One Day in December(23)
My fingers close round my pendant, sliding over the familiar shape of the flat purple stone for reassurance. I had a five-minute meltdown this morning because I couldn’t find it; I cried when Sarah finally spotted it wedged between the cracks of the floorboards in my bedroom. Of all the possessions I own, my necklace is my most precious. Ginny and I both had one; I know it’s silly but I feel more connected to her whenever I wear it.
Damn. Another missed call from Mum. I feel like the world’s worst daughter as I click open the text message she’s just pinged across in lieu of a chat, and I resolve to call her first thing in the morning.
Laurie darling, I’m so sorry to put this in a text and even more sorry because it’s your birthday, but I know you’d want to know as soon as possible. It’s Dad – he’s in hospital, sweetheart, he’s had a heart attack. Give me a call as soon as you can. Love you. Mum xx
And just like that, one of the best days of my life has just become one of my worst.
12 December
Laurie
I feel like someone lined my Uggs with lead. It’s been full-on bedlam at work with back-to-back Christmas party bookings over the last few weeks and my feet ache as if I’ve run a marathon. I’m thoroughly bloody knackered. Dad’s recovery has been slower than the doctors hoped; it seems to have been one thing after another with his health ever since. He’s gone from being my robust, no-worries dad to looking frail and much too pale, and my mum seems to have followed suit because she’s worrying herself to death over him. They’ve always been quite the glamorous couple; Dad’s got ten years on Mum but it’s never really shown up till now. I can’t say the same of late. My father turned sixty last year but looks ten years older again; every time I see him I want to bundle him on to a plane to sunnier climes and feed him up. Not that my mum isn’t doing her best; their lives seem to be one long round of specialist appointments and dietary restrictions, and it’s taking its toll on them both. I go home as often as I can, but Mum is inevitably bearing the brunt of it.
Christmas insults my eyeballs everywhere I look; I’ve been shopping for the last few hours and I’m at that point where I want to bludgeon Rudolph, bump off Mariah Carey and strangle the next person who pushes me with the nearest string of tinsel. I’ve been waiting in this never-ending, barely moving queue in HMV for the last twenty minutes, clutching a box set I’m not even sure my brother will ever watch, and I could genuinely fall asleep on my feet. For a music store, you’d think they’d manage to come up with something more cutting-edge than Noddy Holder screaming ‘It’s Christmas!’ at the top of his lungs. What kind of name is Noddy, anyway? I find myself wondering if he was born with big ears and his mother was just too whacked out on gas and air to come up with anything else.
‘Laurie!’
I twist at the sound of someone calling my name and spot Jack waving his arm over the heads of the queue snaked around me. I smile, relieved by the sight of his familiar face, then roll my eyes to transmit how I feel about being stuck here. I look down at the box set and realize that my brother would prefer a bottle of Jack Daniels anyway, so I turn and push my way out of the queue, annoying pretty much everyone by going against the tide. Jack hangs around by the chart CDs while he waits for me, bundled inside his big winter coat and scarf, and I sigh because I’m caught by the memory of him at the bus stop. It’s been a couple of years now, and for the most part I don’t think about that day any more; my diligence in my mission to replace all of my errant thoughts about him with safer ones has paid off. They say that the human brain likes to follow repetitive patterns, and I’ve found that to be quite true. Jack now inhabits an appropriate place in my life as my friend, and as my best friend’s boyfriend, and in return I allow myself to enjoy his company and I like him. I really do like him so very much. He’s funny, and he’s incredibly caring towards Sarah. And he was a complete life-saver on my birthday, taking charge of the situation when I went to pieces there in the middle of Barnes Common. We were in the back of a taxi in the blink of an eye, my train tickets home booked before we even reached Delancey Street. Sometimes you just need someone to tell you what to do, and on that day Jack stepped up to the mark.
‘You look as impressed with this Christmas shopping malarky as I am,’ he says, sliding the CD he was idly looking at back on to the shelf and falling into step beside me as we leave the store. ‘Although you’ve clearly been more successful than I have.’ He eyes my bags. ‘Here, let me.’
I don’t argue when he takes the heavy carriers from me; the handles have bitten red welts into my palm and I flex my sore fingers with relief. There’s grey slush underfoot as we step out on to Oxford Street, remnants of the snowfall from a few days ago still hanging around because the arctic wind is blowing straight down from the north. Jack pulls a woolly hat from his pocket and jams it on his head, shivering for effect.
‘Have you got much to get?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘Sarah’s, mainly. Any bright ideas?’ He looks at me sideways as we walk, blending our pace with the bustling crowds. ‘Please say yes.’
I rack my brain. She isn’t hard to buy for, but her gift from Jack should be something particularly personal. ‘A bracelet maybe or a pendant?’
We pass a High Street jeweller and pause to look, but nothing in the window really shouts ‘Sarah’.