One Day in December

by Josie Silver

  He nods as I take a seat in one of the armchairs in the window and unpick the ribbons. “Come and look?” I say, trying to ask him other things with my eyes too: Please don’t push the issue about Sarah. Please don’t overanalyze Jack’s speech. Please let’s concentrate on what’s important today, each other. His eyes hold mine for a few seconds from across the room, and then his expression softens and he comes to kneel beside me.

  “Open it, then.”

  I run my hand lightly over his glossy blue-black hair and smile. “Okay.”

  Inside the paper and tissue, we find a delicate glass Christmas bauble, hand-blown and engraved with our names and the wedding date.

  “Isn’t that gorgeous?” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat as I place it carefully down.

  “You deserve gorgeous,” he says, kissing the back of my fingers. Then he draws in a breath. “Are you happy, Laurie?”

  I’m surprised by his quietly spoken question. He’s never asked me before. “Do you even need to ask?”

  “Just once.” All of a sudden he looks deadly serious.

  I take a breath too and look into his eyes. I know that our marriage hinges on my answer to this question.

  “I’m so very, incredibly happy to be your wife, Oscar. I thank my lucky stars you walked into my life.”

  He looks up at me, silent and impossibly handsome, and his eyes tell me there are things he’d like to say but isn’t going to because today is our wedding day.

  He stands and tugs me to my feet. “And I thank mine for you.”

  He kisses me slowly, deeply, his arm around my waist, his hand on my jawline, and I allow myself to melt into it, into him. I hope and pray that we’ll always be able to find each other like this, like we did in Thailand, like we do in bed at night. My love for him is distinct from everything else in my life, clear and simple and straightforward. I cling to it, to the idea of us on the steps of the beach shack. Oscar’s lips are sealed about where we’re going on honeymoon, but I hope with all of my newly promised heart that it’s Thailand.

  We stand in front of the tastefully decorated Christmas tree that has been placed in our suite, and I hook our bauble over one of the empty branches. Oscar is close behind me, his mouth warm on my neck as we watch the bauble spin and catch the light.

  “Jack was right,” he whispers. “I am a lucky bastard.”

  2014

  NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS

  1) Sarah. Just writing her name fills me with shame and desolation. I need to find a way to make her believe that I’m sorry. That I was in an impossible situation, that I didn’t just allow myself to fall in love with her boyfriend. That I tried as hard as I possibly could not to. Somehow I need to make her forgive me because I can’t imagine life without her.

  2) Oscar. My husband! I just want us to stay as happy as we are now and enjoy our first year as smug marrieds. Not that I think we’re smug. But there is a security to being Mrs. Ogilvy-Black, especially when all the other rocks in my life seem to have disappeared. My resolution is that he’ll never again have to ask me whether I’m happy with him.

  3) Work. I’m in desperate need of a career change. Since the wedding I feel as if I’ve outgrown answering teen questions on love and heartache; after all, I’m officially no longer the world expert on unrequited love. Now the wedding mania is over I find I’m craving a new challenge; perhaps I will find something more in line with my life now. Good Housekeeping or The Lady, maybe. Ha! If nothing else, seeing my name in her favorite magazines would give Lucille something new to dislike me for.

  4) Which brings me to…HRH Lucille. I must try harder to make her like me.

  5) Mum & Dad. I must try harder to see more of them. Life here is busier than ever, but that’s no excuse. The wedding made me realize how much I miss them. I’m glad my brother and his family live close by them—Mum is always posting pictures of them all with Tom, the new baby. I love seeing the photos, but a tiny bit of my heart aches too because they’re all together while I’m miles away.

  MARCH 16

  Laurie

  “What’s all this?” I struggle awake and sit up because Oscar is standing beside the bed with a tray.

  “Breakfast in bed to celebrate our anniversary.” He places the tray down on my knees, and I go into silent panic mode in case I’ve forgotten a special date. “We’ve been married for three whole months,” he says, putting me out of my misery. “Well, three months and two days, actually, but it’s better to wait for Sunday, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is.” I laugh. “Come back to bed?”

