Not even a hangover can dampen my spirits. We Jingle Bells onto the A40 and Ding Dong Merrily on High to the garden centre for our first Christmas tree.
Neither of us mention the party. It's sooo awkward.
I sing; to stop myself wondering how Henry found me. Henry's not a joiner-in, but I get my own back.
"How about this one?" he asks.
"Too small, we need a grand tree like at Downton."
"This one?"
I'm testing his patience, but I can't help myself.
"Too wide Henry, it'll block the tv."
"This one?"
***
Enthusiasm bounces off her. She is so easily pleased, it hurts. Even hung over she's incredibly desirable.
***
I take photos, I make a video; I enjoy Photoshop.
It screamed it was sorry, it cried it was sorry, it whimpered it was sorry. I looked at it.
"Who's sorry now?"
***
I'm carrying the tree in when the smoke alarm activates. She's attempting to bake. There is flour in her hair, on her nose, sporadically on her clothes. Fleetingly I think, this is nice. No work. No killing. Care Girl burning mince pies. I quickly come to my senses. I can't be in a situation where I'm thinking of someone else. I can't be distracted.
"How's the Great British Burn Off?"
"HaDiHa. Come scrutinise, I mean, taste one."
***
He walks towards me. It's like the end of The Equaliser when Denzel Washington appears from the DIY shelves, with his nail gun, and the water is teeming down.
"They're rustic," I defend.
"Misshapen," Henry comments.
We taste, enjoying the crumbling pastry, the fruity filling and the heat on our lips - while between us another heat throbs.
"You were there for me after Amy, Rob, the party. I don't want to know how you found me, but I need to know where we're at, and if you intend to blow hot and cold."
***
"Not intentionally, but I can't make guarantees. I'm protective of you, I want good things for you. Why? I can't say; in fifteen years I haven't considered anyone but myself. There is a 'but'. You, will stay out of my business; I, will stay out of yours; we're not interested in each other's worlds; we're not curious about each other's pasts; we're not focusing on the future - we're now."
I steal a look at her; I see a collision of emotion.
***
This is huge, but I can't burn myself out loving a man who can't love me back. Still, I'm feverish with possibility.
We eat mince pies companionably. These are the worst mince pies ever, but equally the best.
"I'm upstairs if you need me."
***
I don't need anyone. That used to ring truer.
Above me floorboards creek. I have an idea; it involves a Phoenix with no clothes. I file the thought under R for risky.
DINGDONG!
"Cheers mate."
Her room. Whether I like it, or not, she's claimed it. In places she'd lifted the edges of the wallpaper and graffitied on the lining paper: Henry is an arse. Henry's a tit. Personally, I like Fuck Henry.
YOU ARE READING
The Rebirth of Henry Whittle
Teen FictionPhoenix Whittle, orphaned at 11, has been in and out of foster care. She's systematically bullied at school and facing homelessness. Until she's offered a home by an estranged uncle, Henry Whittle. But that was the old Henry. Now a killer and id...
