One Day in December

‘You’re a day early.’

‘Better than a day late.’ She sits up and gazes around. ‘Are we having a seance?’

I’ve lit scented candles everywhere to create a calm, Zen-like atmosphere. ‘It’s supposed to be spa-ish,’ I say. ‘Go on, sniff.’

She smells the air. ‘I think my nose would work better if I had a glass of wine in my hand.’

I take the hint and head into the kitchen. ‘Wine … or Oscar’s mother’s champagne?’ I call through.

‘Oh, HRH’s champagne, please.’ Sarah comes into the kitchen and perches on one of the breakfast stools. Is it disloyal that I’ve grumbled to Sarah on numerous occasions about my mother-in-law-to-be? Everyone needs to unload to someone, don’t they, and Sarah is as good as a sister. Which reminds me … I spin round and pull a small, wrapped parcel from the cupboard.

‘I’m going to give you this now before we get too drunk and I forget, or before we get too drunk and I can’t do it because I’m crying big snotty tears.’

I uncage the champagne as she looks at the gift bag, her eyes narrowed.

‘What is it?’

‘You’ll have to open it to find out.’

She tugs the grey ribbons as I pop the cork on the bottle of Oscar’s mum’s expensive champagne. I wanted to give Sarah something really special, and after hours of fruitless internet searching I realized that I already owned the perfect thing.

‘I’m nervous in case I don’t like it,’ she says, making light. ‘You know I’m a terrible liar, you’ll know straight away.’

I push a glass towards her and lean against the breakfast bar, facing her. ‘I’m pretty confident.’

She has the threadbare velvet box in her palm as she reaches for the stem of her glass and takes a sip for courage. As she goes to open it, I reach out and lay my hand over hers.

‘Before you do, I want to say something.’ Shit. I didn’t need a drink to get over-emotional about this after all. Tears are already pricking my eyes.

‘Fucking hell,’ she says, drinking a good half of her wine and topping her glass up. ‘Don’t start already, you’re not getting married for two days. Pace yourself, woman.’

I laugh, pulling myself together. ‘Okay, I’ve got this.’ I drink a little more and then set my glass down.

‘It’s to say thank you,’ I say, looking at the box and then at Sarah. ‘Thank you for … I don’t know, Sar, everything. For letting me have the biggest bedroom in Delancey Street, and for always being next to me on Saturday nights out and groggy Sunday mornings, and for inventing our signature sandwich. I don’t know where I’d be without you.’

Now she’s choked up. ‘It’s a bloody good sandwich,’ she says, and then she opens the box. For a few seconds she’s uncharacteristically silent.

‘This is yours,’ she says quietly.

‘And now it’s yours,’ I say. I’ve had my wafer-thin purple agate pendant reset into rose gold and refashioned, now set on a slender bangle.

‘I can’t take it, Lu. It’s too precious.’

Right. ‘I’m going to cry when I say this and then we’re going to get drunk and laugh, okay?’

She bites the inside of her already shaky bottom lip.

‘I lost my sister a long time ago, Sar, and I miss her. Every single day, I miss her.’ I wasn’t exaggerating. Big fat tears roll down my face. I know Sarah understands, because she dotes on her own younger sister. ‘That stone reminds me of Ginny’s eyes, and how they were like looking into my own eyes, and my grandma’s eyes. It’s part of my family, and I’m giving it to you because you’re my family too. I think of you as my sister, Sarah. Please have it, and wear it, and keep it safe.’

‘Jesus bloody God,’ she says, coming round the breakfast bar and hugging me. ‘Shut up, will you! If that’s what it’ll take you to stop talking, then of course I’ll keep it.’

I squeeze her, half laughing, half crying.

‘I’ll wear it on Saturday,’ she says.

‘I’d really like that.’ I could tell her what’s in my heart; that it will feel as if she’s representing Ginny on my special day. I don’t though, because it’ll set us both off again, and she knows it anyway. So I tell her instead that it’ll be perfect with her dress – an understated sea-foam green gown that makes her red hair come alive – and she agrees and then puts it carefully down before topping up our champagne.

We’ve made our way merrily through two bottles of Lucille’s expensive champagne, and I can hazily report that it gets you just as tipsy as its less expensive shelf-buddies.

‘I can’t believe you’re beating me down the aisle,’ Sarah says. The credits to Bridesmaids are rolling on Oscar’s massive flat screen (I still think of everything here as his, as if I am the lodger – I wonder if after we marry that will finally change), and we have foam toe separators on our feet.

‘Me neither,’ I say.

She reaches down into her box of tricks and pulls out a pack of cards. She wasn’t kidding when she said it was full of surprises; so far tonight she’s pulled out a succession of silly presents for me, from a pot of cinnamon which is meant to increase virility, to flip-flops with my new name on. We’re now on to a card game designed to embarrass and advise potential brides before they walk down the aisle.

‘How do we play?’

She takes the deck out of the box and reads the instructions on the back. ‘Deal everyone three cards, and then going in an anti-clockwise direction, read the question to the person two places to your left, blah blah blah.’ She starts to laugh and chucks the empty box over the back of the sofa. ‘Okay, let’s just take it in turns.’ She puts the deck down on the sofa between us. ‘You go first.’

I pick up the top card and read the question aloud to her. ‘What percentage of UK marriages end up in divorce (2012 figures used for representation)?’

‘Bloody hell, I’m taking these back,’ Sarah yelps. ‘The last thing you want to think about is divorce.’ But she breaks off to think. ‘Twenty-nine?’

I turn the card over to read the answer. ‘Forty-two per cent. God, that’s a bit depressing, isn’t it?’

I put the card down and she takes one. ‘Ah, this is better. What’s the first thing most women notice about a man?’ She reads the answer on the other side and laughs under her breath. ‘You can have three guesses.’

‘His car?’ I say, wasting one of my guesses.

‘Nope, not that.’

‘I don’t know … if he looks the spitting image of Richard Osman?’

He isn’t a random choice. He’s Sarah’s celebrity crush. ‘Don’t even joke,’ she says, glassy-eyed. She met him once at an award ceremony she was covering and only just refrained from whipping her top up and asking him to sign her boobs. ‘No one looks like Richard Osman except Richard Osman. Last chance.’

I take the question more seriously now it’s my last chance. ‘Eyes?’

‘Yes!’ She high-fives me. ‘Eyes. Have you seen Luke’s eyes? I’ve never seen bluer eyes in my life.’

I nod. She’s been loosely dating Luke since the summer; he’s her date at the wedding. She’s asked me not to mention it to Jack until she’s had time to tell him herself, although I don’t know if she’s done it yet. He left for Edinburgh the day after I bought my wedding dress, and aside from a text to let me know he could make the wedding, I haven’t heard from him. I stumbled over a photo on the internet of him at an event a few weeks ago, some music launch with a tiny blonde on his arm, so at least I know he’s alive.

I pick up the next card and squint at it. ‘Most popular bridal flower?’

Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘Roses. Too easy. One all.’

I let her have the point without bothering to check if she’s right.

‘This one better be more interesting or we’ll give up,’ she says, flipping the top card. ‘How many times does the average person fall in love in their lifetime?’