The overhead beams darkened the room and the late afternoon shadows lent a sense of claustrophobia to the confined space. Ghostly shapes hovered across the priceless paintings. Scenes of war, ballerinas and holy depictions came to life and my companion seemed to have grown larger in the glooming.

‘You need to move on. Find someone else. He’s no good for you.’ Oliver lifted my coat down from the stand and as he handed it to me, he leant across, nauseatingly close, so that I could smell the rancid garlic on his breath. The gentle giant no longer seemed so harmless.

I managed to get round him and reach the front of the gallery, where I yanked the door open and waited for the bell to jingle and announce our departure. Oliver pushed it back, slamming it shut, and made a grab in my direction. He pinned me up against the frame and plastered me with wet kisses.

‘Shit. Get off!’

I tried to push him away, heaving from the stench of stale food and aftershave, but he pinned my hands securely behind my waist.

‘Sorry, Rebecca. You’re just so beautiful. But I’m a patient guy.’

He let me go and took a step back, a wide confident no-harm-done smile playing on his lips. ‘It’s Christmas after all. A guy deserves some fun.’

He pointed at the mistletoe which dangled overhead. That would be his excuse.

I wrapped my coat tightly around me and mumbled something about having needed a shoulder to cry on, that was all. As Oliver went to turn on the alarm, I stepped outside. A sharp bitter wind howled and caused drifts of fine fluffy snow to settle in my hair.

‘I’ll always be there for you. Remember that.’

I was aware that he was attempting to level the playing field again, so played along. I wanted to get home. ‘Don’t worry. Thanks for listening.’

As the tube ferried me and all the other city revellers home in their drunken droves, I closed my eyes. Sleep would offer a temporary panacea from the turmoil. I decided to go straight to bed when I got back and shut off thoughts of Mitch and his ‘staff-only Xmas party’. Apparently teachers’ partners weren’t invited. It would have started some thirty minutes ago.

6

Rebecca

In America they talk of the ‘curve ball’, a strike that comes at a tangent and takes you by surprise.

Caught up in the grip of my own neuroses and embroiled in the all-encompassing throes of first love, I was caught completely off-kilter by an unforeseen event; one which was to have fateful repercussions.

I struggled into work along with merrier-than-usual commuters. Surrounding us there was the gentle hum of Christmas, which was waiting around the corner. The usually dour countenances were more relaxed and the packed carriage felt strangely peaceful.