keen on the prospect of dusting off his toe-capped boots, not least because it meant he’d had to miss his first-aid exam, but without my salary coming in, the money had been too good to turn down.
It soon came to the part in the film where the boy cries because the snowman has melted. This bit never failed to upset me and so I looked away from the screen. My eye caught on the Advent calendar pinned to the noticeboard. Like my diary before it, the neat line of numbered days seemed to mock me and the magic blue line that had appeared on the pregnancy-test stick. Jason and I had hardly been at it like rabbits and that time with Tommy aside, I’d struggled to marry up possible conception dates.
I turned off the TV and began attacking the washing up. I was halfway through when the timer on the cooker beeped. I grabbed my oven gloves, pulled out the tray and then, with the help of a palette knife, fished each of the steaming pies onto a cooling rack.
All done, I leant forward for the final touch – a sprinkle of icing sugar – and, as I pressed against the cupboard, my apron pocket rustled. This morning’s post. Wanting to look over the letter one more time, I got it out as soon as I had finished with the pies. A brown envelope with a green double helix logo printed near the stamp, it was from the DNA test lab.
Since that day at the shopping centre, the two hair samples had stayed lodged in their padded envelope at the bottom of my bag. I knew the results were now nothing more than a formality. Still, I hadn’t wanted to be left with any vestige of doubt and so last week I’d decided to send them off for testing. Here was the verdict.
I scanned the second page for the millionth time. It confirmed Jason as a paternal match. I rolled the letter into a tube. There was no reason to keep the thing lying around. Going over to the sink, I turned on the waste disposal and, in one simple motion, fed the letter into its roar.
I wanted the boys to be able to enjoy the mince pies while they were still warm and so I arranged a couple on a plate and took them through to the living room. The weak afternoon sun had already started to disappear and the fairy lights we’d hung on the tree gave the room a twinkly, comforting glow. The Muppet Christmas Carol was playing on the TV, but the volume was too low for them to be watching it properly.
‘Heidi,’ said Jason, not even trying to hide his relief at the fact he would no longer have to be alone in the same room as him. ‘Come and put your feet up.’ He patted a space on the sofa.
Once more I found myself thrown off-kilter by his new hairstyle. He’d had it shorn a few days after being back on the welding site and even now, weeks later, I found the effect surprisingly harsh. Cut so near the scalp you could see the curve of bone pressing up through the skin, it reminded me of those tiny bird skulls you see on display in natural history museum cabinets.
I placed the mince pies on the coffee-table and then did as Jason said, tucking my feet up under me so that I could snuggle all the way back into the cushions.
The three of us sat there for a few moments, watching Michael Caine and the Muppets on screen, before Jason broke the silence.
‘These look amazing,’ he said, reaching for the mince pie nearest to him.
‘Thanks, Heidi. Very festive,’ said Martin from his spot in the armchair.
I nodded vaguely in acknowledgement and then we were back to pretending to watch the movie.
It had just got to the bit where the Ghost of Christmas Future makes his entrance, when the detective cleared his throat and sat up straight. For the first time since I’d entered the room, I let myself look directly at him.
It had been a while and I saw that he’d gained some much-needed weight. It suited him. Anchored by the new girth of his waist and chest, his limbs seemed to have finally realised that they were all part of the same body. Gone was the marionette dangle of his arms and legs, and in its place was a slow, controlled, almost robotic way