Page 31 of A Miracle on Hope Street
‘I may have mentioned it a few times. I’ll put the oven on. You can relax after all your fine tree spotting. Can I get you a drink? Some wine?’
‘Water would be lovely,’ he says. ‘I have the car, so best to be good.’
I pour a glass of red wine for me and water for Michael and put on some background music, switching from old-school Elton John to Motown classics which get the full approval from Michael and before long we are sitting at the big mahogany table with the fire glistening and Bushy Bertha twinkling in the background. If anyone looked through the window they’d think this was the picture-perfect evening with a couple not long in from work, enjoying some downtime and totally relaxed into the season of goodwill, when in reality it’s just two strangers who are trying to do something different at Christmas to remind them that they are still alive.
‘So, the dinner,’ I say to Michael. ‘Are you sure you like it?’
‘Like it?’ he says, with a radiant smile. ‘I’ve never tasted anything like this in my entire life and believe me, I’ve travelled the world and cooked for a lot of people in my day. Where on earth did you learn to cook a lasagne like this? It’sbellissimo!’
That’s not what I meant and he knows it.
‘I was talking about the dinner for Christmas,’ I say, a little more firmly than I intended to.
‘Yes, a dinner for the lonely? Okay, present company excused, how many can you cater for?’
I look down the long table.
‘This table was bought to seat eight people for nice occasions that never really happened,’ I say to him. ‘I don’t think there were ever eight people around it.’
I stare at the cream-covered seats and my mind drifts back to all those years ago when we all sat exactly here, the sound of her laughter as Dad acted out charades and my sister building tiny pieces of a jigsaw puzzles on the long, shining mahogany table that now reflects the light of the fire and the Christmas tree. I wonder why they never had guests around. I’ve never really thought about that until now. It was always just us. How strange.
I feel a hand on mine. I jump and pull it away.
‘Sorry!’ he says. ‘I just thought you seemed upset.’
Oh God I didn’t mean to react like that. What on earth . . . ?
‘I – I’m fine, I’m sorry. I was—’
‘I should go,’ he replies. ‘We’ve packed quite a lot in and you seem tired now, Ruth.’
‘No, no,’ I say to him. ‘Please relax and finish your food. I’m sorry, I was just transported back to happy times of days gone by again but I’m all good now. I’m fine, it’s all good. I promise.’
‘Are you sure?’ asks Michael. ‘I’m sorry if I overstepped the mark just now.’
‘Honestly, you did nothing wrong. It’s me . . . I just really miss my family sometimes, you know?’ I whisper. ‘It just doesn’t seem right that I’m here on my own all the time now. I’m going to give this place a great big send-off at Christmas and then see if I can have it sold. That’s my plan for now, anyhow.’
Michael sits back in his chair.
‘Take your time,’ he tells me, gently. He looks me right in the eye. ‘When the time is right to make a move, if that’s what’s meant to be, then you will know, but I don’t think you’re ready to close the door on this house yet. Do you?’
I shrug. I really am embarrassed now that I’ve divulged so much so soon about me, my family and my sad, stupid life in this big house.
‘Not exactly the glamorous city girl you thought I was, I bet,’ I say to him, feeling really silly now. ‘Never believe everything you read in the papers.’
Michael laughs. ‘So, the dinner?’
‘Yes,’ I continue, taking his lead to get back to business. ‘So, I’m planning to invite another six people so that we can all be properly seated around the table and can chat easily and make it a really nice occasion.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t want it to feel like a charity event or a soup kitchen where everyone has to queue up and wait their turn,’ I explain. ‘I want it to be like they are invited friends, like they are all equally important, which of course, they all will be.’
Michael nods. ‘I love it already,’ he says. ‘We’d better keep eating as we talk or this food will get cold.’
We eat our lasagne in moments of comfortable silence and the wine eases me into the present and away from the past, so much so that I am itching to get stuck into finding my guests as soon as we put down our knives and forks.
‘Have you any idea of who these six people will be then?’ Michael asks, dabbing the sides of his mouth with a napkin.
