by Low, Shari
So far, it had been the longest fifteen hours and forty minutes of her life. Now, at 8.45 a.m., standing in the open doorway, looking over her back garden, she took a long, intoxicating drag on the cigarette that dangled between her fingers. There was a bloody irony right there, she decided. These were the fecking things that had got her into this mess in the first place. A rasping cough interrupted her thoughts and as soon as it subsided, she pulled her dressing gown tighter around her, then lifted her mug of tea to her lips.
She was going to catch her death standing there, but this had been part of her morning routine for so long that – rain, hail, sunshine or snow – it just wouldn’t feel the same to start her day any other way. Up, dressing gown on, downstairs, make a cuppa, open the back door, have her first cigarette while casting her eyes over her the daily changes in her garden.
A robin watched her from the ancient oak birdhouse that she kept fully stocked in winter, its red breast puffed out, eyes beady. The sight would normally have made her smile. Not today.
She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray that sat on the worktop just inside the door and took a deep breath, setting off another coughing fit.
‘Bloody hell, you sound like you’re on yer last legs there,’ Val had said to her a few months ago after a similar episode. ‘You need to get that checked and then get some big handsome bloke to rub that Vicks menthol stuff on yer chest.’ The two of them had creased into cackles, then continued wandering around Topshop. It was one of Josie’s favourite pastimes, watching the shocked looks on the young ones’ faces when she trotted into the dressing room, all seventy-ish years old (she refused to calculate the exact number and threatened to staple shut the mouths of anyone else who even thought about blurting it out), and came out looking deadly in a pair of black skinny jeans and a slinky top. Other than the obvious landslide situations caused by age and gravity, her figure had barely changed a jot since she was a teenager, nor had her fashion taste. Still a size 8–10, still wore black, still channelled a cross between Emma Peel from the Avengers and – with her white spiky hair – Billy Idol. Add a bright red lip, an attitude of defiant indestructibility and an over-fondness for profanity, and that formed the armour that had kept her enjoying every moment of her life for seven decades.
The cold morning air was making her shiver now, so she closed the back door and retreated to the kitchen table with her steaming mug. How many people had sat around this table and bared their souls over the years? Her daughter Avril used to call it Drama Central, because the moment anyone within a five mile radius had a disaster, trauma or problem, they’d show up here and out would come the biscuit tin, the teabags and the kitchen roll for mopping up tears. Josie would listen, console them and offer sweary wisdom until the poor soul felt better. Now the kitchen roll was on her side of the table.
She’d been looking forward to today for months and she should be long gone by now, on her way to pick up Val, before heading over to Caro’s flat to spend the morning on the Buck’s Fizz, bossing everyone around while delighting in every second of the anticipation and revelry before tonight’s ceremony.
Yesterday’s phone call had changed everything.
The old wooden wall clock ticked relentlessly, but to her relief the sound was drowned out by the sudden ringing of her mobile phone. She snatched up the handset and checked the screen. Not the doctor’s office again. The word ‘Cammy’ flashed at her. Summoning every ounce of strength she possessed, she pressed the green button and launched into one of her usual barbed but affectionate greetings. ‘What is it? I’m a busy woman and my time is expensive.’
‘You know if I was thirty years older I’d be marrying you today,’ Cammy’s smooth, amused voice promised her.
‘You couldn’t keep up with me,’ she shot back with a wry chuckle, trying desperately to sound as normal as possible. Cammy. Her friend for well over ten years, since they worked together in a ‘his and hers’ lingerie boutique, a riotous time of her life that she’d absolutely adored. The laughs they’d had, forging a friendship that had been instant and full of mischief. Outsiders may have judged them an unlikely pairing, but Josie didn’t give a hoot what anyone else thought. Many of her circle of friends were in their thirties, forties, fifties… Age had no relevance for her, given that she refused to pay any attention to her own. Besides, she thought of Cammy as family, joining Michael and Avril, her adult children, at the top of the Christmas card list. Not that she actually sent cards – not with the price of bloody stamps these days.
