One Day in December

by Josie Silver

  “Done.”

  I sit down on the floor and lean my back against the wall, my legs stretched in front of me, the phone against my ear again.

  I close my eyes. “Tell me something about your life there, Sar. Distract me.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m at the kitchen table. It’s supposed to be winter, but we’re having a heat wave and our air-con is a lazy bastard. I’m mopping up my sweat as I talk to you.” I can almost see her; they live in a gorgeous low-slung beach house. She sent me the particulars when they went to view it and I needed to go and lie down in a dark room to get over my envy. It looks like something out of a seventies House Beautiful magazine, all sunken seating areas and double-height ceilings. She pauses, and then says, “Oh, and I proposed to Luke.”

  “What? Oh my God! Sarah!” I shriek, properly shocked. It’s so Sarah not to wait around when she knows what she wants. “When? What did you say? And what did he say?”

  “He said yes, of course,” she laughs. “And he cried like a baby.”

  I laugh too. I can believe it; Luke’s a big softie.

  “Time’s up, Lu,” she says, quiet and serious again. “Three minutes.”

  I hold the stick in my hands, the cap still in place. “I’m scared, Sar,” I whisper.

  “Don’t be. Whatever happens, you’ll be okay, I promise.”

  I don’t reply, just stare at the stick. I don’t know if I can do this.

  “For God’s sake, Laurie, take the fucking cap off!”

  So I do. I pull it off fast and hold my breath as I stare at it.

  “Well?”

  “One blue line.” I gasp down a huge lungful of air, shaking. “Just one. That means I’m not pregnant, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, Lu, I’m sorry,” she says, gentle now. “It’ll happen soon, I’m sure it will.”

  I dash my hands across my eyes and put the stick down on the floor. “Yeah, I know.”

  * * *

  When Oscar comes home just after eight, I’m in my pajamas drinking a glass of wine at the kitchen table. He eyes the wine, then raises his eyebrows. “Is that wise?”

  The coolness to his tone suggests he’s still in the same frame of mind as when he left on Sunday.

  I shake my head. “I thought I might be pregnant, but I’m not. I did a test. I must just be late, it happens.”

  His expression softens as his eyes search mine. “Are you okay?”

  I’m not sure how to best answer his question truthfully. “I don’t think I am, no.”

  I wait while he pours himself a glass of wine and sits down at the table. He looks done in; I wish I could just make him some dinner and offer to run him a bath, but my heart won’t let me back out of the decisions I reached on the bathroom floor after Sarah hung up.

  “Did you accept the job?”

  He stares into his wineglass. “You always knew I was going to.”

  “Yes.” I nod slowly. “It was the right thing for you.”

  “But not for you?” he asks. He doesn’t sound angry or cool anymore. I think he’s starting to realize that this conversation has the potential to devastate us both.

  I sigh, and a tear slides down my face. “No.” I swallow hard, hating everything about this situation. “I’ve spent the last couple of days thinking I might be pregnant, and trying to work out what to do if I was.”

  He watches me, silent.

  “And then I did the test, and I wasn’t pregnant, and all I could think was thank God. Thank God I haven’t had all of my choices taken away from me.”

  I’ve shocked him. I hate the words falling from my mouth, but honesty is all I have. “I don’t want to move to Belgium, Oscar.”

  He’s scanning my face, as if he’s looking for traces of the woman he loves. He hadn’t truly considered saying no to the job before this conversation, I realize. He’s banked on me falling into step in the end.

  “We can’t love each other from different countries, and what happens if I do get pregnant? I don’t want to be here on my own with a baby five nights out of seven.”

  “It could work.” He drags his chair around the table until his knees touch mine. “I know it’s not ideal, but we can make it okay, Laurie.”

  “Oscar, it isn’t just about the job, it’s about so much more than geography,” I say, being as gentle as I know how to be. I look at his beloved face, and I can’t quite believe we’re falling apart like this. He’s been my safe harbor for a long time. “God, you’re such a lovely man. I’ve never met anyone like you and I know I never will again.”

  “We made vows,” he says, frustrated. “For better, for worse. We promised each other.”

  “Our lives are headed in two different directions,” I say, holding his hands in mine. “Yours is leading you along a path I can’t follow, Oscar. And that isn’t your fault or mine.”

  “But I love you,” he says, as if it’s a magic phrase that trumps any other.

  I don’t know how to express myself without hurting him more. “Oscar, you’re the best husband anyone could wish for. You’re kind and you’re funny and you’ve given me so much more than I can ever give you back.”

  “I never expected you to.”

  “No. But you do expect me to move to Belgium, or else live here on my own most of the time,” I say.

  Consternation furrows his brow. “I hoped you’d realize it’s for the best,” he says. “I thought I’d come home tonight and you’d have come around.”

  I sigh, because I know he hasn’t even entertained the idea of saying no to the job. It’s a done deal, and all of the decisions are now mine.

  “I’m not going to come around,” I say. “I’m not just being obstinate. I don’t want to move to Brussels.”

