A/N: Slight revisions made in January 2012.

I can tell he's here even before I see him.

His voice echoes down the purple-coloured entry hall of mum's flat. I take off my boots and walk slowly toward my room, hoping he won't hear.

He's on the phone, using language that suggests a mistress on the other end of the line.

"Chez moi ou chez toi, mon amour?"

I fight back my anger as I silently reach my door, careful not to disturb anything.

My room is exactly as I left it. Books in one corner, BBC documentaries and historical films in another. Mum's old vinyl albums line the walls, interspersed with photos I took of Paris during my first-year photography class.

Even as everything changes around me, there's something comforting in seeing everything the same.

I lay on my old rickety bed, faking sleep until my father leaves. It doesn't take him very long. Knowing him, he probably chose not to hear my arrival. Perfect.

I call Ellie up and, to my surprise, she answers.

"St. Clair, heeeeey!," she slurs. "How are you?"

"How are you there?"

"I'm awesome, but I totally wish you were here!" she says.

She does?

"Everyone's going to ask about you!," she continues. "We're going to have, like, 150 people here and they're all bringing champagne. Champagne! Hmmmm, and cheese and so many delicious things and – oh my God!"

I hear a crash and bang in the background. I imagine one of the Upper East Side's fair maidens colliding with a dessert tray and stifle back a laugh.

"What's wrong?" I ask as seriously as I can manage.

"Oh, you know, just the usual chaos before a big event," she says dismissively. "By the way, I love your gift. It's so me, and you, and…I'm really looking forward to seeing you soon."

"You are?" I ask. "I thought you – "

"What are the holidays without a bit of forgiveness?" she says. "Maybe we just need to listen to each other more, you know? Like give this all the best we have. How are you, anyway?"

She's clearly drunk – again – and not making much sense, but she forgives me. That's all I care about.

"I'm doing all right," I say. "Got in earlier today, went to see mum. She's – "

"Ugh!" she says. "Would you cut it out, Lucas? Paulina is going to kill you for that."

More bangs and clatter in the background. Christ. These sound worse than the parties we go to in Paris.

"I gotta go, babe," she says. "This is quickly turning into a code red disaster here. Merry Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas," I say, but she's already off the line.