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Snowflakes drifted lazily through the silent winter air, falling in a delicate cascade, an eddying flurry highlighted picturesquely in spotlight cast by the pale yellow street lighting. Frost had coated ugly paving stones with an icy sheen, transforming the mundane into an object of frozen beauty. Outside, the usual low thrum of busy traffic was strangely absent, automated murmur silenced as the world stood still for once.
A solitary figure meditatively surveyed the quiet winter scene, silhouetted in the bay window of a luxurious house, dark eyes drinking in the scenic landscape with an ease of time not usually granted within her hectic schedule; a welcome change of pace. She brought a large glass of wine to awaiting lips and took a deep draught of the burgundy liquid, relishing the spicy tang of a rather excellent vintage of Shiraz upon her eager tongue before letting out a peaceful sigh.
Christmas Eve.
This year Serena Campbell had been the epitome of festive merriment, bustling around organising last minute decorations and buying enough food and alcohol to feed the whole street umpteen times over and subsequently reduce residents into a coma. For the past few weeks, the usually business-like co-lead had been buoyed by an inextinguishable glow of happiness as she bounced around AAU brandishing festive jumpers and sprigs of mistletoe; infectious in her joyous enthusiasm.
Her Yuletide plotting had been executed almost without hitch: Jason had gone to stay the night with Alan and watch the festive special of the ‘Word’s Strongest Man’ as he had requested, and they both would be coming over tomorrow for the afternoon to attend Christmas lunch with the whole extended AAU family. Raf, Fletch and the Fletchlings had found themselves invited over in what seemed to be fast becoming an annual tradition, and, after many conspiratorial whispers whilst queuing at the bar in Albies, Serena had even managed to persuade Cameron to drop by with Charlotte to exchange presents–something which she was intending to surprise Bernie with. Elinor was visiting her Dad and, by the looks of her Facebook profile, was fast-regretting her decision to try get to know Liberty. One look at her daughter’s less-than-enthusiastic grimace as the leopard print-clad embryo flashed suspiciously white teeth in a broad smile, clinging possessively to her step-daughter’s arm in a carefully posed festive picture was enough to tell Serena all that she needed to know about the vacuous blonde.
This should have been her romantic evening in with Bernie: a homemade lasagne bubbling away within the oven, a bottle of their favourite wine uncorked and waiting and a newly purchased, jaw-dropping black lace lingerie set hidden seductively beneath Serena’s dress for Bernie’s eager fingers to unwrap; the first present of many.
However, fate and the actions of a drunken man called Michael Braeburn had intervened and put a spectacular halt upon proceedings.
Bernie had rung her earlier that evening from the hospital, sounding distinctly crushed as she let had let Serena know that an emergency trauma case had arrived approximately half an hour before then end of her shift and that she was having to schedule an emergency theatre session. A young girl in her early twenties had been brought in, who had been walking home from a Christmas party with her boyfriend and impaled upon wrought iron railings when a drunk driver had lost control and swept his car off the road, mounting the pavement. A long, arduous theatre session lay ahead, a tense and difficult procedure to stitch together the broken pieces, a nerve-wracking task that Bernie’s professional instincts would only allow her to tackle. Silently cursing the drunken imbecile that had ruined her carefully laid plans, Serena couldn’t help but smile at her girlfriend’s fierce determination to volunteer herself for the tricky operation. Reassuring Bernie that all would be well and still very much waiting for her later arrival, she had wished her luck and hung up the phone with a faint click.
Faced with an empty house and a dwindling task list, Serena found herself at a complete loss as to what to do with herself– a rare phenomenon. Turning from her stance at the window, her eyes fell fondly upon a forgotten friend– a grand piano, which was currently more likely to be used as a Christmas card stand.
She barely had the time to play nowadays.
Smiling softly to herself, Serena sat her glass of Shiraz down with a soft clink upon a marble coaster and allowed an inquisitive hand to ghost contemplatively across ebony casing, tentative fingers lifting the antique piano lid to reveal faintly yellowed ivory keys in a varying state of repair, faded gold lettering proudly proclaiming ‘J. Broadwood & Sons, London, 1922’. The piano had always been a family instrument, subsequently gifted as a wedding present to Adrienne and George McKinnie by his proud parents, a cherished item which had always sat in pride of place in their drawing room throughout their lives together. A familiar old friend, which had survived numerous house moves, family celebrations and disasters in its stride.
A gentle puff of air exhaled from between Serena’s pursed lips as she bent forward and scattered the light layer of dust that had accumulated across the music stand, little particles eddying and dancing in the still winter air. As the dust rose, a familiar musty aroma, tinged with the faintly spicy bouquet of stale cigar smoke infused slowly with the surrounding ambience; immediately transporting Serena back to Christmases of old.
