For the Love of Christmas. Kate Forster

weeks,’ she answered.

      ‘That’s a while. What were you doing away for that long? Work, was it?’

      He was heaving her case up the stairs now, so she felt she owed him something. A nugget to share with the next fare.

      ‘I was ill,’ she said. ‘I went for specialised treatment.’

      His eyes opened wide and he almost gasped.

      ‘You better now, then? Is that why you’re home?’

      She smiled, realising he needed her to be well, even though they didn’t know anything about each other.

      ‘I’m getting there,’ she said, with more hope than she felt.

      She felt for her long-unused house keys in her handbag, and put the largest one in the door.

      The click of the lock sounded so familiar, she thought she would cry.

      Maybe this was a dream, and she was coming home from work, with plans to decorate the house before the children and Jamie came home. She would make a roast chicken and salad for dinner, and their life would be a better version of what it was before.

      ‘Good luck, look after yourself,’ the cabbie called as he went back to his car.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him a little wave before she dragged the cases inside.

      Closing the door, she leaned against it and breathed in the scent of her home. She had made it, she thought, and gave herself a mental pat on the back.

      ‘Hello?’ she called, knowing no one was home but hoping all the same.

      Nothing came back in return and she pulled her phone from her bag and dialled a number. She waited while the line connected across the continents.

      ‘Rose-Marie, it’s Bec, I’m home.’

      ‘Welcome home,’ said the instantly soothing American accent. ‘How are things?’

      ‘Lonely,’ Rebecca answered, feeling her eyes burning with tears. ‘No one is here. I don’t think they have been here for weeks.’

      ‘Did Jamie say he would meet you at the airport?’ asked Rose-Marie.

      ‘No, I just assumed. I left him a voice message with my arrival dates.’

      ‘Never assume,’ said Rose-Marie. ‘Ask for what you need. If you wanted him to pick you up, you should have said that.’

      Rebecca swallowed her tears.

      ‘And the red wreath isn’t up on the front door,’ she said. ‘That always means it’s Christmas to me.’

      ‘You can put it up,’ said Rose-Marie, and Rebecca heard the smile in her voice.

      ‘I know you think I’m ridiculous,’ she said.

      ‘No, I think you’re facing the unknown, and it’s frightening as things aren’t like they used to be.’

      Rebecca sat on the uncomfortable Danish chair that Jamie had bought last year. It was supposed to be a design classic but she felt the only thing it was designed for was a backache.

      But right now it felt good to have physical pain to accompany her emotional anguish.

      ‘Have a sleep, a shower and then call me when you speak to Jamie,’ Rose-Marie said gently.

      ‘Okay,’ she answered, feeling like a child.

      She placed the phone down on the glass coffee table that Jamie had bought years ago, when Sofie was born.

      That table had caused her so much worry, she thought, as she ran her fingers over the sharp edges.

      Each step Sofie had taken as a toddler was accompanied with ‘Mind the table’, until Jamie had renamed it the Mindthetable Table.

      Rebecca stared at it and then stood up, and went and opened the front door.

      Walking back to the Mindthetable Table, she lifted the art and architecture books from the glass and placed them on the floor. Next she took the set of sweet little enamel boxes with mother of pearl inlay and placed them on top of the books.

      Bracing herself, she bent her knees and lifted the monstrosity.

      ‘Gawd,’ she wheezed, almost buckling under the weight.

      Tottering like Sofie once had around the table, she inched her way out of the room, and then down the hall and out the front door.

      The stairs were precarious but she managed to get it out and down onto the street by the force of sheer hatred for the thing.

      ‘Goodbye,’ she sneered at the table.

      ‘Excuse me, are you throwing that out?’ said a voice behind her, and she turned to see a cooler, younger version of Jamie.

      ‘I am indeed,’ she said firmly.

      ‘Is it real or a replica?’ he asked carefully.

      ‘Real,’ she said with a smile, and he glanced at her home, and her lovely camel coat, and nodded.

      ‘Would you mind if I took it off your hands?’ he asked eagerly.

      ‘Not at all,’ she said with a smile. ‘In fact, there’s a chair you might like as well.’

      Fifteen minutes later, the chair and the table were gone and Rebecca felt extraordinarily happy with her decision, just as Jamie probably felt the same about his. If he didn’t want to live here, then he wouldn’t miss his stupid furniture, she thought, knowing she was being petulant but unable to stop herself.

      The voice of Rose-Marie rang in her head: ‘If there is anything in your life you don’t like, then change it. It’s simple. Nothing changes, if nothing changes.’

      She walked through the house. The dining room had a thin film of dust on the table, and one of the sideboard cupboards was ajar.

      Moving to close it, she felt a familiar trepidation that she hadn’t experienced for the past two months.

      Herein lies my problem, she thought as she opened it.

      It was empty.

      She was grateful to Jamie for at least having the foresight to clear it out before she came home, but shame filled her body and her cheeks burned with memories.

      This is what you get when you leave rehab, she reminded herself. A wreathless, alcohol-free, deserted family home.

      The tears threatened to fall again and she blinked them away.

      There was one thing she could change on that list, she thought, and shrugging off her coat, forgetting her jet lag and suitcases waiting to be unpacked, she climbed the three flights of stairs to the attic.

      The box of Christmas decorations was light compared to the table she had just disposed of, she thought, as she carried it downstairs to the living room.

      The wreath was on top, wrapped in tissue paper to deter dust and moths, and as she carefully unwrapped it, she gently wiped off some imaginary specks of last Christmas.

      ‘Hello,’ she said to the wreath.

      Taking it by the red velvet ribbon, she opened the front door, and found the nail near the top.

      She hung it as though it were a priceless painting, straightening, fussing until she was sure it was sitting beautifully.

      She stepped back and smiled.

      ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said to the wreath and, most of all, to herself.

      She might be alone but she wouldn’t let that stop her from having her own special Christmas. She might even make some shortbread or even some strong coloured popcorn because she’d always wanted to do that and never had the time.

      This was the start of the