She gets up, picks up her stocking and pins it beside the fireplace before pausing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s just that. . .’
‘What, dear?’ Dad asks, while Mum just looks stunned. I pray to every god ever invented that she doesn’t drop an atom bomb on Christmas Eve. Kate looks at me, doing her best to hold back the tears I see brimming. My eyes plead back.
‘Nothing,’ Kate replies. ‘I’m going to take a walk. Get some air.’
As she closes the door behind her, I look at my parents and smile weakly. ‘She always has this reaction to Richard Curtis films. I wouldn’t worry.’
‘You should go with her. It’s dark outside.’
‘She needs a bit of space, Mum,’ I reply, hearing the front door close. ‘She’ll be fine.’
I turn my attention back to the TV, but can’t concentrate. Mum’s right, of course. I should go with her. A boyfriend would go with her. Christ, even a friend would, but me? Would she want me to? I don’t even know what I am to her anymore.
Kate
Christ on a bike, it’s freezing. I wrap my new scarf around my neck, hearing my feet crunch into newly formed ice. It’s only 10pm but it’s pitch black already, though the Christmas lights in almost every home illuminate my way. Not that I have any destination in mind. I just need to walk. I need to smoke.
My first cigarette in two days. It goes straight to my head but I persevere until the nicotine rush becomes familiar again. The pubs are still open, so I’m not entirely alone, nodding politely to punters as I pass, until I reach the old church. I feel like I’m back in high school, finding places to smoke where we wouldn’t be seen by anyone we knew. In a place like Castleton, that’s a tall order.
I sit on the bench at the entrance, hearing my grandma’s voice in my head telling me that if I sit too long on a cold surface, I’ll get haemorrhoids. Right now, I’d rather get piles than endure another conversation about weddings or babies or how wonderful and petite and fucking Welsh Carly is. I stamp my cigarette out under my boot and light another.
I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Carly.
All I could think in that moment wasReally, Ed?This is Carly? This blonde-haired, model-like, German-speaking, appearing-from-fucking-nowhere, Prada-coat-wearingwoman is Carly? The friend you talked about but conveniently never introduced me to when I came to visit you in Manchester. No prizes for guessing why.
I need to talk to Lauren. I need to hear a friendly voice right now. I dial her number and it rings for ages. She’s probably in the pub, I think. Or doing something equally fun. Not everyone is spending Christmas Eve alone in front of a cemetery, Kate.
‘Where the hell have you been, girl?’ Lauren yells down the phone. ‘I’ve been trying to get you for over a week!’
‘I’m so sorry, L,’ I reply. ‘Work has just been. . . ugh, too fucking blah to bore you with. Merry almost Christmas, though.’
‘You’re a terrible friend,’ she states. ‘I could have been in jail or onLove Islandor some shit and you’d never have known.’
‘Were you?’ I ask.
‘Nah, I’ve just been here, with Dave. He wants to buy a puppy. With me. Like an actual living puppy. Do I look like a bag-it-and-bin-it kind of girl? He’s on his own there; no way I’m getting a mutt.’
I laugh. Lauren met Dave last year when her car broke down and he changed her tyre. She’s convinced that it was fate that brought them together, rather than the AA.
‘How’s your work?’ I ask. ‘Still blow-drying the rich and famous?’
‘Dave, can you turn that telly down, I’m trying to have a conversation with a real-life missing person here. Sorry, babe. God– don’t even get me started; work has been crazy. I had that one offStrictly Come Dancingin last week. I’ve been doing her hair for four years and she still tells me how to do her fringe.’
Lauren’s mum was horrified when she decided to go to hairdressing college instead of university like me. As if it was somehow less worthy than going down the academic route. She even refused to help her fund it. So Lauren applied to an academy in Durham and flat-shared with me, working everyhour god sent when she wasn’t training. She then moved to London and never looked back, working for Vidal Sassoon, the BBC and as a freelancer on film sets. The moment A-list celebs started raving about her on Instagram, Lauren was set for life. She now part owns a salon in Kensington with a famous make-up artist and her mum is officially barred.
‘Listen, I have some news,’ I say tentatively. God, I’m not even sure I want to say it out loud, not even to my best friend of seventeen years.
‘Oh god, you’re getting married, aren’t you?’ she exclaims, ‘I knew it. That big, tall drink of water finally wore you down. Well, if I’m doing your hair, I’ll need notice. I’m booked up until death.’
‘Nooo!’ I reply, trying to get a word in while she makes herself chief bridesmaid. ‘It’s quite the opposite, actually, L. Ed and I. . . well, we’re splitting up.’
‘Bullshit,’ she responds. ‘There’s no way. . . right? Kate? Kate, are you crying?’
I try to reply but nothing comes out.
‘If this is real, sniff once for yes.’
I sniff.
