Christmas fling, p.3
Christmas Fling, page 3
‘I don’t really know where to start if I’m honest,’ he said. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘How about the beginning?’ I suggested.
He shuffled his pile of receipts then placed them on the coffee table. I added my handful on the table, crumpled and creased, next to his, smooth and even.
‘You know what? It’s not that interesting and you’re probably wanting to get on.’ He slapped his hands against his thick thighs, the sound cracking through the silence of the room, and reset his face to a bland neutral. ‘No need to worry about any of that, I’ll sort it out.’
‘I wasn’t worried,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said.
Hmm. OK. If he didn’t want to talk about it, I didn’t want to talk about it. I rose to my feet, digging my hands deep into my coat pockets.
‘Is there anything you need to know about the flat before you go?’ Callum asked and I shrugged.
‘You tell me. It’s your flat.’
‘I could give you the tour,’ he offered, a little less brusque this time. ‘Since you’re here.’
‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘Since I’m here.’
‘The shower can be a bit difficult but you’ll get the hang of it.’
He held open the door to a comically small bathroom, leaving it up to me to decide whether I would straddle the toilet or wedge myself between the wall and the sink when he decided to join me inside.
‘Difficult how?’ I asked, the sink digging into the small of my back. No one wanted to straddle a toilet with company present.
‘When you turn it on, it’ll either be really hot or freezing cold. You have to work out the right balance.’
He mimed twisting the two taps, cheeks turning red when he looked back to me and realised his hands were at exactly the same level as my chest. Slapping his arms down by his sides, he stepped swiftly out of the tiny room.
‘You’ll work it out,’ he said, visibly flustered. ‘It’s only a shower, doesn’t take a brain surgeon.’
‘Good to know,’ I replied, tempering a smile. ‘So, what’s taking you to Paris? Dave said you’re a chef?’
‘Hoping to be.’ He closed the bathroom door, sealing his embarrassment inside. ‘Right now I’m only a cook but I’ve been accepted into a culinary school in Paris to study French pastry. Six-month course with a six-month internship at the end if I qualify. After that, who knows?’
‘Which explains the need for a flatsitter,’ I said and he nodded. ‘A six-foot pastry chef moving to Paris. You might be my roommate’s dream man.’
‘Six-four,’ he amended before adding, ‘I don’t suppose she’s a massage therapist called Caroline?’
‘An interior designer called Desi. And she gives massages like Vulcan death grips.’
‘Then I’ll pass.’ Holding out an arm, he directed me down a short hallway. ‘What is it you do? Dave said something about the hospital.’
‘I’m a brain surgeon,’ I said, holding back a laugh when he tripped over his own feet, blinking at me in disbelief.
‘You’re joking?’
‘Generally speaking, we’re not a profession noted for our sense of humour. Brains are fascinating but not all that funny.’
Callum hadn’t taken his eyes off me since the words left my mouth but in place of the usual look of confusion, there was something else. He looked … impressed?
But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he shook off his awestruck expression and guided me into the small but perfectly formed bedroom. The sheets were mussed up from what looked like a tempestuous night’s sleep, the curtains were still drawn and two very expensive-looking suitcases sat in front of an empty built-in wardrobe, both of them open, clothes spilling out from each. He really hadn’t been expecting company. Barging past me, he slammed the open drawer of his bedside table shut before hastily pulling up the duvet to cover the bedsheets.
‘All the stuff I’m leaving will be locked in the closet in the hallway,’ he stated, cocking his head back towards the door. ‘Obviously, you’ll have all your own bedding and … stuff.’
‘Obviously,’ I agreed, trying to pretend I had not seen the bottle of bedside lube he’d tried so hard to hide. ‘Thank you.’
On behalf of all women, I wanted to add but did not.
The living room was a little brighter when we returned, the sun deciding to show its face for the first time all day, and Callum looked at me again, the muscles around his eyes contracting very slightly, as if bringing me into sharper focus.
‘You’re really a brain surgeon?’ he asked.
