CHAPTER FOUR

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?

5 December 2021

It was the whistle of a train that woke me up. Forcing me to face the undeniable reality of my self-imposed hangover. Head thumping behind my grainy eyes, I peeled back the duvet, my stomach rolling as I sat up.

In hindsight, finding Charlotte and knocking back shots after overhearing Darcy's comments probably wasn't the healthiest thing for me to do. I should have confronted him, made him eat his words while pointing out that while I may suffer from incurable verbal diarrhea at least I am in possession of a personality. Something he was completely devoid of.

God. What an asshole.

Standing up, I swallowed compulsively. "I will not throw up." I told myself firmly.

Every bone in my body cracked as I stretched, the room spinning around me. With a deep steadying breath I found my centre. Padding over to the window, I pulled open the curtains, hissing at the bright light. It was snowing outside. Gentle flakes fell down onto the road making this small part of the world feel magical.

Winter, for all its flaws, was my favourite time of year. I could wear fluffy jumpers and beanies galore. There was the spicy mulled wine, bundling beneath a blanket with a romantic movie, and the snow. I loved the snow. Even when it fell thick and fast forcing me to stave ofF hypothermia in front of the heater.

Three rashers of bacon, two eggs, and an extra strong tea and I would be able to face the day without my eyeballs falling from my head.

"You know you have underwear stuck to your leg right?" I jumped, twisting around awkwardly and falling on my ass. Lydia stood in the open doorway, mug of steaming tea warming her hands, laughter barely concealed in her eyes. "I really wish I filmed that."

A pair of bright red underwear was stuck to the back of my leg. I peeled them off and threw them towards the washing hamper. It missed.

"Go away."

"You're the one who left your door wide open when you came banging in at three a.m." She said, a perfectly innocent smile spreading her rosy cheeks.

One of the downsides of living in the family home, everybody knew your every movement. I could barely escape the house without an inquisition and I was a full-grown adult. If Lydia, the girl who could sleep through absolutely anything, heard her it meant the whole house had.

And here I thought I had been quiet.

Evidently not.

I moved to stand up. My stomach rolled dangerously; bile burned the back of my throat. When I really thought about it the floor was actually quite comfortable. The new carpeting mum had put in last year was nice and plush.

"You look terrible," Lydia continued as I flopped onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. "I see you had a good night."

"It was great." And it had been, after I had consumed enough alcohol to cleanse Dr. Dickhead from my brain, at least for a short time. Closing my eyes, I said, "Charlie brought along his sister and friend."

Lydia didn't say anything. I heard some shuffling then a warm presence beside me. "Do share."

The smell of Earl Grey did wonders for my deplorable state. "You first." I made a grabbing motion with my hands. Scoffing, Lydia put the mug of tea in my hands. Cracking open my eye just a fraction, I took a bracing sip with sister dearest leaning over me like a creep. "Dude, personal space."

She took the mug from my hands. I whimpered. Rolling her eyes, she set the mug down on the floor beside herself and helped to pull me upright before placing the sweet nectar of the Gods back in my hands. Inhaling deeply, I took another sip. It settled my rebellious stomach almost instantly.

"His sister, Caroline, is awful." Opening my eyes fully, I saw Lydia sitting cross legged in front of me looking at me with rapt attention. "Like Real Housewives of wherever awful."

"I love that show."

"Which one?"

Lydia's brow furrowed, worrying at her lip as though deep in thought. "All of them. We don't discriminate in this house."

Lydia's greatest fault was her obsession with reality TV and had, on more than one occasion, announced that it was her grand ambition to wind up on one. First, she had to get her social media career off the ground then she would be rolling in offers or so she believed. Personally, I thought she should aim higher than Love Island, but what did I know?

"As bad as she was, the friend was worse." I took a sip of tea. "Darcy spent the entire night silently staring. Like serial killer staring. I could probably count on one hand how many words he actually said. The worst part was that out of nowhere he said I dress like a twelve-year-old boy and talk too much."

I hated how much that stung. A big part of me knew that he wasn't worth thinking about; after all his judgment was based off of one night. What did he know? Nothing. I might have an unhealthy obsession with meme t-shirts and converse,but at least I wasn't choking on a giant stick up my ass.

"What was under the sweater?" Lydia asked suspiciously. Resting her elbows on her knees, she rested her chin on her hands, watching me closely.

"Dabbing Santa."

Lydia shook her head. "I mean, I can see where he would get that from."

Traitor.

I took another bracing sip of tea feeling its warmth unfurl in my stomach. "Still a total dick move."

"Oh, definitely," Lydia agreed.

The train whistled again.

"What is that?"

When I had first woken up, a part of me suspected the whistling train was nothing more than a fragment of a long forgotten dream. I really hoped mum hadn't gone overboard this year. She loved Christmas. Not only did she have an obsession with those crappy holiday movies they bought out every year, but she also loved to decorate the house and made dad climb onto the roof to put up strings of lights.

"Mum's been decorating since like five."

"What's the time now?"

"I dunno," Lydia shrugged. "Lunchtime, I think."

