Page 1 of Five Gold Rings

ONE

23RD DECEMBER

Eve

What does Christmas look like to you?

My vision of a perfect Christmas dates back to when I was a child: brand new flannel pyjamas, hot chocolate with squirty cream, a living room fizzing with anticipation (or maybe that was the sound of Dad’s dodgy Christmas lights). A tree so big we pruned it back to watch the television, rammed with decorations. No branch shall remain unbaubled. There is no colour scheme here. It’s decorations made out of pasta shapes and half a tube of glitter. It’s tinsel that the tree wears like a disco scarf; pieces of string weighed down with cards from aunties we never see; badly wrapped gifts lying on a carpet of Christmas tree needles; hands rustling through tins of chocolates. Mum telling Dad not to put the wrappers back in the tin. Does he listen? No. But she can’t be angry with him. He throws a wrapper at her that gets caught in her big mass of curly hair. Noel, my brother, has nabbed the good armchair, and wears a Star Wars dressing gown thinking he’s a Jedi when he’s not. He knows he has the good chair and sticks his middle finger up at me. I pull a face back, and he laughs so hard, he snots on himself. There’s a Christmas film on the television. I can’t even tell you what it is but there’s snow on the screen, falling in white blankets, resting on someone’s eyelashes. It’s a festive warmth you feel in your chest. Because this is joy, this is a huge colourful shiny version of what love looks like.

That is what Christmas looks like.

It should look like that.

It shouldn’t look like a blonde woman on her knees noshing off your boyfriend of three years in the shower.

‘Shitshitshitshit…’ Chris mutters. Unfortunately, this does not deter the girl on her knees who assumes his swearing to be associated with impending orgasm. He tries to pull out. She tugs on his balls. I stand there, speechless, waves of shock pinning me to the spot, drowning me. Seriously? He turns off the shower. Yes, do that. Save the water and our energy bill, at least. The girl turns around and her eyes widen. The two of them stand there, looking like they’re expecting me to throw them some towels. No such luck.

‘Eve… This isn’t what you think it is…’ Chris says, pushing his hair back from his face. ‘I thought you weren’t coming back until this afternoon.’

That wasn’t the sentence to lead with.

The girl grabs a robe next to the sink and wraps it around her body. My robe. I know the girl. Her name is Allegra, and she works in his department on accounts. She’s wearing my robe. The bitch is wearing my robe. She bows her head in shame, looking for escape, but this is a small bathroom and I’m blocking the only way out of here.

‘I got an earlier train so we could buy the last of your gifts for your family.’

I hear my voice wobble and pause to take the deepest of breaths. Don’t give him the satisfaction of your tears, Eve. Never. You’ve given him three of your best years, don’t give him an inch more.

‘You should have texted,’ Chris adds. He’s not doing well here, is he? His body starts to shiver. I hope he freezes. Am I giving him a towel? Hell, no.

‘I was online this morning and saw a lamp in John Lewis and thought your sister would love it. I’ve reserved it. Thought we could go up to Oxford Street and get all the last minute bits. We’ve got nothing for your aunt and uncle yet either,’ I say, trying to focus on something else, anything else except what’s happening in this room.

Allegra, in my robe, stands there, looking slightly unnerved. I turn to her. She’s pretty. Polar opposite to me, with my brown wavy hair and brown eyes. She would have been Mary in the nativity for sure, while I would have been the innkeeper’s wife, maybe a townsperson.

‘Hi. Allegra, isn’t it? We were going to spend Christmas with his family in North London. All the family. Massive turkey. You should see it, it’s like they fed it steroids.’

I turn back to Chris, who has now lost his hard on. Water drips from the tip of his bell-end. Drip, drip, drip. ‘Eve…’

‘I’ve been in Bristol. I was presenting a paper. For a conference. A law conference,’ I tell Allegra, the details irrelevant but I need to fill that awful, empty silence. ‘I was scheduled to get in later, but I thought I’d surprise my boyfriend. Surprise!’ I exclaim drily with added jazz hands. This is a surprise. God, I have questions. How long? Why didn’t I see it? When I caught the train, bleary-eyed at 7 a.m., I imagined slipping into our house, stripping down and crawling under our duvet, slow morning sex, a coffee under our Christmas lights. Talking about our Christmas plans – all our plans. I exhale a slow pained breath.

‘Can we talk about this?’ he whispers.

Talk? No, we can’t. I am suddenly enveloped by rage. ‘Every Christmas since I’ve known Chris, I’ve spent it with his family. I made them the priority. Not mine. Christmas day itself is always themed, Allegra. I’ve worn red, and tartan, and fur. Not real fur, obviously, as no one should wear real fur, but I joined in. I ate his uncle’s dry ham and played charades and plaited his niece’s hair…’

‘I know, but Eve…’ Chris pleads.

I turn from the door and march into the living room. By the tree is a pile of bags and gifts ready to be loaded into the car, wrapped in twine. Biodegradable fucking twine. I open the window to our third-floor flat and start flinging things out. The first gift is the most expensive and that’s his mother’s hamper, full of cheese straws, organic oat biscuits and Christmas nuts. There are going to be some bloody happy squirrels out there.

‘EVE! DON’T!’ shrieks Chris, scrambling to reach for a towel and following me into our living room.

Too late. Cashmere throw for Granny Clara. GONE. I hope it gets run over or adopted by a stray cat. His dad’s books on naval history are next. Au revoir. Sail away into the bitter winter air, expensive hardbacks. Allegra at this point has scuttled towards our bedroom where I can see they’ve slept in our bed. My robe is on the floor as she tries to pull a dress over her head and locate her knickers.

‘Oi! Oi!’ I hear from outside the window and I pop my head out.

‘I’m sorry!’ I yell. ‘Just caught my boyfriend getting sucked off in the shower by another woman.’

The postman, weighed down with Amazon parcels, pauses for a moment then salutes me. ‘As you were, love!’

‘You’re acting like a madwoman,’ Chris interrupts.

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