‘Technically a neurosurgeon,’ I said, hugging my coat closer. ‘Or I will be when I finish my training. We treat the whole nervous system – not only the brain – but that is part of it.’
‘How long is the training?’
He sounded curious but not wary. There was no sign of The Fear in him, at least not yet. Most men, straight men at least, were weird about a female surgeon. Much like female pilots and truck drivers and presidents of the United States of America, it was one of those jobs that just didn’t sit right with them and we all suffered because of it.
‘Five-year medical degree, two-year foundation programme then at least eight years of training. I’m about halfway through but there’s a long way to go yet.’
‘Wow.’
His eyebrows climbed up his forehead as the facts registered.
‘I know, don’t worry, I’ve heard it all,’ I said, preparing my standard spiel. ‘You don’t look like a neurosurgeon, you don’t hear about woman surgeons very often, I wouldn’t want someone who wears days of the week underwear digging around in my brain, et cetera, et cetera.’
‘You don’t look like a neurosurgeon,’ Callum agreed. ‘Not that I’ve given it a lot of thought but if you’d asked, I’d have assumed they were all old white men. That’s terrible, isn’t it?’
‘Terrible but nine times out of ten, correct.’ I gave him an exaggerated once over. ‘What about you? Wouldn’t exactly have you pegged for a pastry chef.’
‘Goes to show, you really can’t judge a book by its cover,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘And for the record, if you hadn’t mentioned it, I would never have guessed you were wearing days of the week underwear.’
‘Really? What kind of underwear did you think I was wearing?’
The surprise that registered on his face was nothing compared to the shock on mine. Ducking my head, I spotted my earbuds still tucked into the rug, and bent over to retrieve them. Where did that come from?
‘Well, I’m honoured to have you renting the flat,’ Callum said, blessedly changing the subject. ‘If a bit surprised you aren’t in the market for something nicer.’
‘Still a trainee,’ I reminded him, pocketing the earbuds and recovering my composure. Just. ‘Working for the NHS. In London. Things could be worse, admittedly, but I’m still paying off my student loans. It’s too easy to get into a lot of debt as a student in this city, especially when you didn’t have any money to start with.’
‘And I can’t imagine days of the week underwear are cheap.’
At last, he unleashed the full force of his grin. It was glorious. His teeth were straight and white, his lips full and soft looking, and he lit up, all the warmth of his expression pouring into me like a no-contact hug. His wavy hair was almost dry now, a dark, russet colour, and just long enough to curl up around his cheekbones, framing those incredible eyes, and when he stepped into a shaft of sunlight, I could’ve sworn I heard a choir of angels singing. Which was when I noticed a car parked outside the window, blaring Christmas carols at full blast.
‘That’s everything, I think.’ Callum waved his arms around the small space as I leaned against the wall, attempting to recover myself. Someone had spent altogether too much time in the hospital lately and that someone was me. ‘You’ve got my number, give me a shout if you come across any problems and I’ll send someone round. Or you can always ask Dave, I’m sure he’ll help. Even if he is a bit of a dickhead.’
‘You really might be my roommate’s dream man,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the tour and yep, I’ll let dickhead Dave know if I’ve got any more questions. Since you’ll be in Paris.’
‘Since I’ll be in Paris,’ he echoed, eyes locked on mine.
‘Have a nice Christmas in Scotland,’ I added, reaching for the door but not letting myself out just yet. ‘Say ho, ho, ho to your mum and dad for me.’
Half a laugh huffed out of him.
‘No can do. I’m not going. I’d rather stay here on my own.’
‘You’re not serious?’ I said, letting go of the door handle.
‘I’d say you wouldn’t understand but I reckon you got a good measure of my family in your five minutes.’
‘A bit overwhelming,’ I admitted. ‘But ultimately well-meaning?’
Callum didn’t look convinced. His smile disappeared, replaced by a frown that stole all the light from his eyes, the easy vibes in the room vanishing with it.
‘A neurosurgeon,’ he said in a rapidly thickening voice. ‘Your mum and dad must be really proud of you.’
