I’m blazing inside on her behalf but despairing too. ‘Whatever’s going on, you have to fight this. I know you didn’t want to upset the kids by seeing their dad when he’s not here, but Oscar and Harriet need to Facetime him. If you remind him what he could be losing, it might shock some sense into him before it’s too late.’
Her groan is heartfelt. ‘You’re right. The minute they’re both awake and smiling in the morning, we’ll be in Bill’s room dialling.’
‘In the meantime …’ I raise my voice again ‘… I prescribe German sausage hot dogs all round, with a side of noodles and lashings of melted Swiss cheese and rosti potatoes.’ I sound like I’m channelling my inner Willow, but I know Fliss – she always responds to a calorie rescue. ‘With a mahoosive mince pie ice cream sundae to finish.’
Her face crumples as she lets out a wail. ‘If only I’d lost the baby weight sooner, he might not have …’
I cut her off, because she really shouldn’t be blaming herself here, or beating herself up about her curves which actually look amazing. Again, she’s comparing herself to Libby who does so much pointless nervous dashing she probably does ten thousand steps between the kitchen and the pantry before the end of breakfast. But if Fliss’s soulmate and best friend has truly gone off the marital rails, it’s going to be about much more than a couple of dress sizes. ‘Fliss, we’re tramping the streets, you’re juggling two babies on your own and you got dressed …’
She coughs. ‘A teensy confession, I am still wearing my pyjamas under my clothes here.’
‘That absolutely still counts …’ I’m here to build her up not knock her down. ‘… it’s colder than a bloody fish finger factory, you suspect the love of your life is playing away … for one night only that’s four excellent reasons for a free pass to as much comfort food as you can consume.’ I pause to let her take that in. ‘We’re at a Christmas market with the most delicious food smells ever, you need to make the most of this and I’m going to help you.’
‘When you put it like that …’ she hesitates, but only for a moment ‘… point me to the nearest mulled wine stall!’
After how I felt last year, I know how hard it is for Fliss. When each twinkling fairy light and every twirl of ivy, the busker with a trumpet playingMad Worldin the shopping centre wringing your heart out, and each and every light up snowman on people’s porches is resonating to remind you of how happy you should be … but aren’t. Every other time of the year it would just be bad, but thanks to all those TV ads, there’s this belief that Christmas should be a perfect, blissfully happy, together-y time. However unreal that expectation, that’s what you compare yourself to. The belief that you’re failing simply compounds your problems a thousand times, and makes you feelsomuch more tragic and hopeless.
I suppose in a way, that unreal perfection is what Libby’s trying to recreate – except she never just tries, shestrives. And she always does it with ten times more energy and purpose than anyone else in our orbit. But the sad thing is that so far, however much she’s poured in the cash, and however much we’ve heaped in the effort, I can’thonestlysay it’s working out. Sure, we’re faking it to the world with our Instagram posts and her Twitter feed and the Facebook posts. If you count the success in likes and retweets, she’s doing amazingly. But if you judge by the long faces and moans of the people at the castle, thus far she’s completely dropped the proverbial ball. Which kind of goes to show, money doesn’t necessarily buy you happinessorsuccess, noteverytime.
Having said that, I defy anyone to spend time at the St Aidan night market, with the fairy lights reflected in the water, the boat masts etched like dark sticks against the smudgy cloud shadows of the sky, the figures clustered around stalls glowing in the half light, and not feel warm inside. Watching Santa and his elf friend drive through on his cart lit by twinkly fairy lights and laden with presents, with the most wonderful clip clop of hooves and the jingle of bells. Santa pulled by a pony, not reindeer? That definitely works for me.
By the time we’re working our way up the twisting streets between the open shops further up the village, we’ve tried or bought something from most of the stalls, the pushchairs are weighed down with bags of stollen loaves and every kind of stocking filler from soap to tiny wooden toys, and Fliss and I are nibbling on vanilla fudge as a palette cleanser. Our lungs are about to burst with the effort of the push up the hill, so when we reach the mews where the wonderful wedding shop is, we turn along it, drawn by the level ground and the snowy sparkle of the displays.
As Fliss and I press our noses up against the glass and take in the gorgeous white tree, the cream lace dress tumbling like a waterfall, the tiny studs of sequins, she lets out a sigh. ‘However wobbly I feel about Rob, looking in here makes me want to get married all over again.’
I can’t help laughing. ‘Maybe Miranda’s long line of ex-husbands are all because she loves wedding dresses.’
As Tiff comes to join us in the soft yellow light from the street lamps, she’s nodding at the next window. ‘Look, they’ve got newspaper stars on loopy strings in the background, a lot like ours.’
I grin at her. ‘And tulle skirts a lot like yours too. They’ve stopped short of the mismatched deccies, though.’
As Bill pops up behind her his low voice makes me jump. ‘You’re spending a long time looking in the wedding shop, is there any significance to that?’
I give a sniff. ‘Bill, how lovely you caught us up here …’ not ‘… we’re just admiring the display techniques.’
He gives me a high eyebrow. ‘A likely story …’
There’s nothing worse than being single and caught swooning over wedding dresses. ‘We’re in the trade, don’t forget.’
Tiff who’s somehow tagged along with us is looking at Bill. ‘My mum says they’re both bitching stylists.’
Fliss’s eyes flash open. ‘Your mum said that?’ There’s no wonder she can’t believe what she’s hearing, Libby’s not exactly famous for dishing out compliments. Realistically, she’s so busy keeping her own balls in the air, she rarely notices anyone else’s, and it’s rarer still that she says anything nice about them.
Tiff’s nodding. ‘The minute she gets that proper shop of her own she’s going to head hunt you both, for sure.’
I wink at Fliss. ‘Whether we want her to or not.’ Libby’s been dreaming about retail outlets for years according to Fliss, but so far it’s always been too big a jump even for her to make.
Tansy’s behind Tiff like a disapproving echo. ‘Head hunting? That has to besobad for animal rights.’
Bill’s there again. ‘Well, if you come back when the shop’s open, there are four whole floors of bridal gorgeousness waiting for you to sigh over complete with a wedding styling basement and a florist.’
I have to ask. ‘How come you’re such an authority?’
‘Because I specialise in stags?’ His lips are twisting. ‘Not really, everyone knows, it’s Cornwall’s most famous wedding emporium, they talk about it on Pirate FM all the time.’ In spite of the cold and the rest of us shivering and pulling our scarves over our mouths between fudge chunks, his coat is still unnervingly and invitingly open. ‘If you’re into beautiful design you need to call in at Plum’s Deck Gallery too, further down near the Crusty Cobs cake shop. Come on, it’s bursting with great things, they’ve got local craft stalls out on the deck, and fairy lights too.’
That was a neat move, the way he took control there. I wasn’t even aware he was with us, let alone guiding us around town. But as he pulls open the huge glass door of the gallery a few minutes later and we move into a lofty space with white painted walls washed with soft light, I’m actually pleased he did.
As we wheel in the pushchairs and the warmth hits us Fliss takes down her hood and nudges me. ‘Willow and her kids are here already. By the looks of the pile at the till they’re shopping for England.’
