One Day in December

by Josie Silver

  “Which movie are we watching?” I ask, leaning forward to grab a slice of pizza from the box flipped open on the coffee table.

  “Twilight,” Sarah says, at the exact same time as Jack says, “Iron Man.”

  I look from one to the other, sensing that once again I’m about to be asked to play adjudicator.

  “Remember which team you’re on, Lu,” Sarah says, her lips twitching. Seriously. I couldn’t make this stuff up. I haven’t read the books or seen the films yet, but I know enough to know that Twilight is about a doomed love triangle.

  Jack looks pained, then bats his eyelashes at me like a seven-year-old asking for money for the ice-cream man. Jesus, he’s lovely. I want to say Iron Man. I want to say kiss me.

  “Twilight.”

  Jack

  Fucking Twilight?

  Everything about this evening screams of awkward. And now we’re watching one of the most cringe-worthy films of all time, about some moody-mouthed girl who can’t choose between two guys with superpowers. Sarah leans in to me, and I kiss the top of her head and train my eyes on the screen, not allowing myself to slide even an occasional glance toward Laurie on the armchair unless she speaks directly to me.

  I don’t want things between me and Laurie to feel awkward, but they do, and I know it’s my fault. She probably thinks I’m some kind of exceptionally dull weirdo, because my conversational skills dry up around her. It’s just that I’m trying to establish her place in my head as Sarah’s friend rather than the girl I saw once and have thought of often since. All of Christmas—which was terrible, my mum was so sad, and as usual I didn’t know what to do, so I just got drunk—I kept seeing Laurie in her pajamas in the kitchen, gazing at me with that strange look on her face. Jesus, what a twat I am. I take solace from the fact that it’s just the way my guyish brain stores away a pretty face, and from the fact that she doesn’t have a guyish brain and so hopefully has no awkward memory of me gawking at her from a bus stop. So far I’ve managed quite successfully by just avoiding spending any time with her, but Sarah came straight out with it yesterday and asked me if I didn’t like Laurie, because I seemed to say no every time she invited me over. What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? Sorry, Sarah, I’m currently trying to reprocess your best friend from fantasy sex partner to platonic new friend-in-law? Is that even a phrase? If it isn’t, it should be, because if Sarah and I ever split up, she’ll spirit Laurie away with her. The thought makes my gut churn.

  Of losing Sarah, I mean.

  FEBRUARY 14

  Laurie

  Who was St. Valentine anyway and what made him such an expert on romance? I’m willing to bet his full name is St. Smugbastard-three’s-a-crowd Valentine, and he probably lives on a candlelit island where everything comes in pairs, even bouts of thrush.

  Can you tell that February 14 isn’t my favorite date in the calendar? It doesn’t help that Sarah is a fully paid-up member of the hearts and balloons brigade this year. To my shame I realize I’d been hoping she’d get bored of Jack or something, but it’s quite the opposite. She’s already bought three different cards for him because she keeps seeing a new one that sums up how happy he makes her or how ridiculously hot he is, and every time she shows me the latest one my heart shrivels like a dried prune and it takes a good couple of hours for it to plump up again.

  Thankfully they’re going to the local Italian, where they’ll no doubt eat heart-shaped steaks and then lick chocolate mousse off each other’s faces, but at least it means I get to commandeer the living room tonight for a pity party for one. Bridget Jones has nothing on me. I’m planning on lying flat out on the sofa, inhaling ice cream and wine at the same time.

  “Lu, have you got a sec?”

  I close my laptop—yet another job application—lay the reading glasses I don’t really need but wear to concentrate on the table, and wander into Sarah’s room with my coffee mug. “What’s up?”

  She’s standing in her jeans and bra, her hands on her hips. “I’m trying to decide what to wear.” She pauses and picks up the Coca-Cola red chiffon blouse she bought for Christmas dinner with her parents. It’s pretty and surprisingly demure until Sarah lays it on the bed beside a black micro-skirt. “These?”

