We Met in December

CHAPTER TWO

Jess

2nd January, Val d’Isère

‘You got room in your case for these?’

My oldest friend Gen throws a bulging Tesco bag at me and I miss the catch. It bounces off the bed of the room we’ve been sharing for the last week and falls to the floor. I bend down to get it and emit a groan of pain. Everything hurts, and my head feels as if someone has hit me with a snowboard. I shouldn’t have had that last cocktail last night. Or the one before. I stand up, holding the bag at arm’s length. It smells like something died in it.

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t ask.’ Gen shakes her head. She should be even more hungover than me, but she somehow manages to look glowing and healthy, her skin bronzed after a week on the slopes where mine is scarlet and wind-chapped. She’s tied her hair back with a band, but spirals of red curls have already escaped and are framing her face. She’s wearing an assortment of hideously clashing Nineties-style apres-ski clothes she found in a charity shop, and somehow it looks amazing on her.

I peer inside the bag and hold my nose. ‘Ugh, honking ski socks.’

‘If they ask if you packed your bag yourself, just say yes,’ Gen says.

‘And take responsibility for those?’ I shove them in a corner of my case. ‘They could probably walk home to London by themselves. Actually, I’m going to keep them,’ I say, teasing Gen. ‘When you’re a famous actress, someone will pay a fortune for them.’

‘Someone would pay a fortune for them now. There’s a whole market for smelly socks on eBay,’ says Sophie, who doesn’t miss a trick when it comes to money stuff.

‘That’s disgusting.’ I wrinkle my nose at the thought.

Being Soph, and therefore revoltingly efficient, she’s already got her bag packed, and is sitting cross-legged on her bed, back against the wall, scrolling through her phone. ‘Oh my God, Jess, that photo of us you’ve posted on Instagram is terrible. It looks like one of my legs is about to snap off.’

‘It’s not that easy to do a selfie on a ski lift,’ I say, peering at her screen to remind myself. ‘I was convinced I was going to drop the phone into a ravine.’

‘Then you could have got Fabien to zoom down off piste and rescue it,’ says Gen, making a dreamy face as she mentions our gorgeous ski instructor. ‘He definitely had the hots for you, Jess.’

‘Shut up,’ I groan. She’s been going on about it all week, and I still haven’t admitted to them that I’ve been daydreaming – and, if I’m honest, night-dreaming – about Alex, and accidental meetings in the kitchen where I’m dressed in a pair of cute PJ bottoms and a little vest top, my hair knotted up in a messy bun, just reaching into the fridge to get myself a glass of orange juice when his hands are on either side of my waist and he spins me round and looks at me with those incredible eyes and says …

‘Jess?’ Gen nudges me. ‘You’ve been on another bloody planet all week. Come on, spill.’

I shake my head and zip up my suitcase. ‘Just thinking, that’s all.’

My phone bleeps and I look down at it. Both Gen and Sophie pick up their phones at the same time.

‘Delay in coach pick-up,’ we read in unison. ‘You will now be collected from your hotel reception approximately two hours later than the scheduled time.’

‘Oh God,’ Soph groans. ‘We could have gone skiing this morning after all.’

‘Not without skis, we couldn’t,’ I point out, reasonably. ‘We handed them back, remember?’

‘Well, we can leave our bags here and go and have one last vin chaud at least.’

My stomach gives a warning lurch at the prospect. ‘D’you not think we had enough of those yesterday?’

‘And the day before, but one more won’t hurt,’ says Sophie, and we drag our cases down to reception and leave them behind the desk, collecting little tokens in exchange as they’re locked away.

Outside there’s no sign of the sun and the sky is thick with pale clouds, tinged with the faintest hint of violet. More snow on the way, it said on the forecast, after a week that had been absolutely gorgeous. The sun had shone so brightly that we’d sat at the piste café having lunch outside most days with our ski coats off, listening to the thudding bass of dance music, our skis standing upright in the snow. It feels sad to be leaving Val d’Isère, with its throng of holiday guests, swooshing past in their expensive-looking ski garb, heading up the chair lifts for another day of fun. We take a seat at the little wooden chairs outside the hotel and stretch our legs out in the sunshine. It’s strange to be back in normal clothes, after a week of clomping around in heavy ski boots.

