by Josie Silver
Olivia Newton-John sings her hopelessly devoted heart out. I know how she feels.
My fingers close around my pendant, sliding over the familiar shape of the flat purple stone for reassurance. I had a five-minute meltdown this morning because I couldn’t find it; I cried when Sarah finally spotted it wedged between the cracks of the floorboards in my bedroom. Of all my possessions, my necklace is my most precious. Ginny and I both had one; I know it’s silly, but I feel more connected to her whenever I wear it.
Damn. Another missed call from Mum. I feel like the world’s worst daughter as I click open the text message she’s just pinged across in lieu of a chat, and I resolve to call her first thing in the morning.
Laurie darling, I’m so sorry to put this in a text and even more sorry because it’s your birthday, but I know you’d want to know as soon as possible. It’s Dad—he’s in the hospital, sweetheart, he’s had a heart attack. Give me a call as soon as you can. Love you. Mum xx
And just like that, one of the best days of my life has just become one of my worst.
DECEMBER 12
Laurie
I feel like someone lined my Uggs with lead. It’s been full-on bedlam at work with back-to-back Christmas party bookings over the last few weeks and my feet ache as if I’ve run a marathon. I’m thoroughly bloody exhausted. Dad’s recovery has been slower than the doctors hoped; it seems to have been one thing after another with his health ever since. He’s gone from being my robust, no-worries dad to looking frail and much too pale, and my mum seems to have followed suit, because she’s worrying herself to death over him. They’ve always been quite the glamorous couple; Dad’s got ten years on Mum, but it’s never really shown up till now. I can’t say the same of late. My father turned sixty last year but looks ten years older again; every time I see him I want to bundle him onto a plane to sunnier climes and feed him up. Not that my mum isn’t doing her best; their lives seem to be one long round of specialist appointments and dietary restrictions, and it’s taking its toll on them both. I go home as often as I can, but Mum is inevitably bearing the brunt of it.
Christmas insults my eyeballs everywhere I look; I’ve been shopping for the last few hours and I’m at that point where I want to bludgeon Rudolph, bump off Mariah Carey, and strangle the next person who pushes me with the nearest string of tinsel. I’ve been waiting in this never-ending, barely moving queue in HMV for the last twenty minutes, clutching a DVD box set I’m not even sure my brother will ever watch, and I could genuinely fall asleep on my feet. For a music store, you’d think they’d manage to come up with something more cutting-edge than Noddy Holder screaming “It’s Christmas!” at the top of his lungs. What kind of name is Noddy, anyway? I find myself wondering if he was born with big ears and his mother was just too whacked out on gas and air to come up with anything else.
“Laurie!”
I twist at the sound of someone calling my name and spot Jack waving his arm over the heads of the queue snaked around me. I smile, relieved by the sight of his familiar face, then roll my eyes to transmit how I feel about being stuck here. I look down at the DVDs and realize that my brother would prefer a bottle of Jack Daniel’s anyway, so I turn and push my way out of the queue, annoying pretty much everyone by going against the tide. Jack hangs around by the chart CDs while he waits for me, bundled inside his big winter coat and scarf, and I sigh because I’m caught by the memory of him at the bus stop. It’s been a couple of years now, and for the most part I don’t think about that day anymore; my diligence in my mission to replace all of my errant thoughts about him with safer ones has paid off. They say that the human brain likes to follow repetitive patterns, and I’ve found that to be quite true. Jack now inhabits an appropriate place in my life as my friend, and as my best friend’s boyfriend, and in return I allow myself to enjoy his company and I like him. I really do like him so very much. He’s funny, and he’s incredibly caring toward Sarah. And he was a complete lifesaver on my birthday, taking charge of the situation when I went to pieces there in the middle of Barnes Common. We were in the back of a taxi in the blink of an eye, my train tickets home booked before we even reached Delancey Street. Sometimes you just need someone to tell you what to do, and on that day Jack stepped up to the mark.
“You look as impressed with this Christmas shopping malarky as I am,” he says, sliding the CD he was idly looking at back onto the shelf and falling into step beside me as we leave the store. “Although you’ve clearly been more successful than I have.” He eyes my bags. “Here, let me.”
