The Twelve Dates of Christmas

by Jenny Bayliss

  “Hi!” said Sarah, as she bounced into the car. “You smell lovely.”

  “Thanks,” said Kate. “How was work?”

  “Busy,” she said. “It’s all Christmas play practice and party planning at the moment. And half of the old costumes are falling to pieces, so we’re spending all our lunchtimes sewing; it’s like a nativity stitch-’n’-bitch.”

  “Why don’t I ask Evelyn if the Knitting Sex Kittens can help you out?” said Kate. “They can turn their hands to anything, they could probably rustle you up some new costumes too.”

  “Oh my God. Would you?” said Sarah. “That would be amazing! We need all the help we can get. The kids have worked so hard, it would be a shame if their costumes let them down.”

  Kate promised to speak to Evelyn in the morning, and the conversation continued to flow easily. Twenty minutes into the journey there was a lull; it wasn’t uncomfortable particularly, but they didn’t know each other well enough yet for it not to be a self-conscious quiet.

  It was fully dark now, even though it was only seven o’clock. The snowbanks at the side of the road cast a dim glow into the car. Sarah fiddled absently with her ring finger, despite the absence of a ring. The old Mini engine seemed louder than usual.

  “Can I ask you something?” said Sarah.

  “Of course. Anything,” said Kate.

  “You know Matt better than anyone,” Sarah said. “Would you say he’s serious about me?”

  “Absolutely,” said Kate. “As serious as I’ve ever known him to be.”

  She cast a glance at Sarah and smiled.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Sarah was quiet for a moment, as if choosing her words.

  “It’s just that sometimes I don’t know where his head’s at,” said Sarah.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Kate. “Nobody in the world knows how Matt’s head works.”

  “You do,” said Sarah.

  “I think you’re giving me more credit than I deserve,” said Kate.

  “I don’t think I am,” said Sarah. “You seem to get him. You sort of cut through all his . . .”

  “Bullshit?” Kate inserted helpfully.

  “I was going to say layers,” said Sarah.

  “Layers?” Kate laughed. “I don’t think Matt’s got enough depth for layers.”

  “Right there,” said Sarah. “That. That’s what I’m talking about. You have this way with each other.”

  “I’m just taking the mickey,” said Kate. “It’s what we do. We grew up annoying each other. He’s like an irritating cousin . . . or a fungal infection you just can’t get rid of.”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” said Sarah.

  “Because I described your boyfriend as a fungal infection?”

  “Because you know him well enough to liken him to one,” said Sarah, smiling.

  “Okay,” said Kate. “What’s up?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Sarah. “He’s caring and thoughtful and demonstrative.” She paused.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Kate could see Sarah biting her lip.

  “It’s just that . . .” Sarah found her words. “Sometimes I get the feeling that he’s holding something back.”

  “Like what?” Kate asked. Her interest was piqued.

  “Well, that’s just it,” said Sarah. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s more of a feeling, really. A sensation. Like there’s always something on his mind, but he never quite spits it out.”

  “Oh, you know Matt,” said Kate. “He’s always got a hundred things on the go and a hundred more he’s thinking about.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” said Sarah. “Not all of it, anyway.”

  Sarah closed her eyes as she tried to formulate her feelings into words. Kate kept her eyes on the road and waited patiently for Sarah. As someone who believed strongly in the power of female intuition, she wasn’t about to pooh-pooh Sarah’s.

  “It’s almost as if there’s someone else,” said Sarah.

  Kate broke in. She was instantly protective of Matt; he was undoubtedly a twit on occasions but he was no cheater.

  “Oh no,” said Kate. “I can’t believe that. That’s not Matt at all. He would never cheat. I can tell you that much with absolute conviction.”

  “No no no,” said Sarah, holding her hands up. “God no, you misunderstand me. I mean, it’s like there’s someone from before and their memory is preventing him from being fully invested with me; like he’s dipping his toe in but can’t go any further.”

