Page 74 of Dissection of a Murder
But I can’t risk her getting to Julian. Or sabotaging this case. There’s too much at stake.
When I arrive back home, Julian is dressed in a way that suggests he’s off somewhere. Despite the fact it’s late morning, all the lamps are on in the house because it’s dark outside. The tree lights are lacking the twinkle seen in previous years. Light rain begins to patter at the windows; even the weather gods aren’t feeling festive.
“Are you going out?” I ask him, confused. “On Christmas Eve?”
“A few lawyers are meeting for a drink in town. Want to come?”
His tone suggests he’s asking out of obligation rather than a genuine desire for me to join. He stands next to the table in the hallway, ready to shoot out of the door. I’m wearing joggers and a hoodie. He knows it would take me far too long to get ready. But I recognize what he’s doing, ostracizing me professionally.
“Who meets up for drinks on Christmas Eve?” I inquire, part comedically, part pissed off.
“Well, the people I’m meeting, obviously.”
“People who are either single or divorced?”
He sighs, looking in the mirror and fingering his hair. He ignores my targeted attempt to provoke him.
“Are you coming or not?”
“Why have you arranged to do this today?” I ask, folding my arms. “We always do something together.”
“Well, we haven’t booked anything and, to be honest, it didn’t feel as if you wanted to do anything this year,” he observes correctly, though it feels cutting to hear it said out loud.
“Why do you think that?” I ask him defensively. Usually, we spend the Christmas break going for walks and pub lunches. I don’t think that will be happening this year. It’s only Christmas Eve and we’re already leaving the house separately just to escape the unspoken, unbroken tension. It can’t go on much longer.
“You haven’t seemed yourself,” he remarks slowly, dramatically, in a way that suggests I’m a hysterical woman from the Victorian era and require a priest to bring me back to sanity. Of courseI’mto blame for this.
“Suppose I’ll see you later, then. Have fun.” I spit the words at him in the most sarcastic way possible.
He looks directly at me, saying nothing. Without responding, he walks toward the door, opens it, and leaves. There’s something about the sound of a door slamming in a quiet house that is so devastating.
Tears surge and spill out uncontrollably. The feeling of being isolated in this way cuts through me like a knife. Is this part of his strategy? How is he happy to leave me on my own on Christmas Eve?
Well, I refuse to spend the rest of the day dragging myself around the house, so I get wrapped up and go for a long walk on my own in the rain, like something out of a nineties music video. Couples and families are everywhere, delighting in the magic of Christmas, while I slowly fall apart walking among them, my hands clasped pathetically around a paper cup of hot chocolate.
This case has changed my life in more ways than one. How naive of me to think life would carry on as usual. A year ago, I would have killed for this kind of opportunity, to prove myself in this professional capacity. Right now, all I want is to give the case to someone else. But then I wonder what Jack’s Christmas Eve looks like in prison. And I know some things are more important.
I head back at twilight. I’m drenched from the rain, so I jump in a hot shower and use all of my expensive creams in an attempt to cheer myself up.
Julian returns just past 7 p.m. and I can smell the drink on him as soon as he stumbles into the living room, where I’ve been eating all the nice food I bought for both of us. I’ve opened the champagne and started watchingDie Hard(yes, it is a Christmas film). His presence irritates me, and I just want him to go away.
“This looks nice!” he has the audacity to say, clumsily attempting to grab the smoked salmon blinis from M&S.
“Didn’t you eat while you were out?”
“No, I didn’t want to ruin our classic Christmas Eve feast.”
“Bit late for that.”
He winces. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Leila, what on earth is the matter with you?” he snaps. “You’ve been a nightmare for days.”
“Oh! Have I?”
“Yes, you have. Just tell me what the hell I’ve done. Look, I know you don’t like Christmas. I know you didn’t get on with your parents. But is that a good enough reason to ruin it for everyone else? For the last time, what is the matter with you?”
