‘Right.’ April raised her eyebrows as she shrugged into her coat and hat. I resisted the urge to yank that stupid floppy hat off her mouldy dreadlocks and slap her round the face with it.
As I said goodbye to Dylan, he looked at me steadily, creases forming between his eyebrows. ‘I hope Sam’s okay. I mean. I know he’s not okay. But, well. I’m thinking of you.’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, sure I would give something away about how I would no doubt be thinking about him, too. Not in an appropriate, concerned friend-type way, either.
Chill out, heart. He’s doing hisjob. You should be ashamed of yourself for feeling mushy about a minister being kind to a friend –friend– going through a tough time.
I spent most of December picking up shifts at Christmas parties, waiting on the kind of people Perry wished I hung around with. In between serving sparkling wine and mini lobster thermidors, I practised ‘O Holy Night’, with and without the rest of the choir, answered Sam’s middle of the night and all through the day phone calls, walked miles along frosted lanes and crunchy footpaths, and tried not to think too hard about anything else.
I’d just got back from a walk and was defrosting my toes in front of the fire when Perry called. ‘Are you coming to the firm’s Christmas do?’
‘When is it again? I might be working.’
‘You are not bartending at my Christmas party.’
‘When is it?’ I repeated.
‘The eighteenth.’
I checked my mental diary. ‘I’m not working. But I have a choir rehearsal until eight.’
‘Skip it.’
‘Can I come along afterwards? It’s only three days before the performance. I ought to be there.’
‘Maybe you ought to spend more than a couple of evenings with your fiancé.’
‘You know I can’t afford to pass on the extra shifts. This is my busiest time of year.’ I held back any comments about his frequent late nights in the office, numerous business trips and weekends schmoozing clients.
‘I miss you, Faith. Come to the party. Drink champagne and slow dance with me. Let’s kiss under the mistletoe. I’ll wrap you in my tux in the taxi home so you don’t get cold. Let’s forget about responsibilities for one night and have a wonderful evening.’
I thought about which I found more wonderful: a choir rehearsal with a group of mixed-up women and a drill sergeant for a director, or a night in an awkward dress and uncomfortable shoes making small talk with Perry’s work colleagues. I glanced down at the ten-billion-pound ring on my finger.
‘Okay. Yes. I would love to come to your work do. They can manage without me for one evening.’
‘What? And how are we supposed to manage without you for the entire evening?’ Hester barked. ‘You’re missing practice for a party? Ebony has already backed out. Something about her kids’ school play. Would anyone else like to skip rehearsal this week? How about the dress rehearsal on Saturday? How about none ofus bother – we just spend the day Christmas shopping or eating mince pies or watchingThe Muppet Christmas Carol!’
‘I’m sorry, Hester. I promised my fiancé I’d go with him. We’ve hardly spent an evening together all month, and this is important.’
She stared at me. ‘Important to him or to you?’
‘For us. It’s important for us. And me.’
She nodded her head briskly before tapping the back of a chair with a baton. ‘Excellent. Good to see you standing up and making some choices for yourself. Your self-belief is growing. Have a wonderful time. Everybody stand!’
The party went as I imagined – the swanky restaurant in Nottingham full of men with glowing faces in black tie, women in too short, too tight dresses and overly bright smiles. I sat next to Eddie and Fleur, from the disaster dinner party, which made the meal bearable, and then Perry dragged me into his arms on the dance floor, and we swayed along to the swing band until we were ready to leave.
He asked the taxi driver to drop us off at the end of my street and we walked the rest of the way beneath a sparkling canopy of December stars. He held my hand as we strolled in silence through the crisp night air, stopping at my front door.
‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’
Perry knew I meant a coffee, as I had mentioned months ago that an abusive relationship had left me with major trust issues, and I didn’t feel ready to sleep with him (let alone show him my scars). I basically considered myself damaged goods in that respect – I would share Perry’s bed as his wife, but I certainly didn’t expect to enjoy it. His willingness not to push the matterhad been part of the reason I could contemplate him being my husband, although I wasn’t ignorant to the fact that our stalled sex life was a contributing factor in his haste to get me down the aisle.
We could make a life together that would be better than anything I ever dreamed of, or deserved. I would do what needed to be done, out of gratitude if nothing more. Shooting stars and violins, trembling kisses and I-think-about-you-all-the-time – that wasn’t real life. That faded with putting out the bin and cleaning the bathroom, sleepless nights with screaming babies, and the onset of saggy skin. Didn’t it? What we had – friendship, mutual respect – didn’t that make just as solid a foundation for a lifetime together?
As my future husband kissed me goodnight, his mouth warm against my frozen lips, I willed myself to lean into him. To wrap my arms around this choice I had made and embrace it.
The afternoon of the carol service, we met in an upstairs room at Grace Chapel. Perry having been called in to the office again, I had grabbed a last-minute lift with Marilyn. The air crackled and popped with built-up tension as the choir changed into the simple black dresses Rosa had whizzed up on her new sewing machine, adding thin silver belts and various different metallic shoes picked up for eight pounds each in a closing down sale. Rowan and Kim hastily curled or straightened hair, pinning in silver Christmassy ornaments. We giggled with bunched-up nerves, squeezed each other’s hands and blotted sweaty make-up. There would be no more than eighty people in the hall – maybe a few extras standing at the back – but it may as wellhave been eight thousand. ‘Does Rosa even have a dress for you?’ Mags asked, somewhat bemused at Marilyn’s appearance.
