by Anna Bell
‘I don’t know. I don’t want him,’ I say, deliberately ignoring that moment under the mistletoe and the confusion that it created in the moments after. ‘I want him to be with someone, but it’s just that there’s something about her.’
‘Don’t worry about it, you’re going to find Wonder Boy, soon.’
‘Could you imagine a male version of her?’ says Caroline.
I shudder at the thought, but then I start to think of just having a boyfriend. Would finding another one make me happy?
‘I wonder if there are going to be any single guys at this thing on New Year’s,’ says Lucy.
I groan. I’d almost forgotten about New Year’s Eve. I stopped looking forward to them a few years ago when going out started to feel like forced fun. But Lucy loves New Year’s Eve almost as much as she loves Christmas Eve, and this year she’s dragging me along to some club night her work colleague is DJing at.
‘Come on, you need cheering up,’ says Caroline grabbing my hand.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, as she leads me down the hallway, topping up my glass as we go. ‘I’m not going in there with all the dancing and Christmas music and—’
‘And all the fun? Come on, you’ll love it. Besides, I saw Wonder Girl dancing with Ross a minute ago and boy are you in for a treat.’
We just about wedge ourselves into the lounge. Everyone now seems to be on their feet swaying to the Pogues’ ‘Fairytale of New York’. All except Jules, who is dancing to a beat all of her very own. I’m almost worried she’s going to break out into Big Fish, Little Fish, Cardboard Box at any second. Ross is caught in the middle, his arms around one person who wants to sway him and at the same time being tugged by Jules, who wants him to join her nineties rave.
Caroline was right. I did need to see this.
Roni drags me into the dancing and I slowly look around at everyone. Ed’s arrived and his arms are wrapped tightly around Lucy. Rob and Gavin are gazing into each other’s eyes. Ross is awkwardly half raving, half swaying. Caroline and baby Ethan are bobbing along. Everyone’s life is changing and mine’s staying exactly the same. If ever I needed an incentive to make a change this is it; this time next year I’m going to be standing here a completely new woman.
Chapter Three
I had a good, but busy, trip back to the UK. Stu’s wedding went without a hitch, can’t believe he’s actually found someone who’d marry him. It was a shame that you couldn’t make it – hope you had a good holiday. I bought this at the airport and read it on the flight. It reminded me of us – although hopefully I’m not such a wanker and you’re not so whiny. And maybe we’ll have a different ending . . .
Parcel containing One Day by David
Nicholls; Danny to Lydia, June 2011
I wake up to the sound of screaming and immediately sit bolt upright, trying to work out where the hell I am. Instantly, I fear that I’m in a war zone before my brain kicks in and makes me realise that the closest I’ve been to a war zone was when Ross dragged me to see Dunkirk – I say dragged me, but the fact that Harry Styles was in it meant I went voluntarily.
My head is killing me. I drank far too much last night at Rob and Gavin’s party. In between the throbbing of the hangover from hell I piece together the vital facts. I’m asleep in my own bed – alone (phew!) – so it obviously didn’t go too badly wrong. There’s another scream and I realise it’s from my seven-year-old niece who has, no doubt, been up for hours opening presents, as it’s Christmas morning. The light streaming in through the window means it’s probably time to get out of bed.
At least I don’t have to go to my mum’s like I usually do. We’ve always had breakfast there before heading over to my sister’s, but now that I’m living in Kerry’s basement, Mum’s coming to me. Kerry, of course, suggested we go upstairs early, but we declined – the official line is that we don’t want to intrude on her family Christmas. But in truth we didn’t want to cope with the present unwrapping frenzy that seems to turn my lovely little niece into a Tasmanian devil. I love Olivia, but does anyone actually love their niece on Christmas Day? All that chocolate. All those flashing, noisy toys. This way’s much better. By the time we go upstairs at lunchtime she’ll have been up for six or seven hours and will be starting to wear herself out. And in the meantime, Mum and I will have had a civilised bucks fizz with some Danish pastries.