Damn, that was five or so hours of unrestrained decorating. God only knows what Christmassy monstrosity was awaiting. According to mum there was never enough when it came to trimmings and ornaments.

The lights had gone up outside two weeks ago. A blinding signal that a crazy woman resided here. There were light up reindeer on the peak of the roof, an inflatable dancing Santa on the front lawn, and enough lights that the house could be seen from space. Despite the blinding lights of the outside, I thought, prayed, hoped that the inside was going to be spared. Or at the very least toned down.

Apparently, I had been wrong.

Quickly finishing the tea, I handed the empty mug back to Lydia and stood. The room spun. Closing my eyes, I breathed in through my nose and out my mouth. Doing this a few times, my equilibrium came back. Lydia moved to stand as well.

"Do I want to know what it looks like out there?"

Lydia smiled slowly, evilly. "If you think last year was bad… this is worse."

I shuddered.

"Tell me the Nutcrackers haven't returned." Those things were terrifying. For the entirety of December, and more than a little bit of January, I'd had nightmares of those little wooden figurines eating me with their terrifying mouths.

"See for yourself, "Lydia laughed, handing the empty mug back to me. "Put this in the dishwasher."

I glared at her as she left the room with a bounce in her step. Following her at a much slower pace, I was hit by the Christmas tornado as soon as I stepped onto the landing. The family photos that resided on the end table had been packed away to make room for a gingerbread themed Christmas village. Green garlands trimmed every wall and candy cane shaped lights flashed above the bathroom door.

The banister of the stairs had been wrapped in green and red tinsel; a sprig of mistletoe hung over the bottom of the stairs. That damn train whistled again and I descended the steps and headed into the kitchen to get rid of the mug.

It had not been spared.

Lights had been strung, a small Christmas tree had been put up in the corner, and the dining room table had been set with "the good Christmas" plates. We All Need a Little Christmas came from the living room as I put the mug in the dishwasher.

I was almost scared to investigate.

Opening the frosted glass doors, I was almost bowled over by the Christmas bomb that had gone off in there. Had mum robbed a Christmas store? Sure seemed that way.

Mum, dressed in a tight leopard print dress, stood on the top of a step ladder, fixing the star on top of an 8-foot Christmas tree. Chugging around the base of the tree, a small red train did merry circles. The tree itself was expertly decorated in red and gold baubles, thick gold ribbon, and small twinkly lights. It looked as if it belonged in a showroom rather than a small house in the English countryside.

On every available surface, mum's collection of novelty nutcrackers stared at me with their cold, lifeless eyes. A shiver ran up my spine. I wasn't exactly sure where they came from or what sadist actually produced them. All I knew was that every year more magically showed up. At last count she was up to 56 of those suckers, which was approximately 56 more than was strictly necessary.

Even for mum this was extreme.

"You've been busy," I said over Angela Lansbury's singing.

Mum turned to me with a bright smile, reindeer earrings swinging merrily in her ears. "It's Christmas," she said, turning back to fiddle with the star until she was happy. "There, perfect." Stepping down the ladder, she moved to stand next to me to examine her handy work. Putting her hands on her hips, she nodded once and turned to me. "You look terrible."

Nothing like family to build up your self-esteem.

"Lydia said the same thing."

"Not getting ill are you?" She asked accusingly. "The Christmas party is next week and I expect you to be there."

I knew the drill. No one gets out of the annual Bennet Christmas party unless they were on their deathbed and even then probably not.

"Just drank a bit too much last night."

She pursed her lips in disapproval. "You know you're not a teenager anymore."

Oh, I knew it all right. My knees creaked, my hangovers lasted obscenely long, and I was pretty sure my memory had started to fail.

"Well, yes, that tends to be how aging works."

Mum was about to retort when the doorbell chimed. She had programmed it to play jingle bells in a tinny tune that grated.

Only three more weeks, I reminded myself.

"Oh, that will be Aunty Una," she told me. "It's unlocked!"

Laden with gift bags and a suspicious looking box, Una Phillips came into the room looking every bit the former beauty pageant queen she was. She wasn't really my aunt – mum had met her at university and they had been friends ever since. Una was the one to introduce mum to Botox, Pilates, and whatever fad diet was in style at any given time.

Una was a hopelessly American version of Patsy Stone from Absolutely Fabulous – beehive hair and all. A self-described cougar, she told everyone she was thirty-nine. Never mind the fact she had been the same age for fifteen years.

She was one of the few people in my life who didn't try to set me up on dates. Una was a serial divorcee with an aversion to children and a proclivity for a good bottle of wine. All men, she had once told me, deserved a second chance – with someone else.

"Hello!" Una spread her arms out as she stepped into the living room. She quickly deposited the gift bags on the couch before handing mum the box. "It finally arrived."

Oh God. This had to be another nutcracker.

Leaning over mum's shoulder, I watched as she tore into the wrapping with eager fingers. Pulling out the wooden figure, she held it reverently in her hands as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

It was even more horrifying than anything else in her collection.

