Better Than Easy by Nick Alexander Page B

taken again and concentrates on her remote control puppy, which waddles straight into the wall.
    â€œShe’s made a list for Father Christmas, haven’t you,” Jenny says.
    Sarah glances up and nods wide-eyed at me.
    â€œMaybe I should make one,” I say.
    â€œWhat would you put on it?” Jenny says. “I haven’t got you anything yet, so
…
”
    â€œA boyfriend to have Christmas dinner with,” I say.
    Tom lets out a theatrical groan. “That’s why we’re having Christmas dinner tonight,” he says.
    â€œMaybe you should go with him,” Jenny says, methodically folding napkins and putting them in the wineglasses. “If it’s that important to you.”
    â€œHe doesn’t want me to go,” I say. “He hasn’t suggested it once.”
    â€œAnd Mark doesn’t really care,” Tom says, moving to my side. “He’s just being pissy.” He nudges my side and winks at me. “Aren’t you?” he adds.
    I sigh and, noting that the table seems finished, I pull out a chair and sit. I don’t bother arguing because a) the sparring is starting to tire me, and b) he’s perfectly right – the truth is that my flat is too small for both of us, and in secret I’m looking forward to a TV-free, dope-free, yes, Tom-free break. My complaints have more to do with my own guilt about that than anything else.
    â€œThere,” Jenny says, surveying the table. “That’s better.”
    Tom stands beside her, hands on hips. “Very festive,” he says. “Shall I light the candles?”
    â€œCrackers?” Jenny inquires, looking from Tom to myself.
    I shake my head.
    â€œI left them downstairs,” Tom says. “I’ll go get them.”
    â€œSo are you angry with Tom?” Jenny asks, once he has left. “About Christmas.”
    I wrinkle my nose and tip my head to one side. “A bit,” I say. “More about the whole going home to work than Christmas itself. But I could do with a break too. We’ve been so on top of each other since I stopped work.”
    She nods thoughtfully and smiles blankly, revealing that her mind is really elsewhere. “Well that’s OK then,” she says.
    â€œSo what did you ask Father Christmas for?” I ask Sarah.
    She turns her moon-face at me. She has a serious nature for a little girl, an often-blank expression and glassy eyes. She’s a pretty girl but she somehow looks a bit too serious for her age – like she might be about to cry, or that deep down she might be crying already,
silently
. Of course she isn’t, it’s just something about her features, her lack of expression.
    â€œA wee,” she declares forcefully.
    I frown and look to Jenny for translation.
    Jenny shrugs. “That’s what it’s called. It’s a computer game. It’s W-I-I – Wii. But I’m not sure Father Christmas will be able to run to a Wii this year lovey. And I’m not sure he agrees that it’s appropriate for a wee young thing like yourself.”
    Sarah looks again like she might cry but actually smiles in a mechanical kind of way that leaves the rest of her features intact. She turns back to the puppy. “A Wii,” she repeats quietly – her passing shot at obstinacy.
    â€œSo are we to be blessed with the presence of Doctor Love?” I ask.
    I hear Tom bound back up the stairs, and turn to take the box of Christmas crackers from his hands. But the person standing behind me isn’t Tom. I’m so shocked to see who
is
there that my heart stops beating completely for a second or so. When it resumes normal function it beats double to make up for lost time.
    I let my mouth drop and stare at him. My brow slowly wrinkles.
“How on Earth can he be standing here?”
I think. I actually blink, just in case this is a trick of the mind and he will mysteriously morph back into Tom. But it is