I shake my head, annoyed and ashamed at myself. My best friend has bagged a boyfriend. I should be nothing but thrilled for her. This isn’t about me at all, and I’m an idiot for making it otherwise.
‘Did you actually like the choir?’ Connie asks after a while. ‘You’re not just saying it to wind me up?’
I’m not sure she’s particularly bothered, to be honest, but it’s her way of moving the conversation forward and away from the weirdness, and I have to credit her for that.
‘Yes,’ I say simply.
‘I can imagine you in a choir.’
‘They have t-shirts,’ I say quietly, perching on Mum’s brick wall with my back to the house, not wanting to go inside until I’m off the phone and have collected my sanity. ‘You know, don’t feel bad about not wanting to come with me.’
‘I won’t,’ she laughs.
‘I should’ve guessed that.’
‘It’s my idea of hell – but you’ll love it. You’re a great singer.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘Remember “Girls Can Too”?’ she asks, prompting a memory of us standing on the playing field as seven-year-olds, performing our very own version of Gina G’s ‘Ooh Aah … Just a Little Bit’ to anyone who was interested. Occasionally the older boys would even stop what they were doing to come and watch. Not that we cared – they were gross, obviously.
‘Our pop career was legendary,’ I chuckle.
‘Your voice was. I just did forward rolls next to you,’ she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
‘Or the occasional handstand.’
‘While flashing everyone my knickers,’ she laughs. ‘You don’t need me beside you flashing my undergarments, Lizzy.’
‘When you put it like that …’
‘Exactly, I don’t think Jodie Craig would be impressed.’
‘More fool her,’ I smile, relieved that we’re having this light-hearted banter. ‘Plus we rehearse in a church.’
‘Oh, churches hate me,’ she declares regretfully, following it with a laugh. ‘That would never work.’
‘In all seriousness, though, I imagine it’ll be good for me to have something that’s mine. I need to start doing things on my own without relying on someone I know being there with me,’ I say honestly, aware that I’ve gone from begging her to come with me to being relieved that she isn’t. Because her words, no matter how pointed or flippant, do hit home one truth – I’m happiest when I have someone by my side, whether that be a best friend or a lover. I feel more content with Connie or Ian with me to plod through life together. In fact, ten years ago I literally left Connie, the mate I was inseparable from, to go to uni and have my first real solo experience, only to find myself fully immersed within days in another pairing with Ian. Perhaps breaking that pattern and actually taking time to be on my own in situations will be good for me, no matter how far out of my comfort zone I’m pushed.
‘Yeah … exactly. You don’t need me for this. You have it covered,’ she encourages.
‘I was thinking actually, what are you doing on Christmas Eve?’ I ask. ‘I thought we could do what we used to do and head into Chelmsford or something. Remember how much of a big deal the countdown was in Dukes? I mean it’s a shame we can’t go there – I still can’t believe they got rid of it, but I’m sure there’s somewhere else we could g—’
‘I’m so sorry, Lizzy,’ Connie butts in. ‘I’ve made plans with Matt … I can get out of it. I’m sure –’
‘No, no! It was just an idea. That’s all,’ I say quickly, sadness creeping up on me.
‘I’m coming back to see Mum and Dad the next morning and have promised to stay for a few days. Why don’t we hang then? You could even head back into town with me for New Year’s,’ she says, her voice jolly and hopeful.
‘Eesh, I was planning on hibernating for that one. Pizza, duvet and bed by ten o’clock,’ I share. I really don’t want to celebrate the passing of time right now, not when I don’t even recognize my life as my own.
‘Babes, you love New Year’s!’
‘When the year ahead is full of hope …’
‘It is!’
‘For you!’ I state.
‘Lizzy, you’re starting again,’ she says, the soft tone returning. ‘Surely the hope, promise and knowledge that anything could happen this year makes it more exciting than ever? Don’t be sad about what wasn’t. Look forward with excitement to what might happen! There are so many possibilities.’