I don’t argue when he takes the heavy carriers from me; the handles have bitten red welts into my palm and I flex my sore fingers with relief. There’s gray slush underfoot as we step out onto Oxford Street, remnants of the snowfall from a few days ago still hanging around because the arctic wind is blowing straight down from the north. Jack pulls a woolly hat from his pocket and jams it on his head, shivering for effect.
“Have you got much to get?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Sarah’s, mainly. Any bright ideas?” He looks at me sideways as we walk, blending our pace with the bustling crowds. “Please say yes.”
I rack my brain. She isn’t hard to buy for, but her gift from Jack should be something particularly personal. “A bracelet maybe, or a pendant?”
We pass a High Street jeweler and pause to look, but nothing in the window really shouts “Sarah.”
I wrinkle my nose and sigh as we shelter inside the doorway. “It’s all a bit too…I don’t know. Not individual enough.”
Jack nods, then narrows his eyes and looks at his watch. “Do you need to rush off?”
“Not really,” I say, not looking forward to the trudge home.
“Good.” He grins, threading his arm through mine. “Come with me, I know just where to go.”
Jack
Shopping is so much easier with Laurie than on my own. We’ve just hoofed it around the corner from Oxford Street to Chester’s antique emporium, a place I vaguely remember and hope is still there.
“Wow,” Laurie murmurs, her violet-blue eyes widening as we step inside the tall terra-cotta-brick building. I came here years ago as a kid to help my father find something special for my mum’s birthday. It’s a vivid memory; I think it might have been a special birthday, one to mark. We found her a slender silver bangle set with amber stones, and my dad had them engrave all of our names around the inside. She wore it sometimes when he was still alive, at Christmas and on special days. She wore it to his funeral too, and I don’t think I’ve seen her without it since.
I’m pleased to see the emporium hasn’t changed much in the intervening years, that it’s still the same Aladdin’s cave of vintage stalls.
“This place is amazing! I never even knew it was here.”
“Proper London.” I shove my hat into my coat pocket, pushing my hand through my hair because it’s plastered against my head. “Where do you want to start?”
Her eyes glitter as she laughs, delighted as she takes it all in. “I have no idea. I want to see everything.”
“Steady on. We’ll be here until Christmas.”
I follow her as she moves among the stalls, stroking her fingers over the head of a carved leopard, exclaiming over locked cabinets full of beautiful, top-grade diamonds, and then she’s just as excited by the paste and costume jewels at the next store along. She smiles, shy when the owner of a retro hat shop takes one look at her and pulls a heather Harris Tweed baker boy cap out for her to try; the old boy clearly knows his hats, because she’s transformed into a sixties waif as soon as it’s placed on top of her wayward curls. Laurie’s hair is only ever sixty percent tamed at best, and right now she looks like a street urchin from Oliver Twist. The lavender shades in the tweed bring out the color of her eyes, but they also highlight the dark, bruised circles around them. She’s tired, I notice with a jolt
, and it’s not “I just need an early night” tired; it’s “I’ve had the shittiest few months of my life” tired, the eyes of someone who’s worried and has been for a fair while. I realize I haven’t even asked her how she’s doing.
She takes the hat off after examining herself from each angle in the gilt hand mirror the shopkeeper obligingly holds up, turning the tiny label over to look at the price before she hands it back and wistfully shakes her head. It’s a shame. It looked good on her.
“How about in here?” she asks a little while later. We’ve considered and discarded a little watercolor painting and earmarked a 1920s turquoise pendant as a definite maybe, but as soon as we step into the little perfume paraphernalia shop I know this is where we’re going to find the perfect thing. Laurie’s like a little girl let loose in a sweet shop, ooh-ing and aah-ing over elaborate gilt bottles and exotic scents, and then she breaks into this sunshine-slash of a smile.
