Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage. Katie Ginger

didn’t feel like saying anything else right now so tapped his finger in time with the music playing in the background. The trouble was women often took his lack of chit chat as him playing the strong and silent type. It wasn’t. He wasn’t brooding either. He was just so bloody depressed he often didn’t speak at all, for hours, days if he could help it. From the corner of his eye he saw Angela, or whatever her name was, shuffling uncomfortably.

      ‘Do you still work at the estate agent’s in town?’ she asked, running her fingers down the stem of her empty wine glass.

      Joe nodded at the barman and nudged his glass forward. Fred refilled it. He scratched his stubbled cheek. ‘Um, yeah. Do you want a drink?’He didn’t really want to buy her one, but he had that longing again. A longing to be held, a longing for physical contact, for intimacy. For sex.

      A slow smile spread over her face. ‘I thought you’d never ask. Dry white wine please,’ she said to Fred. Her hair was just like Clara’s, the colour of straw. Joe turned away at the familiar surge of nausea that arose whenever he thought of her. His throat tightened. If only things had been different.

      Fred delivered his drink and one for … Amy? Joe took his and gulped, numbing the pain. If he kept it locked away, he was able to make it through the day pretty much intact and in the evenings threw himself into video games. It was soothing entering another world where he didn’t have to be himself.

      ‘You’re not very talkative, are you? Just like when you were at school.’

      ‘We were at school together?’ he asked, not looking up.

      That was the other shitty thing about coming back. He saw all these people he’d gone to school with. All those who’d thought he was cool. Joe scoffed to himself and felt Amanda glance at him. He wasn’t cool anymore. He was a loser, the biggest loser he knew, with a giant, steaming turd of a life.

      The song had changed and the husky singer sang, ‘In the arms of the angels.’ Bollocks, thought Joe. Every song was about heartbreak or death these days, or something worse. He felt a sudden desire to leave but then that familiar urge for human contact pulled at him, sticking his butt to the seat. He didn’t want to talk though. He hated all the questions these women had, like they could fix him if they could just have a little chat about it all.

      She giggled. ‘Danny remembered me, he told you when we came over. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already?’ She wrapped her hair around her finger.

      Joe tried to picture what she might have been like when they were at school but he soon gave up. It was so hard to concentrate sometimes. Somehow his mind always wandered back to Clara, as if she was sneaking around in his head, trying to make him deal with it all. He knew she wouldn’t want him to be like this, but he couldn’t break out of the deep, dark black hole he’d fallen into.

      ‘I’m Annabelle Crawley. I was three years below you at school.’

      He nodded. ‘Oh yeah, I remember.’ He didn’t remember. Who remembered kids three years below you at school? You just ignored them, you didn’t acknowledge them, or worse, become friends with them.

      Annabelle snuggled in closer. ‘It’s okay. I know you don’t have a clue who I am, but I forgive you. You can get to know me now.’

      Joe glanced at his watch, knowing exactly how this night would end and, from the gleam in her eye, so did she. The feel of her body pressed into his arm was enough to convince them that another one-night stand was just what he wanted, even though he’d feel empty again in the morning. But swallowing his pint he knew it was pointless thinking any further ahead than the next day, and that was pushing it sometimes. He felt like his soul was lost, roaming somewhere outside his body, out there in the world. It would come back fleetingly during the reprieve of company, only to go missing again. He knew it wouldn’t stay this time, but he’d like to feel like himself again, even if it was only for a short while. Turning to Annabelle, he began talking a little more.

       Chapter 3

      Sandchester

      Carol, Esme’s mum, sat opposite her at the large kitchen table. From the strange expressions she was making, Esme knew she was fantasising about ways to harm Leo Chalmers. Stephen, Esme’s father, sat quietly listening.

      ‘So that’s why I’m here, at half past eight on a Thursday morning,’ said Esme, examining her mum’s floral bathrobe tied around her waist. ‘I didn’t wake you up, did I?’

      ‘No, dear,’ replied Carol. ‘We were just having sex—’

      ‘Some tea,’ interrupted Stephen, glaring at his wife. ‘We were just having some tea. In bed. Watching telly.’ He scratched his head and a redness crept out of his stripy pyjama top.

      Esme shuddered. Since she had left home after finishing university, and her younger sister had moved out eight years ago, her parents had very much enjoyed a more active sex life. More than once when she’d been home for Christmas, or down for some family occasion, Esme would hear them and bury her head under the pillow. After last Christmas, Leo had insisted they stay at the hotel outside town, even though it would cost them more money to get taxis to and fro. But that wasn’t going to happen now, she thought sadly. They wouldn’t relish the prospect of having their daughter back home anymore than she wanted to be there, but they were always supportive and just what Esme needed right now. Stephen cocked his head to one side and smiled at his daughter.

      ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said her mum. ‘You’ll get back on your feet and if that Leo turns up here, I shall … I shall …’ She grabbed a dinner knife, covered in marmalade. ‘I shall stab him in the back for stabbing you in the back. I can’t believe his name’s Chalmers. Charm, my arse.’

      Esme tried to smile, but tears were forming in her eyes again, even though she was sick of crying. That morning, climbing into the taxi at Sandchester Station, which was unstaffed because no one ever wanted to visit the boring little town, Esme had rubbed at her tired eyes. Turning up at her mum and dad’s house, at the age of 33, with all her belongings crammed into one suitcase, and a Christmas pudding under her arm, was thoroughly depressing. At least it hadn’t been raining. ‘He didn’t stab me in the back, Mum. And he didn’t say there was anyone else. He just said we were more like friends than, you know.’ She blushed and stared down at the table with its red check tablecloth.

      ‘Well, darling,’ Carol replied, taking her cup. ‘Your room is all yours until you find somewhere else.’

      ‘I don’t know how I’ll find somewhere else. I need a job first.’ She ran a hand through her un-brushed hair and her fingers caught in the knots. She’d never felt so low.

      ‘About that,’ said Stephen, pouring another cup of tea. ‘We were saving up some money for your wedding.’

      ‘Wedding,’ repeated her mother, nodding. She’d always had this weird habit of randomly repeating the last word of other people’s sentences.

      ‘But as things have changed, you could use it to put down a deposit on a rental if you like. I’m sure you’ll find some work soon, you’re so good at your job. But just remember one thing, Esme.’ She paused at her dad’s sincere expression. ‘Don’t ever go backwards. Always move forwards. Going back never helps.’

      ‘Never helps,’ repeated Carol. ‘That means no going back to that scumbag. Even if he comes crawling on bended knee with the biggest diamond you’ve ever seen. Men like that don’t change.’

      ‘How much do you have saved?’ asked Esme.

      ‘About three thousand pounds,’ Stephen answered.

      Esme raised her head. ‘Really? Thank you. Thank you so much. ‘It was more than generous and enough to cover not just a deposit but the first few months’ rent too. Tears escaped from her eyes and she studied her parents. The wrinkles on