Fucking. Cold.”

This is a sign from the universe, I decide. Some cosmic intervention is forcing us together, locking us in the house to taunt me for not having spoken to him yet. It feels inevitable. Inescapable. A huge balloon floating above us, waiting for me to pop it and let my feelings rain down on Casper when neither of us can run away and hide. It’s either an awful, horrendous idea, or the only way to do it.

If only I could decide. If only I could see the outcome of either option and know which path to take.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a power cut at some point,” Casper says. “Fancy a coffee, take advantage of electricity while we still can?” He pushes off his hood, his beanie sitting crooked on his head underneath, and finishes the last bite of toast. “Might have to use the kettle to fill the bath if I can’t get warm. Coffee’s the first port of call.”

“Coffee, blankets, and fire. The holy trinity,” I say. “We can get the sitting room up to warmth if we get a fire going, and I have an electric heater in the conservatory.”

He perks up at that and disappears into the conservatory, returning a moment later with a triumphant grin and his arms wrapped around the heater, and he wastes no time in plugging it in. There’s an immediate blast of heat and he stands in front of it, arms spread.

“This is what I’m talking about.”

Once the kettle has boiled, we both have coffee and the kitchen door is firmly shut to keep the warmth in the sitting room. It looks like we’re going to be quarantined in here today, maybe tomorrow too if the roads can’t be cleared – my little street is hardly a priority, a country road that leads towards the hills that surround us. No better time to finally finish the last of my Christmas card considering Christmas is now only four days away.
Most of them are done and sent already, a job I made sure to get done yesterday; the only ones left are the ones I plan to hand deliver, if I can ever get out of the house.

“Could you pass me that list?” I ask Casper, who’s sitting in front of the fire I’ve built, stoking it with a poker and throwing scraps of paper and wood to the flames.

“This your Christmas hit list?” he asks, glancing down the list of names. “The Cohens; the Levis; the Abdellas; the Muhammads ... Beth, do we need to have a talk? Just because they probably don’t celebrate Christmas doesn’t mean you need to stick them on a list.”

“It’s my Christmas card list, you dickhead,” I say with a laugh.

“Why aren’t the Boutayebs on your list?” He pouts and passes it over.

“Because you’re the only Boutayeb I know, and you’re the polar opposite of the embodiment of Christmas.” Flipping to a new page, I list each family I haven’t done cards for yet, and test my memory with every family member beneath it. The Cohens are Eli and Rebecca and their children, Rachel and Hannah. The Levis are Sarah, Abby, Gabriel, and their mum, Emily. The Abdellas are Khalil and Hania; the Muhammads are Hafsah and Amir, and their children, Hassan, Nur, Maryam and Ali. Also on the list are the four Campbells – Emmy, Ally, Perry and Pip – and their parents, and three school friends who, like, me, haven’t left Saint Wendelin: Imogen Carter; Richard Jakes, and Isobel Deacon.