Page 9 of So This is Christmas

JENNIE

It had been four days since Jennie had heard the familiar voice on the other end of the phone line, the voice she hadn’t heard in almost sixteen years. ‘Jennie?’ the voice had prompted when Jennie stayed silent upon hearing the caller say, ‘Jennie, it’s Mu—Gwendoline.’

Mum, Gwendoline, they were one and the same. And Jennie had no desire to talk to her. No desire at all. Not after all these years and everything she’d been through. She’d hung up and pushed the phone into her pocket, her heart thumping wildly at the contact.

Hearing her mother’s voice, that simple introduction, had been enough to take Jennie right back to the very last words her mother had said to her, words that had haunted her ever since.

She’d ended the call and hadn’t answered another from that number since.

She could remember the prefix of it, the digits ingrained in her brain, but something had stopped her from blocking the number altogether.

Perhaps if she got any more calls that’s exactly what she would do.

She wondered how her mother had even got her contact details.

A knock shook her out of her recall. It was Nick at the door to her office. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked. ‘You were away with the fairies.’

‘Sorry, budgets are going over and over in my head, making my brain ache.’ She released her fingers from where they’d been covering the jigsaw-piece pendant with its beautiful gemstone that Greta had passed down to her, the symbol of friendship, love, family and connection, the things she’d lost and found once again.

‘I can relate to that.’ He placed a file onto her desk. ‘This is the staff budget update to add to your collection.’

‘Thanks, appreciate it.’

‘I’ll leave you to get on. See you tonight.’ He turned to go.

‘Tonight?’

‘Decorating the apartment. You insisted on tonight, no more delays.’

She conjured up a smile from somewhere. ‘Like I said, head stuffed full of budgets.’

‘Well, tonight it can be stuffed full of lights, baubles and wreaths.’ His words faded away as he left.

Getting the phone call from her mother had tilted Jennie’s world on its axis, and functioning in her job ever since had felt almost impossible.

She hadn’t just been daydreaming when Nick wanted her attention, she’d done it to guests over the last few days, to other staff.

It was like she was forcing herself to go through the motions and just about winging it, hoping nobody would notice she was off her game.

She briefly flipped through the staff budget information Nick had left her.

Working in housekeeping at the Wynter Hotel felt like it had been her calling.

She’d initially started there as a receptionist, but it hadn’t been long before she was adding to her job description and finally she interviewed for the job as head housekeeper.

She’d got the position and had filled the role for the last thirteen months.

Over the years, it had taken her a while to climb this far.

Jennie had done what many in the industry did – she’d worked her way up.

And she was glad she’d done it that way, because it gave her an understanding of multiple facets of the hotel business as well as an empathy with workers in other departments.

When Greta and Walter first gave her a job in London and then another in North Yorkshire when she made the move with them, she’d helped out in the hotel kitchens – she’d maintained a clean working environment, helped the chef with basic tasks, washed dishes.

A stint as receptionist/concierge followed and she’d loved meeting new people.

She hadn’t said no to any job or task Greta and Walter requested of her – she’d made beds, cleaned rooms, answered phones, she’d waitressed, and she’d never once stopped working hard because she’d been given a chance, and a part of her was always expecting someone or something to take it away.

Once she had dealt with the staff budget and made some notes, she left her office, passed through reception and went down the corridor, through the staff-only-access door at the end, and into the laundry department.

Her responsibilities included ensuring the linens met guest expectations and that there were no shortages, so she spoke with one of her staff to check that everything was as it should be.

After finishing up in the laundry room she quickly replied to Elliot’s text – he was at work and wanted to see her later, but she had to say no what with the apartment in dire need of some Christmas decorations.

She smiled; it was nice to feel wanted. But it was also a reminder that she couldn’t put off telling him the truth forever.

She’d never told Elliot her history because she’d never expected them to go the distance.

She hadn’t wanted to drag that part of her into her new relationship and so she’d made up a past, a simple one, one that wouldn’t invite questions.

