IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

39. Inventory

Una comes downstairs, wrapped in a fluffy dressing gown of Fen's, to find that her family are decorating for Christmas without her. From the doorway, she watches silently as her brother attaches a bauble to a cupboard door. She knows for a fact that it will be nothing but a nuisance and will fall off every time someone opens the cupboard to get something.

She says nothing, listening to the Christmas music playing from their portable radio. Timmy is stood on a chair, hanging Christmas bunting from the ceiling. They lost a couple of the flimsy paper triangles a couple of years back. It says Hppy Cristmas.

She heads over to the Ikea bag of tinsel and picks up a string, the smell of plastic and a year of sitting in the loft making her oddly nostalgic.

"Where's the blutack?" she asks as her mother comes into the room.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

Shit, she wants to reply. "Better." Una manages a small smile. The bath has cleaned her up, at least.

"I was just about to put some mince pies in the oven, do you want one?"

The thought of mince pies makes her feel a bit sick.

"I'm not really hungry," she says, which is a lie.

“You need to eat something after the morning you've had," Fen frowns, and Una swallows. Opens the fridge door and stares at the contents. She can hear Timmy getting down from his chair.

She grabs a handful of blueberries and chews slowly. They're slightly mushy and she wishes she'd picked something else.
A glob of blutack is pressed into her hand as Fen comes up behind her. "What about a pork pie instead?" she asks, and Una nods.

"That sounds good," she says weakly, and watches as her mum cuts the pork pie into quarters like she used to do when Una was little. Fen puts some cherry tomatoes on the plate, some chopped pepper. A tangerine. They're good this time of year, bitingly sweet and tangy. She can almost taste it already.

Una goes to sit down at the table. Timmy, who has been sitting there, scrolling through his phone, stands up. He smells lovely when he walks past, a scent she hasn't smelt before. It doesn't really smell like him.

She picks at the pork pie, chewing the meat slowly, scraping the gelatin away from the crust, because that's always been the bit that she's hated. Then the dense pastry. The peppers are crisp and unripe on her tongue, the tomatoes similar. The tangerine is lovely, deliciously ripe. Each segment bursts like a warning between her teeth.

—

The day passes with no word from Timmy. If he knows what happened last night, he doesn't let on, let alone express any remorse.

The Christmas music downstairs doesn't stop. After a five hour nap, Una comes back downstairs to see ivy wrapped around the bannister. The tree has been unpacked and set up but not decorated. It looks sparse, pathetic, waiting in the corner of the living room like an orphan without a coat.

Timmy is sitting in the big easy chair. It takes a second for her to realise what she's seeing - he's wrapped up in enough blankets to pass himself off as the chair itself. But there is a head peeking out, blissfully asleep. Timothée's mouth is slightly open. She wants to wake him up, but instead she backs out of the room.

—

In the evening, after dinner, she goes upstairs only once everyone else has left. For a while, Una sits in the newly furnished kitchen. Hppy Cristmas stares back at her from the ceiling. She picks at the grapes in the fruit bowl, nibbling the skin away from the fruit.

Una wishes she could go back to this time last night and redo it. She wishes she would have stuck to Timmy the entire time, hanging around him, talking to him, instead of feigning nonchalance, instead of being embarrassed about the fact she didn’t know anyone else.