Mistletoe on 34th Street

by Lisa Dickenson

  They were as different then as they were now, with Bryony honing her sharp mind on crime and mystery books as she grew up to become a fiercely intelligent journalist – though not the type she yearned to be, yet – whose heroines were Scandal’s Olivia Pope and C. J. Cregg from The West Wing. Meanwhile, Jess had clung on to her Sweet Valley novels until the bitter end, before moving on to feel-good fiction and travel writing, all the best of which now lined the bookshelves of her very own café; she ran a homely, happy place that was like having everyone in the village come into her living room for a cuppa.

  They bonded that first school lunchtime, over the pages of that Bliss magazine, and although life took them along different paths after school, they still got together as often as possible.

  One rain-soaked Saturday evening back in April, Bryony had been visiting for the first time in weeks, and she dropped the following over a bottle of their favourite wine …

  ‘Guess what? I’m being sent to the Cannes Film Festival.’ Bryony reluctantly worked for Sleb, a highly disrespected gossip magazine with a readership of close to zero and morals at about the same level.

  Jess, uncharacteristically not in the best of moods, had dragged herself back to the present, forcing herself to engage in the conversation. She had to make the most of Bryony while she was here, feeling low and lost wasn’t an option. She knocked back some more wine. ‘Shut the fridge up – really?’

  Bryony shrugged. ‘Apparently Sleb needs me there. To see, in the words of the ever-eloquent, never-misogynistic Mitch, “Which stars are shagging each other and get the skinny on who’s actually a fat chick.”’

  ‘Urgh, he makes my skin crawl and I’ve never even met him. What a penis.’

  ‘There’s literally no point in me even going; he’ll Photoshop fat onto everyone anyway, regardless of what I say … I know, I know, I shouldn’t complain: a magazine job is bloody hard to come by and a free trip to the South of France isn’t exactly the crappest thing in the world. But one day, Meems, one day, Sleb will magically turn into Marie Claire and he’ll actually take me up on one of the current affairs features I keep begging him to publish.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Jess swirled her wine, racking her brain for something more insightful to say, but she was all over the place.

  ‘So how’s everything with y—’

  ‘Maybe I could come?’ Jess said, desperately interrupting Bryony. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth it was as if a pinprick of light had formed behind her eyes. Maybe I could go to Cannes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I come?’ The pinprick grew larger, the light seeping in like a sunrise. She sat up straighter. Jess’s one true love had always been Marilyn Monroe, to the point that Bryony even started calling her ‘Meems’ years ago. From the safety of her little seaside village, through reality TV and old films, Jess dreamed of what it would be like to go to golden Hollywood and live like a movie star.

  ‘Can you come? To Cannes? You?’

  Jess nodded and gulped some more wine, colour coming to her cheeks and a non-faked hint of happiness coming back through. Hello again, old friend. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the tail end of the shittiest week she’d ever had, or maybe it was that this was the live-a-little-more chance she’d been looking for, but she really wanted to go with Bryony. Jess didn’t hate a lot of things, but people who moped and moaned without doing anything about it was one of them, and she realised she was being exactly that sort of person. Her words tumbled out: ‘I won’t get in the way, and I’ll pay for my half, of course. Yes, it’s time for me to get out there and explore the world. Starting with the country closest to us.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Bryony looked at her carefully, the transformation of her friend from hunched, wine-gulping misery-guts back to her bouncy, excitable self not going unnoticed.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m really fine. This is good; we’re still youngish and should take advantage of not having any responsibilities, right?’

  ‘Um, right?’

  ‘Besides, Bry, I’m a bit worried you’ll throw yourself under a yacht out of sheer career frustration if you go by yourself.’

  ‘This’ll be pretty different from a relaxing package holiday—’

  ‘I know, but that’s what I like about it. It’ll be completely different. It’ll be busy and glitzy, and all over the place there’ll be people richer and fancier than us. But you have to experience how the other half lives when you can, huh?’

  Bryony nodded and went to pour herself another glass of wine but the bottle dripped out nothing more than a few crimson dregs. She peered at Jess, who waited with bated breath.

  ‘Pleeeeease.’

  ‘You’ll keep me sane?’ Bryony asked.

  ‘Trust me, you’ll be keeping me sane. Now let’s get you some more wine, you’ve drunk the lot,’ Jess countered with a real smile.