Celebrating New Year – and New Year’s Day – in a ski resort has been amazing, but my liver feels like it needs to go on a rest cure. Not to mention my legs, which are aching so much I’m walking like a robot, and covered in bruises from a pretty spectacular fall when the aforementioned Handsome Fabien, the instructor we’d clubbed together to pay for, had tried to get us to go down a run that ended with ‘une petit noir’, except his idea of a little black run looked like a vertical drop. Sophie and Gen, who’d had more time on skis than me, managed to make it down in one piece. I’d landed at the bottom, on my bottom, followed unceremoniously by one ski clonking me on the head (thank goodness for helmets) while the other one sailed past, over the edge of the piste and into the trees.

The waiter brings our order – hot chocolate laced with cream and a dash of rum for me and Gen, vin chaud for Sophie.

‘It’s amazing that we’re all in the same place at the same time at the beginning of a year,’ I say.

‘Can’t remember the last time that happened.’ Sophie twirls a beer mat between her fingers, looking thoughtful. ‘Wonder what we’ll be doing this time next year?’

‘Maybe I’ll have had my big break,’ says Gen, who has been saying that since she started drama classes back when we were in primary school.

‘This is the year,’ Sophie says, sounding determined. ‘Rich and I are settling down. I’m going to be thirty. It’s time. And I’m knocking these on the head, too.’ She taps her glass with a neatly manicured finger.

‘You’re giving up drinking?’ I look at Gen, and Gen looks at me, and together we look at Sophie.

‘I don’t want to take any risks.’

‘You’re not even thirty. Nobody has children when they’re this age. You’re the only person I know who is like a proper grown-up, Soph,’ I say.

Gen nods. ‘They’ll make the house untidy and you’ll have loads of plastic crap everywhere and you’ll end up being one of those people who pisses everyone off in Pizza Express because you turn up with a baby that screams the place down when we’re all trying to have a nice hangover meal on Tesco points.’

‘Thanks,’ says Sophie, drily. ‘I can’t believe you spent so many years working as a mother’s help. You’re literally the most un-maternal person I’ve ever met.’

‘I am not,’ Gen protests, unconvincingly. ‘I just don’t understand why anyone would want to subject themselves to parenthood.’

‘That’s what she means,’ I say.

‘I am still here,’ Sophie points out. ‘As in sitting right here. Anyway, I won’t have the sort of baby that screams in restaurants. If it does, I’ll take it outside or something. But I’ve got it all planned out …’

There’s a split second where Gen and I look at each other and make a face, and Sophie mutters something unrepeatable under her breath before we all laugh and she carries on. ‘I’ll get married this year. Then I want three kids and I want them before I turn forty.’ She’s actually counting this out on her fingers. ‘If I have a two-year age gap, that’s—’

‘Soph, you’re so organised.’ Gen snorts with laughter. ‘I don’t even have a bloody house of my own, and you’re planning everything out. I bet you’ve got a spreadsheet on Excel with all this stuff.’

‘Shut up.’ Sophie blushes a bit so we know that she absolutely does.

‘Anyway, changing the subject.’ Sophie purses her lips, but she’s trying not to laugh. ‘I’m so excited, Jess. I can’t believe we’re all going to be in the same city. We can do lunches and go to the cinema and lovely girly stuff.’

‘We can help you do fertility dances, or whatever it is you have to do to get pregnant,’ says Gen, helpfully.

‘Did you miss that class at school?’ I say, and Sophie snorts. ‘It’s not fertility dances that get the job done.’

We all snigger, like we’re thirteen again in science class with the biology teacher drawing pictures on the whiteboard.

‘Ooh, we could help you find a wedding dress, Soph.’ I’m imagining a montage of us, movie-style, all sitting around in the changing room of a wedding shop while she pops in and out with various different flouncy meringues on before she appears, radiant, in The Perfect Dress.

Sophie wrinkles her nose and looks a bit pink in the face. ‘I’ve actually chosen one already.’

