The Millionaire's Christmas Wife

The taxi driver had to drop her at the top of her street because the snow was so thick in the side-roads. As she entered the house she glanced towards Clara’s front door and wondered if her friend was in and whether Brian was with her. She hadn’t given Clara a thought all afternoon. She stood for a moment or two looking at the closed door. She didn’t really want to talk to Clara—she didn’t want to talk to anyone—but would Clara expect her to ask how things went with Brian? But then if he was there they might be otherwise engaged. From the look on both their faces when she’d left that morning she had the feeling the celibacy notion might well have gone out of the window.

Her forehead knit, she stood hesitating and then decided she’d see Clara the next morning before they had to leave for work. By then she would be able to give Clara every ounce of her attention without being worried she was going to spoil the moment by crying all over her.

Once in her bedsit Miriam drew the curtains to shut the world out and took off her coat and shoes. Her feet were icy cold and damp where she’d waded through the thick snow to reach the house, and she decided she’d change and pop down the landing to the bathroom for a long, hot soak. But still she just sat there on her sofa, feeling waves of self-recrimination wash over her. She was stupid, so stupid. And what must Jay be thinking? He’d obviously assumed everything had been sorted between them when she’d spent the whole afternoon making love, and why wouldn’t he?

He had been so angry. She groaned, her eyes liquid with tears. The things he had said…Not that she blamed him for any of it—in fact, how could she when he was absolutely right? But it had still been painful to hear.

She swallowed hard, telling herself she had to get it together, and then her mobile rang. Reaching for her bag, she got her phone out, half expecting it to be her mother, in which case she’d let the answer machine cut in. But the little screen said otherwise.

Her voice shaking, she said, ‘Hello, Jay.’

‘I’m at the airport,’ he said flatly, ‘but I wanted to make sure you got home OK. You are home, I take it?’

She nodded and then realised what she was doing. She was definitely losing it. ‘Yes, I’m home.’

‘Good. The weather’s foul and we’re grounded as we speak but apparently there are signs the storm’ll be over shortly.’ There was a pause and Miriam wondered if he expected her to say something, but she couldn’t. He might detect her silent tears.

‘Look, Miriam, I’ve been thinking over what you said, about not seeing each other when I’m back from this trip. After all we said this afternoon I’m beginning to see there’s no hope for us. To be frank I don’t think I can take any more of this banging my head against a brick wall.’ He paused again, and then said, ‘Miriam? Are you there?’

It took more willpower than she’d imagined she possessed to keep the tears out of her voice when she said, ‘I’m here.’

‘You clearly want out.’

‘Yes.’

‘And your mind’s made up.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then perhaps it’s better if we do this quickly and cleanly right now without any long-drawn-out goodbyes or bad feeling. What do you say?’

Somehow she managed the one word again. ‘Yes.’ He might think she was being awkward but he’d never know the effort it was taking to get that solitary word past the enormous constriction that had her throat in a vice.

‘OK.’ His voice was still flat, almost stony. ‘Well, take care of yourself for me. We’ll start the ball rolling in the New Year once Christmas is

out of the way if that suits? Goodbye, Miriam.’

‘Goodbye.’ He meant it, she thought sickly. She had got what she wanted, but still when the phone went dead she could hardly believe it had finally ended.

She sat for a long time without moving, senses and mind numb. Aeons later she made herself rise and take off her clothes, slipping on her bathrobe and collecting her toiletries before making her way to the bathroom.

All the while she lay in the hot bubbles the numbness didn’t lift and Miriam welcomed it, embraced it. She didn’t want to feel, to think. She wanted to stay in this peculiar state of suspended animation for ever.

Eventually, when the water was cool and her skin resembled a wrinkled prune, she made herself get out of the bath and towelled herself dry. After her customary routine of creaming and moisturising she went back to the bedsit and put on her comfortable old pyjamas that had seen better days but which were perfect for couch-potato moments. She even made herself a plateful of hot buttered toast and a milky hot chocolate, eating her tea curled up on the sofa while she watched the news and then listened to the weather girl—who was muffled up like an Eskimo, having been banished outside to give the forecast as though everyone in Britain didn’t know they were in the grip of wintry blizzards—explain this high and that low had caused Siberian storms to hit the UK.

It was just nine o’clock when Clara knocked on the door. Miriam had been watching a comedy-drama but the moment she turned away from the TV she’d forgotten what it was about.

Clara had been grinning like a Cheshire cat when Miriam opened the door. Her face straightening in the blink of an eye, she said, ‘What’s the matter?’

Miriam wanted to say that nothing was the matter, that everything was fine. She wanted to ask what had happened between Clara and Brian, to say she so hoped everything was sorted out, that Brian seemed a lovely man and she could see the two of them being ecstatically happy together. Instead she stared into her friend’s concerned blue eyes and burst into tears.

It was some minutes and plenty of tissues later be-fore Miriam could explain what had happened, and when she did Clara offered no well-meaning advice but simply sat and listened as she patted her hand. Then she made them both a cup of strong coffee and settled herself on the floor at Miriam’s feet.

‘Let me get this straight.’ She tilted her head as she surveyed Miriam’s ravaged face. ‘You love him and he loves you. You now think he almost certainly wasn’t carrying on with this awful Poppins woman—’

‘He wasn’t, I’m sure of it.’

‘But you still don’t think you can go back to him,’ Clara continued as though she hadn’t interrupted, ‘because…’