‘I’m just not where I thought I would be,’ I sob, covering my mouth in a bid to stop myself. It’s no use, the tears come fat and heavy and my breathing turns erratic as a result. ‘Oh shit. Sorry, Con. I’m fine, I’ve just got to go.’
‘Lizzy, wait!’ she calls, but it’s too late.
I’m already hanging up.
I sit on Mum’s wall a little longer, trying to calm myself down. Eventually I wipe my eyes and take a deep breath, looking at my feet as the heels of my boots bash against the bricks behind them. The December sun has already faded and set, filling the street with darkness. I’m not quite ready for a night in front of the telly with Mum and Ted, so before going into the house I call my dad. He picks up instantly.
‘Want to go for a run?’ I ask straight away, before he’s had a chance to say hello or ask me how I am.
‘Now?’ he practically chokes. Clearly he’s been looking forward to this call ever since he missed out on my previous run.
‘Yeah! You said you wanted to come along some time …’
‘It’s a bit late.’
‘It’s only six. Have you had dinner yet?’
‘No …’
‘Well then, we can grab something together after.’
He takes his time responding, which makes me wonder if he’s trying to find a good excuse to get out of it.
‘I’ll be at yours in ten,’ I say, before he can wrangle his way out of it.
‘OK,’ he sighs.
I rush inside to get ready.
20
I decide against going out on Christmas Eve. It was a nice idea when Connie was part of my nostalgic plan, but it quickly lost its appeal when she told me she was busy. Instead I go over to Dad’s for a takeaway curry and then we walk up the high street to the church for one of the two services being given tonight – we didn’t fancy the Midnight Mass. If I’m not going to be off my face in a club screaming a countdown before singing along to Slade, I’d rather be tucked up in bed hoping Santa’s going to bring me something great down the chimney. What that is, I really don’t know. A time machine? A lobotomy? I probably shouldn’t even suggest that in jest …
We aren’t a religious family even though I keep finding myself in places of worship lately. There’s something incredibly welcoming, exciting and otherworldly about being there for the celebrations of Jesus’s birth. I like the feeling of community it brings, and I really love singing along to the hymns and Christmas carols that never fail to transport me back to my childhood.
Dad walks me home afterwards, even though I’m in my late twenties and perfectly capable of escorting myself through a sleepy village that probably has a zero crime rate other than naughty adolescents stealing penny sweets from the newsagents. Although as some penny sweets are now ten pence a pop, I can understand their fury if their pocket money can’t fill a white paper bag with sugary goodness.
The thought takes me back to shopping in Woolworths with Mum when we were younger. I’d go straight for the vanilla fudge and live in fear of Mum telling me to put stuff back when the cashier weighed it. Michelle used to go for foam-based sweets. Mushrooms, flumps – anything filled with air that meant she could have plenty of them. She’d then eat her collection as slowly as possible to wind me up, as I’d invariably have gobbled up my one piece of fudge in five seconds flat – like a Hoover gathering up dust.
‘I know this has been a tough couple of months for you, Elizabeth,’ Dad says, giving me a hug as we say goodbye. ‘But I’ve really
enjoyed having you here more. It’s been nice.’
We’re both wearing Father Christmas hats that a little girl was selling for a pound at the church. Dad’s is far too small for him and he looks hilarious as he pulls the most sincere of faces.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I smile, squeezing his arm.
‘I liked Ian.’
‘I know …’
‘A lot,’ he adds, nodding as his brows furrow seriously.
‘Don’t rub it in,’ I smile, not entirely sure where he’s going.
‘He was all right,’ he winks, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘But, what I mean – what I want to say, is that it’s great having quality time with you. Just you. When your children grow up, move away, meet that special someone and create a place for themselves in the world, they become preoccupied with living their own lives. And that’s what you want as a parent. You want your child to thrive in that way … but I’ve missed you.’
‘Luckily for you I’m single, have somehow handed over the place I had of my own and am no longer thriving,’ I tell him in a sarcastic manner that’s strangely upbeat. Obviously I’m not feeling happy about the situation, but rather realize that humour is one of the only tools left at my disposal.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he tries.
