One Day in December(35)
Oscar! Take care of my girl, can’t wait to meet you!
Laurie, let’s all get together as soon as we can, dying to see you.
Lots of love and kisses, Sarah xx PS Jack says to say hi! :)
2012
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New Year’s Resolutions
1) By hook or by crook, I’m moving back to London this year to start my fantasy job in publishing.
I’ve let my ambitions simmer on the back-burner for too long now because of Thailand and Oscar, and most of all because I wanted to spend some proper time at home and be around for Mum and Dad. There are lots of reasons and explanations, all excuses; what I’ve really been doing is avoiding Jack.
I’ve decided I’m not going to do that any longer. I miss Sarah so much, and I miss the buzz and crackle of London life too. I’m going to hand in my notice at the hotel I’ve been temping at lately; my CV so far is all hospitality-based, stop-gap jobs and temporary positions to keep money in my pocket while I wait for the rest of my life to kick in. Well, I’m done waiting. I’m going to pull on my boots and kick life’s butt, instead.
2) And then there’s Oscar. Oscar Ogilvy-Black, the man who found me on a beach in Thailand and jokingly asked me to marry him at sunrise the next morning. He’s asked me to marry him dozens of times since, mostly after sex or when we’ve had a few drinks – it’s become our standing joke. At least I think it’s a joke.
I don’t actually know what my New Year’s Resolution is about Oscar. Just to try and keep hold of him, I think, and keep hold of the feelings I have for him now that we’re going back to reality.
3) Oh, and I’ve decided I’m ready to give false eyelashes another go. Because gluing your eyes shut once in a lifetime isn’t enough for a woman like me.
3 January
Laurie
‘I’m so nervous,’ I mutter, straightening the collar of my woollen winter coat as we walk hand in hand along the pavement. I’m wearing a brooch. I know, who does that? Nobody sane under thirty. I’m just desperate to make a good impression. ‘Is this too much?’ I touch the little jewelled daisy and look up at Oscar, who just laughs.
‘You’re being ridiculous. It’s my mother, Laurie, not the queen.’
I can’t help it. Everything seemed far simpler in Thailand; we got to know each other while stripped back to whatever basics we could fit in a backpack. Here amongst the trappings of our usual lives, our differences seem more stark. I’m back to being socially awkward, doubly so today, and Oscar is far more man-about-town than I imagined.
‘Here we are,’ he says, leading me towards a patent-black front door in an elegant sweep of townhouses. ‘Stop fidgeting, you look fine.’
I swallow hard as we wait for the door to be answered, hoping that Oscar’s mother likes the bunch of winter white roses I bought on the way over. God, what if she’s allergic? No, Oscar would have said. I tap my foot, nervy, and then the door opens at last.
‘Oscar, darling.’
Lucille Ogilvy-Black may not be actual royalty, but there is a definite regal air to her straight back and white, perfectly blow-dried hair. She’s dressed all in black, a sharp contrast to the lustrous circlet of pearls round her neck.
‘Mum, this is Laurel,’ he says as he steps out of her hug, his hand on the small of my back to encourage me forward. Afterwards, I realize that I should have read more into the fact that he called me Laurel rather than Laurie.
I put my best foot forward and smile, and she accepts the flowers with a gracious incline of her head. She doesn’t look at all like Oscar, and she certainly exudes none of his natural warmth. I follow them into the immaculate hallway, awkward as we hang our coats. I compliment Lucille on her beautiful home, and then start to worry because that’s my small talk quota used up.
She serves us tea in her formal sitting room, and I can’t help but feel as if I’m being interviewed for a job I don’t stand a chance of getting; as if I’m the Saturday girl going for a managerial role.
‘What does your father do, Laurel?’
‘He retired recently,’ I say, not wishing to go into his health woes. ‘He owned a cleaning company; my brother, Daryl, runs it now.’ I can’t be sure, but I think Lucille just flinched. ‘Mum works there too, she keeps the books.’
The expression on Oscar’s mother’s face is crystal clear; she thinks we’re a bunch of Brummie cleaners. I reach for my pendant, following the outline of the purple stone with my fingertip for reassurance. My mum and dad started their company more than twenty-five years ago and employ more than fifty people now, but I don’t feel like justifying my family. The more Lucille Ogilvy-Black looks down her nose at me, the less inclined I become to impress her.
She excuses herself from the room momentarily; I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone to hide the good silver in case I slip it in my handbag. The lid of the grand piano in the bay window is covered with photographs, and I can’t help but notice (probably because it’s been pulled to the front) the large photograph of Oscar and a blonde; they’re dressed in ski gear, suntanned and laughing into the camera. I see it for what it is: a gauntlet being silently thrown down by Oscar’s mother.