  “But you know that turning the job down isn’t an option for me,” he says, and a part of me is glad. I don’t want him to offer to give up the promotion he’s earned. Not that he’s offering, and in a way that makes the next thing I need to say a little easier.

  “I didn’t realize how unhappy I’ve become until I looked at that blue line,” I say, bereft. “I didn’t know.”

  He’s got his face in his hands, and I feel like the most stupid, wretched, ungrateful woman in the world.

  “So that’s it? You won’t come and I can’t stay?”

  “Or I can’t come and you won’t stay,” I say, challenging his blinkered viewpoint even though I know he’ll never try to see it my way. His life is firmly on track and that track now leads to Brussels, with or without me. He finds it utterly unfathomable that I’m not anxious to jump aboard the train, and it serves only to make me even more certain that we’ve come to the end of the line. No more living life at half-mast; the lights have gone out on our marriage. Back in Koh Lipe, our love blossomed beneath a string of flickering fairy lights wrapped around the railings of the beach shack. Here in London, the life has been slowly choked out of it under the glare of Lucille’s oh-so-sophisticated lamps and the relentless weekly monotony of Heathrow’s runway lights. I realize now that Oscar hasn’t changed at all. He was always this man, but Thailand, and me, for a while maybe, made him feel like he could be someone else. He tried a different life on for size, but in the end he’s gone full circle, because this life, the one he’s living right now, is the one that fits him best.

  “I’m so sorry, Oscar, I really am.”

  “Me too,” he whispers. “I’m sorry too, Starfish.”

  I look away, upset because I know that’s the last time I’ll ever hear him call me that.

  A sigh racks his body, as if it’s wrenched from him. “If you’d been pregnant, do you think you might have come with me?”

  I genuinely don’t know what to tell him. Perhaps that I’d have felt trapped into it and forced to give it a go. I don’t say it; i
t’s too bleak.

  I lean forward and hold his head in my hands, my lips pressed to his hair. He wraps his arms around me too, and the familiar smell of him makes me cry uncontrollably; the cologne he’s always worn, the shampoo he uses, the scent of his days and my nights and our love.

  JULY 2

  Jack

  I follow Amanda silently through her apartment; I say silently because I’ve just removed my Converse—this is a strictly no-outdoor-shoes kind of place. There’s even a trite sign and rack just inside the front door in case you forget. I don’t mind, exactly. No, that’s a lie. It gets right up my nose; I find it pompous when people insist you take off your shoes. It’s not an Amanda-centric complaint, though. It sets my teeth on edge whoever does it.

  “You cooked?”

  We’re in her sleek white kitchen, which as a general rule sees very little in the way of food preparation. Amanda has many wonderful points, but her cooking skills aren’t legendary. She freely admits it: she’s a master of the microwave, a mistress of sushi home delivery, and the queen of the Edinburgh restaurant scene—so why would she want to peel onions herself?

  “I have,” she says, opening the fridge to pour me a glass of white.

  “Should I be scared?”

  She arches her eyebrows at me. “You should be terribly complimentary and grateful, Jack. I’ve burned my finger for you.”

  I watch her as she moves around the kitchen, holding the pre-prepared pack of green beans at arm’s length so she can read the microwave instructions on the back.

  “What’s on the menu?”

  I don’t know why I’ve asked, because I know the answer is fish.

  “Cod,” she says. “I’m baking it with lemon and parsley.”

  “Did you blow the dust off the oven before you used it?”

  She rolls her eyes at me and I laugh.

  “I’m only looking out for you, it’s a fire hazard.”

  “Complimentary and grateful,” she reminds me, and I get up and take the green beans from her.

  “Complimentary, huh?” I kiss her bare shoulder. She’s wearing a strapless sundress with an apron over the top. “You look sexy in a pinny.”

  “The food, Jack,” she says, turning her face to mine.

  “Okay. I’m grateful that you’ve cooked for me.” I kiss her briefly. “And I’m grateful that you look like a blond Swedish princess while you do it. I fancy thee rotten, Princess Amanda of Ikea.”

  She turns into my arms and kisses me properly, her tongue in my mouth.

  “That was most unladylike,” I say when she’s finished, pulling on the ties of her apron until she slaps my hand away.

  “Make yourself useful,” she says. “Go and set the table out on the balcony.”

  * * *

  The table looks holiday-brochure perfect on Amanda’s holiday-brochure-perfect balcony. It’s typical of her mindset; Grassmarket commands the best views of the castle in the city, so she made sure she rented here.

  I’m about to head back inside when my phone buzzes. I glance at it, hoping it’s not Lorne calling me in to cover for someone. I’m in luck; Sarah’s name flashes up. I click on the message, and lean on the balcony railings to read it.

  Have you spoken to Laurie recently?

  Well, that’s fucking cryptic. I check my watch. Surely it’s the middle of the night where she is? Probably pissed up at a beach party. I text back.

  Not in a while. Go to bed!

  Grassmarket reels out down below, bright and thronged with Saturday-night party people. My phone buzzes again.

  Call her, Jack. She and Oscar split up a couple of weeks ago, I wasn’t meant to tell you, but she needs her friends. I’m too far away to be any bloody use!