‘I think it would be hard to convince me otherwise,’ I admit, pursing my lips together.
‘You’re young,’ my dad says. ‘This isn’t the end, Lizzy. It’s the beginning of something new. Don’t be scared of new. New can be wonderful.’
‘How’s the new that you left Mum for? Is that working out well for you?’
His intake of breath shocks me, as though the words I’ve blurted have become a physical punch that knocks him backwards.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I say, grabbing his elbow, cringing at myself for being so stupid.
Dad opens his mouth as if to say something, but stops himself, shaking his head.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I whisper, feeling awful.
‘I have nothing but love and respect for your mum,’ he sighs, looking behind me to the house. Rather than disowning me on the spot, he pulls me in and kisses my forehead. ‘One day I’ll explain it … I’ll see you in the morning.’
I feel shit watching him turn and leave. I realize I don’t know the details of their split, just that Mum was heartbroken and we were left to see that every day. I also know how incredibly lucky Michelle and I are to have divorced parents who actually like each other now. They don’t simply tolerate each other at family gatherings when they’re forced to be in each other’s company. In a bizarre way they’re more connected now than they ever were. Who the bugger am I to question something that seems to work so well for them? Especially as they’ve probably tried to get to this point in their friendship to make things easier for Michelle and me. It can’t be easy dividing a family unit – no matter how old your children are.
‘Dad!’ I shout, running towards him.
He’s rubbing at his eyes when I catch up, with his cheap Santa hat sodden in his hands.
‘I love you. I love you so, so, so much,’ I say, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into me.
‘I know you do, darling,’ he sniffs, accepting the hug and returning one even tighter.
We stand holding each other for ages. I feel his body rise and fall with each breath and feel his heart beating through the thickness of his winter coat. The night is cold around us, but a warmth spreads through me as something between us stills.
It occurs to me that I’m not the only one who needs to feel loved.
God, I really do love him.
I squeeze him again.
21
When it comes to celebrating Christmas, I feel I have two options – embrace it wholeheartedly and enjoy spending time with my family (while not having to worry about sharing the day with Ian’s clan), or sleep for the whole day and refuse to acknowledge it at all – it’s another day that’s targeted towards being with loved ones, highlighting my painful single status even more. As the latter is my plan for New Year’s Eve, I’ve decided to make the most of having my family together with zero plans other than to watch trashy festive TV, eat enough food to feed the five thousand (which has started with a fry-up courtesy of Mum, even though I’m still full from last night’s curry) and drink myself into oblivion. The first two plans are going well, but Mum raises an eyebrow at me when I attempt to add Baileys to my morning coffee. Champagne breakfasts are ‘a thing’ in a lot of households, so I fail to see how this is any different, but I decide against it anyway, smiling cheekily at Mum as I pop it back on the Christmas alcohol table.
Yes, we have a whole side table dedicated to booze at Christmas. Quite simply, if you’re not feeling festive enough, downing some liquid Christmas spirit might help. That’s the hope. And if not then there’s always the table next to it, which is slightly bigger and holds all the snowflake-adorned, Santa-decorated, sparkle-encrusted snacks we could find in Budgens. These are essentially all the normal sugary crap we’d love to eat all year round but refrain from doing. However, the fact they’re repackaged in all things Christmas, sprinkled with magnificent pine trees, twinkling stars and angelic angels, gives us permission to indulge. As Dad and I have been on a run (we only managed three miles and were ridiculously slow) we’re feeling pretty smug about tucking in. We’ve announced we’re going for a Boxing Day run tomorrow too, so that gives us extra self-righteous we-can-eat-what-we-like credits today.
While Mum bangs away in the kitchen – there’s no point asking her if she wants help, she prefers to be in there on her own – Michelle, Stu, Dad, Ted and I are all snuggled in the lounge watching Home Alone. I wanted to watch The Holiday, but no one else shared my desire, so instead we’re watching a spoilt brat wreck the house of his neglectful parents while setting booby traps for the dumbest burglars in film history … it’s blooming great!