As far as Elliot knew, she didn’t have any siblings and she’d been alone ever since both of her parents died many years ago.

Now that he was suggesting she move in with him, it made her realise that she couldn’t base any sort of future between them on lies. Elliot was after commitment and deep down, she knew they couldn’t take the next step unless he really knew her. All of her.

Elliot, a man of the world in so many ways, sounded like he had a family who had been and always would be there.

It wasn’t his fault, but unless you’d been in the same situation, unless your own family had turned their back on you, you never really understood.

His relatives all seemed so nice from what she’d heard about them, they all seemed to know their place in the world much like he did.

He didn’t seem to question his every decision, he didn’t seem to think himself unlovable or unworthy of someone’s affection.

What would happen if she told Elliot everything? Would he understand or would he run for the hills?

Jennie’s family had once been like Elliot’s, like the Wynters, happy and affectionate, but one day when she was twenty-four years old everything had changed.

Jennie had started out as a nervous driver and she hadn’t passed her test until just after her twenty-fourth birthday.

She’d held her licence for less than two weeks, amazed she’d passed her test on her fourth attempt, when her sixteen-year-old brother Donovan had asked if she would take him to meet his mates at a skatepark.

Her parents had asked her not to take Donovan anywhere, nor have any friends in the car, not until she’d had her licence for a few months and gained some more confidence.

They’d seen her anxiety over driving and they wanted her to get used to it before she started having other people who might distract her in the car.

Donovan had begged her that day though and because their parents were out and not due home for a couple more hours, she’d relented.

She’d told herself that she’d passed her test, she should be confident, and she should be proud to step in as the big sister he looked up to.

Some of his mates had called her ‘cool’ , others had said she was ‘hot’ .

She’d appreciated the compliments and was happy to help him out and take him in her reasonably new red Golf, rather than make him endure a lift from their dad in his brown Ford with the squeaky fan belt that announced to everyone that you were around.

Donovan had always been a chatty teenager and as they drove, the windows down on an overcast day that still held on to its summer heat, they’d laughed about their dad’s recent attempt to ride Donovan’s skateboard.

He’d put his back out, their mum had chided him for his silliness, wanting to do what all the kids did.

Donovan was only thankful it had happened at home on the back patio rather than at the skatepark in front of all his friends, because at the tender age of sixteen, parents were often more of an embarrassment than anything else.

That conversation was their last one ever.

What Jennie remembered after that was a smash of metal colliding, the shattering of glass, her screams, his silence. Another driver had ploughed through a give-way sign into the passenger side of her car, killing sixteen-year-old Donovan instantly.

She would never forget her parents, the wailing, the raw pain as if their insides were being torn apart when they were given the news in a family room at the hospital. Jennie was in a bed in the adjacent ward and yet she still heard their cries, even through everything else that was going on.

They’d gone home that evening. They’d gone home to silence, to a different house – one without Donovan in it.

Jennie had been distraught, her guilt eating up at her insides even though it was the other driver who was charged and she was found not at fault.

Two months later her dad had died from heart failure. Her mum claimed he died of a broken heart, and since the day his body was taken away from the family home in Eltham, south-east London, her mother had crawled into bed and only emerged for his funeral.

In the space of four months Jennie and Gwendoline Clarke had buried the two most important men in their lives.

All they had left was each other but in the days, weeks, months, that followed, there was no solace in each other’s company.

It didn’t matter that legally, Jennie wasn’t to blame; she’d given Donovan a lift when her parents had specifically asked her not to.

The unspoken accusation that Jennie was responsible for Donovan’s death loomed and the implication that she’d been responsible for her father’s death seemed to hang in the air alongside it.

Her mother wouldn’t even look Jennie’s way.

Gwendoline didn’t seem to care what happened from that moment on.

She closed herself off and Jennie couldn’t penetrate the tough, emotional barricade she put up.