to lift him higher. ‘Have you been eating rocks?’ He placed the bauble on the frond and she put him back on the ground with a groan. ‘My poor arms. I’ll look like Rocky by the time this is done.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’ She ruffled his hair as they stepped back to look at their efforts. The tree was short but wide, like a hooped skirt, and already decked with several metres of lights. So far, they appeared to have a strong bias towards the bottom left corner.
‘I think we need more on this side,’ she said, pointing to the right. ‘And there’s a big gap in the back there. What will the neighbours think if they have to look at an empty patch of Christmas tree in the window?’
He looked up at her. ‘You’re going to have to lift me up again, mama.’
‘Or I could do the high up bits and you do the lower bits?’ she suggested.
‘No, you said I could decorate the tree. I want to do all of it.’
‘Okay, well, let me get a chair then, because my arms aren’t going to be able to do that much heavy lifting. Honestly, who knew I had a tank for a son?’
She walked across to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. ‘Do you want a hot chocolate?’ she asked as she brought back the chair and positioned it in front of the tree for him. ‘This is thirsty work.’
‘Yes please, mama. Look, I made this!’ He had found the pom-pom robin he had made last year.
‘That’s one of my favourites,’ she said, getting the milk from the fridge and pouring some into a pan. ‘Make sure that one goes towards the front where I can see it.’
‘Okay,’ he replied earnestly, putting it in the very centre.
She watched him, feeling a rush of love for this child who had changed her life so completely. It was impossible to imagine life without him, the person she’d been before she became his mother now just a ghost who moved restlessly through her bones.
She looked down at the day’s post; she had picked it up on their way back in from the park and set it down again unthinkingly, her mind still preoccupied with Sam and what it meant that he had followed them to the park and those eyes of his that said different things to his mouth . . . She flicked through the envelopes disinterestedly still, as she stirred the milk; it was just the usual clutch of junk mail, a Christmas card from her aunt living in Wiltshire, a copy of Life magazine, an electricity bill. Nothing of interest, no—
She remembered Cunningham’s words. His letter.
Still no letter.
She frowned. That call had been two days ago. He must surely have sent it before he left Amsterdam or, at the very latest, when he arrived in Turkey, a week ago? It should be here by now.
Unless . . .
A thought occurred to her. She quickly picked up her phone and found his details, which Dita had insisted on forwarding her when he’d moved here. ‘In case of an absolute, end-of-the-world emergency,’ she had insisted, when Lee had protested.
She rang the number, her fingers tapping the counter impatiently. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?
‘Hello?’ Gisele’s voice was soft down the line.
‘Gisele? It’s Lee. Fitchett,’ she added.
There was a pause. ‘Hi Lee! How are you?’ Forced jollity.
‘Well, thanks. You?’
‘Oh, the heartburn has started but’ – she forced a smile into her voice – ‘that’s par for the course, right?’
‘Sure, yes. Poor you, though. It’s horrid.’
‘Yes. Did you have it?’
‘Uh, no. But I had everything else – or at least, that was how it felt.’
Gisele chuckled politely. ‘Right.’
There was a small pause, both of them exhausted on small talk already, and Lee realized she ought to have taken a breath before she’d picked up the phone, or at least rehearsed in her mind their conversation.
‘Um, anyway, look, I don’t want to bother you, I’m sure you must be up to your ears getting ready for tonight. I was just wondering if there was a letter there for me? From Cunningham?’
There was a pause. ‘A letter? . . . No, I haven’t seen one, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh.’ Disappointment crashed through her, hope snatched away again in an instant. For a moment there, Lee had thought she was close to getting her answer, some kind of clarity on what the hell Cunningham was up to. ‘Oh . . . well, never mind.’