by Low, Shari
Except to Verity, who did her very best to resist it.
‘Well, the thing is, it’s just the teachers and—’
She was immediately drowned out by Ned. ‘Of course we don’t mind. It’ll be great to have you with us. It’ll stop us talking shop all night. Good plan! Right, I’m just going to grab a quick shower, then I’ll be right with you.’
Off he trotted to the male locker room next door, leaving Zoe looking decidedly apologetic. ‘Sorry. I feel like I’ve completely hijacked your night.’
‘You have. But it’s fine. It was just a few drinks anyway.’
‘Good. So… not a date then?’ There was a hint of a tease in there that Verity chose to overlook.
She shook her head. ‘No, not at all.’ Years of experience had taught her to keep everything to herself. The minute you told one sister that you wanted something, everyone was in on the act and they either teased you, took it from you, or added so much drama it became an ongoing mini-series. She hadn’t seen her pogo stick since it mysteriously disappeared from her room in 1996 and she was fairly sure Zoe – ever the businesswoman even then – had flogged it to buy a space hopper. Of course, the acquisition of a sister’s possessions had never progressed to boyfriends, but Verity wasn’t up for testing the theory.
Zoe took a swig from her wine mug then grinned. ‘Good. Because you know that old adage about the best way to get over someone? I think I just found the perfect candidate for my rebound guy. At least for tonight.’
Verity felt six boxes of Quality Street simultaneously begin to tremble in her arms. Seriously? It had taken years to get to the ‘going out for a drink’ stage with Ned Merton and Zoe wasn’t swooping in and claiming him. ‘Oh, I think he’s erm… in a relationship with someone,’ she lied. ‘Look, why don’t you and I just head out now. Just the two of us. We were going out with a few of the other teachers and they’ll bore you to death anyway. I’ll let you cry on my shoulder all night and I won’t complain once.’
‘As long as there’s alcohol involved, I’m in. Although, Ted—’
‘Ned,’ Verity corrected her, bristling.
‘Ned…’ Another swig of wine. ‘Would have been a lovely distraction. Sorry, I’m objectifying him and I know that’s wrong, Miss Political Correctness 2018…’
Great. So now she was getting teased. Still, at least it beat Miss Stick Up Her Arse 2012–2018, which had been her previous moniker within the family. Why, oh why was this happening to her? Why couldn’t Zoe have crashed Marina or Yvie’s nights?
‘But, in my defence, I just got chucked. Did I mention that?’
‘You did.’
‘So tonight I’m having a night off from being a grown-up. I may even objectify several members of the opposite sex, so you might want to get a pair of earmuffs on.’
Verity’s teeth clamped tight to stop her biting back. It never changed. She was a grown woman. She had a professional career. She owned a house, a car and made healthy contributions to her pension. Yet, in the presence of an irritating sister, she still had occasional urges to thump her with a pillow and then go complaining to their mother about how Zoe was being a cow, trying to steal her stuff and it wasn’t fair.
‘I can handle it. Come on. Grab this stuff and help me out to the car.’
‘As long as I can take the wine,’ Zoe nodded to the box of bottles at Verity’s feet. ‘And I can’t guarantee it’ll all make it home safely.’
Verity shrugged. It would be a small price to pay to get her out of here and away from Ned Merton. And as for her crush? There was always next year. Or perhaps she could call him over the Christmas holidays. No, not a call, a text. Yep, that would be easier. She could come up with some work pretext and then maybe suggest they meet up somewhere that wouldn’t be spoiled by interference by anyone else. Especially someone who came from the same womb.
She watched Zoe drain her mug, then put it down on the windowsill. She swallowed the urge to complain that it would leave a ring on the wood and insist that her sister wash it and put it on the drainer. No time. Let’s go. Vacate the area. Abort Mission Ned.
They were almost at the door when it opened.
Ned’s delight was obvious.
‘Great, you’re ready! I’ve texted the others and told them we won’t make it. They’re just down in some pub near here anyway. Thought we could head into the city, make a night of it.’
