Dying For Christmas by Tammy Cohen

Dying forChristmas

Tammy Cohen

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THE MISTRESS’S REVENGE

BLACK SWAN

Dying for Christmas:Dying_for_Christmas 26/9/14 15:08 Page 5

Once again, for my amazing mum,Elizabeth Gaynor Cohen

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PART ONE

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Chapter One

Chances are, by the time you finish reading this, I’ll alreadybe dead.

Three interesting things about me. Well, I’m twenty-nineyears old, I’m phobic about buttons. Oh yes, and I’m dying.Not as in I’ve got two years to live, but hey, here’s a list ofthings I want to cram into the time I have left. No, I’mdying right here and now.

In a sense, you are reading a snuff book. So, why did I go along with it? That’s a tricky one, that

question of motivation. Maybe it’s because I was caught upin the Christmas spirit and feeling kindly disposed. He toldme I was beautiful.

Also, it didn’t hurt that he was handsome. He looked a bitlike that guy from Silver Linings Playbook, the one whoalways plays nut jobs. Maybe that should have given me abit of a clue.

Oh well, you live and learn.Except in my case only one of those is true.

I was in the café of a department store on Oxford Street. I’dbeen Christmas shopping for four hours by then. Normally

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I avoided in-store cafés – so claustrophic, and always someone with a buggy blocking the way, and someone elsein the world’s biggest wheelchair. But it was sleeting outsideand I had all these bags.

I managed to find a table which, considering it wasChristmas Eve, was no mean feat. I set my cappuccinodown and tried to fit all my bags around me. One had to goon the table itself. It contained a toy I’d bought for one ofmy nephews. When I placed it on the table, it lowed like acow. By that point I was well into that stage of Christmasshopping where you look at your purchases and knowbeyond any doubt that not one of them is right and the onlysolution is to buy more.

So I was already feeling harassed when he approached.‘Can I sit here?’I shrugged without looking up. ‘Sorry. It’s just so packed in here. Seems like you’d have to

sell a kidney or something to get a table.’Then I did look up. First impressions: blue, blue eyes. Slightly too close together, but that was almost a relief

because without that his face would have been so film-starperfect no one could ever have taken him seriously. Strong,straight nose. Brown wavy hair swept back from his face.Dimple in one cheek, near the mouth. Chin slightly cleft,just so it lent that edge of masculinity.

Men who look like that don’t exist in my life. Not in 3Dform anyway.

I stared down at my cappuccino like it might be trying totell me something and wished I’d brought a book. His

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presence across the tiny table was an elephant sitting on mychest.

‘You’ve been Christmas shopping I see.’No shit, Sherlock.Except I didn’t actually say that. What I actually said was:

‘Yeah, well, I put it off as long as I could.’And that’s when he said it. ‘You know, you’re very

beautiful.’Like I said: hand, meet putty. There was an awkward silence. I took a sip of cappuccino

and then couldn’t swallow it in case the noise deafened usboth.

‘I’m sorry if I keep staring at you,’ he said, and my eyesflicked up to find his boring right into me. ‘It’s just youremind me of someone.’

I focused on him, forcing myself to hold his gaze bypressing my nails into the palm of my left hand under thetable. It’s a distraction technique. It distracted me fromthinking about the awkwardness of this whole situation,and the fact that as someone technically in a relationship, Ishouldn’t really have been encouraging this conversation.Or noticing the colour of his eyes.

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I hardly ever remind people of otherpeople. Although someone did once say I looked like Daisythe kitchen maid in Downton Abbey, but I think that wasbecause I was wearing an apron at the time, and he thoughtit was funny.’

I ramble when I’m nervous. He smiled, and the dimple in his cheek was like a cave

inviting me in.

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‘You remind me of my wife,’ he said, and he stirred thespoon around in the glass mug in front of him, releasingclouds of something green and herbal into the clear water.‘Actually, I haven’t seen her in months so she’s probably mysoon-to-be ex-wife. She looks just like you. In fact, when Isaw you earlier walking along Oxford Street, I thought for amad moment you really were her. That’s why I followedyou.’

‘You followed me into the shop?’He was beaming, as if he’d done something clever.‘Through the Glove and Scarf department? And Toys

and . . .’ My face suddenly blazed, recalling my prolongedforay into Lingerie.

‘Yep,’ he agreed. ‘It was just so uncanny, you see. Andthen when you came in here and sat down, I thought,“Here’s my chance.” ’

I nodded calmly. As though strange men were forever following me into department stores off the street.