“Jack, over here,” she says, calling me to her side to look at something she’s just unearthed from the back of a shelf. I gaze over her shoulder to see what she’s holding, and I thank my lucky stars I haven’t bought the turquoise pendant already. The golden clamshell powder compact lying in Laurie’s hand is so very Sarah that it would be wrong for any other woman in the world to own it. Art deco, I’d say, from my extensive viewing of Antiques Roadshow, sizable enough to comfortably fill Laurie’s palm, with an enameled mermaid inlaid into the lid. There’s something of Sarah about the auburn waves cascading over her shoulder and the pronounced, coquette dip of her waist. Laurie hands it over to me with a sparkle-eyed grin.
“Job done.”
I’m pleased by the weight of it. It’s Sarah-worthy, something that says I notice everything about you and you’re valuable to me.
“Call off the search,” I say, praying it’s not going to cost more than a small mortgage and breathing out with relief when I flip the tag. I can still afford beer after all. “Am I glad I bumped into you.”
We browse as the woman who owns the shop packages up the compact, taking her time to find a velvet pouch that fits and encasing the package in tissue and ribbons. I think she probably took one look at me and concluded that, left to my own devices, I’d wrap it in tinfoil or something. I wouldn’t, but she’s not that far off and I’m bloody glad I haven’t got to wrangle with the tape myself.
It’s almost dark, even though it’s barely four when Laurie and I make our way back out onto the street again.
“Celebratory beer? I owe you one for helping me out,” I say. She looks like she needs a good sit-down and a chat. “God knows what Sarah would have ended up with without you. Petrol station flowers and a dodgy pair of knickers from a sex shop. Or something.” Laurie laughs, pulling her coat sleeve back to check the time as if she has places to be.
“Okay,” she says, surprising me. I was sure she was going to dash off.
“Good girl. There’s a place I know just around the corner. A proper pub, not some trendy bar where you can never get a seat.” I duck my head against the beginnings of snow on the bitter wind and spread my hand against her back to steer her down a small side street.
Laurie
As soon as we step inside the stained-glass doors of the pub I’m glad I didn’t say no to a drink. There’s the reassuring smell of a coal fire and beeswax polish, and the dark-green leather button-back booths are deep and comfortable, built for long, relaxed drinking sessions. An old man and his snoozing Jack Russell are the only other patrons. It’s one of those unpretentious, end-of-the-world pubs that you know hasn’t changed much in decades, ruddy quarry tiles and a brass surround running the length of the well-stocked bar.
“Glass of red?” Jack asks, and I nod, grateful as I take my shopping bags from him. “You go and find a seat by the fire. I’ll bring the drinks over.”
I bag the best booth in the house, closest to the warmth of the fire. I drop down and stow my bags under the table, shrugging out of my damp winter coat and hanging it on the newel post at the end of the booth to warm through for later. Warmed coats remind me of home; when we were kids my dad fitted an extra radiator behind the coat hooks so we’d always have a warm jacket on winter school mornings.
“Wine for the lady,” Jack jokes, appearing with a glass of deep-ruby wine and a pint. He follows my lead and hangs his coat on the other newel post, as if we’ve marked our territory, claimed this tiny lounge for two.
“Best thing about winter,” he says, rubbing his hands together briskly in front of the fire before he slides along the leather seat opposite me and pulls his pint toward him. “God, do I need this.” He drinks deeply, smacking his lips appreciatively.
The wine is blood-warm in my mouth, pepper and rich black currants.
“Thanks for helping me today,” he says. “I’d never have found anything so perfect without you.”
I smile, because I know how much Sarah is going to treasure the compact. “She’s going to be super-impressed with you.”
“I’ll claim it’s all my own work, of course.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” I drink a little more, feeling the alcohol begin to work its magic.
“Have you heard from Sarah?”
“Not today.” Jack shakes his head. “She called yesterday. Sounds like she’s having a ball, of course. I could hardly hear her.”
She called me from a bar yesterday too, probably straight after speaking to Jack by the sounds of it. She headed back to her parents’ a few days ago to celebrate her sister’s eighteenth birthday.
“She put Allie on the phone, sounded drunk as a skunk.” He laughs, halfway down his drink already. “Have you met her sister? They’re like two peas in a pod when they’re together. Double bloody trouble.”
