It’s mid-November, and almost overnight, London has been draped in Christmas decorations, like someone has cast a snow-globe spell over the whole city. Since England doesn’t have Thanksgiving as the line in the sand separating the holidays, the festive spirit seems to seep in earlier than in America.
Upper Street is in full fancy-dress attire, snowflake lights twinkling high above the cars, swooping the entirety of the two-lane road. Tinsel, miniature train sets, and Christmas crackers fill the shop windows. The old-fashioned lampposts are wrapped with garlands and bows, and the chalk menus outside the gastropubs boast of mulled wine and Yorkshire pudding.
The undeniably charming decor strikes me as insensitively cheerful. Like it’s mocking the fact that I’m not in such a holly jolly mood. Laughing at the fact that Christmas is coming and I have no one to snog under the mistletoe. No one except the memory of a prince who never existed in the first place.
Back inside my flat, I set the bags down at my feet with a loud thump and shake out my tired arms. My plan is to get these unloaded, then take a hot bath and watchMarried at First Sightwhile eating gelato straight from the pint. It’s really not a bad Fridaynight so long as I don’t compare it to the vibrant lives of everyone in Instagram, which I can’t help but do.
“Well there you are,” a voice says, making me jump.
My couch is occupied. Jules is there, sprawled out and smoking a cig, repurposing an empty beer can into an ashtray.
“What’re you doing here?” I say, voice shrill as I recover from my scare.
“I was just sat ’ere checking in,” Jules says. “Wanted ter make sure you ’adn’t been slaughtered in your sleep—that sorta neighborly thing. Not much box and toys out of you recently.”
“Box and toys?”
“Noise,” Jules translates the cockney slang. “Been no noise ’round here, and you’ve been proper ghosting me.”
“I haven’t been ghosting you,” I defend, though I know that I have left a few of her recent texts unanswered. “Just been slammed with work. Final countdown until the promotion decisions.”
The night at Annabel’s with Harold looms heavily in the air between us. I haven’t told Jules about it yet and don’t particularly want to. I’m trying to eject the events from my body and mind, and talking about them now feels like it would be giving them new life.
“Promotion sha-motion,” Jules says, rolling her eyes with anti-corporate ardor. “Who cares what your bloody business card says? Those things belong in antique shops by now anyway.”
“It’s not about a business card,” I tell her, lugging the groceries to the counter and unloading them into the fridge. “It’s about what it represents …” With a heavy sigh, I feel the weight of everything that seems to be riding on the promotion. Proof that I’m living up to my potential. That I’m going places and getting there fast. That I’m not falling behind, at least not in my career.
“Take a bevvy,” Jules says, magicking up a solution with a beer that she hands me from her stash.
I decline it. “As much as I appreciate the burglary gift,” I deadpan, “I’m sticking to kombucha tonight.”
Jules looks at me with an expression of utmost horror. “Not drinking on a Friday night? You’re crackers.”
I don’t tell her about how I’m worried that the alcohol will trigger flashbacks of Harold. Or that it will make me unravel into a sad and self-critical place where I blame myself for the whole thing. “I’m trying to detox,” I say. “Cleanse the body and all that.”
It’s as close to the truth as I feel comfortable sharing.
“Something’s dodgy if you ask me,” Jules says, wiggling her eyebrows one at a time, like they’re doing an Irish jig. “I reckon I know what’s going on ’ere.”
I feel my face blanch. Could she have somehow found out about what happened at Annabel’s?
“You’ve seen the bloke, ’aven’t you?” Jules says with a confident lilt in her voice.
“What bloke?” Hoping she doesn’t mean Harold, I open the window to let the smoke out.
“The English prince-slash-hometown farmer,” Jules carries on.
Though I’m relieved she’s talking about Rory, I feel my cheeks heat up despite the gust of cold air coming into the sitting room. “He’s not a farmer,” I say. “He’s a schoolteacher.”
“You ’ave seen him!” she says, freckled face lighting up in triumph. “Look at you, you’re going proper pink in the cheeks.”
“If there’s anything off with my complexion, it’s just because of all these carcinogens swirling around this room.” I give her a lecture-like stare, which seems to have no effect.
“Spill the goss then, babes,” Jules says, cozying up for a good story. “Have you shagged yet?”
I nearly spit my kombucha out. “Absolutely not. We’ve gottenonecoffee, and I went to his schoolone timeto speak for Career Day. That’s it.”
“Full on,” Jules says. “You’ve already met ’is students? That’s the equivalent of meeting someone’s kids, innit? And you know what ’appens after the bell rings …” She makes a series of X-rated gyrating motions.