‘I hope you don’t mind. I’m not some crazed axe- murderer, I promise.’

If there was a noise then, like a snort in my ear, I instantlyblocked it out.

‘You look like you’re shopping for an army.’ He indicatedthe bags all around our feet.

‘Oh, just family,’ I said, conveniently leaving out Travis. Not that my family is particularly good at presents. Last Christmas, my parents bought me six sessions with a

therapist. My mother had even mocked up a proper giftvoucher on the computer: This voucher entitles the bearer tosix sessions with Sonia Rubenstein. It was tucked inside a card

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that had a glitter snowglobe on the front with tiny childrenthrowing snowballs trapped inside.

‘It’s not that we think there’s something wrong with you,’Mum said, scanning my face anxiously as I examined thevoucher. ‘We just want you to be the best you can be.’

‘But what if this is my best me?’My dad laughed then as if I’d made a joke. ‘Then God

help us,’ he said.I’d told myself I wouldn’t go on principle, but of course I

did. And when the six sessions were up, I booked six more,and more after that. What, turn down the chance to talkabout myself for fifty-five minutes a week? I’d have to benuts.

The stranger across the table was saying something.‘How about you?’ he repeated. ‘Any significant others?’Travis’ face came into my head and again I blotted him

out.‘More like a few insignificant ones.’‘Come on. Don’t tell me someone as lovely as you has no

one special. There must be someone, surely? Someone tobuy Christmas presents for that don’t come in a last-minutejob lot from John Lewis?’

I thought about Travis and how in our first year togetherhe’d bought me a £5.99 bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on hisway over on Christmas Day and given it to me wrapped ina corner-shop plastic bag with the price sticker still on.

‘I know you don’t really approve of Christmas,’ he’d said,and I’d hidden the cashmere jumper I’d bought him behindthe sofa.

‘No,’ I lied to the stranger. ‘No one special.’

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In one of the bags by my feet was another stocking fillerI’d bought for my thirteen-year-old niece, Grace – a littlefigure that expands in water. Grow Your Own Boyfriend, saidthe packaging. Well, that little figure could have been me,except I was a Grow Your Own Victim, handmade for him. Imight as well have been gift-wrapped with a bow.

The man with the blue, blue eyes gazed at me across thetable, and then stuck out his hand. His left hand. I noticedthe gold band on the fourth finger and wondered why hestill wore it.

‘Amazing the things we find hard to let go of,’ he said,and I was mortified he’d noticed that I’d noticed. ‘I’mDominic.’ His fingers closed around mine. ‘DominicLacey.’

Now there was a sound in my ear like someone breathing,or an insect’s wings buzzing. My fingers burned where theytouched his.

‘Jessica Gold.’‘Gold. That’s nice. It suits you.’I should have asked him why. There’s nothing golden

about me. Usually I have lots of dark hair, not quite blackbut very dark brown, and already I’ve found a few threadsof grey nestling in there like cuckoos in the nest, pretendingto be like the others but not like the others at all. My skinis sallow, especially in winter, and when I’m tired, fat purpleshadows underline my eyes.

‘Talk me through the presents,’ he said. ‘Who’s the wokfor?’

‘How did you know . . . ?’ Oh, yes, you followed me.‘The wok’s for my brother James – he likes to think of

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himself as a serious chef. He makes complicated dishes forhis kids and then gets offended when they only want to eatcheese sandwiches.’

‘What about you, Jessica? Are you an adventurous eater?’I hesitated. Should I tell him that I only really eat bland

beige food? Cheese, potatoes, white bread, Cheerios, pasta,digestive biscuits. Should I tell him how Sonia Rubenstein’seyes had brightened when she found this out and how she’dscribbled frantically on her notepad with her big black pen?

Instead I shrugged. ‘Not particularly.’ ‘And is James your only sibling?’‘He’s the oldest. There’s Jonathan too. My middle

brother. My parents had a thing about Js.’They’d wanted a matching set, you see – my parents.

They’d wanted a triple deck of bright, outgoing, confidentJ-named kids. Instead they got two of those. And then me.An anomaly in the family. An outlier.

‘And they’ve both got children?’ He looked pointedly atthe bags of toys.

‘Yep, James has two and Jonathan has one. It’s good, itmeans the pressure’s off me.’

Unbidden there came a memory of Travis and I staringdown at a white plastic stick with a blue line creeping acrossa small rectangular window. I remembered the sudden,treacherous flowering of hope that died practically as it wasborn when Travis said, ‘Oh shit.’ And then later, ‘Thankgod backstreet abortions are a thing of the past.’

