“Well, you’ll get wet then. Put a coat on.”
“It’s not very spontaneous if I go and put a coat on,” I laugh.
He looks at my feet. “You had time to put those hideous slipper-boot things on.”
I’m ignoring him now, half out of the door, half in. I move further into the garden, where I know the concrete has ended and given way underneath to patchy grass. It’ll be softer for lying in. George is in the doorway, silently refusing to join me, but not quite willing to keep going on that cooking video for the moment. He’s watching me now, his arms folded, with that bloody broccoli stalk still clutched in his palm.
I lie down, don’t move for a while, watch the snow as it falls down onto me, let it land on my cheeks and forehead, into my eyelashes, and then I open my mouth, stick out my tongue, let the cool of the snow melt into my mouth, and then I laugh at myself. I make a snow angel, swiping my arms and legs up and down in the freshly falling powder until I’m sure I’ve made a me-shaped dent worthy of the Archangel Gabriel. I think of Davey, and the phrase “Death moves fast” travels all around my head, landing as thickly as the snow. And I stand up, soaked but smiling.
“You’re mad,” George mutters and I can’t tell if it’s an honest statement or if he means it affectionately.
Chapter 32
December
it’s only thebeginning of December, but I amon itwhen it comes to Christmas this year. My tree is up and once again I’ve bought new fairy lights. I count all the presents under the tree. Miranda and Paul are coming over for a mock-Christmas get-together on the twenty-third before we all flit off after work on Christmas Eve, scattering on trains like the rest of London, back to our family homes. George is going to be here too on the twenty-third and I’m now actually quite excited about this dinner, Christmas, and what next year will bring. I have survived my probation period at work and am now a fully fledged member of the team. Not that I wasn’t considered such, but there’s always something slightly bottom-clenching about a probation period, no matter how good at your job you are.
This year is rounding off quite nicely. It’s our first Christmas together—well, mock-Christmas, as George is going to his parents for the big event and I’m heading to Whitstable to mine. But it’s the same thing, he reassures me, and it’s good enough for us, as neither of us is quite committing to go to the other’s family for the day itself. Maybe next year.
I’ve bought George a whole box of goodies for his Christmas present. To say I put time and effort into it would be anunderstatement. Alongside some little stocking fillers and varying flavors of protein powders is the latest Joe Wicks cookbook, plus an overnight voucher for a spa in the countryside in north Essex, where the gym looks amazing and so do the pool, steam room, and spa treatment menu, because I’d quite like to go too. I put the finishing touches to the decoration on the box: red glittery ribbon and some of that fun synthetic ribbon, which I run vigorously across the open blades of a pair of scissors. I watched someone in a shop do it and it was a mind-blowing magic trick as the ribbon looped and swirled. I really hope he likes all of this.
But before Christmas we’re off to Joan and Geoff’s wedding. It’s the last Saturday before Christmas. The nation must be out in droves doing the last bit of high-street shopping, but I am smugly complete in that respect. To celebrate the season I’m wearing a red dress and faux-fur wrap, along with the tiniest red kitten heels. The whole ensemble practically shouts, “I am going to a Christmas wedding!” I’ve even gone down a dress size, which has cheered me up no end, but I do wonder if it’s simply that my boobs seem to have shrunk a bit, when the rest of me seems much the same.
George stayed over last night and we’re getting ready together. His patience is wearing that little bit thin, as I go over my hair with the straighteners again.
“Looking good, Gallagher,” he says, tapping his watch.
I turn to look at him in his dark-blue suit, his hair just that right side of floppy. “So do you. You got a girlfriend?” I tease.
He laughs. “Not for much longer, if she makes us late. And they’re your friends.”
“Charming! Geoff will be pleased to hear that. He likes you.”
“Yeah, he’s all right, I suppose. Be strange to see them full-length. Only ever see their top halves over your garden fence every now and again. Chop-chop, Gallagher, chop-chop.”
He switches off my straighteners and bustles us both out ofthe door. For a man who’s eternally late, he’s keen today. So am I. This is quite possibly the swankiest wedding I’ve ever been invited to. It is clear that Geoff is very, very loaded, judging by the location, the agenda, and the fact they’ve got more than a hundred people coming. Joan has made no secret of the fact that the cruise was no expenses spared, and he’s booked Mauritius for the honeymoon. I still have no idea what he did before he retired but, whatever it was, Geoff was obviously very good at it and is reaping the rewards of retirement.
I read through the thick, embossed-card invitation again as George and I ride the Central line.
“We need to change to the District line in a bit,” he says absentmindedly, adjusting his tie and cricking his neck.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, looking at the order of events taking place in Kew Gardens. The civil ceremony is taking place in the Nash Conservatory, drinks in the Princess of Wales Conservatory, and the reception in the Orangery. That’s a lot of conservatories. But I am so excited, for Joan and Geoff, but also because I’ve not been to Kew Gardens since I went on a school trip years ago. I’ve looked up winter weddings at Kew Gardens to whet my appetite. There are going to be fairy lights everywhere. And mulled wine. Thank God I’m wearing red. I am a not-so-secret spiller whenever red wine and I meet.
I can’t wait to see Joan’s dress, which she says is understated and elegant, but which she wouldn’t allow anyone to see. I hold George’s hand while we’re on the Tube, let our hands rest together, entwined in the space between us.
I’m holding my small clutch bag and, because it’s so small, I’ve loaded the pockets of George’s trousers and his inside jacket pockets with all my belongings that don’t fit, such as a natural rose-petal confetti box, lip gloss, bronzer, deodorant. In my bag are basically just my phone and tissues, because I know I’ll cry when they say, “I do.”
George looks down at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Damn, Gallagher, you look fit.”
“Thanks,” I murmur against his lips as he kisses me.
We stand and we prepare to go through the rigmarole of changing lines.
“Do you think she’ll grade the after-dinner coffee?” he teases as we walk through the station, allowing the crowd to swallow us in its midst as we stride purposefully toward our line. Whenever George stayed over, he stopped coming to weekend chats over the fence with Joan, either heading off to work or appearing briefly for a wave, a hello, and then a retreat. I was glad. They were our thing anyway—mine and Joan’s. “A four out of five,” he mimics Joan as we arrive at our new platform. “But not as good as the Valpolicella capsule from last week.”
I frown. “That’s a wine. And don’t be unkind.”
And then it happens—the thing I’d wanted to happen for so long and then put out of my mind, as being about as likely as winning the lottery. I’m on the platform with George, waiting for the train.
