‘You’re getting married?’ Ashley blurted, nearly toppling backwards out of her chair into the bushy tree, which had been covered in baubles made out of miniature Christmas jumpers.
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ Sarah said, standing frozen stiff with a tray of mulled wine.
Jamie shrugged. ‘I told you, I’m not staying over without Edison knowing it’s permanent.’
‘I thought the answer to that was that you didn’t stay over.’ The glasses on the tray rattled. ‘Is this a proposal? Because you could’ve picked a better time, like when I’m not wearing a snowman apron and I’ve had time to get my roots done.’
Jamie calmly took the tray from her and placed it on the table. He’d come a long way since the Tough Muck. ‘I’m not proposing now. But when I do, I won’t give a crap what you’re wearing or what your hair’s like. And I’ll be doing it with your son present, not a load of gawkers. Okay?’
He waited, ever patient, while Sarah summoned up the ability to reply. ‘Okay.’
‘Hurry up, Jamie.’ Ashley took a glass, the ends of her tinsel hairband dangling dangerously close to the winter-spice candle centrepiece. ‘You don’t want to keep a woman waiting too long.’
‘It’s been four months!’ Sarah blustered, fooling no one.
‘Well, moving on from Jamie and Sarah’s personal business,’ Ellen said, ‘we have a book-club timetable to plan.’
‘Here we go.’ Jamie grimaced, grabbing a handful of nuts.
‘And beforethat,’ Ellen replied, ignoring him, ‘I have a letter to read. From our absent member.’ She unfolded the letter, cleared her throat, and read:
‘“I wanted to say this in person, but the despicable cancer has been up to its tricks again. However, Ellen has promised to write this down and read it to you later, so listen up:
Thank you.
Thank you for what you have done, and how you have done it.
Thank you for not treating me like a doddery old woman but a friend who still has a functioning brain, albeit a little foggier than before.
Thank you for listening as you wiped my face and laughing as you helped me balance on the loo.
Thank you for still telling me your troubles, and your silly little stories while warming my soup and dabbing cream on my sores. The ups and downs of your days may seem small in comparison to mine. But they are not. They are light in a ferociously vast darkness.
You have all been a light to me. Your kindness. Your time. Your respect.
I am not afraid of dying, as you know. But I have at times been terribly afraid of what it may entail.
I am a little less afraid of that now. Because God has sent me an army of angels.
I hope you have all learnt something these past few months. Something important. About yourselves. About each other. About what matters.
This is what I have learnt: my adventures were fun. Exciting. But fun and excitement is fleeting. What lasts, what matters, are the people you get to share your adventures with, talk and laugh about them with. The people who will remind you of the beautiful moments when your bones are screaming and your throat is raw and you are so tired and frustrated and blooming well peed-off you can’t bear another second in your own body. The people who can turn the light on. It is the people we love – and, if you haven’t figured it out, I love you all like the children I never had.
I hope you keep sharing your stories, and learning from them. I hope you remember this year, and your batty old friend, when you are eighty-five and life can seem more of a burden than a gift. This is nearly the end of my story – this chapter at least. Thank you for being part of it. Now, you can get on with arguing which book you’ll be reading next. What a relief Hillary West has writer’s block so you won’t have to listen to Ashley whinging on about reading his for a good long while. And please don’t forget to give Florence a piece of cake. Two pieces – she can have mine.
May all your days be merry and bright,
Frances.”’
Florence poked her nose above the tablecloth at the mention of her name, tongue out expectantly.
‘Cinnamon or pumpkin spice?’ Sarah rubbed her silken ears. ‘One of each? Go on, then, if your mistress says so.’
We opened our cheap, cheerful and downright cheesy secret Santa gifts, ate and talked, laughed and sang along to ‘White Christmas’,hoping our old friend wasn’t too uncomfortable or lonely, even as we went through our diaries and promised to do what we could to help her last days be merry and bright, too.
Around nine o’clock, Ellen made another attempt to get us back onto books.
‘Ashley, are you quite all right?’ she asked, a snippet of irritation creeping in as Ashley, increasingly fidgety and distracted, twisted to peer out of the bunting-covered window for the tenth time in a minute.