I close my eyes. My hangover better disappear ASAP as the only thing worse than Olivia in Christmas mode is dealing with Olivia in Christmas mode with a hangover. I can already hear her banging around on the floorboards. I really hope I bolted the door at the top of the stairs. I’d better check on the way to the shower.
By the time I’ve finished in the bathroom I’m feeling slightly more human, but as I prod my skin in the mirror, I realise that I don’t look it. I do my best to highlight and conceal with my make-up. I still don’t look great, but it’s the best it’s going to get.
I scan the chaos in the lounge that I caused last night when I got in. Half-drunk glass of wine. An empty glass of what I hope was water. One high-heeled boot. Empty pizza box. Diet starts January, right?
I open the lounge window and start to tidy quickly. I have to keep stopping and sitting down to cope with the hangover. Luckily, with my flat being a studio, the bed and the sofa are never more than a few steps away.
There’s a knock at the door and I kick the rest of my clothes under my bed.
‘Darling,’ says Mum as I let her in. Theatrically, she pulls me into a big hug, as if she hasn’t seen me in years rather than the five days that it’s been. ‘Merry Christmas.’
My mum lives in Bedhampton, not far from Portsmouth, meaning that she drops in on us frequently.
‘Merry Christmas, Mum,’ I say, hugging her back.
I do a double take as I look at her. I still expect her to look like she used to. For as long as I can remember she’d always had bright blonde hair that she wore up in a style almost like a beehive – some days she could have stood in for Patsy in Absolutely Fabulous – but last year she had it cropped short and dyed brown. It suits her much better, but I do sometimes miss ‘The Patsy’, as we used to call it.
She waltzes straight into the lounge, plonking a bottle of Champagne down on the table, along with a box of Danish pastries.
‘I forgot the orange juice. Have you got any?’
‘Um,’ I say, peering into my little fridge. ‘I do, but I have no idea how long it’s been open for. I’m fine with just fizz.’
‘Me too,’ says my mum, popping the bottle as I hunt around for some flutes.
There’s a big crash above our heads and we both look up at the ceiling.
‘How long do you think she’s been up for?’ asks Mum.
‘The screams started half an hour ago, but I think that’s because all the sugar’s started to kick in.’
She shudders. ‘I feel a little mean hiding down here. We’ll have to go round to the main entrance to go in.’
‘Yes, definitely. I’m surprised her present radar hasn’t sensed that we’re down here and brought her hunting for us.’
Mum laughs and looks around. ‘Rough night last night?’
‘Thanks. Does it show?’ I say, sitting down on the sofa and diving straight in for some sort of apricot custard pastry.
‘I nearly got knocked out by the fumes coming off you. Thank God you don’t have to drive anywhere for lunch as you must still be over the limit.’
I eat my Danish more quickly.
‘Yes, living in my sister’s basement ticks so many boxes. I don’t know why more people don’t do it.’
Mum rubs my arm. ‘I’m glad you had a fun night. After that disappointment at work.’
I’d told her on the phone yesterday about Tracey giving Helen the proms project.
‘I’ll just have to think of something else.’
‘Good for you, and quite right too,’ she says, as she swipes a pastry. I’m pretty sure that it’s not her first as there seem to be a couple missin
g from the box already.
‘So, did you have a good night, then?’
‘Yes. Rob’s parties are always fun. And Caroline popped in for a tiny bit too. She brought baby Ethan with her asleep in his sling.
‘How fabulous. When you two were little, I always dragged you around with me to parties.’
I still have memories of that. Falling asleep on unfamiliar cushions and then being taken to the car when I was groggy with sleep before being transferred back into my bed when we got home.
‘Speaking of those parties,’ she says, a twinkle in her eye as if she’s back there enjoying them, ‘I’ve saved you the round-robin letters from my friends. I know you like to read them.’
She pulls a pile of printed letters out of her bag.