Just as eight-year-old Kevin McCallister cuts the homemade zip-line, sending Harry and Marv crashing to the ground below, my phone vibrates with a text. Usually I send a chirpy message out to everyone I know on Christmas morning, even people I haven’t seen in years. But the news about Ian and me has seeped out into the rumour mill, meaning I’ve been avoiding most people and tried to limit my time spent on social media, which has been full of pitying inbox words of wisdom, shock or sorrow.
I realize our news had to be shared at some point, but I’d rather have stuck my head in the sand for a bit longer. I wish I were like Liana Jarvis who three years ago declared her boyfriend had dumped her with some kickass Facebook status and a picture of her soaking up the sun in a gorgeous part of Ibiza. I can still remember the sight of her standing butt naked, with her back to camera, as she stood in front of the most amazing view in what, I can only assume, was a private villa. It was an empowering image. I can remember liking the photo and seeing everyone else’s words of encouragement at her being such an inspirational woman.
I’m not Liana Jarvis.
I’ve never been that kickass.
That’s not actually true, I realize. Eighteen-year-old me would be going one better than Liana Jarvis. She’d be partaking in some full-frontal nudity, with her arm playfully placed across her pert breasts, her sun-kissed, wavy beach hair blown over her face, with the biggest grin imaginable. The picture wouldn’t tell a story about a girl who’s being dignified, strong or defiant in the midst of a break-up, but rather one about a girl who’s still living. One who’s celebrating the fact that life goes on …
But that’s not me now. The reality is that I’m lounging on the sofa in my Christmas pyjamas at two o’clock in the afternoon, nestled in my dad’s armpit, having not messaged a single person I know.
No message of defiance or self-celebration from me. Just silence. And not because silence is golden, but because I have nothing to say. My life isn’t a status update or a nicely filtered photo. It’s real. I keep trying to pick myself up, to gee myself along, but it’s a slow proc
ess. Every time I take a step forwards it feels like I take another one backwards, with grief, sadness or anger creeping up on me. I never expected a break-up to feel so much like a death. Ian has been ripped from my life, and that hurts.
I clench my jaw, annoyed that my ex is still such a huge part of my thought process. Over time his presence in my heart and brain will fade away. I know it will, but that thought doesn’t comfort me right now. Not when I know he’s probably been out with his old buddies enjoying the single life. They’ll all be standing around at some undiscovered talent’s gig while Ian’s exchanging flirty glances with some fitness fanatic, heavily-tattooed rock-chick. He’ll fleetingly think of his recent ex and wonder why he wasted so much of his life dating me when there were others out there more suitable.
Funny, when we were together people would occasionally drop in comments like, ‘I don’t know what he’d do without you,’ or, ‘Before you came along he didn’t know his arse from his elbow,’ blah, blah, blah. He clearly can now and he must be coping. He must be thriving. He’s not tried to contact me other than to respond to that one text, so I doubt he’s sitting at his mum’s right now thinking about me. He won’t be wondering how he’s going to continue putting back together the fragmented pieces of his soul that have been so carelessly given away. Ian will just be getting on with it. But of course he will, he knew it was coming. And why on earth would he want to contact me anyway? He doesn’t want me.
I sigh to myself as I pick up my phone, although my mood is lifted by seeing Natalia’s name on the screen. It’s been a couple of weeks since we last spoke, but she genuinely is an intriguing character who I’d love to see again. I just really clicked with her. Since the wedding we’ve messaged numerous times. I know that she has a love of Nutella (who doesn’t?) but only allows herself to eat it on her Sunday-morning toast. She swims three times a week, after doing either a spinning or HIIT class. And she, like me, has amazingly close relationships with her parents. She knows all about my mission to find who I’m meant to be, and has been sending me hilarious groups to consider trying out. A couple of her suggestions are a laughter club and doga – which is basically yoga but with your dog sniffing at your crotch the whole time you’re in downward dog pose. For once I’m really not sorry that I don’t have a pooch.