One Day in December(99)

I hope Oscar is okay. It’s strange, but you never stop caring about someone, even if you don’t want to be with them any more. I think I’ll always love him a little. And it’s hard not to feel an element of failure at becoming a divorce statistic.

It seems inevitable that, sooner or later, Cressida will step into my shoes. I bet his bloody mother never did take that photo of them down from her piano.

‘I think you know where your place is, Lu.’

Sarah and I look at each other, and then we don’t say anything else because Luke appears from the beach and drops into the spare seat at the table.

‘Looking good, ladies,’ he grins. ‘What did I miss?’





1 August


Jack


Lorne looks like the hulk’s smaller, un-green brother, a fact that comes in handy when he’s trying to get served at the bar. It’s packed in here tonight, but he’s only been gone a couple of minutes before he’s already shouldering his way back across the pub bearing a couple of pints, a bag of crisps hanging from his teeth.

‘You bought dinner,’ I say, swiping them when he reaches me.

‘Closest thing you’ll get to a date tonight,’ he grins. ‘Although the woman at the table behind you is making a bad job of pretending not to check you out.’

I open the crisps and lay the bag out between us without turning round. ‘Piss off.’

‘I’m serious. She’s pretty hot too.’ He winks at her over my shoulder, and I thump him on the leg.

‘What are you doing, man? Kerry’s at home about to have your baby.’ Lorne’s very lovely wife is eight months pregnant; we’re out for a couple of pints tonight at her insistence because he’s driving her half crazy with his fussing.

‘It’s for you, twat,’ he mutters, shoving a handful of crisps in his mouth.

I sigh, adjusting my hearing aid because we’re next to a speaker. ‘I’ve told you. I’m off the dating merry-go-round for a while.’

‘You said that.’ He drinks deeply. ‘I just don’t believe you.’

He should. It’s been more than four months since Martique and I decided to knock things on the head, a separation that meant little to either of us. That was why we split, in essence; it was going nowhere, and I’m kind of over sex for sex’s sake. I don’t tell Lorne that though.

‘I’m thinking of becoming a monk,’ I joke. ‘I look good in orange.’

He looks at me. ‘You’re sure? Because she really is a looker.’ He nods towards the woman behind us. ‘Bit like Holly Willoughby.’

Time was that would have been enough to have me twisting round in my seat, but I just drink my pint and finish off the crisps. She may well look like Holly Willoughby and perhaps I could buy her a drink and take things further, but the fact is I don’t want Holly Willoughby or Martique or anyone else.

I wear myself out walking Edinburgh’s fascinating, steep streets, immersing myself in the city’s culture; I even bought a pushbike last week. I came to Scotland to escape and it worked better than I could have hoped.

I jumped in feet first when I arrived and lost myself in the work and the women, and now at last I’ve surfaced and I’m sucking down fresh, sweet air into my lungs. At first it seemed that I was gasping for breath; it burned my chest. Now, though, I breathe easy and I sleep through the night.

It’s just me and, for now, I’m good with that.





22 December


Laurie


‘Night night. Miss you too,’ I say, waiting for Mum to ring off before I hang up. She’s in Tenerife with Aunt Susan; they’re both still in mourning, I think, but helping each other through it. In this case with sangria and sun. I don’t blame them; I seriously contemplated their offer to tag along, but in the end the pull of a dreary, cold London Christmas on my own was just too tempting to pass up. I’m kidding. Half kidding. I do at least have the house to myself for a couple of weeks though; my flatmate and her clan have all decamped to Wales until New Year. My plan, such as it is, is to just chill out, stuff my face and see a couple of friends here and there. Anna and Daryl have insisted I go to them for New Year, but aside from that, I’m as free as a bird. I wander into the kitchen and flick the kettle on, trying hard to feel urban and cool rather than lonely girl in London at Christmas.

An hour later, and I’m making a cake. I know, totally out of character, but the bottle of Baileys Mum sent me was next to a pile of cookbooks in the kitchen and I was suddenly overcome by the urge for cake. I’m on my second generous Baileys, and I couldn’t care less that it’s nearly ten at night and it’s taken me nearly an hour to mash up a load of unripe bananas. I’m even humming along to Christmas songs on the radio. Is it sad that I tune in to Jack’s station most nights? His late show is one of those where people can call in to talk about anything they fancy, sometimes funny, sometimes sad. He’s not on yet though, and I’m having a full-on croon to Nat King Cole. I’m reminiscing; he was my dad’s favourite.

I sit down at the kitchen table and close my eyes, and I’m back in my mum’s kitchen, the same smells of cake batter and Christmas songs, old-fashioned fairy lights pinned under the wall cupboards. We’re all there. I’m probably five or six, Daryl a year or so older, Ginny about three. Mum and Dad are there too, of course. No one’s doing anything in particular, no schmaltzy dancing or profound speeches. We’re all just there, and it’s so heart-warming and perfect that I don’t want to open my eyes and see all the empty chairs round the table. And then the music stops and Jack’s voice washes over me, and I’m okay again because his company stops me from feeling so alone.