‘Do you do a lot of dating?’ I asked, surprising myself.
It took her a minute to answer. In fact, she spent a good thirty seconds rummaging through her handbag, in a most un-Christelle like fashion, before she lifted her head. I could almost see her weighing up how to answer.
The second thirty seconds seemed to hang with unexpected portent between us. Sink or swim. Do or die. Crash and burn. Her foot poised over uncharted territory.
And then she cleared her throat and I felt a pulse of shock at her candid look.
‘Not with any success. You’re so lucky. You and Felix have got it all sussed. You were friends with him first. I’ve been on so many dates but I just never seem to click with anyone. On paper, they’re absolutely perfect … and then I meet them.’ Her childish expression combined with the most exaggerated eye roll, again so not Christelle, made me break out in a wary smile.
‘They’re either unmitigated hooray Henry tosspots,’ she broke off, ‘excuse my language,’ she added, giving me a look that dared me to say anything, ‘or stuffed shirts who spend the entire date trying to work out whether I’m more successful than they are and whether I’ve billed more than them in the last forty-eight hours. It’s pathetic.’
‘It must be hard.’ I tried to look sympathetic, but quite frankly they sounded eminently suitable. ‘Ah, the waiter,’ I said and grabbed the menu. ‘What do you fancy? The fruit tarts look gorgeous, but then so do the palmiers and the chocolate croissants here are to die for.’
‘Cappuccino for me and a croissant amandes.’ Christelle snapped shut her menu and handed it to him, while I had now discovered the enticements of chocolate éclairs, raisin pastries and pear and rhubarb tarts.
I chewed at my lip as Christelle folded her arms. ‘Make that two Cappuccinos and I, hmm, I can’t make up my mind between the…’ I turned the menu over and then peered beyond the waiter at the glass fronted cabinets. ‘Or should I have one of the strawberry tarts. No. I’ll have a pain au chocolat …’
The waiter clearly had my measure, because he whipped away the menu before I could change my mind and go for one of the glistening strawberry tarts.
Christelle put her elbows on the table.
‘We need to decide what we’re going to get for Mum and Dad for Christmas.’
‘It’s ages away,’ I said. Why couldn’t people enjoy the build up to Christmas? Planning this far ahead took away all the fun and spontaneity. Present-buying should be an adventure and a grand expedition to all the beautifully decorated shops, sparkling with glitter and tinsel. It should be full of promise and excitement, like going on a bear hunt, to track down and tease out things that people will like. No, that people will love.
Christelle let out a small huffy sigh. ‘You haven’t spoken to Mum, have you?’
‘No.’ Nothing new there. My unsociable working hours didn’t fit with her and Dad’s nine to seven schedule.
She bit her lip before blurting out with great indignation. ‘They’re going away for Christmas.’ Around her mouth a few tiny lines that I’d never noticed before tightened.
‘Really? Where?’
‘Apparently,’ she stiffened. ‘They’re going on a cruise.’
I shrugged.
‘To Scandinavia.’
‘Oh.’ It was a bit of a surprise but it would save me the scramble to catch the last train from Kings Cross wedged up against over-exuberant drunks in a corridor and then having to make the journey back in two days’ time to get back to work. It never seemed fair to book holiday at Christmas when other people in the department had young children and families.
‘I don’t know why they’ve suddenly decided to go on a cruise now.’ Christelle’s voice wobbled.
‘Why not? We’re not children anymore.’
‘But it’s a family time. And we always go home.’
‘Well maybe this year it’s time to do something different.’ I shrugged, ignoring the bleak look on her face. ‘Break the mould. See it as an opportunity.’
‘An opportunity for what?’
‘There’s loads going on in London, carol concerts, ice skating, shows.’
‘Yes, but not on Christmas Day.’
‘There is.’
Oh, God, now I had no excuse not to go with Felix to visit his mother on Christmas Day. ‘Loads of things still happen, you know.’
Her mouth dipped down in scepticism.
‘Jeanie, my boss, often spends Christmas on her own. She’s never short of things to do. Last year she went on a walking tour around the city. The year before she volunteered for Crisis and the year before that she went to watch the swimmers in the Peter Pan Cup race on the Serpentine. It’s only one day. You could just spend the day watching films.’
A pang of guilt danced in and out of my conscience. Was she worried about being on her own? I hadn’t given it that much thought. As I said, Christmas was still ages away.
‘Yes, but why don’t they want to have Christmas with us? It’s not like them. Don’t you think it’s odd?’
‘No.’
She pursed her mouth. ‘That’s so typical of you Tilly, you ignore the things you don’t want to see.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘You do, you’ve always done it. Making out that Mum and Dad are so against your career.’
‘They are.’ I folded my arms, I really didn’t want to get into this now. It was old history and nothing was going to change.
‘No, they just wanted you to—’
‘Whatever. Going home at Christmas is a hassle anyway. The trains are always packed and we’re busy at work.’
‘What will you do instead?’
‘Work.’
‘On Christmas Day?’
‘No, but we’ll probably go to Felix’s mum and I’ll come back that evening because I’m working on Boxing Day.’
‘I guess I could have lunch with some friends, but it won’t be the same,’ she sighed, ‘although Mum has said she’ll do lunch with all the trimmings before Christmas. We can go up together. If I drive up, we won’t have to worry about carrying all the presents.’ She brightened. ‘Talking of which, I was thinking about a nice Estée Lauder skin set for Mum, they’ve got some lovely gift packs this year.’
‘I’ll be work–’ Christelle had never done puppy dog eyes in her life. She worked on pure logic but there was a shadow of sadness about her and a sudden blinking that made me pause and say, ‘That’s probably a good idea.’
‘We could leave late on Friday, miss the traffic and then we’d have the whole of Saturday. I could pick you up straight from work. What time do you finish?’
‘Depends on the production but around ten-thirty, eleven.’
She smiled and straightened up, losing the sad uncharacteristic droop. ‘I’m glad that’s all sorted. Now, I was thinking a nice cashmere sweater for Dad and he’s been wittering on about learning coding, so a colleague at work recommended a book for him. Oh…’ She looked down at her phone which had begun to ring, ‘I need to take this. Will you excuse me?’
‘Yeah. It’s fine.’ Her formality drove me nuts. I was