  “Ahh,” said Kate. Her chagrin evaporated. “Are we talking ghosts of girlfriends past here?”

  “Yes,” said Sarah. “We are. What can you tell me?”

  Kate wondered if she ought to be divulging details about Matt’s private life to Sarah. On the other hand, she could be helping him out. And besides—she reasoned—she didn’t have to give details. And she would be a darn sight more discreet than some of the other Blexford residents.

  “You know he was married?” Kate asked.

  “Yes,” said Sarah.

  “I can’t shed much light on that one,” said Kate. “I never actually met her, though I don’t think they were a match made in heaven, if you know what I mean.”

  “What about the one before me?” Sarah asked.

  “Are you sure you want to talk about this?” Kate asked. “It feels a bit weird.”

  “I’m sure,” said Sarah. “If Matt and I are to have any future together, I’ve got to understand his past.”

  “Maybe you should be asking Matt?” asked Kate.

  “What, Mr. Squeamish?” Sarah laughed. “He can’t talk about other women with me; he goes all red and blotchy and starts stuttering.”

  Kate laughed.

  “I can imagine,” she said. “Before you, there was a woman called Jessica; nice enough, but it didn’t last long, so I doubt she’s your ghost.”

  “Right,” said Sarah. “And before her?”

  Kate thought back.

  “A couple of years ago there was Callie,” said Kate. “She was nice. Professional tennis player; they met at a charity tennis match up at the manor. Matt was doing the catering. She traveled a lot and Matt was too busy to follow her around. I think it came to an amicable end, so I don’t think she’s your ghost either.”

  “No,” said Sarah. “He’s mentioned Callie before. What about Nadia?”

  “Ah,” said Kate. “Now Nadia was a bit more long-term. We—that is, the collective Blexford we—thought she might be the next Mrs. Matt Wells. But it wasn’t to be.”

  “So it could be Nadia,” Sarah mused.

  “Could be,” said Kate. “She cheated on Matt with her boss. I think she dented his pride more than his heart. His wife apparently cheated on him too, so I think Nadia was a double kick in the balls. And beyond that, I’m afraid, I can’t help you. Matt and I lost contact for a long time, though I don’t think he’s been exactly prolific in the relationship department.”

  “Hmmm,” Sarah mused. “That would explain his reticence, I suppose. Two cheating partners is enough to make anyone hold back a bit.”

  “I suppose so,” said Kate. “But I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. He’s really into you, Sarah, I can tell.”

  Sarah smiled; she looked pleased, and Kate was suddenly engulfed by an inexplicable sadness. She swallowed thickly and pushed the sensation away.

  “That whole marriage thing was a bit weird, though, wasn’t it?” said Sarah.

  Kate shook herself mentally.

  “Bloody weird!” she agreed.

  “Did you really have sex on the beach the other night?” asked Sarah.

  And they both laughed. The kind of laughing that once you start you can’t stop and which makes it very difficult to drive.


  * * *

  • • • • •

  The pub was one of those fairly-newly-built-but-built-to-look-old buildings, with ample parking and a pergola that ran the length of the front, dripping with ivy and fairy lights. Weather-beaten tables with wonky benches sat beneath it. Each table was adorned with a flickering tea light in a jam jar and a sprig of holly in a bottle.

  Kate and Sarah walked through the gabled entrance with its crooked, knotty door frame, and the smell of wood smoke and hops enveloped them. Pinned to a large board by the inner door was a seating plan, the kind you find at weddings. Across from it was a fresh Christmas tree, clearly decorated by someone with control issues.

  They scoured the seating plan for Kate’s and Laura’s names, finding them on a table at the far end of the pub, off to the right, near the kitchens.