‘Ooh, thank you,’ I say reaching up and taking the pile from her as I finish the last mouthful of pastry. I wipe the residue off on my jeans before I pick up the first letter. It’s from our old neighbour Marjorie. I scan read it, picking out the highlights. ‘Ooh look, Charlotte’s been scrapbooking and baking.’ Charlotte’s around my age, and my friend on Facebook, and, judging by the photos she posts of her nights out, I think scrapbooking’s the last thing she’s been doing – unless scrapbooking has another meaning on Urban Dictionary. I skip over the rest of Marjorie’s letter as it’s all bragging.
Here’s one from my dad’s cousin, Sandra. Her Henry’s going to run the country one day, so it’s always interesting to see what he’s up to. ‘Henry’s decided to make an unexpected change in career path and is now working in finance. What’s that about?’ I ask, reading the letter out.
‘He was defeated at the council by-election and now he’s working in a bank.’
I laugh. Why do people always feel the need to embellish their lives in letters? Not that I’m any different. Danny thinks I live in my own flat and that I’m regularly hobnobbing with celebs at the glamorous parties I manage.
I know who the last letter must be from before I even open it. The different-coloured printer ink gives it away – only Hazel Whittaker does that.
I unfold it, wondering what Danny’s mum has to say. I’m always apprehensive, even though I know that if there was any big news, he’d have told me about it in his letters.
I find it funny that, after all these years and after their weekly FaceTiming sessions, they still bother to send each other these round-robins, but I enjoy reading them.
Another year gone! Can you believe it! I may be older in number but I am, of course, not older in spirit! Let’s hope that if we haven’t seen you this year, we’ll see you in the new year! So, this year we celebrated our tenth year in the Lakes. We couldn’t be happier here in Hawkshead. Well, we could, if our friends and family from down South upped and moved here too, but you know what I mean! Brian is still working and in good health. As am I, and after a trip to the tarot card readers recently, where they told me that I had a gift for healing, I’ve signed up to do a course to become a reiki practitioner! Feel free to come up and be a guinea pig and have your chakras and your aura realigned.
I start to giggle – that’s so Hazel.
‘Reiki practitioner,’ says my mum, rolling her eyes theatrically, knowing instantly what I’m laughing at. ‘That is so Hazel.’
I nod and continue reading.
Stuart and Isabelle continue to live in Manchester with their two little ones. Lily (now 5!) and Harry (now 3!). Stuart’s job is no longer under threat and he hopes there might be a promotion on the horizon (fingers, toes and everything crossed for that). Isabelle is also hoping to increase her hours back at work now that Harry is in preschool. Daniel is still in Ambleside, just down the road from us – a fact that never ceases to amaze me since he spent most of his adult life trying to live as far away as possible from us. We’re still no closer to marrying him off, though. I’d almost visited the hat shop in Kendal when he started dating Diana earlier on in the year – but unfortunately they broke up in the spring. But, happier news for him, his business venture continues to do well.
Our house in Spain is still well used by all the family and it seems it was a shrewd move on Stuart and Isa’s part buying in the same complex. It means we can all go out as a family together and enjoy it – meaning that Brian and I are roped into being babysitters whilst Stuart and Isa go out. Not that we’re complaining – the little cherubs.
I stop reading as Hazel starts going into spiritual blessings for all her friends and family for the new year and instead I think about the fact that Danny is single. And that he has been for most of the year – at the same time as me. It’s the first time since Kerry’s wedding that we’ve both been single and living in the same country. Not that it changes anything. Danny only sees me as a friend. Proved by the fact that he’s known that I’ve been single for months, since Facebook brutally advertised mine and Ross’s demise.
So much for our if we’re not married by thirty pact. He knew I broke up with Ross around my 30th birthday. Perhaps that’s why he’s never mentioned he’s single and he’s barely reacted to my break-up with Ross. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t seen him this year, he might be scared in case I’m going to take him up on it.
‘Do you want some more champagne whilst it’s still bubbly?’
‘Absolutely. Champagne is just what I want,’ I say, planting a fake smile on my face. I need something to help me to get over the shock. I guess I’d always hoped in my heart of hearts that Danny would change his mind about us only being friends and that if we were both single at the same time it might nudge him in the right direction.