  I stare at the screen, reading and rereading Sarah’s message as I slide down hard onto one of Amanda’s outdoor dining chairs.

  Laurie and Oscar have split up. How can that be? I watched her marry him. She stood there in that church and told me and the rest of the world that he was the man she wanted to spend her life with.

  What the hell happened? I send back, wondering if I’ve got time to call Sarah before dinner.

  Stuff. Talk to her. It’s complicated.

  Frustration rattles through me; Sarah’s words tell me nothing. Why’s she being so vague? Complicated? I’ll tell you what’s complicated. Standing on your girlfriend’s balcony reading a message from your ex about someone else you once loved.

  “Jack?” Amanda’s voice jolts me. “Can you fetch this, please?”

  I stare at my phone, my head full of questions, and then I make a snap decision and turn it off. This is my life now. I’ve got something here; my show is gaining fans, I care about the people I work with, and Amanda is…she’s everything any man could want.

  I shove my phone in my pocket and go inside.

  JULY 3

  Jack

  I stare at Sarah’s message again now I’m home. I’ve known for a whole night and day that Laurie’s in trouble and I haven’t been in touch. I don’t know if that makes me a good boyfriend or a shit friend.

  I keep tossing it backward and forward, trying to decide the right thing to do. What’s right for me might not be right for Laurie, and not right for Amanda, either. I don’t want to fuck up.

  I look at the open screen. I’ve typed and deleted a message twice already. The first one, Hey, Lu, how’s tricks? was too cheery and out of the blue, and my second attempt, I’m always here if you need me was too intense. My fingers hover over the buttons, and then I try again.

  Hey, Lu, Sarah told me your news. Can I call you?

  I press send before I can deliberate, and then fling my phone down and grab a beer from the kitchen.

  It’s half an hour before she replies. My heart does its old familiar flip at the sight of her name on the screen.

  Would you mind not? I’m not really feeling ready to talk to people yet. Thanks though. I’ll call you when I can. Sorry. X

  Christ. I’ve been relegated to people, outside of her most trusted circle. I slump and close my eyes, wondering if there will ever be a time when it feels like all the pieces of my life are in the right place.

  OCTOBER 19

  Laurie

  Only a rookie singleton would book a package holiday to Majorca at half-term. Rather than finding myself barefoot on deserted beaches I’ve become an unpaid nanny for a bunch of badly behaved children whose parents are too exhausted or lazy to watch them themselves. I daren’t make eye contact with anyone else, in case they ask me to just keep a five-minute eye on little Astrid or Toby or Boden. No, I don’t want to hold their child. I don’t want to hear about school fees or food allergies. And I definitely don’t want to admit that, yes, I have a husband (technically), but no, he isn’t here on holiday with me. Anyone would think I’d sprouted a third eye or something. The only safe place seems to be the hotel bar.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  I look at the woman hovering close to the empty stool beside me at the bar. She’s older than I am, mid-forties at a guess, and she has that well-put-together look, from her perfectly applied coral lipstick to her diamond tennis bracelet.

  “Be my guest,” I say, wishing I’d just gone up to my room to read after dinner.

  She orders a glass of wine, then looks at me and my almost-empty glass.

  “Another?”

  The hotel is all-inclusive, so this is hardly the offer of the century. I smile. “Why not. I’ll have the most ridiculous cocktail on the list, please.”

  My new neighbor looks at me with fresh appreciation. “Scrap the wine. I’ll have what she’s having.”

  The bartender nods, as if this is all pretty standard. It probably is.

  “Vanessa,” she say
s, even though I didn’t ask her name. Her accent places her up north. Newcastle, I think.

  “Laurie.”

  “On your own?”

  Reflexively, I twist my wedding ring around on my finger. “Yes.”

  We break off as the bartender places two tall, lurid blue and green cocktails in front of us. My neighbor looks at them, then shakes her head sadly. “They’re missing something.”

  I put my head on one side. “I think you’re right. They need pimping up.”

  The bartender turns away with a sigh, and returns with cocktail umbrellas and straws adorned with wrap-around parrots, rather like those paper Christmas decorations that concertina around themselves to make a bell. Only these are, well, parrots.

  “Now, that’s more like it,” I say, once he’s shoved so many accessories into our glasses that there’s hardly any room to take a drink.

  “What do you reckon it’s called?” my drinking partner asks.

  We stare at the drinks.

  “Sex on the parrot-infested beach?” I suggest.

  She considers my suggestion, then wrinkles her nose. “Not bad. Although I’d probably have gone for something more along the lines of, ‘Don’t ask me for sex, I’m not over my ex.’ ”

  I look at her more closely then, and I notice she’s also wearing a wedding ring that she keeps twisting around on her finger too. It’s like a secret signal no one teaches you to read.

  “Ten years married. He left me nine months ago,” she says glumly. “For the woman who lives three doors down.”

  “Does she still live three doors down?” I ask, interested despite myself.

  “Aye, with my husband.”

  “God.”

  “Apparently they bonded over the community garden.”

  We start to laugh at the absurdity of it.

  “He said their eyes met over the compost heap and that was that.”