  They pushed through another set of doors and into the pub proper. It was a vast room but sectioned off into smaller, more intimate spaces by gnarled timber columns and half-structured frames. There were three enormous Tudor-style brick fireplaces, one at either end of the pub and one in the middle, which separated the bar area from the restaurant. Each hearth danced with crackling, snapping flames that could be heard above the Christmas music and the din of voices. Swags of rich juniper-green pine branches and ivy festooned the brickwork above the fireplaces and draped down from the ceiling above the bar.

  “Drink?” asked Kate.

  “Absolutely,” replied Sarah.

  They found a table close by and settled into cracked leather armchairs. Sarah admired the reclaimed floorboards while Kate surreptitiously took photographs of the garlands for her sketchbook. A nervous voice trembled out from the PA system for them to take their places at their allotted tables in ten minutes.

  Kate and Sarah were playing a game of “who’s going to pair off with who” by watching the mating dances of the men and women at the bar, when Sarah stiffened and all the color drained out of her face. Kate reached her hand out and touched her arm.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Don’t look round,” said Sarah through gritted teeth.

  “Okay,” said Kate. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Sarah shifted herself down in her chair so that she was hidden from the bar by the high back of Kate’s armchair. She beckoned Kate toward her and Kate dutifully leaned in.

  “There was this guy,” said Sarah. Kate noticed that Sarah’s eyes had gone glassy. “The guy, actually. We were going to get married,” she went on. “And then I got offered the head teacher position at Great Blexley Primary. I couldn’t turn it down! I’d worked so hard. I’d been a deputy head for four years; this was my big chance to run a school the way I wanted it run.”

  She stopped and grappled a tissue out of her handbag.

  “So, what happened?” asked Kate.

  Sarah caught her breath. She hiccupped trying to hold back a sob.

  “He didn’t want to leave Bromley,” said Sarah. “All his friends were there. His job. He didn’t want to have to start again. So that was it. And now . . . now he’s here.”

  Sarah looked at Kate with big brown eyes that welled with tears and overflowed, spilling down her cheeks. Kate’s heart ached for her.

  “Get me out of here,” Sarah whispered. “Please.”

  “Of course,” said Kate. “Tell me where he is. I’ll casually make sure he’s looking the other way and we’ll make a break for it.”

  “He’s over by the slot machine,” said Sarah.

  Kate looked over with what she hoped was nonchalance.

  “The blond one or the one in the denim jacket?” asked Kate.

  “No, no!” said Sarah. “The other slot machine. The tall Indian guy with the beard.”

  Kate moved her eyes across to the Test Your Knowledge machine.

  “What? Oliver?” said Kate.

  “You know him?” Sarah sniffed.

  Kate grimaced.

  “Kind of,” she said.

  Myriad hazy inappropriate images, hot kisses, and wandering hands flooded Kate’s mind.

  Oliver chose that moment to turn around. He locked eyes with Kate and grinned wolfishly. He waved and, after he’d drawn his friend’s attention away from the machine, the two of them began to make their way across the pub.

  “Shit! He’s coming over!” Kate hissed through a tight smile.

  “Oh God, no,” said Sarah. “I can’t see him. I can’t. Don’t let him see me!”

  Kate was panicking. She half stood and sat down again and chewed her finger.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Anything!” said Sarah. Her tears had fled now; her eyes were wild, her cheeks red and blotchy. “Cause a distraction and I’ll sneak out and meet you by the car.”

  Kate jumped up and kicked out at the table, sending it flying onto its side and the glasses rolling off along the bobbly floorboards, their contents splattering the legs of anyone in the vicinity. Sarah drop-rolled off the chair and onto her hands and knees, where she broke into a fast crawl, away from Oliver, swerving around chairs and table legs as she made for the exit.

  “Whoa there!” Oliver laughed. He grabbed hold of Kate and hugged her, kissing her on the cheek. His scent made her blush.

  “Hi!” said Kate. “I didn’t know you’d be at this one.”

  “Yeah, it was a last-minute thing,” he said as he righted the table and retrieved the now-spent glasses. “They had me down for the go-carting evening, but my brother’s flying in from Edinburgh that night and I need to pick him up from the airport. So I swapped to pub quiz night.”