I look toward the fire for a second and nod. “I know. Their mum and dad must have had their hands full over the years.”
Jack pauses, clearing his throat. “Sorry, Laurie. I didn’t mean to…well, you know.” He doesn’t say Ginny’s name but I know that’s why he’s apologizing, and I wish for the hundredth time that I hadn’t told him. This is precisely why I don’t talk about her; people feel the need to offer sympathy or platitudes when there really isn’t anything helpful to say. It’s not a criticism. It’s just a shitty fact of life.
“Are you heading back to see your mum for Christmas?” I change the subject onto safer ground and he visibly relaxes.
“Not until after my last shift on Christmas Eve.” He shrugs. “Winding things up, winding things down. You know how it is.”
* * *
A couple more red wines later and I’m finally relaxing. I’d forgotten how nice it was to just sit and chat with Jack.
“Will you stay in radio forever, do you think?”
“Absolutely. I love it.” His eyes light with interest. “Plus no one cares if you’ve brushed your hair or still have yesterday’s T-shirt on.”
I laugh softly, because despite his attempts to sound laissez-faire, I know that Jack’s fiercely ambitious. Whenever he isn’t with Sarah he’s either at gigs or working, producing mostly, although he still occasionally gets to fill in for the regular late-night DJ, cutting his presenter teeth. I have no doubt that his voice will be on the airwaves somewhere as I eat my cornflakes or drift off to sleep over the years to come. I find the thought strangely comforting. I, on the other hand, have not got any further with my magazine job. The last few months, it hasn’t exactly been my top priority.
We get more drinks, and I can feel the heat in my cheeks from both the alcohol and the fire.
“This is nice,” I say, resting the weight of my chin in my hand as I look at him. “The fire, the wine. It’s what I needed. Thank you for bringing me.”
He nods. “How are you, Lu? Really, I mean. I know it hasn’t been easy on you these last few months.”
Please don’t be perceptive, you’ll unpick me. It doesn’t help that he called me Lu; only Sarah does that, and she doesn’t know it but the only other person in the world who ever shortened my name to Lu was Ginny. She couldn’t manage “Laurie” when she was a baby; Lu was easier and it stuck. “I’m okay,” I shrug, even though I’m anything but. “Most of the time. Some of the time.” I gaze into the fire and try to keep the lump in my throat down. “It feels as if someone pulled the rug out from under my family’s feet, you know? My dad is our cornerstone, he always has been.”
“Is he getting better?”
I press my lips into a tight line, because the truth is we’re not really sure. “A bit,” I say. “He’s over the heart attack for the most part now, but looking back, that seems to have been just the beginning. He’s taking so many pills that he practically rattles, and my poor mum has had to take over everything, really. Therapy appointments, dieticians, consultants, not to mention getting a grip on all of the bills and household things. It just seems endless.” I swallow a large slug of wine. You know how some events turn out to be the big stepping-stones between one part of your life and the next? I don’t just mean the steps you intend to take, like leaving home or starting a new job or marrying the person you love on a summer’s afternoon. I mean the unexpected steps: the middle-of-the-night phone calls, the accidents, the risks that don’t pay off. My twenty-third birthday turned out to be one of my unexpected stepping-stones; a step away from the solid foundations built by my indomitable parents toward quicksand where they are fragile and too human and need me as much as I need them. It’s knocked my world off-kilter; I’m sickly nervous every time the phone rings and there’s a permanent cesspool of fear sloshing around in the base of my stomach. If I had to sum it up in a sentence, I’d say I feel hunted. I’m caught in the crosshairs, waiting for the bullet that may or may not come, running, looking over my shoulder, braced for impact. I dream of my sister more nights than I don’t: Ginny cheering me on from my father’s shoulders at my primary school sports day, Ginny holding tight to his hand as they cross a busy road and leave me behind on the other side, Ginny sleeping on Dad’s shoulder in the pub garden we used to go to sometimes in the summer when we were kids, her blond hair half covering her delicate face.