Chapter 18
A voice comes over the loudspeaker: ‘The next stop is Covent Garden. Please mind the gap.’
I stand and move over to the door, waiting for the carriage to pull to a stop.
I can feel eyes on me, like I’m being watched.
I turn. There’s a greasy-haired guy of maybe seventeen smirking up at me; I glance down at his phone, which is pointed right at me.
He’s videoing me, probably trying to see up my skirt, but that’s par for the course.
Nothing to be jumpy about. Not usually, at least. But right now I have this horrible feeling that everyone can see straight through me, that everyone knows what I am.
And I can’t shake the unease I felt when I saw that smear of blood.
The screech of brakes fills the air, we pull to a stop, then the doors slide open. I get out quickly, push my hands into my pockets, then rush through the station and out into the winter air. It bites at my cheeks as I look around for Es.
She’s standing nearby, looking down at her phone, huddled in a big coat and the turquoise scarf I knitted her earlier this year. Back before Jonathan, when knitting was my most recent fixation. I smile and go over to her.
‘Heellllooooo,’ she says in her thick Liverpool accent. ‘Oh, I love this so much,’ she says, looking my Afghan coat up and down. ‘Is it vintage?’
‘Mmhmm,’ I say. And it is. Usually I wear plain clothes, whatever is currently in style—nothing to get me noticed. But I love this coat now as much as I did when I bought it new in the 70s. I can’t bring myself to get rid of it.
Then she links arms with me and pulls me up the street.
‘By the way, thanks again for those weed gummies. They are stroooonnng,’ she says, as we weave our way through foot traffic towards the market.
‘They’re going to make Christmas so much more bearable.
’ Then her tone shifts and she looks over at me. ‘Wait, have you got plans yet?’
I nod, enthusiastic about my imaginary plans.
‘I’m going to do an orphan’s Christmas with Daphne, my friend from work,’ I lie, my voice cracking at the thought of spending another Christmas all alone with Cat.
It doesn’t sound like a big deal, to spend Christmas alone, I’m certainly not religious, but it stings knowing all those you love are with ‘their people’, and you’re not. It reminds you that you have no people.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? My family is a bit bonkers, but Mum really wouldn’t mind,’ Es says, as if she can read my mind.
The truth is, I’d love to go with her. But that would come with too many questions about why I was eating so little, why I never wanted to go on lovely country walks in the day, why I was an insomniac and spent all day in bed. It would not be good for our friendship.
‘I’d love to, but I can’t. I have to work on Boxing Day,’ I say. ‘But thanks.’ I squeeze her arm and she smiles back at me.
‘If you’re sure,’ she says.
‘So have you done all your Christmas shopping?’ I ask, keen to change the subject.
‘Yeah, finally,’ she says, as we move past a bright red phone box.
There’s a lot of red in London: phone boxes, letter boxes, buses.
It might as well be painted in blood. It’s like this entire city is whispering, I know what you are deep down, what you’d do for fun if you let yourself go.
Taunting me. Reminding me you can always hate yourself a little more.
‘Which reminds me,’ Es continues, ‘I got you something. It’s just small,’ she says, pulling a weirdly shaped present out of her bag and handing it to me. It’s kind of heavy.
‘But I didn’t get you anything . . .’ I say, guilt rolling through me. I should have thought of it. I’ve been so distracted.
‘Umm, you get me weed gummies all the time and never let me pay for them, I think we’re good. Don’t open it until Christmas, okay?’
I nod. ‘Thanks, Es,’ I say, then drop it into my bag, wondering what it is.
Probably some kind of weapon or safety device, knowing Es.
She’s addicted to true-crime podcasts and is always feeding me personal safety titbits like holding my keys between my fingers as a weapon or using hairspray as makeshift mace, or never going on a date without letting a friend know the address .
. . She tells me all these things, never guessing that I might be the problem.
That I might be the worst kind of danger.
Her eyes move up. ‘Ah look, isn’t it magical?’
I follow her gaze to the enormous sparkly Christmas tree looming above the crowd, and I take in the scene as we walk into the piazza.
