by Annie O'Neil
There was also that little niggle of something she couldn’t quite pin down that made her think Josh wasn’t really the direction she should be looking if, perchance, a complete miracle occurred and she were to ever consider dating someone ever again. The dog, however? The dog she could love in the here and now. She glanced around all of the legs to see if she could catch a glimpse of Zoe and Eli and saw them chasing after one of the Sloan triplets who, kazoo in hand, was taking on the role of the Pied Piper of Christmas Street.
Audrey licked her face as if to redirect Jess’s attention back to her.
Jess nestled into the dog’s thick fur coat. ‘You’re certainly gorgeous enough to be a film star. Mmm … Dog smell. I miss dog smell.’
‘Don’t they have dogs in London?’
Jess stood and gave him her most serious expression. ‘Handbag only. And heavily perfumed. It’s the law.’
Josh forced his features into a sombre expression. ‘Shame. Audrey would take quite the handbag.’
‘That she would.’
‘What’re you two looking so serious about. This is a party!’
Drea wriggled between them, her hands finding purchase on their shoulders so she could give them each a short, sharp, spine-jarring shake. ‘This better be one helluva reveal.’
Just then a car appeared at the top of the street. It worked its way down and slipped into a spot a couple of doors up from where the crowd had gathered outside number 9. A harried-looking woman ran out of the car. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform beneath a winter coat that had seen better days. She was holding a couple of plastic boxes in her hands. She ran into her house (number 9) without looking at anyone. About a minute later the front porch light flicked on. She came out with a small, collapsible card table with the boxes on it. She flicked the lids open, taped a piece of paper to the front of the table then shouted, ‘Sorry. I’m needed at work. Sorry, sorry.’ Then she jumped back into her car and disappeared down the street.
Everyone looked at each other bewildered.
‘“Take One and Merry Christmas”,’ someone read.
Drea, who Jess would’ve expected to deliver quite the commentary, remained silent. For about five seconds. And then she began clapping. ‘Let’s hear it for Katie Ash, everyone! A devoted nurse using her break to give us all a mince pie. Sets an example, doesn’t it?’
They all agreed. Yes. It did set an example.
Drea’s response really touched Jess. She’d had glimpses that this ballsy woman had quite the soft spot, but this showed a level of compassion she’d not yet given her credit for.
As they formed an orderly queue and each took a pie, Drea insisted they leave a few for Katie to enjoy when she returned home. She also clocked Drea putting her bottle of gin on the note and, with a pen she’d dug out of her pocket, scribbled ‘for laters’ with an arrow. ‘That’s all right, doll, isn’t it?’ she asked when she noticed Jess looking.
‘Absolutely,’ Jess said.
‘Right!’ Drea gave her hands a clap then settled her gaze on Josh. ‘Only a week or so to come up with something amazing. Hope you’re preparing to dazzle.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of anything less.’
They held one another’s gazes confusingly long enough for Jess to feel like a third wheel, then Josh threw her a little ‘help me’ glance. A glance he was well aware Drea could see.
‘Don’t you worry, Joshy.’ Drea laughed, ‘I have faith in you.’
‘That’s what scares me,’ Josh grinned.
Drea smiled back, a mysterious Cheshire Cat grin playing upon her lips. ‘That’s what scares us all, Josh. Having faith in something we know nothing about.’
And with that, she lifted up her mince pie in a toast, and popped the entire thing into her mouth.
10 December
The clink-clank of the post flap pulled Jess out of her office-supplies reverie.
She cocked her ear and listened for Drea’s coooeee.
It didn’t come.
Strange. Maybe she had called out and Jess had been too absorbed in her work to hear.
Unlikely. Drea could command a crowd of three hundred to do burpees as easily as Jess drew breath. And push-pins weren’t that interesting.
Jess stretched, then began to put away the day’s office supplies she’d been writing up. Today’s copywriting had been twenty parts wistful to five parts embittered. A journey through the chalk, crayon and felt-tip pens she probably wouldn’t have for the little ones any more now that she wasn’t teaching London’s most privileged children. Which made her cross. Having access to all of these amazing art supplies made the world of difference to a child.
She checked herself.
It was down to the teacher to make the most of what they had and despite everything the Cheese Sandwich Incident had stripped away from her, it hadn’t taken away her imagination. It was a bit dusty, sure. But it was still there. All she had to do was find a way to fire it back up again.
It occurred to her that the clink-clank had possibly been the postman. Her eyes flicked up to the clock. Yup. It was past noon. Definitely the postman.
She went out into the hall and saw a small pile of post, mostly circulars and catalogues, but a couple of envelopes that looked personal. Mistaken deliveries, most likely. Apart from Amanda and her parents, few people knew she was here.
She picked up the post and carefully went through it, not wanting to rip open another card meant for another neighbour.
The two cards – one in a red envelope and one in silver – were both for her.
There was also a large A4 letter embossed with an all-too familiar letterhead. St Benedict’s.