  “Great!” said Kate.

  “I’m glad I did now,” said Oliver.

  Kate giggled girlishly; she didn’t seem to be able to stop. Oliver’s friend coughed loudly.

  “Oh God, sorry, mate,” said Oliver. “Kate, this is my friend Andy. Andy, Kate.”

  They exchanged hellos and shook hands awkwardly.

  “Andy works with me in . . .” He stopped. He was staring over the top of Kate’s head. Kate’s heart sank. She turned slowly to follow his gaze. Sure enough, it was fixed on Sarah’s bottom wiggling furiously as she navigated her way through a tight cluster of tables.

  “Sarah?” he called above the noise. His deep voice carried across the pub. Sarah stopped, midcrawl. Frozen.

  “Sarah!” he called again.

  Kate bit her lip.

  “Sarah?” said Kate. “Sarah who? I had an aunt Sarah, she was a terrible cook, she kept rats, or was it mice? I forget . . .”

  Oliver wasn’t listening. His eyes remained glued to Sarah’s escaping backside. Kate gave it up. Sarah remained rooted to the spot. People were beginning to notice that there was a woman on the floor near the jukebox. Slowly and as casually as one can get up off all fours in a pub and retain any dignity, Sarah got to her feet. She held up a ten-pence piece.

  “Found it!” she declared lamely.

  * * *

  • • • • •

  There followed awkward shrugs, lingering looks, brief but polite conversations that simmered with unspoken truths, and far too many apologies before Kate and Sarah made a rushed and graceless retreat.

  They were silent as Kate pulled out of the car park and onto the main road. She drove for about five minutes before turning off the main road and into a small hamlet. She continued down a narrow winding street until she found a quiet spot in front of a pair of thatched cottages and parked underneath a streetlamp.

  Kate took off her seat belt and leaned her head back against the headrest. Sarah followed suit. They stayed quiet for a few minutes. Taking stock. Just the sounds of their breathing and the tick of her dashboard clock.

  There were a lot of questions whizzing around in Kate’s mind. She had a sick feeling in her stomach. Did Matt know that Sarah still h
arbored hurt from her breakup with Oliver? And if not, should Kate tell him? Was it her place to meddle? After all, everyone has baggage, especially by the time you’ve reached your midthirties. And Sarah and Matt’s affection for each other was clearly genuine.

  And what of Sarah? Kate’s recollection of her night with Oliver was sketchy, but she distinctly remembered him confiding that he regretted letting the love of his life go: the love of his life that, as it turns out, was Sarah. Should she tell Sarah? Should she tell Oliver that Sarah was still nursing a broken heart over him?

  And then of course there was the rather awkward situation of Kate having gotten hot and heavy with Sarah’s ex-partner. Kate thought that was definitely something best kept to herself.

  Kate puffed out a long breath. Sarah made a squeaking noise and covered her face with her hands and Kate thought she might be crying. But when she turned to look at her in the watery glow of the streetlamp, she saw that Sarah was trying to stifle her laughter.

  It was infectious. The pub scene had been so utterly stressful that they hadn’t had time to appreciate the full absurdity of the situation. Sarah’s voice was a high-pitched squeal:

  “I could hear you shouting from across the room, ‘I had an aunt Sarah!’”

  “I didn’t know what to do!” said Kate. “I turned around to see your bottom wiggling along the floor!”

  They were both laughing uncontrollably now, holding their stomachs and covering their mouths. They laughed until their cheeks and sides ached.

  “Stop!” squealed Sarah. “I’ve got a stitch.”

  “I’m going to wet myself!” Kate exclaimed, far too loudly.

  But it only made them worse. Even when the curtains twitched up in one of the cottages. Even when a woman out walking her dog knocked on the window to see if they were all right.

  “Oh God,” said Kate as the woman marched back along the path. “She probably thinks we’re drunk.”