One Day in December(14)

She looks at me and I nod, because she’ll look undeniably fabulous in the outfit.

‘Or this?’ She pulls her killer LBD out of the wardrobe and holds it against her body.

I glance from one to the other. ‘I like both.’

She sighs. ‘Me too. Which one says “hot Valentine” more?’

‘Has Jack seen the red?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not yet.’

‘There you go then. Nothing shouts Valentine louder than lipstick red.’

Sartorial decision made, she hangs the dress back in the wardrobe. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own tonight?’

I roll my eyes. ‘No. Take me with you.’ I lean on the door frame and knock back a gulp of too-hot coffee. ‘Because that wouldn’t look weird at all, would it?’

‘Jack’d probably like it,’ she laughs. ‘Make him look like a stud.’

‘You know what, on second thoughts I’ll have to take a rain check. I’ve got a double date tonight with Ben and Jerry. They’re sweet.’ I wink as I back out into the hallway. ‘We’re going to work our way through the Karamel Sutra. It’s going to be a thrill a minute.’

Of all the ice creams in all the world, I happen to know that B&J’s Karamel Sutra is Sarah’s favourite.

‘I’m actually jealous, you know,’ she calls after me, unbraiding her hair in readiness for the shower.

Me too, I think, miserable as I drop down heavily into the armchair and flip my laptop open again.

Whoever the hell is in charge of TV scheduling needs a bullet between their eyes. Surely they could work out that anyone who needs to resort to watching TV on Valentine’s night is single and potentially bitter, so why they thought The Notebook would make suitable viewing is beyond me. There’s romantic rowing on the lake and there’s Ryan Gosling, all wringing wet and shouty and in love. There’s even swans, for God’s sake. Hang on, I’ll just pour some salt in my wounds while I’m at it, shall I? Thank God they’ve had the good sense to schedule Con Air to follow it; I’m going to need a good dose of Nicolas Cage saving the day in a dirty vest to recover from this.

I’ve made my way through two-thirds of Ryan Gosling, half the tub of ice cream and three-quarters of a bottle of Chardonnay when I hear Sarah’s keys in the lock. It’s only half past ten; I expected my party for one to still be going strong at midnight, so frankly, this is something of an interruption.

Sitting cross-legged in the corner of the sofa, I look towards the door expectantly, my wine glass in my hand. Have they fallen out and she’s left him to eat his tiramisu alone? I try not to hope so as I call out, ‘Grab a glass, Sar, there’s enough wine left in the bottle if you’re quick.’

She appears swaying in the doorway, but she’s not alone. My party for one has segued swiftly into a ménage à trois. That’s a thought I don’t want to process, so I abandon it in favour of wishing I was wearing something other than black yoga pants and a mint-green vest. I’d optimistically dressed for the Davina workout I knew I wasn’t really going to do. It could be worse; I could have gone for the checked flannel PJs my mum gave me because she worries the Delancey Street flat gets too draughty.

‘You’re early,’ I say, stretching my spine and trying to look like a serene yoga guru, if that’s at all possible while clutching a glass of wine.

‘Free champagne,’ Sarah says, or at least that’s my best guess at what she says. She’s laughing and leaning heavily against Jack; I think his arm round her waist is the only reason she’s still standing.

‘Lots of free champagne,’ Jack adds, and his rueful smile tells me that although Sarah has had too much, he hasn’t. I meet his eyes and for a moment he holds my gaze.

‘Am ver, ver tired,’ Sarah slurs, with long, exaggerated blinks. One of her false eyelashes is making a run for it down her cheek; it’s usually me that has that problem. I’ve tried and failed with them twice over the last few months; I look like a drag queen, much to Sarah’s amusement.

‘I know you are.’ Jack laughs and drops a kiss on her forehead. ‘Come on. Let’s get you into bed.’

She pretends to look shocked. ‘Not until we’re married, Jack O’Mara. What kind of girl d’you take me for?’

‘A very pissed one,’ he says, hanging on to her when she sways again.

‘Rude,’ Sarah murmurs, but she doesn’t fight him when he catches her behind the knees and lifts her into his arms. Shit. Watch and learn, Ryan Gosling. This man didn’t need to wade into a lake to melt the fair lady’s heart.

For clarification, I mean Sarah’s heart, not mine.

‘She’s passed out.’

I look up when Jack appears in the living-room doorway again a little later. Ryan Gosling has by now wooed his girl and rowed off into the sunset in favour of Nicolas Cage being all dependable and heroic on screen. Jack’s eyes light up and his face cracks into a broad smile.

‘Best action movie ever.’

I can’t argue. Con Air is my go-to movie; when the shit hits the fan in my real life, I invariably opt to watch Cameron Poe have a much worse time of it and still come out on top. However bad my day has been, I can generally be fairly certain that I’m not going to have to crash land a plane full of murderers and rapists on the Las Vegas Strip.