Chapter Text
“𝑻𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒚. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔.”
He rakes a hand over his face, because it is exactly what she thinks it is. Beatrice is at their house, with their daughter, a hundred miles away. He should be at their house, but instead he’s on the phone in his hotel room, in London. “The roads are closed.”
She’s quiet for a moment, before drawing a sigh. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she says.
“I know.” He lifts the receiver and moves to the bed. It’s almost midnight, now, and his driver is already asleep in a smaller room a few floors down.
“I am going to have two children waking me up at dawn tomorrow,” she continues. “And you’re in London.”
“I am.”
Beatrice hmms into the phone, and he can tell that she’s mad, but not as mad as she would’ve been if he’d risked it on the icy roads home. An unprecedented snowstorm is raging outside, and he can barely see the street from his window. “Fuck,” she says. “You promised you’d be home.”
Tommy sighs. “It’s supposed to let up in the morning. I’ll make it up to you.”
“You could let me sleep for a week,” she pronounces. “How’s Alfie?”
“Alfie’s good. Busy. Lot’s of baking for the holidays.”
“Right,” she drawls. “Baking. Suppose it makes sense for family gatherings. Can’t have too much bread.”
“It’s business,” Tommy dismisses. “He’s agreed to the contract, but refused to sign it on the grounds of the holiday.”
“Why does he care?”
“He doesn’t. He’s just buying time.”
“You should’ve let me talk to him,” Beatrice chides. “I’d’ve had things settled sooner. He likes to waste your time.”
“Next time I’ll send you.”
“Good.”
“How’s the little one?”
She laughs. “Sybil’s almost set the tree on fire. She wanted to show off what she’s learned in her ballet lessons, except the maids were lighting the candles at the same time, and she was one twirl away from a collision. “It’s fine, now. She wanted to stay up and wait for you, but I told her you were doing business with Santa Claus, and now you’re expected home with a bag of gifts.”
“Wasn’t that already the case?” he asks wryly.
“Well, in my original plan, you were actually going to be here with a bag of gifts.”
“I’ll be there,” he promises. “I’ll call the concierge and see if there are trains running.” He stands and peers out the window, but the snow hasn’t relented. At this rate, he might have to swim home, which is a fucking shame, because he never learned how.
“I miss you,” Beatrice admits.
“I’ve been gone a day,” he says, just to hear her say it again.
“A day too long. If you’d taken me with you, we could be snowed in together in that hotel room of yours...celebrating.”
“And who’s watching the girl?”
“She’s with John and Esme, of course. They won’t even notice, there are already so many children running around there.”
“Hmm.”
“You should call the concierge,” she reminds him. “See about the trains.”
“But then I’d have to get off this call,” he mumbles.
“I’ll hang up, then,” she challenges.
“Don’t hang up.”
“I’d rather have you home than stay on the phone with you.”
Tommy sighs. “We’ll see.”
It’s a risk, he knows; Beatrice wins games of chicken as often as she loses them, and when the line clicks off and her voice is replaced by the burn of the dial tone, he can’t say he’s entirely surprised. The warmth in his chest fades, and he reaches over to click off the call on his end. Tommy makes a deal with himself: if the trains are still running, he’ll pack his things and trudge through the snow to the station. If they’re not, he’ll call Beatrice back.
A few minutes later, he’s putting his coat back on and zipping up his briefcase. It’ll be hell outside, but he’s lived through that before. At least this time, there’s something sweet waiting for him on the other side.