Page 5 of Just for December

‘No, no, not really,’ she replies, getting to the end of the walkway to see four attendants welcoming passengers onto the plane. Evie smiles at them. ‘Just travelling for work.’

The flight is fine. She’s in coach, but the seats beside her are empty, so she’s able to just about curl up over the aisle and get some rest. Evie tries not to overthink the call with the care home or the fact that her mother seems to be in a state more than she’s lucid these past six months. There isn’t anything she can do. Not a damned thing in the world. And what is it they say about worrying? You’re stealing from the present to think about something that the future cannot even guarantee. Borrowing worry.

Production have sent a car for her, so she’s picked up by a smart-looking driver and driven to the hotel in Würzburg, the only irritation being some sort of skirmish with cameras and a VIP by the exit as she tries to leave, forcing the driver to take the long route through the arrivals terminal.

And then they reach their destination.

It’s the middle of the afternoon and Würzburg is beautiful. Even in her slightly crumpled mood she sits up straighter in the back seat, taking in the old bridges and tall stone buildings buzzing with people in various states of winter dress: puffer jackets and big woolly scarves in reds and greens, noses pink and breath visible as people speak. Her room at the hotel isn’t ready yet, so Evie leaves her bag and decides to pass half an hour taking a walk, stretching her legs and seeing what’s what. She has no idea what time it is at home, but it’s only 3 p.m. here, so she may as well get onto local time.

The Christmas market is the biggest outdoor market she has ever seen. It’s beside the cathedral, a gothic-looking white stone building that ascends proudly into the sky, floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows marked out in red brick with a grey pointed roof and enormous red-brick bell tower.Everything is floodlit in golden orange lights, and even at 3 p.m. the sky is thick, weighted clouds making its backdrop a deep navy blue that gets darker by the minute. A Christmas tree the height of two double-decker buses drags her eye away, twinkling with an obscene number of fairy lights, expertly placed equidistantly apart, from bottom to top, where a huge gold star self-importantly sways in the light wind at the top.

There must be a hundred stalls, at least, all lined up in wooden huts and decorated in garlands that smell like Evie’s childhood, when it was happier, a more ignorant time, and there are more lights and ornaments, most of which aren’t rubbishy little plastic things but rather ornate hand-blown glass and intricate wood. She passes an obelisk festooned with lights too, all trailing down from where they’re gathered at the top like a maypole. Traditional wrought-iron lamp posts burn brightly, huge red baubles of different sizes dangling from even more garlands wrapped around, like art deco art installations placed every ten to twenty feet apart.

Almost without thinking, she approaches one of the wooden huts and buys a traditionalGlühwein, not knowing what it is until the paper cup reaches her lips: hot, spiced red wine. She sips, taking it all in: the stalls with their trinkets for sale, the jewellery, teas and spices, traditional decorations and scented candles and salt lamps. It’s mesmerising, and so unlike anything she could reasonably expect to see at home. For her first time in Germany, she isn’t disappointed, and as she drains her glass and lets the liquid warm from her throat to the lower part of her belly, Evie finds herself breathing deeply and smiling at strangers as they pass.

Maybe this is going to do me good,she thinks, letting herself acknowledge the moment.

Purchasing anotherGlühweinfor the road, she heads back to the hotel. She can do this. She can enjoy the country if this is what it is like. She’s not even tired right now – the walk has blown away the proverbial cobwebs.

Yeah.

She’s okay.

Her room, when it is ready, is clean and pretty spacious, and she puts on a playlist and unpacks half of her things. The cast and crew will be moving several times over the coming weeks – literally heading down Bavaria’s Romantic Road – so it’s pointless puttingeverythingaway. But she finds a home for her toiletries and anything that would crease otherwise, figures out where her nightwear is, finds a sleep mist she likes to use and her work stuff: laptop and charger, notebook, diary, a folder with ideas and research that isn’t exclusive to only this project, but more her writing life in general. She keeps anything that strikes her as interesting, without analysing the reason too much. Evie often finds the strangest things cropping up as she types, and it is almost always because she read or watched something about it weeks ago, stashed it away for later use and somewhere in the mental compost of her mind it has served to grow the first bud of a plotline.

As she plugs her phone in to charge, the screen lights up with a couple of missed calls from Carl, as well as texts from him, Magda, and her agent, Sabrina. Carl asks her to call him back, Magda is just checking in, and Sabrina has texted totell Evie to check her emails asap about a cover brief the publishers are going with for her summer book next year.

She reads them all, one after the other, and then goes back to Carl’s message. They hardly ever speak on the phone. Why would he ask her to do so all the way from Germany? Evie hadn’t really thought they’d stay in touch at all whilst she is here. That isn’t the sort of dynamic they have. When Carl went away for a month over the summer they didn’t talk until he was back. Why would they? They’re not boyfriend and girlfriend. They’re … well, like she told Magda: it works for them.

‘Hey,’ says Evie when he picks up on the third FaceTime Audio ring. ‘You okay?’

‘Evie, heyyyy,’ Carl says, and immediately Evie can tell he’s stalling for time. She knows how this goes. His tone. Why can’t men hide the pity in their voice when they’re delivering a sucker punch? In her experience, both men and women lie: it just tends to be the men who can’t keep a poker face about it. She braces for impact. Now she thinks about it, she knew even by dint of him asking for the call in the first place what is about to happen.

She waits for him to do whatever it is he has to do – presumably he’s already at work, and doesn’t want to talk at his desk. She frowns as she listens to him stand up, the creak of an office chair being rolled from underneath him, the squeak of a door opening and closing. Her gut is an unsettled gurgle, a twisty feeling like everything is pushing upwards and making it harder to breathe.

‘Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘Wanted to slip into a meeting room.’

‘Say what you have to say, Carl,’ Evie instructs, because she needs to get this over with. They aren’t together, so they aren’t officially breaking up, but her cheeks burn hot at the imminent rejection.

‘Eves,’ Carl says, and it’s obvious this is a pre-planned speech. Evie stands at the window to her hotel in stocking feet, watching couples hold hands and families laugh at each other’s jokes down below. ‘You’re amazing. Spending time with you is amazing. And I am very, very fond of you.’

Evie cringes at the wordfond, but doesn’t speak. She daren’t.

‘But … I’ve met someone. And she wants what I want. Something more than …’

‘I get it,’ Evie interrupts. ‘Don’t worry.’

I hate this,she thinks.I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.This is why she doesn’t do commitment. Because even when she’s only half in, it stings. Imagine the pain if she played to win? Urgh. Not worth it. Not worth it at all.

‘Well,’ Carl says. ‘Just let me—’

‘No, no,’ insists Evie. She’s not going to cry on the line with him. She’s not actually going to let herself cry at all. That’s the whole point of havingan arrangement.Precisely because you can’t cry over a thing that wasn’t eversomething.‘You’re fine.’ She makes it come out bright, sing-songy. ‘I appreciate you telling me. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you too.’

‘I wanted to tell you before you left, but then we didn’t get to see each other and—’

‘You’refine,’ Evie repeats. ‘Honestly. Godspeed. No hard feelings.’

‘Really?’ says Carl, sounding unsure.

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