At the age of thirty-three, Oliver has no regular habit but this and he adheres to it religiously.“Sod him,” Binny snorts, wading into the stream of Christmas Eve traffic. Despite the High Street billboards and flashing illuminations wishing peace on earth and goodwill to men, she is met with a rude fanfare of traffic horns. Cars are packed with families and presents gift-wrapped in festive paper. “Sod him,” she repeats. She will not stop for anyone. And neither will she weep. The wet streets glisten under the heavy December sky.Everything that is wrong with Binny’s life points back to Oliver. Things she never used to expect him to remember or notice are now his direct responsibility. The broken glass in the front door: his fault. The shower: his fault. The fresh cuts to her hands and the broken china left scattered on her kitchen floor. The fact that she has bought no Christmas cards. All, all, his fault.Now that she has dropped the children off at school for their final dress rehearsal, Binny has five hours to fix Christmas.
