Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

I reach up to gently brush a tufty bit of his thick, black hair that’s standing upright on his forehead, then go to gently stroke his cheek, but he’s distracted and doesn’t respond.

And two seconds later he’s gone out into the dark, icy cold evening.

Half eleven that night and he’s still not back, so after I’ve tidied up the house, Jules and I walk to Midnight Mass on our own. Well, that is to say I walk and she staggers, having spent most of the evening knocking back approximately half a bucket of the mulled wine. I’m still hopeful that Dan might meet us at the church or even join us late during the service, but when we get there, there’s no sign of his mud-soaked jeep anywhere.

A sudden stab of worry: he shouldn’t have taken this long, should he? Maybe there’d been some kind of accident? So I call him but he doesn’t answer. Which only makes worry work like yeast in my mind.

By the time the choir get to Silent Night, Jules has fallen asleep and actually snores for the rest of the service.

Holiday = not off to a good start.

Christmas morning and the sound of a mug being plonked down on the beside table next to me wakes me up. It’s Dan, still wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday and looking more shattered than I think I’ve ever seen him. And older too; for the first time in the bright morning light I notice grey hair starting to sprout round his temples. All the ridiculous hours he’s been working finally taking their toll.

‘Hey, Happy Christmas, sleeping beauty,’ he says softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside me and rubbing his eyes exhaustedly with the back of his hands. ‘Made you some tea.’

‘Dan! Where were you? I mean, what happened last night? I was so worried…’

‘I know and I’m so sorry, love. It was all hours by the time I got back, so I just crashed out on the sofa downstairs so I wouldn’t disturb you. Believe me, I couldn’t get away any sooner.’

I haul myself up onto the pillows, waiting for the morning fuzziness in my brain to clear and for that two-second time-lag to pass before my thoughts come back into focus. Yeah, now I have it; he went to Beatrice Kelly’s farm last night, something about a colicky hunter.

‘Problem with the horse?’

‘Well, no, not really,’ he says, the black eyes suddenly miles away, full of concern. ‘I think the main reason Beatrice called me out was that she was feeling a bit lonely. You know how tough this time of year can be for anyone living alone. I think she just wanted the company more than anything else. I tried calling you but of course, no signal on my phone up there.’

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