by Ali Harris
‘I’m so glad I bumped into you this morning, Carly,’ he says softly. ‘I have to confess, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.’
I try not to gape at him. ‘You haven’t?’
‘I felt a connection to you from the moment I first saw you in the store,’ he says bashfully.
But that wasn’t me.
I force a smile in return but suddenly I feel like a complete fraud. Here I am on a date with a gorgeous man who is giving me compliments, but I’m caked in make-up, have crippled feet, am giving him opinions that aren’t my own and completely and utterly not being myself. Maybe I should confess now. He’s just too nice to deceive like this. I should introduce him to the real Carly instead. They’ll probably fall instantly in love and I could start a matchmaking service or something when I lose my job at Hardy’s. I’d be quite good at that, I think. Or I could be a wedding planner. I mean, with my organizational skills . . .
I’m so lost in new career thoughts that I barely notice when Joel pulls me to my feet.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He grabs my coat and swings it over my shoulders, leaving his arm resting there as we walk out of the foyer. I can’t help but feel smug as I see every single female jaw drop around us. Then I wonder if they’re thinking, what’s a guy like him doing with her? and I lose the reflected glow a little.
The doorman opens the door for us and smiles warmly as Joel escorts me out, saying ‘Mr Parker’ deferentially and tipping his hat at us as Joel slips some money in his hand. In my excitement I find myself responding to the doorman’s gesture by simultaneously curtsying at him and saluting. The poor doorman looks mildly horrified but doesn’t lose his professional smile, although I’m sure I see the corner of his mouth twitch. Luckily Joel doesn’t notice and just leads me into the street. As I look back I see the doorman wink and salute back at me and I laugh and wave at him.
Our afternoon tea was so elegant and refined I feel like I’m living in another era, and I love it. It is snowing again as we walk together through the busy streets. But this time I don’t notice any of the people. It’s like everyone has melted away, and there is just Joel and me.
Joel is telling me about his shop, describing the old-fashioned white weatherboard façade, the Stars and Stripes flag forever flap-ping on the roof and the lovely old ladies who work there.
‘It sounds perfect,’ I say.
‘It is,’ he smiles ‘although it’s not to your taste. They definitely don’t wear couture in my shop!’
I laugh albeit awkwardly. ‘So, why did you leave there if you loved it so much?’ I ask, wanting to know more about the handsome stranger who has just slid his arm gently around my waist. I gulp and try not to show my excitement but realize it’s now an effort to string two words together. ‘Um, just because, well, it seems to me that, you know, if your father can’t steer it in the right direction, maybe you, er, could?’
Joel smiles sadly. ‘That’s what I’ve always thought, too. It was my plan to finish my business degree in New York and then go back home.’ He pauses and stares straight ahead. ‘I had a girlfriend back there. We were childhood sweethearts . . .’ he trails off and I rub his arm to encourage him to keep talking. His face is tense, as if he’s trying not to get upset. He takes a deep breath.
‘We had our whole lives planned out,’ he says quietly. ‘We were together throughout the whole of high school, but knew that one day we’d need to experience life on our own. That’s what everyone kept telling us, anyway. So we decided to go to different colleges, date other people, maybe, but then after we both graduated, we’d come back home to each other. We planned on running Parker’s together. I thought it was her dream. It was definitely mine.’ He sighs. ‘Anyway, we kept in contact with letters and emails for the first few months but then they petered out. I knew we were both busy, but I always thought . . .’ He pauses again. He smiles at me and lowers his eyes to the lightly glimmering ground.
‘Well, anyway,’ he continues. ‘I finished my degree, left New York and made my way back home. On my first day back in Willow Grove, I was walking down the Main Street and I was so happy when I saw her coming towards me. I thought everything would be OK. Then I realized that she was hand in hand with another guy. She could barely look at me when I stopped to talk to them. Apparently they were just back for the weekend. They’d gone to the same college, in Florida, started dating after the first year and had been together ever since. In fact, they’d just got engaged and she was busy planning the wedding. They were going to travel for a year before settling into the home his parents had bought for them in Florida. She said she couldn’t imagine living in such a small town as Willow Grove. I didn’t want to admit I’d come home to do everything we’d planned together. Instead I told her that neither could I, and that I was staying in New York because I loved the big city so much. And at that moment I resolved to stay in New York, get some experience of other big stores and get over her. All my memories in Willow Grove were of her and I didn’t want to go back until I’d got over her completely.’