‘Sad but true,’ Cammy agreed, feigning sadness. ‘Anyway, I’m just phoning to check on you. Are you on your way to pick up Val?’
‘No, there’s been a slight… erm… change of plan.’
‘Oh God, what’s happened?’ he groaned. ‘You’ve been arrested. You’ve fallen down a pothole. You’ve—’
Josie decided to set him straight. ‘I spent all night shagging George Clooney and Amal just turned up at the door demanding I give him back. Stroppy cow, that one. So now I just need to get shot of her, freshen up my lady bits, go pick up my wedding togs and then I’m meeting Val there.’ Josie sent up a silent prayer to the gods of maledom that the mention of lady bits would throw Cammy and he’d skip over the change of plan and decide there was nothing to worry about. She didn’t give him a chance to counter. ‘Anyway, how are you feeling this morning? Ready to marry a woman who is far too good for you?’ she teased. It was the least he would expect.
‘Absolutely. Not quite sure how I got this lucky,’ he added, with a tone that hinted at both honesty and uncharacteristic seriousness, before switching back to more familiar humour. ‘I just hope she doesn’t see sense and ditch me at the altar.’
‘If she does, I’ll step in and marry you. I’m thirty years too old for you, but it’ll make the papers and we’ll score a fortune from the scandal. They’ll have us on Good Morning Britain by the end of the week.’
Cammy’s laughter was low and infectious. ‘Done. Anyway, I’d better go and drag my best men out of whatever gutter they landed in last night. Josie, thanks again for everything you’ve done to help us today. You know we love you.’
Josie felt her throat constrict, and this time it wasn’t because of those damned cigarettes. ‘See if you’re still saying the same when you get my bill,’ she joked, before hanging up.
Her head immediately went into her hands, pained by the effort of the cheery façade. Fuck. Keeping this up all day was going to be a nightmare. Of course, she might not have to. Maybe it would all go swimmingly. Maybe she was reading too much into yesterday’s call. Perhaps she only had good news ahead.
The clock chimed 9 a.m. and her finger hit the number she’d programmed in earlier.
‘Dr Ormond’s office, Margaret Rosemund speaking, can I help you?’
‘Yes. This is Josephine Cairney. You left a message on my answering machine yesterday about scan results.’ It was a wonder the woman on the other end of the phone could hear her over the sound of the fireworks that were going off in her head.
‘Let me just check…’ A pause. ‘Ah, yes, Miss Cairney. Dr Ormond would like to discuss your results. The first appointment I have is Friday, January the third, at 3 p.m.’
‘No,’ Josie said simply.
The woman on the other end of the phone sounded puzzled. ‘No?’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s unacceptable. I am in my advancing years and I don’t suppose I have many Christmases left in me. I’m not going to spend this one in a state of panic because I don’t know if I’m about to be dealt some bad news from Dr Grim Reaper. So I need to see him today.’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not possible. He’s fully booked and—’
Josie creased as another coughing fit hijacked her body, forcing a pause before she could answer. ‘Margaret, I’m sure you’re a lovely lady and I know you’re doing your best. But the reason my son added me to his extortionate private insurance policy was because I’m closer to the exit than the entrance. The str
ess of worrying about what the good doctor has to tell me will kill me before Christmas Eve. So here’s the thing – I’m going to head on down to his office right now. I know he starts at ten o’clock, so I’ll be there at 9.45. He can choose to either put this old dear out of her misery and tell me the verdict, or he can have me ejected. I hope he’ll do the festive thing and go for the first option. See you then.’ With that, she hung up, leaving a dumbstruck Margaret stuttering out an objection to an audience of no one.
Josie Cairney hadn’t got this far in life by playing to other people’s rules and limitations and she wasn’t going to start now. This was too important. All she wanted to do was go and see two people she loved get married and start a glorious existence together.
But first, today was the day that she was going to find out if this Christmas would be her last.
