One Day in December

by Josie Silver

  “No, I came because I’m worried about you,” she says, sliding from the arm of the sofa onto the seat, her knees angled toward me.

  “Well, as you can see, there’s no need to be.” I gesture grandly down at my fortuitously clean T-shirt. “Contrary to what Sarah has no doubt told you, I’m not wallowing in a stinking cesspit of my own self-pity. I’ve showered and I’ve eaten breakfast, so you can stand down from your suicide watch or whatever this is supposed to be.”

  “A clean T-shirt isn’t enough to convince me that you’re fine,” she says. “I’m always here if you need someone to talk to, okay?”

  I laugh. “Go and volunteer at the Samaritans if you want to listen to someone’s problems.”

  “Just stop, will you?” she says, staring at me. “That’s enough.”

  “That’s enough?” I hope the razor-sharp derision is enough to cut. “Enough?”

  Her chin comes up, her round, wary eyes watching me. “Yes, Jack. Enough. I haven’t come here to fight with you. There’s no reason for you to be so damn rude.”

  I glance at her. “How’s work?”

  She looks for a second as if she’s having trouble keeping up with my swift change of direction. “Umm, yeah,” she says. “It’s fine. I like it.”

  “Good for you.” I nod, pointing at her with my beer bottle. “Although I always imagined you’d find something a bit more, you know, grown up.” I’m not proud of myself right now. I know how much landing that job meant to Laurie, and that she’ll be damn good at it. I can’t think of another person more full-hearted and kind to answer teenage problems without belittling their worries. I see how my offensive remark hurts her. It would be better for both of us if she just left.

  “Is that so?”

  I nod. “Everybody has to start somewhere, though.”

  “Yes, I suppose they do,” she says. “How’s the job hunt going?”

  Oh, clever. Just when I was already feeling like a loser, she throws that one in. “Oh, you know how it is. They’re queuing around the block, but I’m keeping my options open.”

  “You should probably buy yourself a new razor if you get called in for any interviews.”

  I run my hand defensively over my stubble. Okay, so maybe it’s gone past stubble into minor beard territory. I think I can carry it off. “Did you come here for a row? Because you’ll get one.”

  “No, of course not,” she says, exasperated. “Look, Jack. Everybody is worried about you. Sarah. Your mum…I know the accident must have been incredibly tough, and that losing out on your job was really crappy, but you can’t just sit here and rot. That’s not who you are.”

  I watch her as she speaks; the way her mouth moves, the even line of her teeth. The beer must be going to my head. “You’ve barely changed at all over the years,” I surprise myself by saying, and her expression slides from concerned to wrong-footed. “You still remind me of a street urchin or a Parisian waif.”

  She looks startled, as if she’s going to say one thing and then rejects it in favor of something else. “Sarah said you’ve thrown your painkillers away.”

  “They were numbing me.”

  “That’s what they’re supposed to do, Jack. Numb the pain.”

  I huff, because it wasn’t just my pain they were numbing. It was my brain too. I’ve been walking like a man in lead boots, too tired to raise my bones from my bed, too fuddled to think any further ahead than my next meal and how long it is until I can go back to bed again. A small part of me acknowledges that the booze is doing pretty much the same thing.

  “I miss you.” The words don’t register as my own, so much so that I almost look behind me to see if there is someone else here.

  Her demeanor changes, and she drops to her knees in front of me, her hands over mine. “Look at me. Jack, listen. Please let us help you. Let me help you. Let me be your friend again.”

  She’s looking at me sincerely with those big violet eyes of hers, as her fingers squeeze mine.

  “It’s always been like this with us, hasn’t it?” I don’t have any control over the words spilling from my mouth. “When you look at me, I know that you really see me. I don’t think anyone ever has, Lu. Not the way you do.”

  She swallows and looks down, frowning and confused by the direction our conversation has taken. I am too.

  “How can I help?” she says, meeting my eyes again, staying doggedly on message. “Shall we make a list of all of the stuff on your mind and work through it?”