Suddenly I can’t help but think about Jamie. I can relate to what Joel’s saying completely. My life back at home in Norwich was Jamie. And he left me because he didn’t want that life any more because it was too predictable. My God, Joel and I are the same.
Joel suddenly shakes his head, clearly embarrassed by his emotional outburst. ‘Shit, Carly. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.’ He rubs his forehead and suddenly looks vulnerable, not the suave businessman he’s appeared to be so far. I like him even more for it.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, rubbing his arm gently. ‘I can handle it.’
He turns and fixes his forget-me-not eyes on me. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’re a great listener?’
I just smile. All the time, Joel, all the time.
We walk along the city’s busy streets in comfortable silence. It could be the effects of the champagne, but I am melting in the warmth of Joel’s arm around my shoulders, trying to focus on my breathing as we keep in step with each other. We pass shop after shop decorated gaily with Christmas decorations and it feels like we’re gliding through an ever-changing glacier of breathtaking blue, silver and white lights. We turn onto Bond Street and I gasp a little as Joel suddenly pulls me into the entrance of a small jewellery shop that is empty of customers. The street’s glorious Christmas lights drape over our heads like a star-spangled canopy, swathes of glittering fabric twinkling like diamonds above us and around us. I feel like I’m in a glass prism and all I can see is Joel reflected back at me. He is facing me now, his arms wrapped around my body and he gazes at me intently as he brushes his thumb over my bottom lip, which has long since lost its gloss. I look down, embarrassed by the intensity of the moment.
‘May I kiss you?’ he murmurs.
I nod wordlessly as he lowers his mouth to mine and I am filled with the warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips, the wetness of his tongue, and I am floating, floating like the flakes of snow that frame us. I am no longer Carly. I am just me. But this new, improved me is being kissed by a man who thinks I’m wonderful.
Sunday 4 December
21 Shopping Days Until Christmas
‘So he says he thinks you’re wonderful and then what?’ Delilah is sitting in the front passenger seat of her and Will’s Land Rover and has twisted herself round to face me. I am sitting in the back, sandwiched between Lola (who is shouting out the colour of each car we pass approximately every two seconds in my ear), and Raffy (who is squashing cream cheese sandwiches between his hands and then rubbing them on my jeans).
I have been trying to relive my date with Joel at Delilah’s insistence but am struggling to compete with Lola’s shouts and Raffy’s maniacal laughs. It’s a welcome distraction, to be honest; I’m not really comfortable discussing my date in such a public forum anyway. I’d planned to divulge every last detail to Delilah once we’d arrived at our parents’, when we’re on our own,
obviously. Mum will be all over me like a rash otherwise, bless her.
‘Yes, darling it is a red car, clever girl!’ Delilah turns and smiles at Lola, then notices my cream cheese-encrusted legs. ‘DON’T DO THAT, Raff! Poor Auntie Teevee. Now give her a kiss and say sorry.’
‘Hi Teevee hi, thorry Teevee mummy thorry,’ he murmurs remorsefully, and gazes up at me innocently through his long eyelashes. Then he pouts his lips and leans over in his car seat to kiss me on my cheek, so now I have cream cheese on my face as well as on my legs.
Will – sensible man – is ignoring us all and concentrating on the road, probably wishing he was going anywhere but to his parents-in-law on this Sunday morning. We are doing one of our monthly pilgrimages to Norfolk for lunch. It is Clause 1 of the endless contract that Delilah, Noah, Jonah and I unwittingly signed as offspring, which keeps us tied to the familial home far more than any of us would like. But even Noah and Jonah wouldn’t complain about it or dare to miss a visit. We are also expected to spend Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and Mum and Dad’s birthdays there.
