Page 66 of The Night Before Christmas
Hattie scribbled something in her notebook. Felicity took a breath.
‘But now – recently – I found out it wasn’t just my dad who was… well, bad. My mum was too, she was just as bad as him. Maybe even worse. And so now I have a whole new parent trauma I don’t know what to do with. Honestly, my parents are – wait, am I being a real cliché right now? I just heard myself then and I sounded like a proper therapy cliché.’
Hattie laughed gently. ‘There’s a good reason that parenting traumas are therapy clichés,’ she said, simply.
‘You could write a whole book about mine,’ replied Felicity.
‘Let’s start with one session, shall we? Why don’t you tell me a little more about your family?’
And so, she did.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Felicity cameout of that first session feeling lighter. Freer, in a way, although she was absolutely exhausted too. Hattie had said she might need to lick her wounds afterwards, that she might feel a bit bruised. And she was right. But it still felt brilliant to be able to tell someone about her mum and dad without feeling guilty about betraying them in some way. Well, she mostly didn’t feel guilty. And she couldn’t wait for her next session, which was sort of the opposite of how she had expected to feel.
But there was something else she needed to get out of her system. As well as lighter, she also came out of that session ready to do something a teensy bit reckless.
Tristan Brooks. What a name.
As Felicity scanned her brother’s Facebook profile the next day for the umpteenth time, she tried to conjure up some feelings of sibling affection… some semblance of emotion or empathy, some glimpse of filial love, but truth be told, it was like looking at a stranger. He could be some random guy off thestreet for all he meant to her. It was sad… but then he was the one who had left, after all (she told herself).
When they were young, Tristan and Felicity were so close that people often mistook them for twins, which was understandable given they were both pale and ginger and skinny. But while her skin was clear and her hair was closer to auburn, Tristan’s face was covered in freckles and his hair was bright orange, so that he was visible from streets away, and on a small island like Guernsey the two of them together were a rarefied sight. And that meant they were made a fuss of wherever they went, or so her nana had always told her. When they vanished off the radar it’s a wonder more people didn’t notice or alert the authorities, but as far as they knew, no one ever did.
They had jump-started their lives in Derbyshire the best they could, trying to fit in at school, scraping together money for the bus, for uniforms, for school trips, doing their best not to draw attention to themselves as if they could sense even at such a young age that someone paying attention would not be good for their little family unit.
Felicity had always looked up to Tristan in those days, especially at school, he was clever and sharp-witted and popular. The day he announced he was moving out to live with their dad something died, something deep inside her shifted and although outwardly she had been calm, cold even, inside a huge chasm had opened up between them. He felt it too, she was sure of it, and as he packed his suitcase, he wouldn’t even look at her or talk to her. His pale face had been flushed with two red spots on his cheeks from… what? Shame? Guilt? Or just sheer determination? That’s what had hurt the most, his bloody-minded determination to get the hell out of there and the fact he never thought to take her with him. Now more than ever it felt like such a turning point in her life. Where would she be nowif she had insisted on going along, packed her tiny suitcase and sneaked onto the train with him?
Another life.
She narrowed her eyes and zoomed in. His profile photo never gave much away, usually an arty shot, all shadow and light and trickery. The odd glimpse of that signature red hair.
She opened the Messenger app and started to tap out a message.
Then she shut it again.
Then opened it again.
How the heck do you start a message like that? ‘Hey bro…?’ ‘Hi there…?’ ‘How’s life?’
She settled for Dear Tristan.
Dear Tristan, I hope this message finds you well and I’m sorry for dropping you a line out of the blue like this but I feel awful that we’ve lost touch. It would be wonderful to have the chance to chat sometime. Let me know if you could stand to do that. It would mean a lot to me. Take care and love always, Felicity.
As she finished and prepared to send, the green dot beside Tristan’s name appeared. He was online. He would see this immediately. Damn. He might already know she was messaging him. There was no going back now. She hit send and then clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.
His little icon moved down next to her message. He had seen it. She waited a few minutes, and then a few more… hoping against hope that he would respond quickly and put her out of her misery but no. Of course not. He had never been that kind of guy. He would make her suffer, she felt sure of it.
And she was right. There was no response that day. Or the next.
Finally, on the third day of hovering over the message every spare second she got, the words ‘Tristan is typing…’ appeared. And with it, a sick feeling deep down in her gut.
Dear Fliss. It’s good to hear from you. Chatting is what I do best. Love, Tristan.
Thank God.
Felicity (responding immediately):
I’m very glad to hear it.
