‘No, she just feeds every animal that ventures into her garden. It’s like a bloody Hitchcock film with the amount of bird feeders she has.’
‘We have to get back after breakfast, I’m afraid, Mum,’ Matt advises her. ‘I’m working tomorrow, need to return the car. . . lots to do.’
‘Aw, shame,’ she replies. ‘It’s been so lovely to see you both. Maybe next year I’ll be laying a couple of extra places. . .’ She winks at me and raises her eyebrows at Matt.
Matt gives a little chuckle. ‘We’ll see, we’ll see. . .’
I leave the Buckley house armed with a new dressing gown and slippers set, some toiletries and as much leftover food as we can carry. It feels weird knowing that I have nowhere to be tomorrow. No kids to enthral, no Izzy to appease and, unfortunately, no Sarah to eat lunch with. Thankfully it also means I won’t have to see Laura ever again.
The Boxing Day traffic is quiet but steady, the motion of the car making me sleepy enough to nod off briefly. Matt notifies me that this is unacceptable car companion behaviour by rolling down the window my head is resting on. He finds this far more hilarious than I do.
‘What are you doing for New Year?’ he asks as I attempt to get comfortable again. ‘Basement is having their annual party – some roaring twenties-themed event. Might be alright?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply, ‘though no one else will be there. Greta is away visiting her fiancé’s family at their McMansion, Harriet is busy growing a human, no one from work remembers that I exist, and Sarah won’t be back from her parents’ house. I might just stay home.’
I’ve been working hard to ignore any thoughts of Sarah and although I’ve been somewhat successful, random musings or memories of her still pop up like hiccups when I least expect it. She texted me to thank me for her Christmas present, saying she’ll treasure it forever. I know she means the key ring photo of Alfie’s hot chocolate-covered face, but I like the thought that, maybe, there’s a one per cent chance she’ll treasure it because of me too.
‘You of all people should be pumped for New Year’s Eve!’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘New Year’s Eve is the biggest let-down since the invention of Kinder Eggs. It’s all wrapped up nice and shiny on the outside, but inside it’s just full of disappointing shite.’
‘Because it’s a chance to say goodbye to this shitshow of a year!’ he replies. ‘Honestly mate, I see big things in your future. Next year is going to be ace for you. Start like you mean to go on!’
‘What, alone, skint and hungover?’
‘God, you’re depressing when you’re tired. You’re going. End of story.’
‘Ugh, fine. . . but you’re buying the tickets.’
‘Deal.’
I smile and close my eyes again. Maybe he’s right. Maybe next year will be ace. It certainly can’t be any worse than this year.
Chapter Twenty
‘I’m still not feeling this party,’ I announce, fastening my braces. ‘It’s cold outside. I could get pissed and throw up here for free.’
‘You could,’ Matt agrees, ‘but there’s zero chance of you getting a shag here. Unless you get creative.’
‘I’m dressed like a fucking reject fromBugsy Malone. Besides, there’s more to life than sex, mate,’ I reply and then we both laugh because that’s utter bullshit. ‘Just promise me you won’t try and get me pity-shagged. I’m perfectly capable of doing that on my own.’
We head off at 10pm, navigating the freezing cold in ill-fitting three-piece suits from the retro charity shop on Primrose Hill. Three years ago, Matt, Harriet and I dressed up as Charlie’s Angels for a Halloween party and won free drinks all night. That outfit was far more flattering than this is. Totally worth the chaffing. Also, the added bonus of keeping a phone in your bra – much more secure than a pocket.
Inside the venue, it seems that other people have decided to mix it up a little. I’ve never seen so many flappers with full beards and women in sexy Gatsby get-ups. The place is heaving so Matt and I both head to the bar and get two drinks each, knowing that soon, the battle to get to the bar will make theGames of Thronesfinal showdown look tame in comparison.
We find two seats at a table near the smaller dance floor, which is playing remixed dance versions of classic twenties songs. I’ve never heard ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ with a disco beat, but I’m not hating it. This night might be more fun than I first thought, despite the seam of these size-too-small trousers aggravating my balls.
Four drinks down and Matt goes to get another round. It’s an hour before the bells and the place is officially jumping. I’m glad I decided to come tonight; it feels like I haven’t been properly out in ages. Thankfully the teenagers sitting beside us are in the minority and everyone else here looks like they’ve definitely gone to IKEA willingly at some point. I laugh as I watch a short man in an even shorter skirt dance like his feet are on fire. Everyone is getting increasingly drunk, increasingly bold and increasingly sweaty.
Matt returns with four shots and a face like a cartoon baddie.
‘Don’t look!’ he says, taking his seat. ‘You’ll never guess who’s here. . .’
‘Why can’t I look? Who is it?’
‘Just guess.’
‘Um. . . Jodie Comer?’