‘I suppose so. We don’t really talk about it,’ I replied quietly. ‘Why, you don’t think yours are proud of you?’
A pause.
‘I know they aren’t.’
‘They seemed awfully keen to have you home for Christmas.’
‘Aye, where they can keep an eye on me,’ he replied. ‘My parents won’t be happy until I get married, knock out a couple of grandkids and move back to Braewick.’
‘The most magnificent place on God’s green earth,’ I snapped my fingers and shot him with a finger gun and a wry smile. ‘I totally remember, babe.’
He almost smiled back. ‘Aye, Dad was right about one thing, it is beautiful. Scottish Highlands, about an hour north of Inverness. It’s also the arse end of nowhere. More sheep than people.’
‘Not many opportunities for a pastry chef,’ I guessed. ‘So, what happened exactly? You invented a girlfriend to get them off your back?’
‘That’s the short version.’
‘And the long version?’ When he gave me an uncertain look, I shrugged and leaned against the wall. ‘Go on, I’ve got nowhere better to be.’
‘Fine.’ Callum took a deep breath in and settled onto his sofa. ‘I suppose I owe you an explanation.’
‘At least as to how you chose her job. Massage therapist? Really?’
Pulling at a loose thread on the cuff of his sweatshirt, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, looking as though he couldn’t believe he’d got himself into such a mess.
‘I was on my way for a massage, on the phone with Mum when she asked what Caroline did for a living.’ He held up his hands to acknowledge the lack of creativity. ‘There was no nefarious plan or anything, mostly I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. They never understand why I can’t cancel work stuff to go back and visit at the drop of a hat, but when I said I was seeing someone, they seemed more understanding.’
‘Your job keeps you away from Braewick but a girlfriend gets them one step closer to grandkids,’ I reasoned. ‘Emotional mathematics, the equations don’t always make sense but there’s usually a pattern.’
‘And that’s why you’re the brain surgeon and I’m not. You’re a genius.’
I waved a hand to reject the notion but I wasn’t exactly mad about it. The pieces of a very confusing puzzle started to slot into place. Annoying parents, fake girlfriend, easy answer.
‘But why tell them I’m Caroline instead of explaining I’m renting the flat from you?’ I asked.
‘Because I’m an idiot?’
It was hard to argue against it.
‘They assumed, I panicked,’ he said with an apologetic glance in my direction. ‘Sorry I dragged you into it.’
‘Don’t be, it’s not your fault. Like you said, you’re an idiot.’
We smiled at each other, Callum wringing his hands while I squeezed the earbuds in my pocket.
‘What are you going to do now?’ I asked. ‘They’re expecting both of us.’
His reply was a long, low groan that sent an unexpected shiver running all the way down my spine and I had to bite my lip to stop it from ricocheting all the way back up again.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, combing a hand through his hair, breaking up the waves from the back to the front. ‘I’m not desperate to be alone on Christmas but if I show up in Braewick without you after they’ve bought both our train tickets? Nightmare material.’
‘Then call them right now!’ I ordered, pointing at the phone he produced from the pocket of his jeans. ‘Tell them not to buy me a ticket!’
His eyes scanned the screen from left and right until he landed on something and turned it around for me to see.
‘Too late.’
A receipt. A QR code. Two tickets booked on the Caledonian Sleeper.
Two incredibly expensive, non-refundable tickets booked on the Caledonian Sleeper. As someone who grew up without any money, who was mired in student debt, the number on the screen made me feel sick to my stomach.
‘Don’t worry about it, this isn’t your problem,’ Callum said when he saw the look on my face. ‘I made my bed, I’ll hide underneath it until my parents stop shouting at me. I’ll call them, explain we’re not coming, stick it out here on my own.’
On his own. Even a self-professed Grinch like me couldn’t stand the thought of him skulking around alone all Christmas, it was too depressing.
‘What if you tell them I dumped you after they left?’ I suggested. ‘Then they’d have to be nice to you?’