  I hold the tray steady as he climbs back in and relaxes back, still beach brown against the pillows. His skin tone is naturally predisposed toward tanning, so he’s managed to hang on to traces of his honeymoon tan long after mine has faded under the assault of a British winter. It wasn’t Thailand, in the end. We spent three loved-up weeks island hopping in the Maldives, total barefoot paradise. It’s probably as well that we didn’t return to Koh Lipe and try to re-create the magic of our first stay; the memories are too precious to risk. Does it sound ridiculously prima donna of me to say that I would have preferred Thailand to the Maldives? It’s probably not even true, really, it’s just that I’d have loved Oscar to have wanted to take us back there, or perhaps to have guessed that my romantic heart belonged there. I felt like the world’s most ungrateful wife at Heathrow when my heart secretly plummeted as we joined the Maldives check-in queue. The luxurious resorts Oscar had booked for our honeymoon itinerary were a long way from the simplicity of the Thai beach shack—we dined like royals in water bungalows, lazed in double hammocks on our own secluded beach, and a butler—yes, a butler!—took care of our every whim. Now we’re back in Oscar’s—I mean our—flat, and Oscar seems determined to never let the honeymoon end.

  “Coffee?”

  “Please.” I line the cups up ready and spoon sugar into mine. Oscar doesn’t take sugar. He doesn’t have a sweet tooth at all, really, so I’m trying to curb mine because eating cake or pudding on my own makes me feel a bit of a scoffer, which I’m sure isn’t Oscar’s intention, but still. I used to indulge my sweet tooth with coffee and cake binges with Sarah a couple of times a month, but we still haven’t spoken since our fallout. Whenever I think about it my heart feels too heavy in my chest. While we were on honeymoon I shoved it all to the back of my mind, telling myself I shouldn’t ruin even a little part of Oscar’s amazing trip. And since we’ve been back I’ve maintained the same approach—every day that goes by I bury my head deeper in the sand. The only positive to draw from it, if there is one, is that I’m no longer burdened by the weight of my secret. The worst happened, Sarah knows, and in a strange way I feel purged and more able to love Oscar without ambiguity. I’ve paid a high price for a clean conscience, though.

  “You poach a good egg, Mr. O,” I say, giving my egg a little exploratory poke with the very tip of my knife. “I never get it right.”

  “I phoned Mum and she told me how to do it.”

  Heroically, I don’t throw him a “you did what?” look, even though I can well imagine Lucille’s face when Oscar told her that I was lazing around in bed while he slaved in the kitchen. It’s barely eight on a weekend morning, but all the same, I know she’ll have filed it in the “Laurie is a lazy layabout sponger” dossier in her head. She might need to start a second one soon, I expect it’s stuffed to busting after the wedding.

  “Well, you made a marvelous job of it.” I watch with satisfaction as the yolk spills all over the English muffin. “I could get used to this.”

  “I like treating you.”

  “Being married to you is one long treat.”

  He smiles, pleased at the compliment. “Will we always feel like this?”

  “I don’t know. If we want to?” I say.

  “People keep te
lling me to give it a few years, that the glow wears off.”

  “Do they?” People have said similar things to me, of course, that our relationship has been a whirlwind, that when reality bites all the romance will disappear.

  He nods. I don’t ask him if by people he means Lucille.

  “Well. What do they know.” I lower the finished-with tray carefully down to the floor and settle into the crook of Oscar’s arm against the pillows.

  “They don’t know us,” he says, lowering the strap of my slip to reveal my breast.

  I lift my face to his kiss as his fingers close around my nipple. “My wife,” he whispers, as he so often does. I love it, but I sometimes wish he’d say Starfish instead, like he used to.

  I wrap myself around him when he rolls me onto my back, and we make love. Afterward, I haul the quilt up over our shoulders and snooze with my cheek against his chest. I wish it could be just us, that life was always just like this.