‘Everything OK, love? Are you sure Champagne’s what you want? You look all peaky. Is the hangover getting worse?’
‘No, it’s fine. I think that, um, I just need a drink,’ I say, as I hold out my hand, trying to keep it steady.
My mum doesn’t know that Danny and I kissed. She knows we keep in contact, but she thinks it’s just platonic. Which it is. Only I wish it wasn’t. She doesn’t realise that me finding out he’s single and hasn’t wanted me when I am too is just the blow I didn’t need on top of everything else at the moment. Talk about #LivingMyAbsoluteWorstLife.
Mum fills up my glass and I sip the Champagne.
‘How about I make you something more substantial than pastries? You’ve gone ever so pale,’ she says, opening my fridge and picking out a packet of bacon. ‘Bacon sarnie? That might put some colour in your cheeks. You know that Jim’ll be faffing in the kitchen and we won’t eat lunch until late.’
I nod. I try and give myself a pep talk as I’m being ridiculous. The silly letters we write each other are just that. They’re not symbols of unrequited love, they’re just a habit that we got into when we were young and which we’ve never grown out of.
I sip my drink and try to stop thinking about what a muddle my life is in. Next year I will sort out my living situation, I will find a new job and I will find my sparkle again.
‘Toasted or untoasted bread?’ asks my mum as the smell of bacon wafts over to me.
‘Toasted please.’
I get up from the sofa and stand with my back leaning on the worktop facing my mum as she cooks.
She leans over and kisses the top of my head, greasy spatula in her hand. ‘This next year is going to be your year, Lydia,’ she says. ‘I can feel it in my waters.’
I love my mum. She seems to always sense exactly what I need to hear. I try and blink back the tears and she either doesn’t see or she pretends not to as she goes back to her bacon.
‘Have you heard from your dad this morning?’ she asks.
I give a spluttery laugh.
‘I got a text from him last night to say Merry Christmas. I think the time difference is confusing him.’
‘Yes, he never did well with foreign travel. Imagine, though, Frances has got him to the Caribbean.’
‘And on a cruise too.’
‘I know, I couldn’t even get him to take me on the boats at Canoe Lake,’ she says laughing.
I l
augh too. My dad became a different man the day he married Frances. My mum and dad divorced when I was ten and it wasn’t really a big deal. He wasn’t very hands on – he worked a lot and went to the pub most evenings, so we didn’t really notice a lot of difference when he left. Other than that we got two of everything: Two big birthday presents, two Christmas dinners, two trips to Thorpe Park in the summer. I still see him occasionally, but we always struggle knowing what to say to each other as we’ve barely got anything in common.
‘So, when’s he back?’ asks Mum as she butters my toast.
‘I’m not sure. New Year? I think they’re going to New York on the way home.’
She shakes her head. ‘Who’d have thought it.’
‘I know.’
Mum hands me a freshly made toasted bacon sandwich and we go back over and sit on the sofa. She refills my drink instinctively.
‘Are you seeing Keith tomorrow?’ I ask.
Keith is my mum’s fancy man. We call him that as she hates the word boyfriend – Oh, Lydia, that makes me feel like a hormonal teenager. She’s been dating him for ten years or so now. We don’t often see him as they tend to keep their relationship quite private. He’s got daughters and grandkids that keep him busy.
‘On the twenty-seventh. He’s going to his eldest daughter’s tomorrow.’
‘And where’s he today?’
‘At his youngest’s.’
‘Don’t you ever mind not being together at Christmas?’
‘Not really. Not at our age. We’ve realised there are so many other important people in our lives. Like I have you girls and he’s got his. We have the rest of the year to be together. It might not be like this forever. You’ll have your own family one day and we’ll all be split up.’
I splutter again.
‘You will, Lydia. It’s in my waters, remember,’ she says, winking. The only thing in her waters right now is bubbles, given how much fizz she’s downed.
‘Careful, you’re starting to sound like Hazel.’
‘A reiki healer. That woman.’
‘Is she coming down anytime soon?’