‘If I break up with Caroline, I lose my get-out-of-going-
home card and I’m not ready to part with that just yet and if I show up at home without you, they’ll probably lock me up in the tower to keep me there, and I really wish I was joking.’
‘OK, Rapunzel,’ I muttered. ‘Your hair isn’t that nice.’
‘It’s not your problem,’ he said again. ‘Worry about the hot water tap in the bathroom, don’t stress yourself out about me.’
He was right, it wasn’t my problem, but I hated the thought of him hanging around this empty, tree-less flat all Christmas and I really hated the thought of his parents wasting so much money. It all seemed so unnecessary, especially when there was an alternative. Even if it was a deeply, deeply stupid alternative …
‘What if I did come with you?’ I said. ‘I don’t have any big plans and, you never know, it might be fun. I could be Caroline.’
Callum stared right through me, two lines bracketing his mouth as he pursed his lips. I squeezed the tape measure in my pocket until the edges bit into my palm and stared right back. For some reason, whenever he looked at me, I couldn’t quite work out what to do with my hands.
‘You’re joking,’ he said. ‘Of course you’re joking.’
Was I? Of course I was. Unless I wasn’t.
‘It’s only an idea,’ I replied. ‘I mean, how difficult could it be? Nice train ride, couple of days in Scotland, smile and nod at your family. Would it be so ridiculous?’
‘Yes,’ Callum answered without hesitation.
‘Right,’ I agreed. ‘Completely.’
‘And it wouldn’t really solve the problem in the long term,’ he added. ‘What are you going to do, come with me every time I have to visit my parents for the next ten years?’
‘Or,’ I said, a concept of a plan forming in my mind, ‘we make Caroline so unbelievably awful they beg you to never bring her back to Braewick ever again.’
The creases between Callum’s eyebrows smoothed out slowly as his eyebrows crept up his forehead.
‘Really and truly heinous,’ I added. ‘I’m talking tracks mud all over the house, talks on her phone at the dinner table, puts empty After Eight wrappers back in the box horrible. We could really make them hate her.’
‘I may have led my parents to believe Caroline isn’t especially social,’ he muttered, more to himself than to me. ‘All you’d have to do is show up then avoid them for the rest of the trip.’
‘For how long?’
‘The train leaves tomorrow night, gets into Inverness on the twenty-second and we’d travel back to London on the twenty-sixth.’
‘Show up, be rude, hide in my bedroom for four days,’ I surmised. ‘Yes, that sounds like a proper family Christmas.’
‘It’s such a lot to ask.’ Callum glanced at me from underneath his very long eyelashes and I could tell he was tempted. ‘We don’t even know each other, I can’t expect you to give up your Christmas to help me out of my own stupid mess.’
‘There’s really nothing to give up,’ I assured him. ‘It’s just me and my two friends eating an entire Chocolate Orange each and watching A Muppet Christmas Carol on a loop.’
‘That sounds like more fun than hanging out with my family … What about work? Surely you don’t get much time off?’
‘I’ve been saving up my holidays, I don’t go back until the twenty-ninth.’
The not-quite-a-lie sailed smoothly through my lips. No need to tell him I’d been politely forced to take the whole week off because I hadn’t used any of my holiday allowance for the last two years. I was always happier when I was busy, when I had a project to keep me occupied, like researching the roles of pericytes and neighbouring cells in ischaemia and dementia patients, catching up on the latest developments in remyelination, or pretending to be a masseuse named Caroline.
‘OK, don’t take this the wrong way,’ Callum said, almost guaranteeing there was only one way to take it. ‘But what’s in it for you? Why would you even want to help me?’
I had a hundred ready answers. Because his family Christmas in Scotland sounded more appealing than another non-Christmas on Desi’s sofa. Because I’d never been to the Highlands and I had a pair of Grenson Nanette boots still in their box that I impulse purchased more than three years ago. Because I was tired and burned out and felt like doing something stupid. Because nothing about the entire season had felt the same since I lost my mum and I didn’t want to spend another December twenty-fifth steeped in sad memories.