Verity’s heart sank. She hated city centre bars. She hated the noise, the chaos, the prices. Total rip-off. Although, she’d have been more than happy to endure it if it was just her and Ned and a cosy corner for two. Not three.
‘A man after my own heart,’ Zoe was agreeing.
Damn. Now if she refused she’d look like… like… Yep, Miss Stick Up The Arse, 2012–2018.
New plan. She’d go along with it and hope that Zoe had such a head start in the vino stakes that she was in a taxi and on the way home before seven o’clock. Then she and Ned could go out for dinner, perhaps somewhere quiet, somewhere they could really talk and get to know each other better. Then she might even invite him back to her house. She kept it spotless so she never had to worry about unexpected guests. Not that she ever had any. She much preferred life to be organised in advance. That thought gave her a glimmer of hope that it might just work out after all.
‘Here, let me get that,’ Ned was saying now, as he took a box containing six bottles of wine from Zoe’s arms. ‘Verity, do you need me to grab anything else?’
Me, was her first thought, but she kept that to herself. There was plenty of time to work on that tonight. Much as she loved her sister and would give her the world, there were limits. She had been prepared to let the pogo stick go, but Ned Merton?
Heartbroken or not, her sister wasn’t taking him too.
4
Yvie – Eighteen Months Before
Yvie was hanging a large gold ball on one of the slightly threadbare tree branches, when a scene in the corner of the day room caught her eye.
‘Babs, back away from the target. Take a hint, my love.’
Babs, all seventy-nine years of her, rolled her eyes, breaking her expectant stare at Cedric, who was trying his best to pretend he was reading a two day old newspaper, which he was holding up in a strategic position between their faces.
Conceding defeat, Babs pushed her Zimmer in Yvie’s direction, then lowered herself into an armchair and tossed a branch of mistletoe over the shoulder of her bright red jumper emblazoned with the words ‘Gangsta Wrapper’.
‘Bloody useless stuff. I remember when it meant something. You could have a year-long drought, but as soon as the mistletoe came out, the lip action was on.’
‘Can’t be using that nowadays, Babs. You’ll end up on a watch list. The Mistletoe Prowler. Armed with a small branch and a wave of nostalgia.’
Despite her malcontent with the modern world, Babs let out a cackle of laughter. ‘At least it’ll be more bloody interesting than this place. I’ll give you next month’s pension if you break me out of here.’
Yvie dangled a flashing snowman from another branch. ‘Can’t. I’d miss you too much. And so would Cedric. Avoiding you is giving him a real purpose to his days here. You’re great for getting his activity levels up.’
Babs snorted out another cackle. That was the thing about Yvie’s favourite patient; she could dish out the banter, but she loved it when someone came right back at her.
Yvie reached up to place the last reindeer on a high branch. The tree had originally been put up on the first of December, but the lovely Mr Dawson (rheumatoid arthritis, requested custard with every meal) had clipped it with his wheelchair and sent the whole thing crashing down behind him this morning. Restoring it had taken Yvie the best part of an hour after she’d finished her shift, but it was worth it. It gave the patients and their families a little bit of normality at what was invariably a difficult time.
Ward 54 was the long-term geriatric ward at Glasgow Central, and Yvie had worked there since she’d
qualified eight years ago. Other friends in the profession had moved around, tried out different fields, but from the moment she’d started her rotation in geriatrics she knew it was where she belonged. Of course, this specialty brought heartbreak, nursing so many patients in the final chapters of their lives. But nothing else had come close to the enjoyment and fulfillment she got from working with people who were around long before internet and smart phones, who had stories to tell, lives to recount. And who, in the case of Babs and the many others like her, were still determined to make every day count.
‘Right, Babs, that’s me off for the night. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Not if I manage to escape during the night. I just need to think of a way to distract the bouncers.’ With that, she gestured to the window that separated the day room from the corridor, where the senior charge nurse, Kay Gorman, was marching from one end of the ward to the other. ‘There’s a wumman that could haunt a hoose,’ Babs said archly, her Glaswegian brogue thick with disapproval.