The nutcracker stared at me with eyes that were a little too lifelike to be comfortable. Dressed impeccably in a suit and tie, in its right hand it held a microphone. Its hair was styled into a fashionable crop and its ears were just slightly too large for the head.

"It's perfect," mum whispered.

I shook my head. "Who is it meant to be?"

Mum went to the mantle over the fireplace and placed the nutcracker next to Elvis, making sure it was perfectly placed before answering me. "It's Michael Bublé."

I could see it. If I squinted really, really hard. The thing was terrifying.

"You look absolutely terrible darling," Una said as she pressed a kiss to each cheek in greeting.

Lord give me strength. "Hungover."

"A Bloody Mary will fix you right up," she said, motioning with her hand. "You've outdone yourself Fran."

That was an understatement.

"All in the name of Christmas," mum said in a sing-song voice. "Are you bringing that delicious Mark to the party next week?"

Mark was Una's man of the moment. He was barely thirty, worked at the local gym, and had the personality of a wet noodle. Just her type. Mark was a Chris Hemsworth type but with half the charm and none of the money.

"We parted ways."

Mum went to the liquor cabinet and poured Una a strong scotch. Knocking it back in one sip, she handed over the gift bags she had placed on the couch before sitting down.

I slipped out as they began their usual ritual of pouring over everything wrong with the world and men in general. Going back upstairs, I got dressed and fought the urge to crawl back into bed and not leave it. I didn't have time to, noT with the time crunch Wickham's had given me. I was nowhere near prepared enough.

Just when I had decided to go into the basement to see if, in my pathetic state, I could make some magic happen, Jane rang.

"Hello," I answered.

"What are you doing on Tuesday night?" Jane asked.

"Well, I was planning on washing my hair and staring at the wall for a couple of hours. You know, the usual."

"Good, then you're free for dinner."

"Am I?" I asked, my brow furrowing. "I wasn't aware I had an invite."

"You do now," Jane replied happily. "You don't work Wednesdays do you?"

"Not usually."

"Great! You can stay with Charlie and I that night in the city. I'm so glad you're free. Have to dash, I'll text you the details when I have a moment."

She hung up without saying goodbye.

What the Hell had I just been roped into? Dinner in the city. I hadn't done that in years. Could I even hold a fork like an adult anymore?

Tucking my phone into my back pocket, I went back downstairs and into the basement.

The basement had become, despite mum's protests, my art studio. Dad had helped me install bright LED lights and with a little elbow grease and a lot of determination, the dusty boxes that had lived down there for the entirety of my life were hidden behind a galaxy sheet.

A large drafting desk sat in the corner of the room, surrounded by sketches and half-finished drawings that had been tacked to the dark blue walls. One wall had been taken over by a large custom-built cabinet that held everything from oil paints to colouring pencils and everything in between. If I could create with it, I owned it. In a wooden stand by the desk, completed artworks were stacked, waiting for me to do something with them. Three of them were destined for Wickham's.

In the centre of the room, a blank canvas sat on the easel, mocking me, telling me to make it come to life.

Grabbing my sketchbook and pencils from the cabinet, I turned on my speaker, cranking it as loud as it would go and loaded up some Bee Gees. The opening strains of Jive Talkin' put a bounce in my step as I moved to sit at the desk.

Flicking to a blank page, I stared at it for a moment waiting for inspiration to strike. Then, with very little thought at all, the pencil met the paper and I was soon sketching the outline of a man. Dark thick curls, a strong jaw, with piercing hazel eyes.

Blinking, I looked at the rough sketch, coming to the realisation that I had drawn Darcy. Instead of the ugly sweater, he was dressed as a Regency gentleman, cravat and all. It was highly stylised, in the same vein as my other comic book/Roy Lichtensteinesque pieces I had been painting, but it was obvious it was him – deep scowl and all.

I added a speech bubble with the words; "she is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me". Looking at the drawing objectively even in its rough form it was, conceptually at least, one of the strongest pieces I had ever created.

Tearing off a piece of masking tape, I stuck the design to the wall and took the canvas off the easel. Laying it on the desk, the outline of the piece began to come to life. It was cathartic immortalising that mortifying moment.

Once I was done with the yellow pencil outline, I transferred the canvas back to the easel and went to the cabinet to pull out my paints. A pathetic meowling caught my attention. Pausing the music, I wanted to see if it happened again.

Meow…

It was a faint sound, weak and needy. How a cat got into the basement was anyone's guess. As far as I could tell, it was coming from the stacks of boxes behind the sheet.

Moving the fabric, the cat meowed again, the sound carrying from the back corner near the boiler because where else would it decide to make a home? Surely nowhere with easy access, that would have been too helpful on the cat's part. Lifting each box, grateful that they weren't too heavy, I placed them in the centre of the room.

I moved the last box, and the cat meowed again. The kitten was a small ball of black fluff. Sitting upright, big, bright green eyes met mine. Opening its mouth, it yawned, then padded over to me on unsteady feet. Rubbing its head against my leg, it purred, then meowed once more.

Picking up the tiny kitten, I held it against my chest where it nuzzled in and fell promptly asleep.

Did I just get adopted?