  The only thing on my mind right now is Laurie. “You always smell like summer flowers. It’s my favorite smell in the fucking world.” What am I doing?

  “Jack…”

  I can’t not do this. This is the first time I’ve felt like a man in as long as I can remember, and it feels so damn good, like waking up from a coma. Her hand is warm and fragile in mine, and I do the only thing I can do, or perhaps the one thing I can’t not do. I lower my mouth over hers and kiss her, my mouth trembling, or perhaps it’s hers. I catch her off guard, and for just a second it’s perfect, my hand on her face, her lips warm under mine. And then it isn’t perfect anymore, because she wrenches back and away from me, stumbling to her feet.

  “Jesus, Jack, what are you doing?” She’s breathing fast, one hand on her hip, bending a little as if she’s just stopped running.

  “Isn’t this what you came for?” I say, spiteful in my shame, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth as if she tastes rancid. “While the cat’s away and all that?”

  She gasps and presses her hands to her flushed cheeks, horrified by my implication. “We’ve been friends for a long time, Jack O’Mara, but if you ever say anything like that to me again, we’re done. Is that clear?”

  “Oh, so high and mighty, Laurie,” I mock, getting to my feet and pacing because the room suddenly feels claustrophobic. I’ve been cooped up in here for months, and now all I want is to open the door and get out. I’d walk to the edges of our island, and then I’d walk into the sea, and not stop until it’s over. “It hasn’t always been like that, though, has it? Everything was different when it was you who needed comforting, wasn’t it? When you were sad, bone-tired, and wallowing in your own misery?”

  She’s shaking her head slowly and her eyes have filled with tears. “Please don’t say any more, Jack. It’s not the same and you know it.”

  “Yeah,” I spit. “It was different because it was you who needed me back then, and I wasn’t so fucking high and mighty as to turn you down.” I jab my finger toward her in the space between us. “I took pity on you, and now the tables have turned and you can’t lower yourself to return the fucking favor.” It’s not true. Not a word of it. I don’t recognize the vicious loser I’ve become. I take a step toward her, to do I don’t know what, and she backs away from me, horrified. I see the person I’ve become in her eyes and it makes me sick. But then, as she moves, that bloody starfish pendant catches my eye and I reach out to grab it. I don’t know why, it’s irrational, I just want to do something to make her stop, but she jerks away from me and it snaps from around her neck. I stare at it for a moment, then throw it to the floor, and we stand stock-still and glare at each other. Her chest is heaving and I can hear my blood rushing in my veins like water crashing against rocks.

  Slowly, warily, she stoops down and retrieves her necklace, never taking her eyes off me, as if I am an animal about to attack.

  “Run on home, Starfish, and don’t come back,” I say, choking on the pathetic endearment I’ve heard Oscar use when he thinks no one’s listening. She sobs, full-on sobs, then she turns and runs, out of the door, out of the flat, out of my life. I watch her go from my window, and then I lie down on the floor and stay there.

  Laurie

  Jack scared me this morning. No, he horrified me. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Sarah w
hen she asks how my visit went. I’d no idea the state he was in, he’s dangerously low. God knows he’s not a man given to violence or vicious words under normal circumstances; it scared me to see him like that.

  I tie my hair up in the bathroom and twist to look at the back of my neck. As I thought, there’s a mark, a small red graze where the catch on my necklace dug into my skin before it snapped. I place a cold washcloth on it and then I sink down and sit on the edge of the bath. I don’t care about my neck; I know Jack well enough to know he would never hurt me intentionally; the chain was delicate enough to snap easily. But it was what it meant. And his words. Don’t come back.

  NOVEMBER 12

  Jack

  “I need to order some, er, flowers,” I say. I’ve been loitering in the florist’s for the last few minutes, waiting for everyone else to leave. It’s fully Christmassed up in here already, decked out with ribbons and holly wreaths, and one whole wall of shelves is covered with those huge red plants that everyone sticks on the fireplace and battles to keep alive until New Year.

