Читать книгу The Baby Diaries - Sam Binnie - Страница 41

Christmas Eve. I have all my presents bought, wrapped and ready to go, I have my mocktail ingredients in Mum’s fridge (I’ve got everything for several jugs of mock-itos, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to just end up on the dusty Buck’s Fizz as usual) and our flat looks like a grotto explosion, every available surface covered with fairy lights, paper chains, snowflakes, Christmas cards, flocked reindeer, tissue paper snowmen (from the Twins’ school), weathered metal stars and little festive wooden decorations. Our tree was festooned with gold bows and red baubles, and with tiny decorations made by Dad. It was beautiful.

I made us both some mulled wine (so thoroughly mulled I’d be lucky if there was even a breath of booze left in there) and brought two mugs of it through. Thom was sitting on the floor, staring at the tree.

Me: You OK?

Thom: [slightly surprised] Yeah. I am. Are you?

Me: Yes. I like how much this baby moves. And I like you.

Thom: My God, Christmas makes you emotional.

Me: You say that like it’s not fact number one about me.

Thom: Do you like it today?

Me: I do. More and more.

Thom: You’re going to have a baby here next time we do this.

Both: – All going well.

Me: We will. Are you going to cover it in ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ bibs and babygros? Will you get it tiny baby antlers?

Thom: I don’t think they exist.

Me: Well, now we know what we can pitch to Dragon’s Den, don’t we?

We stayed up late tonight, mostly just resting against the sofa, looking at the tree, until suddenly at 11.59 Thom said, ‘Right, get to bed. Father Christmas won’t come otherwise.’ Quite right, too.