All of her hard-won calm vanished in an instant. What did they want? And why were they writing to her now? Hadn’t they made it more than clear a year ago that they wanted her out of their school and away from the children? A low-grade buzzing began in her brain while a myriad of reasons – all of them apocalyptic – whirred through Jess’s mind as she tried to figure out why on earth someone from St Benedict’s would be writing to her. And how did they even know she lived here? The only forwarding address she’d had since Martin and she had gone their separate ways was her parents. She checked the envelope again. Ah. It was forwarded from her parents’ who’d had everything redirected to her while they were abroad.
She put it to the back of the pile and looked, instead, at the first of the two seasonal envelopes. The penmanship was in a vaguely familiar hand. Her heart did a little leap up and over the disquiet she’d just been feeling.
It was from Will Winters. To her.
She opened it up and grinned. The front of the card had an image of a Highland cow overlooking a snowy landscape, its horns decorated with fairy lights. She laughed.
Inside, the message was short and sweet (mostly sweet). It thanked her for getting his card to his grandfather and wished her a Merry Christmas. There was also an offer to make her a meal once the madness of Christmas was over. He had made a decision not to do New Year’s Eve parties, so perhaps a New Year’s Day brunch?
What a result! She was a horrible cook, so dining on a young-buck chef’s cuisine sounded a great way to welcome in the new year. Particularly as she was still undecided about pizza or the M&S Christmas ready meal for one on the Big Day. Perhaps the temptation of a bit of hollandaise sauce would be just the thing to bring an actual smile to Mr Winters’ face. That, and the discovery of a grandson.
Smiling, she opened the other card which was also written in a familiar hand. Very familiar.
Her heart plummeted.
It was from Martin.
How did he know she was here? She checked the envelope. Nope. Not forwarded. It was addressed properly. Number 14 Christmas Street. He must’ve wheedled it out of Amanda. What the man lacked in sensitivity he made up for in charm.
While things hadn’t
ended horribly – they’d trotted out the usual placations: ‘natural crossroads’, ‘long distance is tough’, ‘better now than once we’d let things go too far’ – it hadn’t been brilliant. He’d said some things that would stay with her forever. Shards of criticism that lodged too easily in her already-fragile confidence. Criticism that had made her wonder if he’d ever been in love with her at all and, to be honest, vice versa. He’d told her she’d been weak. Not stood her ground. That Crispin was obviously a spoilt, little tyrant. Then, in the same breath he’d said she should’ve sucked up the criticism and stayed at St Benny’s. If she had ever brought him to the extracurricular activities teachers sometimes invited their other halves to, he could’ve made a killing. To which she’d retorted if she’d known the whole purpose of her professional life was to find him new clients, she would’ve become a waitress at Stringfellows or wherever it was Russian oligarchs hung out while their bodyguards were picking up their children from school. Besides, she’d sniped, he was never around for her extracurriculars because he was too bloody busy scampering around London finding clients himself; he’d taken particular objection to the word scampering. And then they’d split up. Once they’d made their decision, it was as if a line had been drawn. She’d not really wondered what he’d been up to, presuming he was busy enjoying ‘not being reined in by someone else’s schedule’. He’d not once called to check in on her at her parents’, though she knew he knew she’d been at her absolute lowest. Amanda, who saw him at the quiz night once a week, said she’d been dropping in the odd bit of information about Jess despite her plea to just leave it. She didn’t want Martin to know she’d once made and eaten an entire tray of Creme Egg brownies in one sitting. (Don’t judge. She’d needed the tryptophan). In fact, she didn’t want Martin to know anything. She added the request to her mental list of things she needed to tell Amanda when she finally got a grip and rang her back.
She slipped the card from the envelope. Trendy. Stylish. She flipped it over. Yup. It was a work one. The message inside was short and written in the distant, sparing way one might write to a spinster aunt. He hoped she was well and that life was being kind to her and that her Christmas would be a merry one. He supposed she already knew, but he was off to the Maldives for the hols and would be moving into a flat near Wimbledon in the New Year. All the best, Martin.
She thought about binning it and pretending it didn’t exist in the same way Martin had shrugged and said ‘Don’t worry about it. It’ll blow over’ when she’d come home in tears that fateful day at work. But it was hard to ignore the fact that he was going on the holiday they’d once talked about enjoying together. And moving – permanently from the sounds of it – to a part of London she’d always liked and that had been closer to St Benny’s than Battersea where they’d moved from show home to show home. And, more to the point, weird that he thought she would already know about it. Was this a sign he’d always thought her world revolved around him and not the other way round? A very likely option. He often said things just because he thought he should rather than because he meant them. A salesman through and through.
She tried to picture herself on the beach with Martin. Clinking cocktail glasses with him. Asking him to put sun cream on her shoulders before they turned pink. She couldn’t.
Then she tried the same with a flat in Wimbledon, ultimately failing to marry the ultra-modern styles he’d preferred to the decidedly homelier style she leant towards. Hmmm … breaking up had definitely been the right thing to do. Even so, how very dare he go on their holiday? She doubted he was going on his own, which made the fact he was telling her doubly irritating. There were any number of azure seas with immaculate beaches to visit. Why couldn’t he go to one of them? Too high off the endorphins of meeting a stylish female estate agent who felt belongings were passé and found personal touches gauche, no doubt. A match made in heaven.