Yvie did her best to hide her amusement with a professional attitude. Kay was her best mate, but she conceded that she did give off a slightly stern aura. Underneath, she was pure mush though.
‘I’ll pass your comments on to Charge Nurse Gorman.’ She couldn’t keep up the formality: ‘You know, in case she’s looking for a new hobby. House haunting might work.’
Babs’ chuckles were still ringing in her ears as she headed out into the corridor and down past the nursing station.
‘What’s set Babs off this time?’ Kay asked, an amused glint in her eye.
‘Mistletoe. Don’t ask.’
‘Is she still calling me a torn-faced old boot? Or was that just yesterday’s slight?’
‘Nope, she’s got you haunting houses now.’
‘Excellent. I think that means I must be growing on her. Anyway, are you still okay for tomorrow?’
‘Absolutely.’
It was their only day off together all month and they’d planned shopping, eating, drinking and general Christmas merriment before Yvie clocked back on for five days straight. Yvie always worked double shifts Christmas Eve, the 6 a.m. to noon shift on Christmas morning, then double shifts on Boxing Day and the day after to let the staff with young families – Kay included – have as much time off as possible. It suited Yvie perfectly, as it meant she got to spend Christmas morning with her patients, then make it in time to Marina’s for the family lunch.
‘What plans are you two hatching now then?’
Yvie felt herself jump at the sound of the voice behind her. Why? Why, bloody why did Dr Seth McGonigle have this effect on her? Just the mere appearance of him made her feel flustered and judged and she wasn’t sure why. Her only theory was that her buttons were pressed by the cool, accomplished perfection of him. Not that she found him attractive. Definitely not. There was a long list of reasons why he absolutely wasn’t her type. Number one, he was very much married to a very aloof, perfectly formed cardio surgeon who worked out of the fourth floor. Number two, he was a health-obsessed exercise freak who cycled to work every day and he made her self-conscious because she had forgotten to go to the gym. For approximately 654 days in a row. Number three, in the two and a half years that he’d been the consulting orthopaedic specialist on this floor, he had been all brusqueness and barely offered a single moment of friendliness. And number four…
‘Not sure yet, but it involves shopping, cake and it will probably end in a karaoke bar with me murdering “Last Christmas”.’
Number four – she always blurted out nonsense when she was in his presence.
Again, why, bloody why? Since the first moment he’d crossed the threshold into their ward, rubbing sanitiser into his hands as he strode purposefully towards the nursing station, he’d caused some kind of chemical reaction in her brain that proved that when intelligence was mixed with professional decorum and Seth McGonicle, the result was a mortifying explosion of verbal diarrhoea.
He took a moment to digest the karaoke comment, before he shrugged, muttered a clearly unimpressed, ‘Whatever floats your boat,’ and sauntered off.
Yvie’s head thudded down on to the top of the nursing station, while Kay giggled.
‘You tit. You’re trying to impress him with Wham songs?’
‘Don’t say another word!’ Yvie stopped her, then picked up her bag and gave Kay a doleful kiss on the cheek. ‘I just don’t get why he can’t smile and be friendly. And I’m not trying to impress him – I was just being nice. Even so, I can’t believe I said that. I’m away home to wallow in my shame and incompetence in private.’
‘Are you sure you don’t fancy him maybe just a little?’ Kay asked, sceptically. ‘Because, you know, he’s cute. And fit. And smart. With only one major potential character flaw…’
‘Which is?’ Yvie asked, even though she really, really, didn’t want to.
‘He might not know the words to “Last Christmas”.’
Yvie paused. ‘I need a new friend,’ she said archly and took off, trying not to giggle, despite Kay’s laughter following her all the way down the corridor to the exit.
The car park was deserted, and so were the roads. Eight o’clock at night on the Friday before Christmas clearly wasn’t prime driving time. Only twenty minutes later, she was turning the key to her flat in the Southside suburb of Busby. Yvie often thought it would be easier to move nearer to work, but then she came home, to her lovely little home overlooking the river, and all thoughts of moving evaporated.
