‘You said that.’ He drinks deeply. ‘I just don’t believe you.’
He should. It’s been more than four months since Martique and I decided to knock things on the head, a separation that meant little to either of us. That was why we split, in essence; it was going nowhere, and I’m kind of over sex for sex’s sake. I don’t tell Lorne that though.
‘I’m thinking of becoming a monk,’ I joke. ‘I look good in orange.’
He looks at me. ‘You’re sure? Because she really is a looker.’ He nods towards the woman behind us. ‘Bit like Holly Willoughby.’
Time was that would have been enough to have me twisting round in my seat, but I just drink my pint and finish off the crisps. She may well look like Holly Willoughby and perhaps I could buy her a drink and take things further, but the fact is I don’t want Holly Willoughby or Martique or anyone else.
I wear myself out walking Edinburgh’s fascinating, steep streets, immersing myself in the city’s culture; I even bought a pushbike last week. I came to Scotland to escape and it worked better than I could have hoped.
I jumped in feet first when I arrived and lost myself in the work and the women, and now at last I’ve surfaced and I’m sucking down fresh, sweet air into my lungs. At first it seemed that I was gasping for breath; it burned my chest. Now, though, I breathe easy and I sleep through the night.
It’s just me and, for now, I’m good with that.
22 December
Laurie
‘Night night. Miss you too,’ I say, waiting for Mum to ring off before I hang up. She’s in Tenerife with Aunt Susan; they’re both still in mourning, I think, but helping each other through it. In this case with sangria and sun. I don’t blame them; I seriously contemplated their offer to tag along, but in the end the pull of a dreary, cold London Christmas on my own was just too tempting to pass up. I’m kidding. Half kidding. I do at least have the house to myself for a couple of weeks though; my flatmate and her clan have all decamped to Wales until New Year. My plan, such as it is, is to just chill out, stuff my face and see a couple of friends here and there. Anna and Daryl have insisted I go to them for New Year, but aside from that, I’m as free as a bird. I wander into the kitchen and flick the kettle on, trying hard to feel urban and cool rather than lonely girl in London at Christmas.
An hour later, and I’m making a cake. I know, totally out of character, but the bottle of Baileys Mum sent me was next to a pile of cookbooks in the kitchen and I was suddenly overcome by the urge for cake. I’m on my second generous Baileys, and I couldn’t care less that it’s nearly ten at night and it’s taken me nearly an hour to mash up a load of unripe bananas. I’m even humming along to Christmas songs on the radio. Is it sad that I tune in to Jack’s station most nights? His late show is one of those where people can call in to talk about anything they fancy, sometimes funny, sometimes sad. He’s not on yet though, and I’m having a full-on croon to Nat King Cole. I’m reminiscing; he was my dad’s favourite.
I sit down at the kitchen table and close my eyes, and I’m back in my mum’s kitchen, the same smells of cake batter and Christmas songs, old-fashioned fairy lights pinned under the wall cupboards. We’re all there. I’m probably five or six, Daryl a year or so older, Ginny about three. Mum and Dad are there too, of course. No one’s doing anything in particular, no schmaltzy dancing or profound speeches. We’re all just there, and it’s so heart-warming and perfect that I don’t want to open my eyes and see all the empty chairs round the table. And then the music stops and Jack’s voice washes over me, and I’m okay again because his company stops me from feeling so alone.
I follow the recipe, weighing out the rest of the ingredients as he takes a couple of calls, one from a guy who wants to tell him about the fight he got into today with the Santa at his local garden centre, and another from a woman whose decree absolute arrived in the mail this morning; she feels like the luckiest woman alive because her husband had been the very definition of The Grinch. It’s all very light-hearted; Jack is an old hand at keeping the tone just right.
I scrape the cake batter into the tin I’ve lined, licking my finger to test it as the next caller comes on.
‘I want to tell my girlfriend that I love her, but I can’t,’ he says. From his voice, I’d say he isn’t much more than a teenager.
‘What do you mean, can’t?’ says Jack. ‘Do you love her?’
The guy doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Oh yes. I nearly told her today after college. I was looking at her, and she asked me why I was looking at her oddly, but then the words got stuck in my throat. I can’t get it out.’
Jack laughs softly, and the sound is so familiar that I can see him clearly in my head, that amused glow that lights his eyes. ‘Look, if there’s one bit of advice I can give you, it’s for the love of God, man, just say it. You won’t die, I promise. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘She might laugh?’
‘And she might not. The way I see it is you’ve got two choices here. Take the risk and tell her you love her or wait until it’s too late and someone else tells her they love her. How will you feel then?’
‘Like a fool?’
I stand there with the cake tin in my hands, ready to put it in the oven.
‘For the rest of your life, mate. Trust me, I know, because it happened to me. It’s Christmas – take the risk. You’ll always regret it if you don’t.’
I stare at the radio, and then I put the cake tin back down on the table and reach for my phone.
I’ve lied to the radio show producer about my name. I’m Rhona, and I’m up next.
‘Hi, Rhona,’ Jack says. ‘What would you like to talk about?’
I’ve turned my radio off because of feedback, so it’s just me and Jack chatting on the phone, like always.
‘Hi, Jack,’ I say. ‘I was listening to your earlier caller and I wanted to say how much your advice rang true with me.’
‘It did? Why’s that?’
I can’t gauge whether he’s realized it’s me or not yet. I don’t think so.
‘Because I know what it’s like to miss your chance and to spend the rest of your life waiting to feel that way again.’
He pauses for a beat. ‘Want to tell everyone your story, Rhona?’
‘It’s pretty long,’ I say.
‘That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Well, it started on a snowy December day almost a decade ago.’
‘Fitting,’ he murmurs. ‘Go on.’
‘I was on the bus home from work. I’d had a God-awful day and I was done in, and then all of a sudden I looked out of the window and saw the most beautiful man – or boy as I thought of him then – sitting at the bus stop. I looked right at him, and he looked right at me, and I’ve never in my life felt anything like it. Not before and not afterwards,’ I say, letting it all out in a rush. ‘I spent a whole year looking for him in bars and cafes, but I didn’t find him.’
Jack’s breath is uneven in my ear. ‘You never found him?’