  The fortysomething florist is bundled into a Puffa jacket, her fingers red and chapped. It’s cold enough in here to see my breath.

  “Any idea what kind you want?” she asks, still scribbling on the previous customer’s order slip.

  “The kind that say I’m sorry I’ve been an idiot?”

  Her pencil stops moving, and the look she gives me tells me she’s been here before. “Red roses?”

  I shake my head. “No, no. Nothing, you know, romantic.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Chrysanths go down well with more mature ladies…mums, for instance?”

  Jesus, what is she, a florist or a therapist? “They’re not for my mum. I just want something that says I’m genuinely sorry. To a friend.”

  She disappears into the back and comes back carrying a glass bowl brimming with fat peonies, creamy-white and lavender blue. “Something like this?”

  I study them. They’re almost the exact same color as Laurie’s eyes.

  “Just the white ones,” I say. I don’t want the flowers to carry a jot of unintended meaning. “Do you have a card I can write to send with them?”

  She hands me a shoebox that’s been divided by hand-written labels. One of the biggest sections, tellingly, is “I’m sorry”; clearly I’m not the first and won’t be the last guy in here who’s been a schmuck. I flick through the designs for the simplest, make a snap decision and pull out two.

  “I need to order two of those please,” I say, nodding toward the peonies she’s placed down on the floor behind the counter.

  “Two?” She raises her eyebrows.

  I nod, and this time her look suggests that she’s distinctly unimpressed. “You don’t want me to vary them even slightly?”

  “No, exactly like that, please.” She can think what she wants to think, I don’t care. If I order the same, then I can’t get it wrong when Sarah mentions them.

  She shrugs and attempts to look neutral. “I just deliver the flowers,” she says. “Your business is your business.” She hands me a pen and walks away to help another customer who’s just come in with a “Santa Stop Here” sign and a bunch of mistletoe from outside.

  I look down at the tiny card and wonder how on earth I’m supposed to say enough in such a small space. I’ve acted like a headcase for weeks. Laurie’s visit was the final straw; I lay on the floor after she left and it occurred to me that all of the people I love are in danger of giving up on me. It’s frightening how easily your life can spiral out of control; one day I was on the up and up, the next I’m facedown on the carpet, dribbling. I haven’t had another drink since, and I’ve seen the doctor for some milder pills to manage the pain. He suggested counseling; it’s early days—I’m not sure I’m quite ready to get all touchy-feely yet.

  “Sarah,” I write, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a fool lately. You’re an angel for putting up with me. I’ll change. J xx.” I seal it inside its envelope before Judge Judy can read it over my shoulder, writing Sarah’s name and address on the front.

  The other card stares up at me, blank and intimidating.

  Dear Laurie? Laurie? Lu? I don’t know what note to strike. I hesitate, pen poised, and then I think to hell with it and write without thinking too much, in the hope that it’s going to come out right. The worst that can happen is I’ll need to spend another 20p on a fresh card.

  “Hey Laurie. I’m sorry for the way I behaved. I didn’t mean a word of it. Not one. Except that I miss you. I’m so sorry I fucked our friendship up. Jack (shithead) x”

  It’s not perfect, but it’s going to have to do, because the florist is all keen-eyed as she slides behind the counter to finish serving me. I put the card in the envelope and fill out the front, then push them both across the counter toward her.

  She doesn’t say a word as she rings up my bill, but as she hands my credit card back she smiles. An acid smile that says you’re a very, very bad person, and I’ll take your money but that doesn’t mean I approve of you.

  “I’ll take care not to mix the deliveries up,” she says, sarcastic.

  “You do that,” I say. I’m all out of smart comebacks, because she’s right. I’m a very, very bad person, and I don’t deserve forgiveness from either of them.

  NOVEMBER 13

  Laurie

  “There’s another man sending you flowers? Tell me who he is and I’ll challenge him to a duel.”

