One Day in December(64)
He stirs sugar into his cup slowly. ‘I wanted to tell you myself.’
‘So it’s true? You are leaving?’
He hands me a slim paper tube of sugar, and then a second one just in case. ‘I’ve got a new job,’ he says.
I nod. ‘Where?’
‘Edinburgh.’
Scotland. He’s moving away, to a different country. ‘Wow,’ is all I can think to say.
‘It’s a promotion. Too good a chance to pass up,’ he says. ‘My own evening talk show.’ He sounds excited.
I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard him sound positive in a long time, so I’m furious when my eyes well with tears.
‘It’s good news, Jack, it really is. I’m thrilled for you.’ I know that my face doesn’t look thrilled. I expect I look as if I’m being tortured, as if someone is drilling holes in my kneecaps beneath the table. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ The words blurt from me.
He reaches across the table and covers my hands with his own, warm and real and soon to move miles away.
‘You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had,’ he says. ‘Don’t cry or I will.’
Around us, the cafe is bustling with office workers grabbing takeaway lunches and mothers bouncing babies, and we sit amongst them, letting each other go. He asks me to let Sarah know because he can’t do it, and he tells me that he needs to do this, to start again somewhere where the past isn’t all around him.
‘I have something for you,’ he says, letting go of my hands to reach inside his coat, pushing a brown paper parcel towards me. It’s soft, and I pick open the taped edges and fold the crumpled paper back to look inside. It’s a hat, folded in half. A heather-purple tweed baker boy cap. I smooth out the paper with my fingertips, reading the familiar Chester’s stamp embossed inside it, remembering when I tried it on.
‘I’ve had it for years and never really found the right time to give it to you,’ he says. ‘It was for Christmas, really.’
I shake my head, half laughing. It’s always been like this for me and Jack. ‘Thank you. I’ll think of you when I wear it,’ I say, aiming for decisive and hitting desolate. ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ I tell him. ‘Be happy, Jack. You deserve to be. And don’t forget us – we’re only a phone call away.’
He rubs his hand across his eyes. ‘I could never forget about you,’ he says. ‘But don’t worry if it’s not for a while, okay? It might be a good idea to find my feet for a bit.’
I try to smile but it’s a struggle. I understand what he’s saying; he needs time to start over, to build his new life without us in it.
He picks up the hat and puts it on my head. ‘Just as perfect as I remember,’ he smiles. I realize too late that he’s leaving; he’s on his feet before I’ve gathered my things together.
‘No, don’t come out with me,’ he says, laying his hand on my shoulder. ‘Finish your coffee, then go back and tell Oscar you’ve found your wedding dress.’ He leans down and kisses my cheek, and I catch hold of him, an awkward half-hug because I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again. He doesn’t push me away. He sighs, his hand gentle on the back of my head, and then he says, ‘Love you, Lu,’ as if he’s exhausted.
I watch him shoulder his way out through the cafe, and when he’s gone I take the hat off and clutch it. ‘Love you too,’ I whisper. I sit there for a while, the hat in my hands, my wedding dress at my feet.
12 December
Laurie
In two days’ time I’ll become Mrs Laurel Ogilvy-Black, which is going to take a lot of getting used to after twenty-six years as Laurie James. I can’t even say it without sliding into the Queen’s English, all plummy and clipped.
Oscar left for his mum’s this afternoon and my parents are arriving here tomorrow. They’re staying with me in the flat, and then we’ll be going together to the church from here on Saturday morning. Once they arrive it’s going to be all systems go, so tonight is officially the calm before the storm. Sarah’s coming over any time now, and we’re having a mani-pedi and movie night with champagne cocktails to celebrate. I don’t have the kind of nails that grow; only women with the same kind of nails will understand. They get to the end of my finger and consider their work done, flaking and breaking. I’ve tried all of the oils, serums and creams known to man in the run-up to the wedding, because all the bridal forums tell me it’s essential that my hands are in tip-top condition. Well, I’m forty-eight hours away from the altar and they’re as good as they’re going to get; Sarah’s going to French polish them for me.
Everything about this wedding is planned, controlled and listed on Lucille’s spreadsheet. For someone who thinks her son is marrying beneath him, she sure has invested a lot of her time in dictating how it’s going to happen. To be honest I realized quite early on that she was going to steamroller her way through proceedings whether I liked it or not, so I’ve gone for the path of least resistance. By that, I mean I’ve agreed graciously to eighty per cent of her decisions, and held the other twenty per cent close to my chest and refused to be moved on them. My dress. My bouquet. My matron of honour. Our rings. They’re the only things that really matter to me anyway. I don’t mind which champagne is served for the toast, and though I’m not a huge fan of salmon mousse as a first course we’re having it anyway. Oscar has been grateful for my unterritorial approach; as he and his mum are so close, it would have made waves if I’d been difficult about things.