Mum’s sister Karen is coming around on Boxing Day with her new husband, but on Christmas Day it’s just us: cooking, playing games, eating and then eating some more, and drinking more units than Dad would ever confess to his patients. By early evening we’ve all slumped into a food-and-drink coma and as Mum flicks through the channels, looking for theDoctor WhoChristmas special, which is not my cup of tea at all, I make an exit, offering to take the dog for a scamper on the beach.
I wrap up warmly and head through the narrow streets toward the seafront, which is quiet—everyone’s indoors, napping off their Christmas lunch. Curtains are open and I can see through table lamp–lit windows that children are running around sitting rooms, playing with oversized cardboard boxes from which their presents emerged; and Christmas-tree lights twinkle determinedly behind adults who are fast asleep in front of the television. I do a quick calculation while I walk. In sixteen days Davey arrives in London. I feel warmed by this, even as the cold coastal air winds itself up from the sea, wrapping itself around the streets and around me.
Next to me the dog trots along, stopping to sniff every now and again. Our dog is called Andrex. He’s a beautiful pale Labrador, and I was in charge of naming him ten years ago when we got him. I thought Andrex was a hilarious name, given that he looked like the dog from the toilet-roll commercial. But when I took himto parks and he got off his leash and I had to call him back…it grew a little embarrassing. Andrex and I sit on the pebbles on the beach and I throw his ball. The lights from across the estuary twinkle festively for us. I should probably move more, as I’ve eaten so much, but the fresh air is invigorating enough and Andrex is running around happily for both of us, so I continue sitting.
I textHappy Christmasto Davey and he calls me. I’m starting to feel so incredibly guilty that it’s always him calling me, but I still feel strange about ringing him out of the blue. I always feel I should issue a little notice first, which in part is what my text was. But he always, mostly, beats me to the actual call.
The signal is hazy out here, but he asks where I am and I tell him what I can see. Darkness is descending and the lights over in Essex are switching on and flickering so very gently, all those miles away across the water. I can only just make out the wind farm in the distance and the red rusting forts out to sea. A view that I recognize and love so well.
“I would love to see that,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a pebble beach. How’s your Christmas been?”
I tell him about my day, about how wonderful it is to be home. “How’s yours been?” I ask.
“Great. We’re about to sit down to eat. I feel really lucky. I love my folks. I’m gonna miss them so much. But I’m excited that I’m going to be in England soon. New job. New life—not that my current life is bad. But I’m so ready, so excited for all of it. And seeing you, in real life.”
I breathe in the cold air happily. “I can’t wait to see you,” I say. While we’ve messaged each other inane texts and frequent “Hello, how’s your day?” comments over the past week or so, I know it was that night I accidentally fell asleep with him that changed everything. It was personal. I let him in. I let him watch me sleep. In the morning I woke up and found he’d gone, quietlyhung up and continued with his evening without disturbing me while I slept. And in place of a video version of him, I woke to a message telling me how adorable I was when I slept, how much he liked me and how he’d never liked anyone this much, which he knew was strange because we’d never actually met.
“And what about New Year’s?” he asks, and I’m immediately overwhelmed, because I’ve never quite got the point of New Year’s. There’s such pressure aroundhaving a good timeand, in the end, the pressure overshadows the entire event.
For me, I say, New Year’s Eve is “feet up, TV remote in hand, glass of champagne, and maybe heading right back down to the beach to stand in this very spot and watch the fireworks over on the other side of the Thames Estuary.”
“It actually sounds perfect,” he says. And then he sighs. “And, ordinarily, I’d be so up for that. But this year New Year’s Eve has kinda turned into my leaving party.”
He tells me he’s heading down to somewhere called Sixth Street to see some live blues, and then a gang of them are going to a rooftop club called Summit to dance the night away under the city’s skyline. I listen to this man tell me about his life in one of the hottest cities in the world, as I sit on a cold beach in Kent in December. How did any of this happen?
—
By the time New Year’s Eve comes I am so ready just to relax in front of the TV, watch Jools Holland and his varying array of guests and then, with Mum and Dad, head down to the pebbles at ten to midnight, leaving Andrex at home with some classical music playing loudly so he can’t hear the fireworks.
I digest the year I’ve had and, really, I couldn’t be happier. But doesn’t everyone get to New Year’s and feel a little bit as if they’re ready for the past year to end? Resolutions are made, ready to be broken. I think last year I vaguely said I’d try to read every novel Charles Dickens ever wrote. Instead I think I mainlined all myback issues ofGraziauntil I caught up, exhausted, and started on the new ones.
But this year will be different. In February I’m going on a blowout holiday, though I think a bit of regret slowly creeps in that I’m going with George. He’s lovely. But he’s going to spend the entire time trying to get laid. Hopefully, not with me.
And before that there’s Davey. I’m not usually the kind of girl who pins all her hopes on a man. Actually I’m never that girl. But I do feel January is going to be different. I like Davey, and I know that he likes me. We’ve just never—actually—pinned down or said what it is that is happening between us. What we’re doing can’t be categorized yet. And I think we’re both OK with that. Either way, it’s only for the next week and a half and then…he’s here. I can’t actually believe Davey will be here. What will it be like to stand in front of him? What will it be like to kiss him?
We’re on the beach and midnight strikes. Over the water the fireworks sparkle: effervescent lights. Tiny dots of different-colored gunpowder wow silently from all those miles away in Essex, a different county, divided by the ebb and flow of the Thames. Behind us, in Whitstable, the town lights up in various shades of gilt pyrotechnics from houses and beach parties.
Mum puts her arm around me. Dad, on the other side, does the same and I’m sandwiched between the two of them: safe, which I’ve always felt, even though I’m not always with them. And then, because it’s midnight, they dip behind me and kiss each other. I smile and then feel them both kiss me quickly—one on each of my cheeks. We say “Cheers” with the champagne glasses we’ve brought down to the beach with us, and “Happy New Year” to each other. The beach isn’t deserted. Others have had the same idea. But we’re spaced so far apart from the other revelers it’s almost as if we’re alone.
As we turn to head back home, a few minutes after twelve, my phone rings. It’s Davey, and I tell my parents to go on and I’ll behome in a while. My dad agrees, because they have to get back to Andrex, and I settle myself on one of the wooden groins that divide the beach every now and again and swipe to answer the call. The tide is out, and if I wanted I could walk so far out that I could turn around and see most of my town from a distance.
“Happy New Year, Hannah,” he tells me, timing it perfectly.
“Happy New Year, Davey,” I say and then realize he’s got hours to go. He’s made the effort to call me at my midnight, when it isn’t even his yet. “How long until you head out for your leaving party/New Year’s blowout?”
I can picture him checking his watch.
“Not long,” he says a bit vaguely.
“Are you OK?” I ask.
“I have been drinkingallday.”
I laugh. “I wasn’t expecting Drunk Davey.”
“Neither was Sober Davey. Drunk Davey just kinda showed up.”
“The power of New Year’s.” I take a sip from my champagne flute.