‘No way.’ My vision evaporates.

‘Oh my God! I didn’t know it was official!’ Gen shrieks with excitement.

‘It’s not. But it’s so gorgeous I decided it had to be The One.’

‘Oh my God, this is so exciting,’ says Gen, clapping her hands together. ‘Have you got a photo of it on your phone?’

‘I thought marriage was a tool created by the patriarchy to suppress women?’ Sophie raises an eyebrow, keeping her phone curled tightly in her palm.

‘Yes, yes, it is, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a bit of dressing up, and that’s basically what a wedding is, isn’t it?’

Sophie opens her phone and scrolls down to show us a photo of the most perfect, understated, gorgeous dress. It’s absolutely her, and I can see why she’s fallen for it.

‘Let’s hope Rich doesn’t have other plans,’ Gen teased.

‘Yeah, he might have run off with the girl in the flat next door while I’ve been away,’ Sophie jokes, but we all knew there was no way that would happen. Rich and Sophie were the poster couple – the ones that were solid as a rock, the ones you could always rely on. Gen called them Mum and Dad sometimes, and I think Sophie secretly liked it. She’s always wanted to be settled down, ever since we were little and playing together at primary school. Rich is the perfect match for her, and it was always a matter of when, not if, they’d get married. She met him at university and they’ve been smug (not) marrieds ever since. I reach over and give her arm a little squeeze.

‘I’m so pleased for you, Soph. And I can’t wait to be on Aunty Jess duty.’

Gen pulls a face, but we both know she’s only teasing. She’s happy for Soph even though she wouldn’t like to be in her shoes. Her passion has always been acting, ever since the first time she stood on stage and played the starring role in Bugsy Malone in our primary school production. She’s worked her backside off to get where she is – she may not be famous, but she’s had a few decent roles in theatre productions off the West End, and it’s just a matter of time before she gets her big break. Gen believes in herself, that’s half the battle, I think.

‘And what about you, Jess?’ Sophie looks at me thoughtfully.

‘You’re not still in mourning after Neil-gate, are you?’

‘Gen,’ says Sophie, ‘if she was, she’s hardly going to tell us now, is she?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I am one hundred per cent definitely not in mourning over the end of my relationship with Neil.’

‘Even though your mum thought he was the perfect catch?’ Gen looks at me.

I shudder. ‘Especially not because of that.’

I hadn’t even been that upset when I found out he was cheating on me with someone else from the office – just slightly miffed that it was going to make work pretty awkward. After the initial shock of finding them together, I’d realised that I didn’t really feel anything. That was a pretty good sign that it had run its course.

‘Your mum just wants you settled down and happy,’ Sophie says, kindly.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘and she thinks because Neil dumped me for whatshername from accounts that I’m a complete failure as a human being.’

‘That’s not strictly true,’ says Sophie, trying to make me feel better.

‘Yes it is,’ says Gen, who knows my mother as well as I do. ‘She’s weirdly fixated on the idea of Jess getting married and buying a nice house and having two-point-four children and a dog. Probably because she did the opposite.’

When I split up with Neil Mum had been absolutely horrified that I’d ‘let him slip through my fingers’. I never knew my dad – she’s never talked about him, and there’s just a blank space on my birth certificate where his name should be – and she’s absolutely determined that my life will be far more conventional than hers. It’s weird.

‘What’s she saying about you moving to London?’ Gen says.

‘She’s hoping I might meet a nice man and settle down.’

‘Ironic,’ Gen snorts, ‘that your mother never did it but she wants it for you.’

‘It’s called transference,’ Sophie says, thoughtfully. ‘Or something like that. It’s about wanting to live her life through yours, vicariously.’

‘It’s called being a total nightmare,’ I say, scooping off some of the whipped cream on my drink with a spoon, and licking it.

‘Oh she’s not that bad,’ says Gen, who has a soft spot for my mother because she’s a fellow thespian. My mother’s an actress too, but she’s never made it to London. Instead she travels a bit, and she tries various schemes to keep money coming in, in between jobs working as a voice-over artist or being an extra on film sets. She’s never really been the maternal type. It’s lucky I’ve got my Nanna Beth to make up for it.

