Page 72 of One More Day
‘Oh, yes please,’ I reply, almost salivating at the thought, and for a brief second I feel lucky and content to be able to sample such pleasures.
I may not have anyone to share gifts with, or any family members to laugh and bicker with, or anyone to pull a cracker with. But I can still rely on good food to keep me company.
But then I think of that again.
‘I don’t even have anyone to pull a cracker with,’ I whisper out loud. The thought of this stops me in my tracks, and my moment of ease is gone.
I put down my cutlery to let it sink in.
I don’t even have someone to pull a stupid cracker with. Suddenly, images of myself in old age come to mind where I’m sitting at a festive table, with all the trimmings and a cracker that can only ever be ornamental as I’ve no one to share the moment with. How many years of Christmas alone do I have in front of me? And how many people across the world face up to this every year, not out of choice, but out of circumstance?
I’m young, I know that, but when Michael died my future plans died too, so it’s going to take a long time to create a new vision of what I’d like to lie ahead.
He and I had planned to travel the world together in all seasons. We’d planned to spend Christmas in Bali, summer in Mexico, and we’d fill our weekends with city breaks toParis, London and Rome. We would live our very best lives. We’d make so many memories our photo albums would be bursting, and our passports would be stamped like memory books we could look back on forever.
We’d create our own traditions for different times of the year. We’d make each other birthday cards rather than buy them. We’d write poetry as gifts instead of splashing cash on presents we didn’t need, and we’d always make sure to greet each other good morning and good night, no matter what our mood was like.
We had so many dreams, but that’s all they turned out to be. Dreams that didn’t come true.
‘Rose? I was hoping we’d bump into you again. Do you mind if we join you?’
It’s Stacy and Chris, the friendly English couple I met last night.
‘Have a seat, of course,’ I say to Stacy, who doesn’t have to be told twice. ‘It’s so nice to see you again.’
I push the remainder of my chowder to the side, my appetite now gone as a fantasy fog slowly clears to let me see the truth. I have company though, so I need to snap out of it.
‘Oh no, sorry. You’re still eating. We’ll grab a stool by the bar.’
‘Yes. We’ll do that until you finish,’ says Chris. ‘In fact, I’m going to nip to the bathroom first.’
I dab the sides of my mouth with my napkin.
‘Honestly, no. I’m all done. Bag a seat for him while you still can,’ I say to Stacy. ‘This place just gets busier every timeI’m here, so you mightn’t be so lucky in a wee while. I’m finished. Promise.’
‘Were you at the Christmas Fayre?’ asks Stacy and I nod in response. ‘Wasn’t it just a delight? I bought so much stuff I don’t know how I’m going to fit it all into my suitcase.’
The pub is filling up quickly as some other faces I recognise from the Christmas Fayre begin to arrive, all thirsty and high on festivities after what seemed like a very successful event.
They arrive full of chitter chatter and praise –Didn’t the tombola go down a treat? The grotto was so well managed this year. Susie O’Hare’s craft stall was a sight to behold. And all handmade! Did you try Hannah’s cakes? And the mince pies were to die for as always.
I wonder if Susie O’Hare is the lady I bought the cute ‘forget-me-not’ picture frame from. Its moon and stars design caught my eye as I was leaving. When I examined it more closely, she took great pride in informing me how she’d made it from scrap wood she’d found in her late father’s shed. It was too pretty to pass and I thought myself lucky to snap it up before anyone else did.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Chris asks on his return. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the back of his chair. ‘White wine?’
‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘That would be lovely.’
Then, just as Chris’s back is turned, Stacy leans across the table, her face bursting with excitement to tell me whatever is on the tip of her tongue.
‘Chris will murder me for telling you, Rose, but I believe in passing on a compliment,’ she whispers.
‘Oh, me too. Go on,’ I say, feeling this must be my lucky night.
‘Now, do you remember yesterday evening he was chatting to a guy at the bar while I was fussing over your gorgeous dog?’
I don’t, to be honest, but Stacy doesn’t give me room to respond.
‘Well, the guy was asking who you were in a very admiring way, and he’s just walked in. Look! He’s chatting to Chris again. Rose, he’s lovely.’