It’s an assault on my senses. A line of carollers singing ‘Carol of the Bells’ a cappella, and a thousand conversations taking place all at once, a thousand different heartbeats, accents, lives.
‘Oh my god, I bet they have mulled wine. Come on,’ Es says as she grabs my arm and drags me over to a little stall.
As we wait in line, I look back towards the carollers and the market building.
I’ve watched so much of this city be built from nothing, seen trees be planted and grow to size, seen the skyline change time and again.
The parts that have been here as long as I remember hold a special place in my heart—and this is one of them.
If I squint, I can almost imagine women with baskets of flowers wandering around.
There have been many renovations, but along with the moon, it’s one of my constant touchstones.
Each year it gets a little more special to me.
If they ever demolish it I might totally lose my shit.
We get to the front of the line. Es orders and I pay. ‘My treat,’ I say.
‘Thanks.’ She takes a gulp.
I sip mine slowly as we stroll through the market and I try not to scrunch up my nose.
Like I said before, I have sensitive taste buds and I’m drinking hot wine with substandard spices out of a cardboard cup lined with micro-plastics.
And honestly, all I want is for this mulled wine to make me calm and giddy and a little numb, to take my thoughts away, just as it will for Es. But it doesn’t.
We go inside and I look around and up. There’s an arched Apple Market sign, and golden bells with red ribbons and big red baubles hanging from the ceiling.
‘Look,’ Es says, and I turn to where she’s pointing.
In front of us stands a red sleigh in front of a set of small Christmas trees; I can smell their pine needles.
There’s a couple sitting in the sleigh, taking a selfie.
She’s wearing a red woollen hat and as I look at them, it’s as if I’m pressing a bruise on my heart.
I should be here with Jonathan.
In leaks a memory from our third date: ice-skating at Somerset House.
It was the midday session, so I wore big sunglasses and claimed a hangover to explain my shakiness.
It was okay for the first five minutes, but after an hour of taking laps on the bright white ice beneath a cloudless sky, I was pretty sure this might be the path to true death I’d been looking for all along.
But then Jonathan stopped me in the middle of the ice, took the red woollen beanie off his own head and put it on mine.
Then he leaned down, and there, in front of everyone, he kissed me.
As he did, my stomach clenched and in came a flash: I’m lying on the sofa, my head on his lap, I’m reading a book, laughing .
. . And just like that, I knew human-me liked to read too.
‘Oh my lord, look at that queue,’ Es says, scrunching up her face and I follow her gaze. There are eight people in line. ‘Should we just get a picture from here?’ she asks.
‘Sure,’ I say.
So we turn around and squish our faces up together and she takes a few pictures, moving her head from side to side as I do the same.
‘So cute,’ she says, flicking through them while I look at them over her shoulder. But now I’m thinking of Daphne’s wise words about posting pictures: You need to look natural and be laughing, it needs to be the kind of picture where you just know someone else was there taking it.
‘Can you get one of me alone for Mum? She collects them,’ I say, rolling my eyes like it’s an annoying habit of hers, when the truth is, I’d give anything to have a mum who did things like that.
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I hope they get over here soon so they can see how magical Christmas is in winter.’
I nod as I step a little closer to the sleigh. I told her my parents live in Australia. I tell everyone that. It’s far enough away that it makes sense that we don’t visit each other.
She aims the phone lens at me and I fake a laugh.
‘Aww,’ she says, taking a few pictures.
She looks down at her phone then quickly up at me again. ‘I’ll airdrop them to you.’
I pull my phone from my bag, and as I do, I see a missed call from Daphne.
She’s left a voicemail too. Usually I’d check it right away, but Es’s photos are pinging onto my phone and this is important.
I quickly scroll through them, trying to figure out which one to post. I choose one where I’m laughing and looking at the lens with love.
I upload it as a story, add a filter and just one emoji at the bottom of it: a Christmas present. And then I post it.
Now, all I need is for Jonathan to see it. For one little sign that he’s still thinking of me. Still connected to me. That there’s still a chance for us.
Then I’ll feel better.