Page 129 of Make You Mine This Christmas

‘Nope, come on. We can do this. I believe in us! You can make it,’ Haf urges, and together they go up the two flights of stairs in tandem. Stella and Luna follow behind them.

‘Goodnight,’ they whisper, before disappearing into their respective rooms. The dogs follow Kit into hers.

It appears that Christopher has a truly magical talent to just sleep through any emotional distress, which is honestly admirable. He’s snoring away, already in his flannel pyjamas, and even Haf clattering about as she gets undressed, flicking the lights on and off doesn’t wake him up.

They’ll talk in the morning.

They’ve got a lot to sort out. And maybe she can help him explain what he wants to do properly, without shouting, to both his parents.

Just as she’s about to change into her pyjamas, she realises she’s left her phone downstairs. Even if it’s locked, with Ambrose texting her, it’s too much of a risk to just leave it lying around.

She pads quietly down the stairs, cursing each step, and finds her phone wedged down the side of the couch.

From the hallway, she can see a light on, one they must have missed with all the stairs hijinks.

But when she goes to the dining room to turn it off, she finds Otto sitting in the corner, whisky in one hand, his head in the other.

‘Oh, hi, sorry,’ she says nervously, as he looks up to see her. ‘I saw the light on and was worried I’d left one on and so came to turn it off.’

‘Would you like one?’ he asks, raising his glass slightly.

She knows Kit said not to intervene, but this seems like the only opportunity she’s going to have. ‘Sure,’ she says.

He gets up and opens the sideboard, taking a new glass and filling it from a whisky bottle on the table.

‘Saluti,’ he says softly, clinking his glass against hers.

‘Saluti,’ she replies, taking a seat at the dining table next to him.

‘I owe you an apology, Haf. I behaved monstrously in front of you earlier, and that’s not the welcome to the family I’d have liked you to experience. Frankly, I’m a little embarrassed.’

‘It was an emotional conversation,’ she says. ‘Did you and Christopher talk it out?’

He harrumphs. ‘There was a lot of yelling and glaring, so no. Not yet. I’m not the most productive communicator, according to my wife.’

Me neither, thinks Haf.

‘It must be difficult for you,’ she says carefully. ‘To hear how unhappy he is.’

‘It is,’ he whispers. ‘It is. And I feel stupid for not realising. His happiness is the most important thing to me, and I’ve made him feel like it’s tertiary.’

‘Did you tell him that?’

He blushes a little. ‘Foolishly, no. I was too busy suggesting he could do something different, trying to solve the problem, rather than listening to him. There’s so many arms to it all – not just the luxury stays but the retirement homes and other aspects that I thought if I just kept talking to him about it, he’d say, “Aha, that’s the one I want, really.” I must accept that perhaps he needs something totally different.’

Yes, like the baking, she thinks. But she can’t say it, because clearly Christopher hasn’t admitted it either.

‘Tell me about the retirement homes,’ she says, changing tack a little. ‘That seems like a very different operation from...’

‘Fancy houses for people with too much money?’ he says with a wry smile.

‘You’re the one who said it.’ She laughs.

‘Indeed. Well, the thing about getting older is that you unfortunately start contemplating your future when you’re much, much older. When I was looking for assisted-living options for my parents as they got older, I realised there was a complete dearth of places with high standards.

‘I know what you mean,’ Haf says. ‘Where I’m from is a big retirement area, but some of the places are...’

‘A bit grim?’