A grey man in a grey suit stared at me from behind the reception desk. The only nod to the time of year was a sombre arrangement of black, foliage-free twigs wrapped in fairy lights in the middle of the lobby which I took to be the world’s saddest Christmas tree. At least, I assumed it was a Christmas tree, possibly it was a permanent modern art installation designed to scare children.
‘It’s miss, actually, just having a bad day,’ I said, rubbing my ring fingers under my eyes and wincing when they came away black. I looked as though I’d just got back from a shift down the mines with my Great-Uncle Emlyn. ‘I’m meeting someone who’s having lunch here, can you point me to the restaurant?’
‘Certainly,’ he replied without making eye contact. Civil but disinterested. They probably didn’t pay him enough to argue with old crones who wandered in off the street on Christmas Day. ‘Luncheon is being served in The Orangery, down the corridor to your right. Perhaps your friend would rather come out to meet you? The Orangery is a formal dining experience, we wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.’
It was a funny thing to say because he was doing a very good job of making me feel incredibly uncomfortable without seemingly making any effort at all.
‘I’m grand, thanks,’ I said, aggressively tossing my ponytail over my shoulder only for it to flick all the way around and slap me in the eye. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘And season’s greetings to you,’ he replied under his breath as I tiptoed, blinking, through the silent lobby.
It had been almost three months since I’d seen Michael and two and a half hours since I left home to see him, but now I was here, I still had no idea what I was actually planning to say. Michael, I still love you. Michael, let’s try again. Michael, I’m trapped in a Christmas time loop and the only way to break it is to grant a wish and my nan really wants us to get back together? Probably wouldn’t start with that one.
All I knew for sure was I wanted things back the way they were. Things started to go wrong for me the moment Michael ended things. If we could work things out, I’d be able to concentrate at work, knuckle down and get my promotion back on track and move out of my miserable flat and back into our beautiful home … and then what?
Pretend everything was OK?
Pretend he hadn’t started seeing someone else behind my back?
Pretend I wasn’t terrified he’d do it again?
My stomach churned, all the thoughts and feelings I’d done so well to ignore since I left swelling up inside me. Three months of Manny checking in on me every single day, three months of sleepless nights spent wondering what I’d done wrong, three months of blaming myself for his actions. I felt sick. There I was, telling my dad to let his feelings out, telling my mum she needed to put herself first and now I was about to beg the man who’d broken my heart to take me back? What was wrong with me?
I’d always been able to spot Michael in any room – with his pale blond hair and my heart tied to his, all roads led back to my love, and I saw him straight away, alone at a table right in the middle of the restaurant. The besttable. A weak echo of the rush of happiness I used to feel every time I saw him washed over me. But this was not that. I wasn’t excited to see him, I was anxious.
This was not what I wanted.
He’d changed his hair, I realized. He’d cut it all off short except for a little flick in the front. At some point in the last three months, Michael Darden had gone out and got a new haircut without telling me, for the first time since we met, and I realized, as I stared at him from the doorway of the restaurant, he would never tell me before changing his hair ever again. He would buy new shoes and get new glasses, he might even grow a beard if the mood took him, and none of it would have anything to do with me.
It hit me like a bolt from the blue, a series of tiny realizations leading up to one giant revelation, exploding one by one like Dad’s fireworks. I’d lost weeks of my life wallowing and sobbing and singing along to my carefully curatedNow That’s What I Call Miserymixtape wishing for something that simply didn’t exist anymore. I’d told myself over and over that if I could turn the clock back, everything would be OK, but just one look at this new version of my old boyfriend was all I needed to know that was not the case. I didn’t want this man with a haircut I didn’t recognize. I wanted the comfort and stability of our previous life – but that life was gone, forever. It was like getting back into a hot bath gone cold. Even if you added more warm water, it would never really be the same.
Backing up before he could see me, I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth as if I was at the end of a rough spin class or had just eaten aparticularly large sandwich. It was too much to take in, I had to get out of there. But before I could make a respectable exit, I saw a tiny brunette emerge from the ladies at the end of the narrow hallway, shaking her hands dry as she strolled along the corridor towards me in a lovely dress and high heels, looking every bit as though she belonged.
Justine the Receptionist.
‘Well, this isn’t good,’ I whispered, looking to my left and then my right and realizing I was trapped. There were three options. Turn left into The Orangery and hope there was another exit of some kind, turn right and walk past Justine the Receptionist with my head held high, orI could hurl myself at the plate glass windows in front of me and pray for a merciful death. I knew the right thing to do and despite how attractive it might seem, it wasn’t option three. I wasn’t the one who shagged my attached boss behind Justine’s back, I had no reason to feel small in front of her, but as I ran out of time I also knew I couldn’t bear to be any closer to her than I was right now. And so, with a deep breath, I pulled up the collar of Manny’s teddy coat and made a swift left turn into the restaurant.
If Classic FM was a restaurant, it would be The Orangery. Everything was muted and lush, quietly assured of its own splendour, elegant tablecloths, heavy linen napkins and an intimidating amount of cutlery at every single place setting. The diners were equally fancy, sleek and patrician and elbows-off-the-table, and I had walked in wearing my pyjamas and a battered, oversized teddy coat a giant man kept in his car in case of emergencies. So itwas understandable when a fair number of people turned to have a look at me as I shuffled around the edge of the room, searching for an exit, Michael included.
Shit. Shit shit shit. Somehow my terribly flawed and poorly executed plan had failed.
His eyes widened with recognition and a scarlet stain crept up his neck as Justine took her seat and I stared back at him, every moment exploding with another flashback firework. Bang, I don’t love you anymore. Bang, I’m seeing someone else. Bang, you have to move out. Everything felt wrong from the fancy hotel and soft music to me being here in the first place. Not to mention the fact Michael was wearing a lurid red-and-green striped reindeer sweater, something he flatly refused to even entertain when we were together. It wasn’t me, this glossy five-star Christmas, I wanted Mum and Dad’s cosy dining room, the shouting, the laughing, even my awful sister. All the things that made Christmas Christmas. Looking at Michael now, sitting across from Justine, I could see it all so plainly. It wasn’t me but it was them. They made sense together, which meant he and I did not. Panicking, I slid into an empty chair at the nearest table, taking a moment to recover myself before beaming at its three elderly occupants.
‘Hello!’ I exclaimed with an effusive smile, watching Michael watching me. ‘Merry Christmas, how is everyone?’
‘Who are you?’ The man to my left asked, quite reasonably. The woman sat across from him reached for her handbag and held it close to her chest.
‘My name’s Gwen,’ I replied, still with one eye on my ex as he whispered something to his new girlfriend. ‘What’s yours?’
‘That’s Patricia’s seat,’ said another older gentleman sat opposite me. ‘You can’t sit there, she’ll be back from the loo in a minute.’
‘She’ll be longer than a minute,’ the woman said with a flash of annoyance. ‘She’ll tell you she’s never out of the toilet since her hysterectomy, but I’ve noticed it’s usually more of a problem around the time the bill comes.’
Three tables up and two across, I watched as Michael rose from his seat, grim determination on his face.
‘So, it’s actually a funny story which I haven’t got time to tell but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind all laughing really loudly as though I’ve just said something hysterical,’ I said to my new friends. ‘I’ll give the cue.’
The woman peered at me over a tasteful holly and ivy centrepiece which I realized with a pang was all the worse for its lack of one-eyed grey rabbits. ‘Are you wearing pyjamas?’ she asked.