One Day in December(12)
‘So, Laurie,’ he says, clearly casting around for something to say. I feel the way I sometimes do when I get my hair cut; as if the stylist finds me hard work and I’m shortly going to need to lie about where I’m going on holiday. ‘What did you study?’
‘Media and Journalism.’
He doesn’t look surprised; he must know that Sarah and I were on the same course at Middlesex.
‘I’m a words person,’ I elaborate. ‘Magazines, hopefully, when I can get my foot in the door somewhere. I don’t plan on a career in front of the camera.’ I stop myself from adding ‘unlike Sarah’, because I’m sure he already knows that Sarah’s life plan involves presenting the local news before moving up the ranks towards the national broadcasters. There’s a trite quote I see bandied around on Facebook every now and then, ‘Some girls are born with glitter in their veins,’ or something similar. Sarah is that, but there’s grit mixed in with her glitter; she doesn’t stop until she gets what she wants. ‘How about you?’
He lifts one shoulder. ‘Journalism at uni. Radio’s my thing.’
I know this already, because Sarah has tuned the kitchen radio into the station he works at, even though he’s only ever on it if the late-night presenter isn’t there, which has been next to never. Everyone starts somewhere though, and now I’ve heard his voice I know that it’s only a matter of time before he moves up the ranks. I have a sudden, hideous vision of Sarah and Jack as TV’s golden couple, the next Phil and Holly, shining out of my TV at me every day with their in-jokes, finishing each other’s sentences and winning every People’s Choice award going. It’s so realistic that I’m winded, and I’m relieved to hear Sarah’s keys clatter in the lock.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ she calls out, slamming the door so hard she rattles the old wooden sash window frames in the living room.
‘Here she is,’ I say unnecessarily, springing up. ‘I’ll just go and help her.’
I meet her in the doorway and take the unchilled wine from her hands. ‘Jack’s just arrived. You go and say hi, I’ll stick this in the freezer to cool down for a bit.’
I withdraw to the kitchen, wishing I could climb into the freezer drawer too as I shoehorn the bottle in beneath the bag of frozen berries we use for smoothies when we feel like we might die from lack of nutrients.
I open the bottle of wine we’ve already chilled in the fridge and pour out a couple of decent glasses. One for me, one for Sarah. I don’t pour one for Jack, because as I already know, he’s more of a beer kind of guy. I’m warmed by the fact that I know what he’d prefer without needing to ask, as if this one tiny snippet is a new stitch in the quilt of our intimacy. It’s an odd thought, but I run with it, imagining that quilt as I pull out a bottle of beer for Jack and flick the lid off, then close the fridge and lean my back against it with my wine glass in my hand. Our quilt is handmade, carefully constructed from gossamer-thin layers of hushed conversations and snatched looks, stitched together with threads of wishes and dreams, until it’s this magnificent, wondrous, weightless thing that keeps us warm and protects us from harm as if it were made of steel. Us? Who am I kidding?
I take a second mouthful of wine as I catch hold of my train of thought and try to reroute it along safer tracks. I force myself to see that quilt on Sarah and Jack’s king-size bed, in Sarah and Jack’s gorgeous house, in Sarah and Jack’s perfect life. It’s a technique I’ve been testing out; whenever I think something inappropriate about him, I make myself counter it with a sickly, positive thought about them as a couple. I can’t say it’s working all that well yet, but I’m trying.
‘Come on, Lu, I’m gagging in here!’ Sarah’s voice runs clear with carefree laughter as she adds, ‘Don’t bother with a wine glass for Jack, though. He’s too unsophisticated for our five-quid plonk.’
I know, I want to say, but I don’t. I just shove Jack’s beer under my arm and refill my glass before I go back through to join them in the living room.
‘Pineapple on pizza is like having, I dunno, ham with custard. They just don’t go together.’ Sarah shoves two fingers down her throat and rolls her eyes.
Jack picks up the offending piece of pineapple that Sarah has flicked disdainfully into the corner of the box. ‘I had banana on pizza, too, once. Trust me, it worked.’ He squidges the extra pineapple down on to his slice and grins at me. ‘You can have the casting vote, Laurie. Pineapple yay or pineapple nay?’
I feel disloyal, but I can’t lie because Sarah already knows the answer.
‘Yay. Definitely yay.’
Sarah snorts, making me wish I’d lied. ‘I’m starting to think that getting you two together was a bad idea. You’re going to gang up on me.’
‘Team J-Lu.’ Jack winks at me as he laughs, earning himself a good punch on the arm from Sarah that makes him groan and rub it as if she’s broken it.
‘Easy. That’s my drinking arm.’
‘That’s for trying to split up team Sa-Lu.’ She’s the one winking at me now, and I nod, keen to show that I’m on her side even if I do like pineapple on my pizza.
‘Sorry, Jack,’ I say. ‘We’re wine sisters. It’s a stronger bond than pineapple on pizza.’ And I have to say, the wine is definitely helping me get through this situation.