  She looks at me and I nod, because she’ll look undeniably fabulous in the outfit.

  “Or this?” She pulls her killer LBD out of the wardrobe and holds it against her body.

  I glance from one to the other. “I like both.”

  She sighs. “Me too. Which one says ‘hot Valentine’ more?”

  “Has Jack seen the red?”

  She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

  “There you go, then. Nothing shouts Valentine louder than lipstick red.”

  Sartorial decision made, she hangs the dress back in the wardrobe. “Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own tonight?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. Take me with you.” I lean on the door frame and knock back a gulp of too-hot coffee. “Because that wouldn’t look weird at all, would it?”

  “Jack’d probably like it.” She laughs. “Make him look like a stud.”

  “You know what, on second thought I’ll have to take a rain check. I’ve got a double date tonight with Ben and Jerry. They’re sweet.” I wink as I back out into the hallway. “We’re going to work our way through the Karamel Sutra. It’s going to be a thrill a minute.”

  Of all the ice creams in all the world, I happen to know that B&J’s Karamel Sutra is Sarah’s favorite.

  “I’m actually jealous, you know,” she calls after me, unbraiding her hair in readiness for the shower.

  Me too, I think, miserable as I drop down heavily into the armchair and flip my laptop open again.

  * * *

  Whoever the hell is in charge of TV scheduling needs a bullet between their eyes. Surely they could work out that anyone who needs to resort to watching TV on Valentine’s night is single and potentially bitter, so why they thought The Notebook would make suitable viewing is beyond me. There’s romantic rowing on the lake and there’s Ryan Gosling, all wringing wet and shouty and in love. There’s even swans, for God’s sake. Hang on, I’ll just pour some salt in my wounds while I’m at it, shall I? Thank God they’ve had the good sense to schedule Con Air to follow it; I’m going to need a good dose of Nicolas Cage saving the day in a dirty vest to recover from this.

  I’ve made my way through two-thirds of Ryan Gosling, half the tub of ice cream, and three-quarters of a bottle of Chardonnay when I hear Sarah’s keys in the lock. It’s only half past ten; I expected my party for one to still be going strong at midnight, so frankly, this is something of an interruption.

  Sitting cross-legged in the corner of the sofa, I look toward the door expectantly, my wineglass in my hand. Have they fallen out and she’s left him to eat his tiramisu alone? I try not to hope so as I call out, “Grab a glass, Sar, there’s enough wine left in the bottle if you’re quick.”

  She appears swaying in the doorway, but she’s not alone. My party for one has segued swiftly into a ménage à trois. That’s a thought I don’t want to process, so I abandon it in favor of wishing I was wearing something other than black yoga pants and a mint-green vest. I’d optimistically dressed for the Davina workout I knew I wasn’t really going to do. It could be worse; I could have gone for the checked flannel PJs my mother gave me because she worries the Delancey Street flat gets too drafty.

  “You’re early,” I say, stretching my spine and trying to look like a serene yoga guru, if that’s at all possible while clutching a glass of wine.

  “Free champagne,” Sarah says, or at least that’s my best guess at what she says. She’s laughing and leaning heavily against Jack; I think his arm around her waist is the only reason she’s still standing.

  “Lots of free champagne,” Jack adds, and his rue
ful smile tells me that although Sarah has had too much, he hasn’t. I meet his eyes and for a moment he holds my gaze.

  “Am ver, ver tired,” Sarah slurs, with long, exaggerated blinks. One of her false eyelashes is making a run for it down her cheek; it’s usually me that has that problem. I’ve tried and failed with them twice over the last few months; I look like a drag queen, much to Sarah’s amusement.

  “I know you are.” Jack laughs and drops a kiss on her forehead. “Come on. Let’s get you into bed.”

  She pretends to look shocked. “Not until we’re married, Jack O’Mara. What kind of girl d’you take me for?”

  “A very drunk one,” he says, hanging on to her when she sways again.