A precocious six-year-old sporting two long dark braids and an indignant pout with regards to being forced into wearing a hand-knitted festive monstrosity crouched precariously upon a rickety three-legged stool borrowed from its usual place within her parent’s kitchen, deeply intrigued by the mechanical dance of hammers and dampers within the dark wooden case. A small hand hovered curiously above hundreds of silver-wound strings, a faint frown of concentration creased her brow as she intently followed the hypnotic rippling cascade, the festive scene accompanied by a rich baritone as her father sang Christmas carols. Dark eyes gleamed with joy as George sought to answer her endless questions–already fuelled by a ferocious intelligence and wit, wanting to know ‘why?’ about simply everything– before he eventually hoisted her up into his lap to act as his ‘official page-turner’ as his talented hands executed the complexities of a Bach fugue. The grand performance, no matter what the piece, always finished with a triumphant cadence before Serena was encourage to stand and take a bow in recognition of the tumultuous applause from the awaiting “audience” of the “Royal Albert Hall”–in reality, the enthusiastic clapping of two faintly dotty maiden aunts who propped each other up tipsily upon the emerald green sofa after imbibing slightly too much sherry after Christmas lunch– a musical fantasy in which the young girl had only been too happy to participate in, flashing a winning smile and twirling happily into a deep bow before stepping aside and acknowledging her dutiful understudy in accordance with correct concert etiquette.
She had gone on to learn piano upon her mother’s insistence, dutifully attending lessons and building a reasonable level of technical skill, but remaining untouched by the uninspiring beginner’s repertoire. A visit to Paris aged twelve had soon remedied her musical indifference, excited beyond comprehension at being allowed to visit such a cosmopolitan city over her usual summer holiday destination at her grandparents Eastbourne bungalow. Seated in a smoky French bar, furtively stealing glorious sips of intoxicating red wine from her mother’s glass whilst she conversed effortlessly in French with a prospective research partner, thinking herself incredibly sophisticated in an elegant floral chiffon dress purchased from an expensive nearby boutique after wearing down Adrienne’s initial resistance, Serena’s young ears had been enthralled by an exquisite performance from an aging jazz artist. A pianist, whose long fingers caressed the keys of a battered upright piano which had long since lost its battle to hold a reliable pitch with gentle reverence, extracting a glorious sound from the unlikely instrument. A smouldering cigarette with an incredibly long curl of ash hung lazily from the corner of his mouth, surrounded by a faint blueish halo of smoke, only ever pausing to take a draught from his glass and jettison a hasty tap of ash into an awaiting metal ash tray. Many jazz records had been bought and eagerly devoured by the young Serena that summer.
Subsequent teenage rebellion had seen her rail against her piano lessons as increasing demands upon her time accompanied by an obsessive desire to obtain the exam results that would permit her to attend medical school overtook her burgeoning musical interest. Countless arguments with her mother in particular about not fully realising her musical potential had followed.
Safely ensconced at university, freed from the suffocating weight of parental expectation and with a growing level of self-confidence (significantly bolstered by the lion’s share of a bottle of vodka and a steering amount of peer-pressure) Serena had defiantly cut her flowing brunette locks short with decidedly blunt kitchen scissors and dyed her choppy bob a suspicious shade of mottled turquoise. Picking up an electric guitar, she had embarked upon a short-lived career as a guitarist in her then-boyfriend’s punk rock band ‘Scalpel’. She only knew three chords and even they couldn’t be relied upon in a performance situation.
The first visit home that Christmas had certainly been interesting.
Adrienne’s outrage (somewhat undermined by George’s suppressed smirk) had won out over the hideous dye job, but there was little that she could do to amend the drastic haircut, short of stapling a wig to her defiant daughter’s scalp. That cropped bob, a small, seemingly insignificant act of rebellion in itself had become Serena’s trademark: a lasting memento of the first time that she had successfully out-manoeuvred her mother, the mark of her first step towards independence.
A causal quirk of a finely shaped eyebrow asked why not? Serena kept her musical talents incredibly well hidden: a perfectionist streak slightly perturbed by the lack of chance to maintain regular practice prevented her from revealing that particular identity in public, although the role of auditioning hopefuls for the Holby staff choir each Christmas gave her a chance to occasionally flex her musical muscles. The last time that she had tried to commit to regular playing was in support of Adrienne’s music therapy sessions. At first this had been somewhat of a triumph as Serena dug through the teetering boxes of sheet music that her mother had acquired over the years, singing along in her rich alto voice and relishing the sparkle that returned albeit briefly to Adrienne’s eyes in recognition of her favourite songs that once upon a time she had sung in duet with George, a chance at a brief reprieve that sadly faded and died upon the rapid progression of her vascular disease. The final attempt of singing along to Moon River resulted in a wild howl of anguish from Adrienne, crashing an angry fist down upon the keys in harsh discord upon forgetting the lyrics to one of her favourite melodies, then viciously and repeatedly slamming the piano lid upon Serena’s poor fingers.
It had taken weeks for the bruising to fade.
Sliding out the upholstered stool, Serena seated herself in front of the keyboard, gently flexing her fingers and ghosting them over keys which had not felt her touch in a long time. A slight twinge of guilt over her neglect caused her to fumble the first chord, a crash of dissonance making the perfectionist surgeon wince at her error. Slips of the hand, no matter how slight, were not encouraged within her profession.