  Oscar’s just come in from work and is hanging up his overcoat when he notices the bowl of peonies on the hall table. I seriously considered binning them when they arrived earlier, because he was bound to ask who’d sent them and I didn’t want to tell him a lie. I didn’t chuck them in the end. They’re so beautiful, they deserve to be admired; it’s not the flowers’ fault they were sent by Jack O’Mara. I smile at Oscar’s lighthearted comment; I don’t know if he’s just so secure in our relationship that he isn’t concerned or if he’s too damn nice for his own good and always ready to jump to the benign conclusion. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if he owned a dueling pistol.

  “Jack sent them,” I say, fiddling with the starfish pendant I had mended without mentioning anything to Oscar.

  He pauses as he lays his keys down beside the bowl, a fractional frown, the tiniest of double takes.

  “We had a bit of a falling-out a few days ago,” I say. I’ve been struggling to decide what to tell Oscar ever since the day at Jack’s flat; how much information constitutes the truth, how much omission constitutes lying. Now I wish I’d just come out with it.

  He follows me into the kitchen and sits on one of the breakfast stools as I pour us both a glass of red. It’s a pattern we’ve fallen into on the evenings when he’s not dining out with clients; it’s a little clichéd, I know, but he works late so often that I normally have dinner ready and a bottle open by the time he gets home. It feels like the least I can do when I’m staying here for free. Still. Anyway, I don’t really mind; as long as he doesn’t ask me to warm his slippers or stuff his pipe, I’m good. There’s something soothing about coming in and chopping vegetables, especially after long days like today. Being a teen agony aunt isn’t all prom dress stress and period advice. My inbox has been particularly heavy-going this afternoon; I’ve been researching bulimia to try to help a fifteen-year-old boy who wrote to me about the struggle he’s hiding from his family. I just wish I could do more; sometimes I feel hopelessly underqualified for this job.

  “What did you and Jack argue over?”

  “He was upsetting Sarah,” I say. “His self-destructive behavior had reached a point where he’d crossed the line into wallowing. She asked me if I’d mind trying to get through to him, and it didn’t go so well.”

  My speech pattern sounds unnaturally fast, as if I’m a child on stage, rushing to get my rehearsed line out b
efore I forget it and screw up the play. It strikes me that I’ve been lying about Jack O’Mara to different people for different reasons for almost as long as I’ve known him. Even if only by omission.

  Oscar tastes his wine as he watches me pull the stew I’ve prepared out of the oven.

  “Perhaps a change of scene would do him good,” he says, his voice unreadable.

  I nod. “A holiday might be an idea.”

  He loosens his tie and pops his top button. “I was thinking of something a bit more long term. A new start.” He breaks off, watching me carefully. “A new city. I mean, everywhere has a local radio station, right?”

  What’s the collective noun for bats, I wonder? A horde? A plague? And then it comes to me. A colony. I have a colony of bats behind my rib cage, their claws hooked over my bones as they hang upside down, and the mention of Jack making a fresh start somewhere outside of London has them fussing and stretching their eerie paper-thin wings. It makes me queasy. Would it be for the best if Jack were to leave? Where would he go? And would Sarah go with him? The thought of losing them makes me swallow a mouthful of wine rather than the sip I’d intended.

  “It’d be too tricky for Sarah to leave London with her job,” I say mildly, pulling bowls from the cupboard.

  He watches me, sipping his wine. “There’re trains. She could stay in London.”

  Oscar has never voiced an overtly negative opinion of Jack, and I sense that he’s stopping himself short of it now. I know full well there are trains, and they could commute to see each other if they lived in different cities. I just don’t want them to.

  “It’s a thought,” I say, hoping it’s a thought neither of them ever has. Is that selfish? I can see merit in the idea of Jack kick-starting his life somewhere without any of the negative connotations dogging him here: the accident, his stalled career. These days I think I’m one of those negatives too. Our friendship is brittle, fire-damaged; as I look back on it I can’t discern if it’s ever been as genuine as I thought it was. It appears real, but it’s been built for purpose because we both love Sarah. Oscar holds his tongue; there’s an unusual atmosphere between us tonight, a weight in the air, a storm warning.