‘So come on!’ Delilah says impatiently as she twists even further round in her seat, so much so that I am concerned she may snap. ‘What happened next?’
‘Nothing really,’ I mumble, and busy myself with singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ to Raffy, who immediately claps his hands with glee and lisps ‘Butth!’ joyously, causing crumbs to fly out of his mouth and all over me. I don’t want to share the details of my kiss with Joel in front of Will and the kids. And the truth is that’s all there was to it: one delicious kiss, then Joel put me in a cab and promised to call me soon.
I pretend to ignore Delilah and start the song over again.
‘BUTTH!’ Raffy screams again in delight as if I haven’t sung it for a year.
‘RED CAR, Mummydaddyteevee, RED CAR!’ squeals Lola wondrously as if she has just spotted a four-headed alien and not the seventy-seventh red car in the last half an hour.
Delilah ignores them both. ‘Oh, come on, Evie,’ she begs. ‘You can’t get that far in the story and then bail out! We’re desperate to know what happens next, aren’t we, Will?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Aren’t we, Will?’ she hisses, and nudges him.
‘Mmm,’ he replies unconvincingly.
‘OK, well he might not be,’ she says churlishly, ‘but I am. It’s the nearest I’m going to get to any romance these days,’ she adds pointedly.
‘What does that mean?’ Will shoots back, glancing back at me in the mirror as if to say, ‘Look what I have to put up with.’ I immediately gaze out the window. I hate getting involved in their spats. Besides, he should know by now that I’ll always side with Delilah, whether she’s right or wrong. She’s my sister, after all.
‘Just what I say,’ she retorts. ‘It’s not like you’ve whisked me off to, you know, Paris recently. Or anywhere ,come to think of it.’
He shakes his head in bemusement. ‘I wasn’t aware you wanted to go to Paris again.’
‘My point exactly.’ She rolls her eyes at me and shoots him a dark look. Even I think she’s being a bit unfair. But I wouldn’t dare say so. No, best to keep quiet in these situations. Unless . . .
‘The wipers on the bus go . . . swish swish swish,’ I sing brightly, hoping I can break the tension that is building up and remind them who’s in the car.
‘Swithh swithh swithhh,’ repeats Raff.
‘Shwish swishy shwish,’ sings Lola after him.
‘The wipers on the bus go swish swish swish,’ the three of us sing.
Then Will and Delilah suddenly join in. ‘ALL DAY LONG!’
Suddenly we’re all laughing and the argument is averted. For now.
Finally we pull into Mum and Dad’s driveway and emerge from the car with Raffy shouting, ‘Granmadad! Granmadad!’ to announce our arrival.
My mother comes out, gliding effortlessly across the perfectly manicured front lawn, looking a vision of style and elegance in an ochre shift dress over cropped tights, which she has teamed with a statement necklace and bejewelled ballet pumps. Her blond hair sits in perfectly set waves over her shoulders, fanning across her eyes in the Farrah Fawcett flick that has been her signature style for years. There’s not a sliver of silver to be seen on her head – despite the fact that she’s nearing her sixtieth year. Her make-up is done to perfection: a hint of pale green eye shadow and brown mascara to bring out her chestnut-coloured eyes, and just a touch of coral lipstick. She spreads her arms wide as she walks towards us, as if to embrace every single one of us at once.
My mum lives for her family. She adores our visits and she’d love – more than anything, I think – to have every one of her children back at home, or at the very least, down the road. But this distance hasn’t stopped her being a very ‘hands-on’ mother. Aside from the monthly Sunday meets and the many family occasions we come home for, my mother uses the two-bedroom flat in Hampstead as a pied-à-terre from which to regularly check up on all her children.
‘My darlings!’ she squeals with delight, and covers her grandchildren’s heads with kisses as Lola and Raffy wrap themselves around her legs like koala bears. Then she looks up and smiles at us. ‘Come inside! Your father’s just finishing an important phone call but he’ll be right with us. Now, what can I get you all? Gin and tonics all round?’ We nod wearily as we head towards the front door. Neither Delilah, Will nor I can bring ourselves to speak yet. We’re still recovering from the journey. That doesn’t stop my mother, though.
