One Day in December

There’s something about living in a different place that allows you to be whoever you want to be.

He isn’t a random choice. He’s Sarah’s celebrity crush. “Don’t even joke,” she says, glassy-eyed. She met him once at an award ceremony she was covering and only just refrained from whipping her top up and asking him to sign her boobs. “No one looks like Richard Osman except Richard Osman. Last chance

“Oh, HRH’s champagne, please.” Sarah comes into the kitchen and perches on one of the breakfast stools. Is it disloyal that I’ve grumbled to Sarah on numerous occasions about my mother-in-law-to-be? Everyone needs to unload to someone, don’t they, and Sarah is as good as a sister. Which reminds me…I spin around and pull a small, wrapped parcel from the cupboard

I have something for you,” he says, letting go of my hands to reach inside his coat, pushing a brown paper parcel toward me. It’s soft, and I pick open the taped edges and fold the crumpled paper back to look inside. It’s a hat, folded in half. A heather-purple tweed baker boy cap. I smooth out the paper with my fingertips, reading the familiar Chester’s stamp embossed inside it, remembering when I tried it on

I’m wondering how to get my mum away from the five-foot-wide frocks when Gwenda comes unexpectedly to my rescue.
“Mum,” she calls loudly, peering over her specs. “I find that the fuller skirt can swamp my more petite brides.”
It’s my turn to put my face into the nearest wall of dresses to hide my smile. Gwenda calling her “mum” is another symptom of the wedding industry. Everyone is referred to by their role in the proceedings. Bride, groom, mother of the bride.

Wait, you want them for your wedding reception? Ah, well, in that case let me tie ribbons around the pots and charge you double! But I’ve got their number now. I try not to throw the bridal bomb in until the very last minute, if at all. Not that Oscar is interested in cutting corners; he and his mother have gone into a full-scale wedding mania. I’m having a hard time reining them in. What I’d really love, if they cared to listen to me, is a small wedding—and unlike most people who say that, I really mean it; something intimate and special, just for us and our very dearest. The only people I really want there from my side are my immediate family, Jack and Sarah, and the couple of old school friends I’ve stayed in touch with. As for my colleagues, I like them well enough, but not well enough to want them at my nuptials. Not that it matters a great deal what I think. It seems I’m going to end up with something lavish and public. I mean, I don’t have a religious bone in my body, but apparently a church wedding is non-negotiable, preferably the same church Oscar’s parents married in. A family tradition to uphold, even though Lucille’s own marriage was hardly one to aspire to.

My smile is thin; if there’s one thing I’ve come to realize about weddings, it’s that pretty much everyone who works in the industry has perfected a false air of perpetual excitement, like nothing delights them more than making your every wedding wish come true. I get it. More gushing equals more money spent. The mere fact that something is wedding related seems to make it instantly three times more expensive than it might otherwise be. You want a couple of bay trees to put on either side of your front door? Sure. These beauties are fifty pound a pair

I realize I’ve lumped the blame squarely on Jack’s shoulders myself since he called; he said nothing to suggest the break-up was in any way Sarah’s choice. I mean, I know these things are never black and white, but he left me with the impression that he’d called time because she didn’t quite measure up to his mythical one hundred percent. I’m both relieved and disquieted to know it wasn’t exactly like that

He follows me into the kitchen and sits on one of the breakfast stools as I pour us both a glass of red. It’s a pattern we’ve fallen into on the evenings when he’s not dining out with clients; it’s a little clichéd, I know, but he works late so often that I normally have dinner ready and a bottle open by the time he gets home. It feels like the least I can do when I’m staying here for free. Still. Anyway, I don’t really mind; as long as he doesn’t ask me to warm his slippers or stuff his pipe, I’m good. There’s something soothing about coming in and chopping vegetables, especially after long days like today. Being a teen agony aunt isn’t all prom dress stress and period advice. My inbox has been particularly heavy-going this afternoon; I’ve been researching bulimia to try to help a fifteen-year-old boy who wrote to me about the struggle he’s hiding from his family. I just wish I could do more; sometimes I feel hopelessly underqualified for this job

She hands me a shoebox that’s been divided by hand-written labels. One of the biggest sections, tellingly, is “I’m sorry”; clearly I’m not the first and won’t be the last guy in here who’s been a schmuck. I flick through the designs for the simplest, make a snap decision and pull out two.
“I need to order two of those please,” I say, nodding toward the peonies she’s placed down on the floor behind the counter.
“Two?” She raises her eyebrows.
I nod, and this time her look suggests that she’s distinctly unimpressed. “You don’t want me to vary them even slightly?”
“No, exactly like that, please.” She can think what she wants to think, I don’t care. If I order the same, then I can’t get it wrong when Sarah mentions them