Sometimes if I let my guard down I can hear a babycrying.

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‘I’m guessing you’ve got a job,’ he said, ‘to pay for this lot.’‘I work for a TV company,’ I said. ‘I’m an archivist. I

catalogue old documents and recordings.’I store dead things.‘And what about you?’ I asked, remembering belatedly

the basic rules of social interaction.‘I buy and sell liquidated stock. If a company goes

bankrupt, I buy up their stock and hope to sell it on beforeI’ve even cleared it out, so I don’t have to pay storage.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ I said. It sounded a little grubby.Making a profit out of other people’s despair.

‘I give them a fair price,’ he said, as if my thoughts wereflashing across my forehead in neon lights. ‘And if I didn’tdo it, someone else would.’

‘Is it lucrative?’‘I do all right. I’m comfortable, as they say.’I wished I was comfortable. I was too hot in the over-

heated café. I wished I’d washed my hair that morning, orworn some make-up or smarter clothes. The temperaturehad just dropped below zero for the first time this winterand consequently I was hopelessly overdressed. Beneath mythick cable-knit jumper I was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirtthat had come in a tiny pouch from a Japanese clothingchain and boasted heat - conserving technology. My jeanswere clammy around my legs.

‘We’re being glared at,’ I said, noticing the queue ofpeople standing by the cash till.

‘But I want to go on talking to you,’ he said, and his eyeswere a sky you could fall into and float there. ‘How aboutwe go for a drink somewhere?’

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‘It’s Christmas Eve. All the pubs will be packed, and I’vegot all these bags.’

‘But I haven’t found out enough about you. I want tohear more, and about how you got that little scar.’ Hereached out and touched my wrist, and a bolt of electricityshot up my arm through my veins.

I shrugged without speaking, in case I opened my mouthand my thumping heart flip-flopped right out on to thetable. He kept his hand on my wrist like a cuff.

‘My car is right here – in the underground car park. Idon’t live far away. Will you come round? Just for a festiveglass of wine? I don’t normally invite strange women round,but you seem so familiar, like I’ve known you for ever. Andanyway, it is Christmas.’

He examined my face, his attention like a warm flannel dabbing at the crumbs of uncertainty until they werepicked off one by one.

‘You can text someone if it makes you feel safer, to tellthem where you’re going.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary,’ I said.

A woman’s laugh whooshed past my ear like a Frisbee, leaving the air vibrating. I tuned it out.

What on earth was I thinking? What would possess an educated young woman, well versed in the perils of strangerdanger – a young woman with a long-term boyfriend – to getin a car with a man she’d only just met? And if you have toask, you’re probably too clear-headed, too normal, notlonely enough, to understand.

I didn’t think he was going to be my boyfriend and this

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was going to be the start of a beautiful romance. I knewmen like him didn’t fall in love with women like me. WhatI was after was an experience, a memory I could store intissue paper and take out every now and then in years tocome when no one was around. The next day Travis and Iwould go to my parents’ house for Christmas dinner. Hisown parents usually spend the winter months at their housein Florida, so we tend to go to my family unless Travis isworking which, as a junior doctor, isn’t unusual. My brothers would also come for lunch, bringing their efficient,multi-tasking wives and their Renaissance children, whosetimetables are bursting with ballet and gym and KumonMaths. James and Jonathan would both, separately, give me the quizzical look they’ve been giving me since child-hood, the look that says, ‘Who are you? And where did youcome from?’

‘Why does she have to be so weird?’ they used to ask myparents as we were growing up, as if weirdness was an eccentric jacket I’d perversely chosen to wear.

And that’s how it happened. I pulled on my parka withthe fur around the hood, and gathered up my bags, thoughhe insisted on carrying the one with the wok, and I followedhim out of the shop much as he must have followed me in.

I suppressed my qualms and shut out my mother’s voicein my head asking what I thought I was doing. I focused onhis broad shoulders in the navy-blue wool coat with the velvet lapels, and his brown hair curling slightly over thecollar.

It was the 24th of December. I’d spent all year trappedinside myself with only me for company. I wanted a break.

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I wanted to be someone else for a bit, with someone else’slife.

You’re a long time dead, I told myself.Funny, that thought isn’t so comforting now.

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TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

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DYING FOR CHRISTMASA BLACK SWAN BOOK: 9781784160173

First publication in Great Britainin 2014 by Black Swan

an imprint of Transworld PublishersBlack Swan edition published 2014

Copyright © Tammy Cohen 2014

Tammy Cohen has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Dying For Christmas by Tammy Cohen