‘Hmmmm . . .’ John looked pensive, as if trying to work out the cause of Christine’s apparent well-being. ‘And what does Christmas hold for you?’

‘Oh, you know me, John. Work.’

‘Don’t be daft. You’ve got to take some time off.’

‘Couple of days, I suppose. See the kids, I hope.’

‘How are they?’

‘Fine. Yours?’

‘Fine.’

The old barriers were up again. It was frustrating, thought Christine, but then again those professional barriers existed for a reason. Kick them down, and you end up like Linda.

But with John, she’d be prepared to make an exception . . . If he wasn’t so married.

‘And what about you? Going up to Scotland?’

‘Not this year, no.’

‘Oh. That’s a shame.’

‘Sue’s not too well, actually. So we’re taking it easy.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Well, yes, I’m afraid it is. Cancer.’ He looked at the carpet. ‘Not looking terribly good.’

‘I’m so sorry, John.’

‘But, you know, we do what we can.’

‘If there’s anything . . .’

‘Thanks.’

It would be wrong to flirt with a man whose wife is dying, thought Christine. A sadness descended over them both. The sparkle had gone from John’s eyes.

‘Chrissie!’ Linda approached, crossing the room in a controlled fall. ‘You naughty, naughty man, John Ferguson. Monopololising my friend. Issa party!’ She showered more wine. ‘Come on, Chrissie. Le’ss talk to s’mother people.’

Christine smiled weakly as Linda dragged her away, but John was intent on the bottom of his glass.

‘His wife’s dying,’ whispered Linda, again for all to hear. ‘You know what I mean? He’ll be back on the market . . .’

‘Linda, for Christ’s sake,’ said Christine, snapping her hand away. Linda stopped, wobbled for a second, looked up at her with wounded, mad-child eyes, and burst into tears.

‘I’m sorry, Chrissie. I’m so sorry. Don’t be angry with me. Lindy’s very vunnerable. Very fragile . . .’

The party dragged on until Christine slipped out, alone, half pissed and starving hungry, at nine. John was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

It was not a Christmas to remember.