Jenny Oliver - Love At Christmas, Actually

The posters, everything from The Kinks to Bob Marley to Tom Waits. The photo montage above the bed, the band posters. The scratched dresser with all her creams and perfumes still as they had been. The poster for that last gig at The Nag’s Head lay on the side, crumpled and unfolded a million times, until all their faces were faded away. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t know if it meant her parents cared, they wanted to keep her close, or if they were mourning her like some dead daughter, instead of reaching out. Keep the old Megan in a mausoleum and mourn her. Abandon the real one to get on with her life.

Skye bounced on the bed, tracing the edges of the black and white bedspread. There was a knitted blanket at the end she’d bought from IKEA when it first opened, and Dad had taken her. Pingu the penguin sat on her pillows, as if he’d been waiting all this time, stalwart and loyal.

‘This was you, huh?’ Skye looked around in awe.

‘Yeah, guess it’s pretty strange for you, all of this.’ Megan sat down beside her. ‘How are you doing?’

Skye thought about it, her brown eyes rolling up to the ceiling, head tilted. ‘I’m good. I like them. But I love you, and if they’re mean to you then that’s it.’

‘You’re just saying that so we can go to Disneyland.’

Skye shrugged, and grinned. ‘So am I sleeping here?’

‘If you want to.’

Skye nodded, looking around as if any object could tell a story. Which, Megan supposed, they could. Her gaze wandered to the photo montage. Pictures of the band, looking all stoic and serious, her and Luke pulling faces, her with her arm around Belinda. The Christmas the year before she left, posing for the camera, encircled in Luke’s arms as he held up mistletoe. Her chest felt like it was going to cave in. Luke would have left, wouldn’t he? Got on a tour bus, become a big star in London dive bars, or LA’s sleek scene. Maybe he’d moved down to Cornwall, to teach kids guitar, living in a little cottage on the side of a cliff.

She’d looked out for him, in NME, gig listings, every time she thought she saw a Lucas listed. But the truth was, he could use any name, be in any band by now. She had the means to find him, she could join all those social media sites, sniff him out. But in all honesty, it was too late, and she had things to be ashamed of too.

Skye changed into her pyjamas, and Megan brushed her hair as her daughter read out from To Kill a Mockingbird . They snuggled in close, Megan helping with the longer words, adding a bit of context here and there. She looked to her bookshelf in the corner and found her own copy sitting on the shelf, as well as many other books that she had always wanted to give to Skye. The smell of her old room, the familiar give of the cushions surrounded her, until Skye drifted off to sleep, and Megan followed, never making it to the guest room.

***

May 2003

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he said, standing up and placing his guitar down on the bed.

‘I’m not!’ Megan tried to contain her irritation. ‘All I said was maybe we could use a minor seventh chord…’

‘Unfathomable!’ Lucas paced up and down his room, his hair spiking up at all angles as he ran his hand through it irritably.

‘Oh I’m sorry, could someone tell me where the Artist Formerly Known As Lucas has gone?’ Megan rolled her eyes, unplugging her cherry red Fender Strat from the amp they were sharing. Lucas’s room was barely big enough for them to play together, let alone argue about playing together.

‘Shut up, Meg. Just because you dyed your hair to match your guitar you think you’re Courtney Love now?’

She raised her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, oh musical genius! It’s just that usually when we write songs together we actually write songs together!’ She stood by the window, leaning against it, unsure why things seemed to have changed.

‘Why are we always arguing?’ she asked him, seeing him look up suddenly, blue eyes clouding over. He’d stopped wearing eyeliner since summer had hit, and she had to say she preferred him without. The girls in the village had loved it, their little punk rock god crush. They used to turn up at the gigs wearing Nirvana T-shirts and shrugging when he asked them who Kurt Cobain was. Megan preferred when he was just Lucas. Her childhood friend, her bandmate. Just him, playing music, being him. No facade.

‘We do seem to be, don’t we?’ he said simply, staring at the ground.

‘I…I don’t think it’s me who’s starting it, Luke,’ she said gently. ‘I seem to be pissing you off a lot more recently. Since we started sixth form…do you want me to leave the band?’

His eyes widened. ‘No! No, no, that’s not it, Angel, honest.’ He walked over to her, leaning on the other side of the window, looking out into their front garden, where his little sister was digging in the dirt, helping his mother plant flowers.

‘I know I’m not a musician, Luke,’ she said sadly, ‘I’m just the singer, but you used to like when I helped with lyrics.’

He grabbed her hand. ‘It’s nothing to do with the band. I mean, it is a bit. It’s…you know, spending a lot of time together. We do all our normal friend stuff, watching movies and whatever, and then we do band stuff, and then college…’ He squeezed her hand, looking into her eyes like she was supposed to understand some secret code.

‘It’s too much,’ she nodded, sighing. ‘That’s fine, I get it.’

‘You really don’t get it!’ Luke panicked, pulled her to him and kissed her. She froze for a second, and so did he, his lips resting on hers to see what she’d do. He tasted like peppermint and chocolate and stale cigarettes. Megan sighed a little, and he kissed her again, properly this time, his lips warm and insistent as her arms wrapped around his neck. Her heart was thumping like nothing else, and as he nipped against her bottom lip, she suddenly realised what he’d been trying to say.

She pulled back and grinned at him. ‘You’ve been being mean to me because you like me! It’s like year four all over again!’

Lucas at least looked embarrassed, scratching his neck and failing to meet her eyes. ‘Yeah…kinda…’

Megan tilted her head. ‘And this isn’t just some weird boy hormone thing?’

Luke rolled his eyes. ‘Meg, this time I’m telling you this not because I like you, but because it’s true: don’t be an idiot.’

He put his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him, kissing her again. Megan grinned against his lips. ‘Well, isn’t this a surprise.’

‘Good one?’ He pulled back, searching her eyes for disappointment or awkwardness.

‘Kiss me again and we’ll see,’ she laughed, grabbing his hand. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt so happy.

***

The next morning everyone was still play acting Happy Families. Megan felt the familiar itch, the need to smash the facade apart, break it down and hold it up to the light. It was fake, and she hated it. Better to come out and have a big emotional outpouring at the start, rather than this… politeness she found so abhorrent. But there was Skye to think of.

Her dad made French toast, the crackly radio played The Beatles in the kitchen as he hummed along, wearing his apron with the motorbikes on, his chef hat tipped at a jaunty angle. She’d forgotten how much her father used to make her laugh. Skye loved him immediately, but wouldn’t accept his views on Elvis.

‘Kid, I will show you some music that would make you think Elvis was nothing more than a flash in the pan pop star.’