‘Noah and Jonah are already here, so make yourselves comfy and I’ll bring you some drinks and nibbles out. We’re having roast pheasant with all the trimmings for lunch! Oh, it is so good to have all my babies here! You all look so well. Although, Eve, darling, you could have made a bit more of an effort,’ she chides.
I gaze down at my weekend uniform of jeans and a hoodie. My mum is a perfectionist about everything: the way she looks, her house, her children. There’s never a hair out of place on her head and not a cushion unplumped in the house. I may have got her whole neat-freak gene but the way we look couldn’t be more different. She would have hyperventilated at the sight of me dressed up for my date with Joel.
‘Why you insist on wearing those drab clothes is beyond me,’ she sighs wearily. She reaches over and tries to smooth down my hair, then pinches my cheeks to colour them.
I wriggle from beneath her grasp. ‘Stoppit, Mum,’ I grumble, flapping my hands at her like she’s a persistent fly.
‘But, darling,’ she says, stroking my face, ‘how are you ever going to meet a man dressed like that?’
There’s a snort of laughter from the lounge; Jonah and Noah are obviously listening.
‘Mu-um!’ I exclaim, swatting her away. She shakes her head and scuttles off into the kitchen to clean the surfaces one more time, and arrange some flowers for the centrepiece of the table. The house is already laden with gorgeous Christmas decorations, greenery and festive touches that Martha Stewart would be proud of. There’s Mum’s annual homemade Christmas wreath on the front door. This year’s is fashioned from dried oranges, holly and cranberries. I walk into the lounge to find Noah and Jonah sprawled over the two huge chesterfield sofas in front of a roaring fire (complete with stockings hung round the holly-and-ivy-laden mantelpiece), reading the business and property sections of the papers.
Jonah looks up first. ‘E.T!’ he says, and untangles his legs and arms to stand up and hug me. This was one of the (many) nicknames given to me as a child because, according to them, my pale complexion reminded them of the Extra-terrestrial when he gets ill and nearly dies. I punch Jonah on the arm and he pretends to wince. I know he’s just pretending because Jonah is built like a New Zealand rugby player. He’s all beef and bicep, with thick dark hair like Dad’s, thighs like tree trunks, a big mouth and a big heart.
Noah turns from his newspaper before jumping up and giving me one of his bear hugs. He is Jonah’s wingman. Just a year younger than he and three years older than
me, he is a slighter version of our big brother; less beef, less hair, less impact. He’s gentler in every way. I guess you could say I’m closer to him than Jonah, but they come as a pair. It’s rare to see one without the other. I pull back and make a childish face at them but they just flop back down on the couch and pick up the papers whilst I arrange myself neatly on the end of the sofa, twiddling my toes in front of the roaring fire.
Mum and Dad’s Grade II listed house is a big Regency-style pile on the outskirts of Norwich. It’s beautifully decorated to Mum’s – and Laura Ashley’s – exacting standards. It’s kind of twee, with lots of florals and pastels, but I don’t think I appreciated it enough when I was a kid. I sometimes found it suffocating, surrounded by so much, well, perfection. And silent. Dad would always be working, and Mum was always busy doing the house up, or at various charitable events. Delilah had left home and gone to university by the time I was old enough to notice, and when I was a teenager, the boys were always out at football or rugby games, going to the pub, going out with girls, or revising for exams. Usually in that order. I was just a nuisance to them. Most of the time they barely even noticed I was around. I mean, they loved me – I always knew that; they were protective like only big brothers can be – but other than that I held no interest for them. Delilah was an entirely different matter. With her hot university friends, followed by her fancy media job and swanky lifestyle, she was always of interest. This dynamic has never changed. I’m still the baby sister who they dote on but who isn’t worth listening to. But it’s fine. I’ve accepted my position in the family hierarchy.