  * * *

  Later, over roast lamb (cooked by me, without having to consult my mother), Oscar looks at me as he tops off our wineglasses.

  “I’ve got a bit of news,” he says, replacing the bottle in our new metal stand that tilts the bottle just so. Don’t ask me why. It was a wedding gift from Gerry and Fliss.

  I pause. We’ve been together all weekend, and news generally isn’t something that steals up on you on Sunday evening, is it? If I’ve got news, I can’t help but burst out with it at the first opportunity. What news can Oscar have that he’s chosen this moment to drop it casually into conversation? I smile and try to look pleasantly inquisitive, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone just drew an ice-cold fingernail down my spine.

  “I’ve been promoted at the bank.”

  Relief washes through me. “That’s great news. What will you be doing?” I don’t know why I’ve asked this, because I don’t especially understand what he does there now.

  “Kapur’s moving over to the States at the end of the month, so they need someone to take over the Brussels account.”

  I’ve met Kapur a couple of times; he’s my idea of an archetypal banker—pinstripe suit, pink shirt, and a big mouth. I don’t like him very much.

  “It’s a decent step up?” I phrase it as a question, smiling to show I’m pleased even if I don’t completely understand the hierarchy.

  “Quite a big one really,” he says. “VP. I’ll be over four staff.” Oscar wouldn’t even know how to be boastful, it’s one of his many endearing qualities. “I wanted to talk to you about it first, though, because it’s probably going to mean spending part of the week over there.”

  “In Brussels?”

  He nods, and his eyes flicker with something.

  “Part of every week?” I try, and fail, to keep the note of alarm from my voice.

  “Probably. Kapur usually goes out three days a week.”

  “Oh.” I flounder, because I don’t want to be a buzzkill; he’s earned this and I want him to know I’m proud of him.

  “I can pass on it if you think it’s going to be too much,” he offers, and I feel like a bitch.

  “God, no!” I get up and round the table, sliding into his lap. “My clever husband.” I wrap my arms about his neck. “It’s just that I’ll miss you, that’s all. I couldn’t be prouder.” I kiss him to show I mean it. “Well done. I’m thrilled. Honestly, I am.”

  “I promise not to be a part-time husband.” His dark eyes search mine as if he needs reassurance.

  “And I won’t be a part-time wife.” I say it, but I worry how it can be true in either of our cases. He’s increasingly ambitious and clearly excited by the prospect of the promotion, and I’m going to have to find new ways to fill half of every week. I can’t help but compare us to my parents, who always make a big thing of the fact they’ve never spent so much as a night apart, other than when Mum was in the hospital having us kids, and when Dad was poorly. Being together all of the time is part of the marriage deal, isn’t it?

  Oscar unbuttons the top couple of buttons of my shirt and I pull back to look at him. “I know your game, mister,” I say. “But this table’s digging in my back and I haven’t finished my dinner yet, so you’re fresh out of luck.”

  He looks downcast, then lifts one eyebrow, amused. “The lamb is bloody good.”

  And that’s that. Three months into wedded bliss, and we’re about to live apart for half of our lives. The lamb doesn’t taste quite so good when I pick my cutlery up again.

  MAY 27

  Laurie

  Lucille knows perfectly well that Tuesday is one of Oscar’s Brussels days, so why she’s pressing our door buzzer is anyone’s guess. For a second I consider pretending I’m not home. I don’t, though, because she probably watched me come in a few minutes ago; or more likely has a spy-cam in here watching my every move.

  “Lucille,” I say, my face wreathed in welcoming smiles when I open the door—at least I hope it is. “Come in.”

  Instantly I feel crass for inviting her into her own flat. After all, it’s her name on the deeds. She’s far too polite to say it, though, even if the haughty look as she passes me suggests otherwise. I sweep the empty coffee cup up off the table, glad I ran the vacuum around before work this morning. Oscar keeps trying to get me to agree to a cleaner, but I just couldn’t imagine telling Mum that I was paying someone to clean up after me. HRH Lucille flicks her critical eye around as she takes a seat. God, what do I say to her?