Four
Stacey
The guy in the seat next to Stacey had been casting sly glances at her since the seatbelt sign had gone off five minutes after leaving Dublin. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see he was wearing an expression she was all too familiar with – curiosity as to whether she really was who he thought she was, coupled with an internal dialogue of indecision as to whether or not he should ask her. She really hoped he wouldn’t. It felt like the last twenty-four hours had lasted a week and she just wasn’t up to idle, awkward chit-chat.
She’d done everything she could to avoid this kind of encounter – she’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up and – the ultimate disguise – had thrown on a baggy sweatshirt that drowned her figure. It had worked on the first leg of the journey from LA to Dublin – to Stacey’s relief, the woman sitting next to her on that flight hadn’t a clue that she was chatting to a TV celebrity whose face had made it on to billboards. Instead of fending off the usual questions, Stacey had spent all of the eleven hours listening to the stranger, who’d introduced herself as Coleen before she’d even got her bag in the overhead locker, sharing every detail of her Christmas plans, including the intricacies of every dynamic in her extended family. By the time they’d crossed the Atlantic and Coleen had hugged her goodbye and headed off to baggage reclaim, Stacey knew that Coleen’s niece, Orla, and her feckless husband, Seamus, were heading for post-Christmas splitsville, her grandson, Kayden, could do with a severe dose of discipline, her sister, Linda, had scandalised the town by flirting with the priest, and her late husband, God rest his soul, had been a saint who had adored her to his last breath, even if he did like a drink. Stacey had managed to squeeze in her first name, and the fact that she was heading back to Glasgow for a friend’s wedding. It was only a partial truth, but the other woman hadn’t stopped for breath long enough for Stacey to elaborate even if she’d wanted to. Which she most definitely didn’t. The last thing Stacey Summers wanted to talk about was herself, her life in LA, her star status, or the real reason for her trip back to her homeland this weekend.
Unfortunately, the man who was now sitting next to her hadn’t received that memo and decided to go for it. ‘Excuse me, I guess you must get this all the time, but are you…’
The accent was American, he was in his late thirties, maybe well maintained early forties, and the biggest demographic for the show, so Stacey knew he was probably going to get this right. Her fame hadn’t quite reached the British side of the Atlantic, but in the USA, she had gathered quite a following, not all of it welcome. Still, this guy looked fairly respectable, with no obvious signs of pervdom, so she wasn’t going to be rude.
‘Stacey from USA Speed Freaks?’
‘Would you believe me if I said no?’ she asked, not unkindly. She could see now that he was actually quite good-looking – smart suit, maybe Boss or Tom Ford, Movado watch, good haircut, a bit of stubble that was to be expected if he’d also travelled from the USA with a Dublin stopover. It was the route that Stacey always preferred to take when she was coming home, mainly because on the way back to LA, a special agreement between the American and Irish governments meant that she cleared US immigration at Dublin airport. No three hour wait trying to get through the arrivals queues at LAX, just off the plane and out of the door.
Perfect teeth flashed at her. ‘Not now that I’ve heard your accent.’
USA Speed Freaks was one of the most popular shows on the car channel, featuring a weekly competition between rival garages tasked with renovating similar sports cars. Stacey’s role as co-presenter had been – let’s be honest – fairly decorative at first, thanks to a uniform of tiny vests and miniscule Daisy Dukes, but over the last five years she’d won over even the most critical of viewers with her quick wit and sassy put-downs, all delivered in a Scottish accent that was still as strong as the day she’d left Glasgow twelve years ago. Now, at thirty-five, she was practically prehistoric in Hollywood years, but thanks to a long overdue wave of resistance against sexist ageism, the unparalleled knowledge she’d built up about cars, and a workout schedule that left her with a body that had barely changed in fifteen years, she was still a firm favourite with the show’s viewers.
