Chapter 39

Michael kisses her forehead. “No hurry, Babe. Not until you’re ready. And that's not yet.”

James, forehead puckered, brandishes the CD. “Scheherazade? Will someone please tell me what the
hell that’s all about? You used the word as some kind of code when Baxter and Finchby had you
prisoner.”

Charlotte flushes, looking up at her father.

But Klempner’s voice is soft with regret. “It didn’t take much to work out who the Wicked King was. But
I’ll admit, I’d like to know too what the story is behind it.”

Charlotte’s mouth works. She starts to speak, then grinds to a halt. “Michael, you tell them.”

And now he flushes. “It’s kind of embarrassing, Babe.”

“Is it?” Her gaze turns cloudy. “Alright…” She shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“No, it isn’t,” says James. “I want to know.”

Michael turns his face away, but I see him swear silently to himself. Then, “Alright, it’s like this. When
James and I first got to know Charlotte…” He stops, rubbing fingers at his forehead, then starts again…
“Charlotte fell for James first. I… I didn’t handle that well. I was jealous…” He nods to James. “You
remember? That New Year’s Eve?”

James’ voice is dry. “How could I forget? I thought you were going to punch my lights out.”

Charlotte’s jaw drops. “You’ve never told me any of this. Either of you.”

Michael stares up at the ceiling. “It wasn’t one of my greater moments. Anyway, when we were alone, I
asked Charlotte to tell me something personal. Something that no-one else knew. That would be just



mine. She told me…” He hesitates, looking between Charlotte and her father…

“It’s alright,” she says. “You can say it.”

He takes in air, then, “Charlotte told me that when she was a little girl, she read the stories of the
Thousand and One Nights. She fantasised about being Scheherazade, who told the tales. About being
in the power of the wicked king...”

Klempner’s face drops…

“… And about being brave enough and clever enough to escape and be free. At the time I didn’t know
what to make of it. It was only much later that I came to understand…” His words die away and he
grinds to a halt.

It sounds trite to say you can hear a pin drop, but the silence could be sliced.

Klempner speaks first. “Jenny…”

And James cuts him short. “So, you asked for something personal. That’s about as personal as it gets.
But…” He looks between man and daughter. “… can we all agree, it’s behind us?”

But Charlotte turns to Michael. “You were jealous?”

Scarlet-faced, he nods.

“You never told me.”

He shrugs, seeming lost for words.

“But I married you.”



James takes her by the hand, pulling her up from her seat into his arms. “That came some time later.”
He plants a kiss on her forehead, then spins her to face the still-squirming Michael.

She wriggles into his arms, reaching up to kiss. “You were jealous. Awww… that’s so sweet.” Then she
pulls back again, thumbing at James. “You were going to punch him?”

James cracks out a smile, quickly masked. “But he didn’t. Now, can we agree, whatever is in the past, it
is behind us? I made mistakes too. We have all made mistakes with each other. From here on,
whatever happens, we’re going forward. All of us.”

He meets Michael’s gaze, eye-pointing Klempner. Michael nods, presses his lips to Charlotte’s, then
turns her by the shoulders to face her father.

James repeats, a touch of steel in his voice. “All of us.”

Charlotte hesitates, looking down, then up again. Then she breaks into a smile and sucking her lips,
nods. Taking two steps towards Klempner, she says, “Happy Christmas, Father…” She swallows. “…
Dad. Thank you for the gift.”

For the space of a heartbeat… two… three… time stops…

Then Klempner wraps his arms around Charlotte and kisses the top of her head. “Happy Christmas,
Jenny.”

She rests her head against his shoulder for a long moment, then pulls free and jabs a finger at his
chest. “But you have to wear the sweater today.” She turns to James, then Michael. “You two as well.”

James snatches at dignity. “I was planning on wearing my best suit for dinner.”

Michael almost gabbles. “And I was going to wear that new shirt and pants. The ones you said you
liked in the shop.”



“Ah-Ah…” She shakes her head. “Mom went to all that trouble to knit them. They’re presents. You have
to wear them.” She pins her gaze on her father.

Something like despair flits over Klempner’s face. “All day?”

She havers. “Well… For Christmas dinner at least.”

*****

Sumptuous smells are drifting in from the kitchen. James refuses any more assistance from me,
instead pouring me an egg-nog, and another for Ryan, then ambling through to the lounge with me to
take his accustomed armchair by the fire.

Most of the Christmas household are there ahead of us. Michael, Beth and Richard are playing a board
game. Ryan sits behind Michael, apparently in the role of ‘Chief Criticiser’ of his moves.

Mitch, sitting with Larry on the couch, has the bundled Cara in her arms. Eyes closed, the baby sucks
contently at a bottle.

A bit startled by the sight, “Where's Charlotte?”

“Getting changed for dinner. I said I’d finish Cara’s feed.” Mitch follows my eye to the bottle. “It's
Jenny’s milk, expressed. I told her early she'll have an easier time if Cara can be fed by anyone.”

“Damn!” Michael tosses dice to one side.

“Told you,” says Ryan. “You should have put a hotel on the square while you still had the cash.”

Richard hums, sweeping up miniature plastic buildings and game money. “Another?”



Michael reaches for a bottle of malt. “No, thanks. I know when I’m out-matched.” He holds up the bottle
to Ryan, rocking it one way then another. “Top-up?”

“Thanks, yes.” Ryan offers his tumbler, the crystal glinting green and gold and red from the tree-lights.

Charlotte appears at the door, clutching the top half of a dress to her front. “Mom, could you help me
here. I can't get my zip up.”

James rises like a jack-in-a-box, arms outstretched towards Cara. “Here, give her to me.”

Just looking for an excuse...

Mitch smiles slightly as the stern-faced, dark Dom takes Cara, settling back into his armchair with her in
his arms, bottle poised. The baby shows no sign of objecting to her change in position or of even
noticing, as James offers her the teat, and she latches on to continue her briefly interrupted lunch.

Something beeps. James mutters and pulls out his phone. “Timer for the pork-roast,” he mutters.

Michael steps in, reaching for their daughter. “Here, I'll take a turn.”

Larry, nursing a glass in cupped palms, watches the performance in silence, his expression
indecipherable.

Beside me, Ryan murmurs, “Who'd have thought a baby could have so many parents?”

Larry’s eyes flick to his, and momentarily, he lowers his lids in the smallest of acknowledgements.

He looks... sad...

What's his story?

I must ask Charlotte...



At the right moment...

*****


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