One Day in December(29)

Jack


‘Happy New Year, mermaid girl.’

Sarah laughs as I pull her into my arms.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper into her hair, making a silent resolution to not kiss anyone other than Sarah this year.

‘What for?’ She holds me at arm’s length, her eyes narrowed slightly.

Shit. ‘For eating so much garlic last night. God knows how you’re able to come anywhere near this pong, I can smell it every time I yawn.’

She looks kind of amused and kind of confused. It’s a good job we’re both more than halfway towards being rat-arsed, because it’s exactly the kind of comment that could land me in all sorts of trouble. Honestly, it’s as if the truth is trying to leak out of me. I’m a petrol can riddled with holes, an accident waiting to happen.





Laurie


HNY, Lu! Love you!



I trace the letters of Sarah’s text with my fingertip as I lie in bed. The New Year is less than two hours old, but nonetheless, I kissed Jack last year, not this one. This one is a clean sheet.

Love you too, Sar, hope you’re not too drunk! HNY xx



I press send, then click my phone off and lie facing the ceiling in the darkness. I’m grateful that my parents didn’t rush to reclaim my room as a study or a spare room when I left for uni; it’s pretty much as I left it, comforting and familiar. I’ve never been one to stick posters on the walls, but my childhood books line the shelf over the desk and the lilac dress I wore to my high school prom still hangs in my wardrobe. I cannot put a value on how much these things mean to me right now. Being in here is like stepping into a time capsule, or into my own protective Tardis, perhaps. Where would I have my personal Tardis fly me to, I wonder? I know the answer. I’d take it back to 21 December 2008 and I’d make myself miss that bloody bus. That way I’d never have seen Jack O’Mara before Sarah introduced us, and everything would have been okay. I don’t for a second think that I’d have allowed myself the luxury of anything other than platonic feelings for him then, and I wouldn’t be lying here now feeling lower than a snake’s belly. Before the kiss, I’d been able to uneasily square things with myself. I’d struggled with my feelings for him and I’d felt like a crap friend because of it, but I’d stayed on the right side of the line.

What I’ve done now is unconscionable; I can’t even attempt to justify it to myself. I haven’t seen either Sarah or Jack since that afternoon in London. I know he swore me to secrecy, but he didn’t have the right to ask it of me. I’m not blaming him, we carry the burden equally. And I don’t know if telling Sarah would be the honourable thing or just a way to make myself feel better and her feel worse. I’d lose her. I know that much. She’d probably ditch Jack too; there would be no winners. I don’t feel worried that he’s someone who will be a serial strayer, constantly ratting around behind her back; if that were the case I’d tell her without question. Perhaps I’m flattering myself, but what happened felt more personal than that, a few minutes of madness that will weigh heavily on both of our consciences.

I’m not going to tell her. I made myself a promise to for ever hold my peace about my feelings for Jack O’Mara, and there’s never been a time when that promise mattered more.





28 January


Jack


Sarah’s sleeping, Laurie’s working late at the hotel and I’m sat at their kitchen table drinking neat vodka at half past two in the morning. I’ve never been a big drinker but suddenly I can see its merits. It’s been weeks now since I kissed Laurie. Weeks, and I’m making a right royal fuck-up of pretending it didn’t happen. Literally every time I look at Sarah I wonder if today’s the day I should come clean. Every. Bloody. Day. I’ve been over it and over it in my head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment I was unfaithful. Was it when I asked Laurie to come for a beer? When I held her when she cried? Or was it way back, the very first time Sarah introduced us and we both made the decision not to mention the fact that we’d actually met before? Not that we had, exactly, but we weren’t strangers. I know that much for sure now. It was easier when I could tell myself that Laurie didn’t recall those few moments at the bus stop, but now I know that’s not the truth. I know for a fact that she remembered me, and because she remembered me twelve whole months later, I know that means something else too. Maybe just that she’s like me, blessed and cursed with an excellent memory; but I’m not sure. I’ve been unpicking all of the times we’ve spent together, examining fragments of remembered conversations, trying to see if I’ve missed an undercurrent. It’s not that I think she’s harbouring a crush on me or anything. For fuck’s sake. I’m not being conceited; I just feel like I’ve missed something here.

I mean, it was just a kiss. It’s not like I screwed anyone, is it? But I kissed Laurie, and somehow that’s worse than screwing my way through the whole fucking Playboy mansion, because they’d be forget-me-tomorrow strangers. Laurie isn’t a stranger, and I didn’t kiss her out of anything as basic and easily explained away as stupid, vacuous lust. But I didn’t kiss her to restore her dignity either or because she was fragile and she needed me to make her feel better. I’m not that noble. I kissed her because she looked fucking ethereal under the street lamp with snowflakes clinging to her hair. I kissed her because I’d lied about not seeing her on that bus and I felt like a dick, and I kissed her because the need to know how her soft, vulnerable mouth would feel against mine floored me like a goddamn express train. And now I do know, and I wish I didn’t, because you can’t un-remember something as spectacular as that.