Page 4 of One More Day
‘Oh Rose, you’re killing me,’ Carlos replies, slipping off his stool to be closer to me. ‘But you’re doing so, so well. One step at a time, remember? I know how hard it was for you to come here tonight and put on such a brave face for everyone.’
I scan the room. My team mean the world to me. As painful as this is, there’s no way I could have let them down by not showing up to thank them for another amazing year in business. I promised myself I’d put on a front for them, even if it means dancing and smiling when I really feel like curling up into a ball and pretending Christmas isn’t happening at all.
‘And if you really believe that being on your own at Christmas helps you get through the season,’ Carlos says, ‘then I won’t try to convince you otherwise. But don’t feel you have to, darling. You won’t always have to.’
‘I know, I know,’ I manage a smile. ‘Maybe this will be the last Christmas I feel I have to spend alone.’
Carlos nods and clasps my hand. He has the type of face you’d love to paint, all angles and corners with glasses that probably cost more than my entire outfit.
I can tell he wants to change the subject to make me smile again. I can tell by how he has gone from looking deeply concerned about my grief to swaying and clicking his fingers as the sound of Mariah Carey belts out around us.
‘You requested that song, didn’t you?’ I ask him, crinkling my nose as a genuine grin sneaks up on me.
‘Never.’
‘Bit insensitive, don’t you think, considering the lyrics? All I want for Christmas is you?’ I can’t help but laugh, even though inside I want to cry. ‘I bloody hate this song.’
He puts his hands up and bops along in time to Mariah, stepping from side to side as he clicks again.
‘Just one dance like you said you would? Then I’ll pretend you got some mysterious tummy bug and had to slip off, just like we promised.’
‘OK, OK, I hear you,’ I reply. It may be the most dreaded time of year for me, but I’ve a business to run and bills to pay, which often means putting my own sadness on pause when it’s called for. ‘Just one dance and then I’m out of here.’
His eyes light up. My own eyes catch the Michael lookalike who stands holding a pint in one hand, the other in his pocket. I feel his gaze on me, but I ignore it. I may be sad and lonely but I’m not of the mindset to flirt with anyone, never mind a married man.
We push our way through the glittery revellers who sing along as they dance like no one’s watching. And then I dance too.
My body moves, but inside I’m a mess.
All I want for Christmas is to be my real self again, but even Christmas can’t make that wish come true.
George, a huge mound of black and white fluff, all slobbers and a panting tongue, greets me at the door of my city townhouse when I get home. Despite my weary head and heart, I manage to indulge him before I even take my coat off.
I bend down and ruffle his ears, and he almost purrs in response.
‘Let’s get you a nice treat, eh?’
As far as Christmas parties go, apart from the Michael moment almost causing me a panic attack, tonight was a roaring success. I managed to bluff my way around, or else dodge, enthusiastic questions about how I’m going to spend my extended break this year before slipping off early with just enough buzz from a few drinks which I hope will help me sleep.
But now that I’m home, with two whole weeks of annual leave ahead of me, the reality of being alone for Christmas hits me once more.
WhatamI going to do for two whole weeks while the rest of the world parties like it’s 1999? And it’s ten days to go until the ‘big day’ itself. Why didn’t I just smother myself in work like I usually do?
I used to love this time of year.
My humble childhood is peppered with memories of huge family gatherings in our crumbling old farmhouse, Dad stoking up the fire in the living room and Mum singing badly as she peeled sprouts and carrots.
My job was always Chief Decorator: I took charge of the tree and made sure every room in the house felt festive, taking great pride in laying the main dining table. I was meticulous with my handmade efforts ever since I was old enough to use glitter and glue. In fact, I remember winning a prize at school for a centrepiece which was a pretty, frosted wooden log with a red candle in the middle. I ran home that day and placed it on our table set for dinner which was bursting with love.
My sister Sarah and I would make hot chocolate on Christmas morning and bring it to our farming neighbours. In fact, we’d carried on this tradition into adulthood back when, nomatter where we were in the world, we’d always find our way home in time for Christmas Day.
But not any more.
Since I lost Michael, I’ve spent the past few alone with the TV off, my phone on silent and only alcohol and old George to numb the pain. It’s like I’m facing a brick wall too high to climb over, and I can’t even bring myself to try and knock it down. Michael’s mother, Evelyn, goes numb at this time of year too, I’ve been told. I did visit her after the accident, but she was too far gone to reach and my guilty conscience made it too hard to try to change her. She shut herself off from everyone after his death, unable to lift her head or open her door to anyone, even to me.
Especially to me. I fear she blames me as much as I blame myself.
So now, as soon as the very word ‘Christmas’ is mentioned, the fear and guilt that sticks inside me like wet dough becomes suffocating. No matter how much I want to, I just can’t go home.