In her bedroom, she took off her clothes and dropped them in the laundry basket, pulled on a onesie – fur leopard print – and brushed her teeth. She’d once read that brushing the teeth reprogrammed the mind and made it less likely that you’d over eat afterwards. Final rinse completed, she contemplated the fact that she still did it even though she knew it was a load of bollocks, all the way to the fridge in the kitchen.
Okay, pre-prepared salad (made the night before from a Weight Watchers recipe). Chicken breast with wholemeal rice? (Slimming World). Two chicken breasts (Keto). Or maybe she should just shut the door and stick to the intermittent fasting plan she’d decided on when she woke up that morning.
Her stomach rumbled the answer. She was tired. She’d worked a twelve hour shift and then stayed behind afterwards to redo the tree. It was the Friday before Christmas and she was at home, alone, at nine o’clock at night, while the rest of the world was getting into the festive spirit. Sod it, she deserved to be nice to herself.
The chicken and sweetcorn pizza was out of the freezer and in the oven before she could stop herself. At least the sweetcorn had to count as one of her five a day. Oh, and take that, minty fresh breath.
Two opposite waves of feeling squared up against each other in her gut. Delight and anticipation held hands on one side, knowing they were about to be comforted by the giddy delight from Chicago Town. While a knot of disappointment gathered speed as it twisted up to tornado level. Seriously? Where the hell was her willpower? Her discipline? Her self-pride?
The ticking hands of the clock above the oven door were a welcome distraction as she spotted they were counting down to ten seconds to nine, eight seconds, five seconds, three seconds, one…
Her phone rang, right on schedule. It wasn’t even necessary to look at the screen.
‘Hi, Mum,’ she answered. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m leaving him, Yvie. I’ve made my mind up this time.’
Sighing, Yvie opened the fridge again, took out a bottle of Prosecco and, cradling the phone under her ear, popped the cork and poured a large glass. Again, sod it. It was empty calories, but it was worth it to get through what would undoubtedly be at least twenty minutes of her mother discussing plans to leave her husband. Poor Derek. Husband number three, and it was beginning to look like he was going to join her second husband (divorced 2008) in the Marge Danton Walton Morrison World of Past Tense.
Yvie felt her skin prickle as she thought about the first person who b
elonged on that list. It was twenty years this month since their father, Will Danton, had left. There in the morning, gone by nightfall, deserting them before Yvie even made it to her teenage years.
The shock of the cold wine hitting her stomach snapped her from the memory and halted the emotional train that was plummeting downwards.
Back to the call.
‘Why, Mum?’ She should have said, ‘Why today?’ or ‘Why this week?’ The threat was frequent and consistent, only the reasons changed.
‘Because what’s the point? Seriously. What. Is. The. Point?’ Marge wailed.
Decision time. Make some urgent excuse and cut it short or commit to what would undoubtedly be a long, agitated ramble, which would include several self-help quotes and at least one reference to Oprah Winfrey.
Reluctantly, but with an air of resignation, Yvie took her phone from her ear, switched it on to speaker and placed it on the counter. Only when she was braced, prepared, and had her wine back in hand, did she give the cue to open the floodgates.
‘The point of what, Mum?’
‘Of staying when he doesn’t nourish my soul? He just wants to give up. To sail into old age. I’m fifty bloody three, not eighty-three. I need more in my life, Yvie.’
‘I know you do, Mum.’ Her very best sympathetic tone. Drawer open. Plate out. Another drawer. Pizza Cutter. A pang of guilt. Solution. Open fridge again. Retrieve salad and decide to only eat half the pizza, and to have salad with it. Another one of her five a day.
‘You know, Oprah says we all have to live in our truth…’
Hell no. Fridge open again. Salad back in. This was a whole pizza kind of night.
The timer on the oven dinged just as her mum was winding up the conversation. ‘So I’m going to suggest he comes to yoga with me in the new year. I feel it’s his last chance to make an effort.’
‘Good idea, Mum.’ Pizza cutter in action. Six slices in seconds. Glance at the phone screen. Nineteen minutes her mum had been on for. Pretty much standard.