Letting out a faint sigh, she tried again, playing the first melody that came into her mind, slowing the tempo and opting to embellish the simple melody with delicious minor sevenths; jazzy harmonic inflections that seemed to compliment the well-established tune. Confidence growing, she began to hum along, soft alto voice singing a gentle solo melody that carried through the still silence of the empty house.
“Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas, let your heart be light…”
Smiling softly to herself as she thought of the imminent arrival of her wonderful girlfriend, she concurred with the lyrics. For the first Christmas in years her heart did feel light: free from the overshadowing burdens of divorce, affairs, un-ravelling inter-family relations, bereavement, loss, estrangement, work-related stress…. All the gnawing concerns that had eaten away at her before had simply melted away into nothingness.
To think that the name ‘Berenice Griselda Wolfe’ would have meant absolutely nothing to her if mentioned the previous year made her let out a faint chuckle, counting her blessings at the extraordinary change in circumstances compared to the previous year’s celebrations.
Lost in the moment, Serena was oblivious to the low purr of an engine pulling up outside of her house, a light scrunch of tires on frosty gravel announcing the imminent arrival of a faintly bedraggled Bernie Wolfe.
Unfolding her long limbs from the convertible with a loping ease, the tall surgeon drew her taupe trench coat close around her shoulders, shivering faintly in the chilly air. A broad grin stretched slowly across her mouth as she looked skyward, watching the slowly falling snowflakes plummet earthward– a stark contrast to the arid Middle Eastern Christmas of last year. Satisfied that she had done all that she could, Bernie had left Holby City in the dead of the night, eager to come home to Serena and their delayed celebration.
Home, she thought contentedly to herself as she looked at the beautiful Victoria villa, elegantly decorated with strands of glittering fairy lights, finished with a dusting of snow across the grey slates of the roof. No longer feeling like a stranger as she wrestled the small bunch of silver keys out of her pocket and looked at them proudly, a gift from Serena upon her moving in. She still hadn’t had the heart to remove the paper luggage label that was carefully tied to them: ‘To Bernie, with all my love. Serena x’ written in a familiar sloping italic hand.
Letting herself in to the house, Bernie was about to shout out a festive greeting, but the sound of exquisite music halted the words dead in her throat.
Toeing her shoes off and carefully creeping along the polished wooden floorboards with a military stealth, Bernie’s tousled blonde head peeped curiously around the living room door, surveying Serena as she continued to sing, gloriously unaware of her new audience.
Just when I thought she couldn’t be any more wonderful….
The pre-Ukraine Bernie would have immediately questioned her worthiness in terms of the heights of personal accomplishment offered by the brunette, determined that she wouldn’t ever match up to Serena, or that Serena deserved such a poor romantic return. However, since their reunion, her wounds had begun to heal, gradually letting Serena in, the career soldier at last beginning to find peace within.
Holding herself stock still, Bernie’s eyes drank in the scene, trying to commit every pixel to memory, a perfect freeze-frame. Her lip quirked: it was no good, an inner magnetism was inching her closer and closer to Serena, admiring her curvaceous figure all the more in the flowing dark blue dress that she was wearing, daring to ponder what delights lay beneath this evening. Snaking long arms around her girlfriend and straddling the piano stool behind her, Bernie placed a gentle kiss upon the exposed skin of Serena’s bare neck, nuzzling appreciatively into the little hollow between shoulder and collarbone.
“Hello there…” she breathed softly against pale skin, watching in delight as little goosebumps rose in response, a startled pulse fluttering slightly as Serena become aware of her presence.
“Can you wear louder shoes next time please?” came the feigned grumpy greeting as the brunette stopped playing and snuggled back into the reassuring warmth, looking lovingly over her shoulder with a gaze that could melt glaciers in its glow.
“You never told me you could play? Is there no end to your talents, Ms. Campbell?”
“Well…” the usually unflappable consultant blushed at the look of flirty adoration that she was on the receiving end of, “You never asked,” she shrugged modestly, looking for an appropriate way to change the topic.
“You’ve got snow in your hair…” Serena whispered faintly as she placed a soft kiss upon Bernie’s lips.
Rolling her eyes, Bernie leant forward slightly and whispered, “So, what was this Christmassy surprise that you’ve been teasing me with all week?”
Serena’s seductive smile drooped momentarily as her keen nose caught a faint whiff of burning from the kitchen.
“Shit….” she swore and dashed out of the room quickly remove the offending article from the oven.
“Well, I did make dinner…” she began guiltily upon her return, sweeping hurriedly across the room to silence Bernie’s stream of mumbled apologies and worried glances with another deep kiss of reassurance.
“But, musing, sentimental idiot that I am, I’ve been sat here daydreaming for so long that the lasagne is now bearing a striking resemblance to charcoal, the vast majority of the Shiraz is actually in me…” she leant forward and trailed a suggestive finger across Bernie’s jawline, appreciating the hitch in breath that she incited, “but, my darling, none of those things matter in the slightest…”
Settling comfortably in Bernie’s lap Serena brushed a lock of blonde hair out of the former medic’s face, heart flooding with love.
“Because you are home…….”
“Merry Christmas, Bernie”