  “Oscar isn’t home today, I’m afraid,” I say, and her face falls.

  “Oh.” Her fingers flutter to the fat, buttery pearls she always wears. “I didn’t realize.”

  Sure. She has his engagements in her organizer written with a special green pen she uses just for him. “Cup of tea?”

  She nods. “Darjeeling, please, if you have it?”

  Normally I wouldn’t possess such a thing, but someone gave us a selection of different teas as a wedding gift, so I just smile and leave her to her own devices for a moment while I check. Ha! Yes, I could punch the air, I have Darjeeling. I know full well that she only asked for it because she thought she’d catch me out, and the sense of victory I feel is unbecoming. I wish it wasn’t this way between us; perhaps now is a good time for me to try and make some headway. While I wait for the tea to brew, I put the sugar bowl and milk jug—more wedding presents—on a tray with two teacups and add a plate of shortbread.

  “Here we go,” I say, bright as a button as I take the tray through. “Milk, sugar, and biscuits. I think I’ve covered everything.”

  “No, no, and no, but thank you for the effort.” Lucille’s eyes are a different shade of brown from Oscar’s, more amber. More snake-like.

  “This is nice,” I say, sitting on my hands so I don’t fidget. “Did you need Oscar for anything special?”

  She shakes her head. “I was just passing this way.”

  I find myself wondering how often she’s just passing; I know she has a key. It wouldn’t surprise me if she let herself in when there’s no one home. The thought disconcerts me. Does she search for proof that I’m a gold digger? Go through our mail looking for maxed-out credit-card statements or search my drawers for evidence of a shady past? She must be spitting tacks that I’m clean.

  “I imagine you find it lonely here during the week?”

  I nod. “I miss him when he isn’t here.” I feel a wicked urge to tell her I throw wild parties to fill my time. “I just try to keep busy.” As if to prove my point, I pour her tea. No milk, no sugar.

  She takes a ladylike sip and winces as if I’ve given her battery acid. “A little less time in the pot next time, I think.”

  “Sorry,” I murmur, privately thinking that the most alarming part of that sentence was “next time.”

  “Admin, isn’t it? For a magazine? Sorr
y, you’ll have to remind me what you do.”

  I sigh inwardly at her abruptness. She knows exactly what I do, and for whom. I’ve no doubt she’s checked it all out online. “Not exactly. I’m a journalist on a teen magazine.” I know, I know. I’m hardly at the cutting edge of journalism.

  “Have you spoken with Oscar today?”

  I shake my head and glance up at the clock. “He normally calls after nine.” I pause, and then in the spirit of offering an olive branch, I add, “I can ask him to call you tomorrow, if you’d like?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, dear. I’m sure it’s burden enough having to call home every day without adding to his list.” She puts a little peal of laughter at the end, as if I’m some harpy wife who needs to learn her place.

  “I don’t think it’s any trouble to him,” I say, offended despite myself. “It’s hard on us both being apart, but I’m proud of him.”

  “Yes, I expect you must be. It’s a pressured job, especially managing an overseas team.” She smiles. “Although Cressida tells me he’s marvelous to work under.”

  Cressida works out there? She wants me to ask her what she’s talking about. I swallow the question, even though it burns in my throat. To mask it, I pick up my teacup and sip the wretched tea. It tastes of cat piss. We assess each other across the glass coffee table, and then she sighs and looks at her watch.

  “Goodness, is that the time?” She gets to her feet. “I should be on my way.”

  I jump to my feet too and see her out. As I kiss her papery cheek by the door, I dig deep and finally find my balls. “Well, this has been an unexpected pleasure, Mum. We should do this more often.”

  I don’t think she could look more horrified if I’d called her a whore. I genuinely think she’s going to slap me.

  “Laurel.” She inclines her head formally and glides out of the door.