She debated about putting the card next to Amanda’s on her mantelpiece but decided against it. It would only bring bad memories. Taking a page out of Drea’s ‘choose your own destiny’ book, she popped it into the recycling bin, fairly confident the lack of a return address meant Martin wasn’t expecting a card in return.
Which raised the question, why send a card at all?
She stared long and hard at the envelope from St Benny’s – typed, so indecipherable as to who the sender was – then stuffed it in a kitchen drawer that was well on its way to becoming ‘the drawer with all of the random stuff in it’.
Feeling decidedly less chipper than she had been ten minutes earlier, she forced herself to think of the first thing that made her happy.
10 December
13:01
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Dear Will
Ha! Don’t be dismayed, but my refrigerator is a showcase for everything you probably loathe. Pre-made this. Ready meal that. Mini mac-and-cheese balls. Honey-glazed sausage party packets and, just to make sure I had some veg, I dunked carrots into my melted Camembert last night. Yes, I ate the whole thing myself and yes, that was dinner. (I’m relying on the hard labour I did at your grandfather’s a couple of days back as the excuse I need for the calorific intake.) Dessert was a horrendous mince pie at the street’s advent calendar. (Now I feel mean. It was amazing the poor woman at number 9 managed to do anything at all. She’s an NHS nurse, bless her cotton socks.).
I received your card today. Love the fairy-light cow horns! I am returning the kindness in a paltry way via this email. I’m a bit bah-humbug this year apart from the mini mac-and-cheese balls, LOL. I’ve decided not to send out cards (bad year, long story, probably a bit like your break-up but with a job loss, relocation and a few dark nights of the soul in which to re-examine my moral compass. Definitely looking forward to the New Year! Hmmm … Looks like you’re not the only one who pours their heart out to a stranger. Although, now that I’ve had a Christmas card from you, does that change things? Are we friends now? Confidants? Weird question. Forget I asked. As you may or may not know, writing all of this in parentheses makes it invisible).
Your card was a nice antidote to the other bits of post I received: a mysterious Christmas card from my ex. Mysterious because he told me he was going on his hols to the Maldives and would then be buying a flat in Wimbledon. This from a man who claimed it would take an act of God to cleave him away from London during the holidays and a second, more impressive act, to get him to ever buy a flat. (He wanted his first buy to be a mansion in Notting Hill.) There was also a letter I don’t have the guts to open from my old job. (Definitely not a Christmas card.)
Anyway … I should let you go, seeing as you’re the busy one. I don’t start my new job until the 9th of Jan and am finding the free time a bit weird. You’d think I’d take up knitting or stamp collecting, but they don’t appeal. If you’re cool with it, I’ll take up spying. Wish me luck as I slip on my mac and scuttle from bin to bin on a quest to see if your grandad’s put your card on his mantelpiece (assuming he has one as there are not one, but two chimney pots coming from his house). (And I’m kidding. I would never spy.)
Best – Jess x
10 December
13:17
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Jess – you have my blessing on the spying front so long as it doesn’t veer into creepy. More later. Forgive rudeness. Vol au vents call! Wx
*
‘Oops! Easy there.’
Jess’s feet ice skated in different directions as she flailed then grabbed hold of the first thing she could. Something rock solid. She lurched into an upright position only to bash straight into Josh’s chest. Crumbnations. The man was a wall of muscle. She looked up into his handsome face as she received another
waft of oranges and sugar cookies, hoping he missed her face’s inevitable shift into swoony soft focus. He could be a body double for … hmmm … someone deeply gorgeous. No. He was his own variety of gorgeous. And his own variety of Do Not Go There Jess He is a Dating Mirage. Someone she thought she wanted, but didn’t really because of that itsy bitsy niggle she couldn’t define or shake.
‘Thanks.’ She gently extracted herself from his hold. ‘Icy.’ She pointed to the ground as if he needed to know where the ice was that had made her slip. God. No wonder Martin had wanted someone more with it. Not that he’d put it that way when he’d felt obliged to explain to her exactly why he didn’t think staying together would be a good idea, but it was clear he would’ve been much happier with a city mouse to her always slightly off-kilter country one.
‘Definitely. They need to get the gritting machine down here. Same thing probably happened to Mr Winters when his car skidded towards everyone.’
Jess thunked her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘That’s it! His car skidded on black ice! I knew he wouldn’t have done anything like that on purpose.’
They looked down at the end of the street towards Mr Winters’ house. It was dark, curtains drawn. As usual. She had passed by earlier in the day on a faux ‘checking out everyone’s Christmas decorations’ walk. Even though it had been late afternoon and there had been lights on in his lounge, it was difficult to see in as his house was set up higher than the rest of the houses on the street, as if putting in all of these newer builds had pushed his house up and out of the way of the hustle bustle of the world moving on as he stayed in his cocoon. Then Mr Perkins had jumped into the window ledge and given her the evils so she’d moved on.