‘No,’ I concede. ‘I think it’ll be a lot easier to have a relationship with her when I’m ninety miles away in London than when she’s breathing down my neck the whole time wanting to know what I’m doing with my life.’

The strange thing about Mum is that despite being unconventional herself, she’s completely hooked on the idea of me doing a Soph and getting married, popping out a couple of grandchildren, and finding a nice house in the suburbs. It’s weird. It also means she was Not Happy when Neil and I split up, and she thinks my plans for a new life in London are impractical and faintly ridiculous. I quote. Not that I’m still chuntering to myself over her saying it, of course.

‘She’ll be wanting regular relationship updates,’ Gen says.

‘There won’t be any,’ Sophie points out, shooting a quick look at Gen, ‘because Becky has decreed that there’s to be no relationships in the house.’

‘She can’t do that.’

‘She can do whatever she bloody well wants if she’s renting Jess a room in Notting Hill for £400 a month. I’d take a vow of chastity for that.’ Gen takes a sip of her drink.

‘Yeah but even so—’ I watch Sophie giving Gen a fleeting look.

Sophie and Gen have met Becky a few times. They get on okay, in that way that friends do when you try and combine one part of your life with another part. I’m hoping that now we’re all going to be in the same place they’ll get to know each other a bit more, and even get on a bit.

‘She isn’t banning me from having sex with anyone,’ I say. ‘Just that there’s to be no inter-house relationship stuff.’

‘Just as well. You’ve got the whole of London at your disposal. You downloaded Tinder yet?’ Gen asks. She curls one of her ginger ringlets around her finger, then lets it go so it springs back into place. Gen’s never had a bad hair day in her life.

‘Ugh, no.’ I shudder. ‘The thing is I’m not really a Tinder sort of person.’

‘Mmm.’ Sophie nods. I wonder what she means by that.

I sigh. ‘Anyway the thing is there’s a bit of a problem with Becky’s whole plan. I mean, there’s being practical, and then there’s – well, do you believe in fate?’

Gen cups her chin in both hands and leans forward. ‘Tell me more.’

‘I totally do,’ says Sophie. ‘I mean look at me and Rich.’

I think about the two of them and catch a glimpse of Gen, who doesn’t say a word but there’s a split second when her nostrils flare, which is always a tell with her, and I know she’s thinking Sophie and Rich, the most practical couple in the world?

‘Come on,’ Gen urges. ‘Spill.’ She looks at Sophie and they look back at me.

‘It’s not – I mean it couldn’t go anywhere. I’m just being silly,’ I begin. ‘It’s, um, Alex.’

‘Ahhh,’ they say, and exchange another glance.

‘What d’you mean, ahh?’ I cup my hot chocolate in both hands, holding it in front of me defensively.

‘Oh, just Alex … as in the new housemate you’ve casually mentioned about fifteen times a day for the last week?’ Sophie’s eyebrows lift and she gives a snort of laughter.

‘No,’ says Gen, totally straight-faced. ‘Alex, as in the guy who’s training as a nurse and isn’t that amazing because he’s given up being a lawyer to do something that really matters …’

‘Shut up, you two.’ I can feel my cheeks are going pink, and put my hands against them so my face is all squashed up, and I make a silly fish face at them to make them laugh and hide my blushes. I feel like I’m about fourteen again.

‘Yeah, we wondered how long it’d be before you actually admitted to us that you’ve got a massive grade-A crush on him. I mean it’s been pretty obvious. But—’ Gen pauses to beckon the waiter, before asking, ‘how does that work with Becky’s no-relationships rule in the house?’

‘I’m pretty sure that’s not enforceable,’ says Sophie, her brow furrowing. She’s a stickler for rules and regulations and things. She takes out her phone.

‘Don’t google it,’ I say, warningly, and she puts her mobile back on the table, making a face because I’ve caught her out. ‘Becky’s totally right. It would never ever work. Plus, I’m starting a new job, and I’ve got a brand-new life to be getting on with.’