  “Rude,” Sarah murmurs, but she doesn’t fight him when he catches her behind the knees and lifts her into his arms. Shit. Watch and learn, Ryan Gosling. This man didn’t need to wade into a lake to melt the fair lady’s heart.

  For clarification, I mean Sarah’s heart, not mine.

  * * *

  “She’s passed out.”

  I look up when Jack appears in the living-room doorway again a little later. Ryan Gosling has by now wooed his girl and rowed off into the sunset in favor of Nicolas Cage being all dependable and heroic on screen. Jack’s eyes light up and his face cracks into a broad smile.

  “Best action movie ever.”

  I can’t argue. Con Air is my go-to movie; when the shit hits the fan in my real life, I invariably opt to watch Cameron Poe have a much worse time of it and still come out on top. However bad my day has been, I can generally be fairly certain that I’m not going to have to crash-land a plane full of murderers and rapists on the Las Vegas Strip.

  “Everyone needs a hero,” I say, disconcerted by the fact that Jack has decided to flake out on the other end of the sofa rather than leave it to me.

  “That’s such a girl thing to say,” he mutters, rolling his green-gold eyes.

  “Piss off,” I shoot back. “I’m practicing for my long and illustrious career writing greeting card verses.”

  “You’ll be in great demand,” he says with a grin. “Tell me another.”

  I laugh into my glass; I’m definitely feeling uninhibited by the wine. “I need to know the occasion, at least.”

  He considers the options. I really hope he doesn’t go for the obvious and say Valentine’s Day.

  “My dog died. Cheer me up.”

  “Oh, okay. Well,” I pause and cast around for a snappy first line. “I’m sorry to hear about your dog who passed away, I hope that you remember the way he used to play.” I draw out the last word with an upward inflection for emphasis, impressed with my own wit, before I carry on. “And how he always liked it when you used to stroke his head, yes, I’m truly very sorry that your precious dog is dead.” I gather pace toward the end, and we both laugh.

  “I think I’d probably prefer a beer to any more shite jingles.”

  Oh. I feel suddenly rude for being an ungracious hostess, but in my own defence, he’s caught me out. I didn’t expect him to emerge from Sarah’s room again tonight. I’d just pulled the remainder of the ice cream from the freezer for a second sitting and sat back down when he reappeared.

  “Go for it, there’s some in the fridge.”

  I watch him as he leaves the room, all long legs in dark jeans and lean-limbed in an ink-blue shirt. He obviously made the effort for Sarah earlier in the evening, and at some point he’s loosened his tie. He drops back down with an open bottle of beer in his hand and holds up a spoon hopefully.

  “We didn’t get as far as dessert in the restaurant.”

  I gaze down into the ice-cream tub and wonder if he’s going to be shocked by the fact that I’ve already eaten two-thirds of it.

  “What flavor is it?” he asks as I hand it over hesitantly.

  “Karamel Sutra.” Why couldn’t I have just said caramel?

  “Is that so?” He raises his eyes to mine, amused. “Do I need to put my leg behind my head to eat it?”

  If I was flirting with him I’d probably suggest he assume the downward dog or something, but as I’m not flirting with him, I just flip my eyes and sigh as if I’m terribly grown-up.

  “Only if you think it might aid your digestion.”

  “It might, but I’m fairly sure it’d ruin my jeans.”

  “Best not then,” I say, my eyes trained on the TV. “This is one of my favorite bits.”

  We both watch as Nic Cage goes into manly overdrive in order to protect the female guard on the plane full of convicts, Jack eating the ice cream, me nursing the last of the wine from the bottle. I’m pleasantly relaxed rather than roaring drunk, because a handy aftereffect of student life is that it has given me the drinking capacity of your average rugby player. Sarah’s the same, usually.

  “There must have been a heck of a lot of free champagne for Sarah to get like that,” I say, recalling the way she’d reeled into the flat earlier.