Getting the role had been the biggest thrill of her life. After working as a dancer for years (yes, there were poles involved) and doing the odd bit of modelling, she’d gone to America after landing a part in a condom advert, which led to a relatively well paid campaign for a Scottish brand of bras that had been gaining increasing popularity overseas. At first, living there and trying to break into the entertainment industry in a land of unfeasibly beautiful people had been daunting, but when her mate, Cammy, had joined her, the life of a struggling actor/presenter/model suddenly became a lot more fun. Cammy had picked up enough retail and modelling work to stay afloat for nearly a decade, until he’d left, almost three years ago. A shudder reminded her that was a goodbye she didn’t want to think about.
She fast forwarded her mind to the present. Now, both professionally and personally, she’d had more success than she could ever have hoped for. Her role on USA Speed Freaks had gained her a huge following, she’d moved into a gorgeous apartment in West Hollywood, and she was in a relationship with Jax Green, her co-presenter for the last three years. Brought in to replace her original co-star, Taylor Lawrie, after he was involved in a drug fuelled pile up that wrecked his Lamborghini and his career, Jax was an immediate hit with the male viewers for his car knowledge and straight talking cheek. But he also gained an adoring female fanbase thanks to the fact that he was charming, drop-dead gorgeous, with a ripped and toned body that was close to perfection and the kind of tattoos that screamed ‘edgy’ without tipping over into trashy. Their relationship had been swift and the cherry on top of what seemed like a gilded existence. Yep, on the outside, it all looked perfect, but on the inside…
‘I love that show,’ the guy was saying now. ‘I’m Zac.’
‘Stacey,’ she replied, stating the obvious, making an effort to be pleasant but not over friendly. She didn’t want another new-found travelling companion. She was fairly sure Coleen had given her tinnitus.
It seemed he wasn’t great with subliminal messages. ‘That makeover you guys did with the ’54 Mustangs was awesome.’
Engage. Don’t engage. Engage. Don’t engage. Stacey checked her watch. Half an hour left until landing. May as well make polite conversation, so he didn’t think she was arrogant. The last thing she needed was some random guy tweeting that she’d been rude, and then she’d land to a hundred bitchy barbs from trolls. Ah, the joys of the social media age. Her decision to engage was delayed by the flight attendant placing a tray with a ham and cheese roll and a plastic cup of orange juice on the tray in front of her.
‘Yep, they looked great. I actually bought the white one after the show,’ she eventually replied. It had been one of the highlights of her life – buying the kind of car she’d only ever seen in movies when she was growing up. It sure beat the rust-ridden, MOT-failing, ancient Micra that had been her family car until she started work and helped her mum buy a new one.
&n
bsp; His eyes widened with interest. ‘Seriously? Man, that’s cool. That was a beauty.’
‘It still is,’ Stacey said. ‘I love it.’
Maybe that would be it. Small talk over. Time to return to a comfortable silence.
Or not.
‘Are you going home to visit family for the holidays?’ he asked, then grinned again, this time with sexy self-deprecation. ‘Sorry. It’s four days before Christmas. I guess that’s a pretty dumb question.’
Putting him at ease was instinctive. ‘I am. But I’m also going home for a wedding tonight. A… friend’s wedding.’
There was a narrowing of his brow. ‘And yet, you don’t look too happy about that. An ex?’
Both his perception and his frankness surprised her. It was one of the things that she usually loved about the people she encountered in LA – they had no filter and no concept of privacy. It reminded her of home. In the area of Glasgow she grew up in, you couldn’t wait for a bus without getting the complete life story of the person standing next to you.
‘Kind of. Not really. No.’ It was difficult to explain, especially because she couldn’t really make sense of it all herself. Cammy had come over to LA a few months after her and for years they’d shared a flat, partied their asses off, built up a great gang of mates, supported each other through relationship make-ups and break-ups, and been like the brother and sister neither of them had ever had. Cammy eventually found his own place, but that changed nothing.
For every moment of their time in Tinsel Town, she’d loved him. The problem was, she hadn’t realised that ‘loving him as a best friend’ had turned into ‘being hopelessly in love with him’ until it was too late. She’d met Jax, he’d moved in with her, and they were a few months into a turbulent on-off relationship when Cammy had decided to return to Scotland.