  “I’m not a big fan of the stuff, so she had mine,” he says. “They kept topping us off. She was drinking for two to save me from the embarrassment of saying no.”

  I laugh. “She’s all heart, that girl.”

  “She’s going to have a headache in the morning.”

  We lapse into silence again. I cast around for something to say to fill the chasm, because if I don’t, I’ll do the unthinkable and ask him if he remembers me from the bus stop. I really, really hope that at some point I stop having to consciously fight that particular urge, that it stops being important, or even relevant, to me. It’s a work in progress.

  “She likes you a lot,” I blurt.

  He takes a long, slow slug of his beer. “I like her a lot too.” He looks at me sideways. “Are you about to warn me that if I ever hurt her you’ll come after me and black my eyes?”

  “Don’t think I couldn’t,” I say, and then I make this ridiculous karate chop motion because I’m all bravado and no conviction, and what I was actually thinking was that I like them both a lot and it’s giving me the mother of all problems.

  My loyalty lies firmly with Sarah, of course; I know where the line is and I’ll never cross it, but it’s just that sometimes the line feels like it’s been drawn with chalk on the grass, like at a school sports day, easily rubbed out and redrawn, but never in quite the same place as before. On nights like tonight, for instance, it has inched forward, and then on mornings like tomorrow, I’ll diligently push it back again.

  “Your secret ninja skills have been duly noted.”

  I nod.

  “Not that you’re going to need to use them on me,” he goes on. “I like Sarah more than enough to not want to hurt her.”

  I nod again, glad for Sarah that he’s kind, sad for me that he’s Sarah’s, and mad at the world for being shitty enough to put me in this crap position in the first place.

  “Good. Then we understand each other.”

  “Spoken like a true mafia moll.” He leans forward to slide his empty beer bottle onto the table. “A mafia ninja. You’re turning out to be a dangerous woman to be around, Laurie.”

  Especially when I’ve had a bottle of wine and I half love you, I think. I really should go to bed now, before I scrub the chalk line out and move it forward again.

  Jack

  You’re turning out to be a dangerous woman to be around, Laurie.

  What the bloody hell are these words coming out of my mouth? It sounds like a cheap pick-up line in a cheesy made-for-TV movie, when all I was trying to do was say we’re friends. You stupid Jackass; I berate myself using the nickname I carried through school like a badge of honor. My school reports were littered with variations of the same comment, though more politely put: “If only Jack applied as much effort to his studies as he does to acting the fool, he’d go a long way.”


  I like to think I proved them wrong; when it came to the crunch my grades were just about decent enough to scrape into my first choice of university. Truth is that I was lucky; I’ve been gifted with a near-photographic memory, so those textbooks and theories only needed to go in once and they stayed there. With that and an ability to talk crap to anyone, I’ve done okay. Though for some reason my ability to talk doesn’t seem to extend to Laurie.

  “So, Laurie. What else should I know about you, besides the fact that you’ll beat me black and blue if I hurt your best mate?”

  She looks startled by my question. I don’t blame her. The last time I asked anyone a question like that was my one and only hideous attempt at speed dating. What am I doing, interviewing her?

  “Umm…” She laughs, music-box light. “There’s not really very much to tell.”

  I try to bring it back to normal, shooting her a “try harder” look. “Come on, throw me a bone here. Sarah wants us to be best buddies. Give me your three most embarrassing facts, and then I’ll give you mine.”

  She narrows her eyes and her chin comes up a little. “Can we take it in turns?”

  “Go on, then. As long as you go first.”

  I tell myself that I’ve suggested this because Sarah is so keen on me and Laurie being friends, and that honestly, genuinely, is partly the reason. Partly. But the other part just wants to know more about her, because she intrigues me, and because I’m comfortable here on the other end of the sofa, and because I find myself relaxed in her company. Maybe it’s the wine she’s drunk, and it’s probably the beer I’ve sunk, but I think I could be good friends with this girl. That’s okay, isn’t it? I know some people don’t believe that platonic friendships can happen between men and women.