Georgie Carter - The Perfect Christmas

‘Skinny latte, please,’ I say. ‘Nothing to eat, thanks.’

Jonathan rolls his eyes. ‘You women! Why are you always dieting? My wife, Anita, is exactly the same.’

His wife? Ten bums in row! Typical of my Swiss-cheese memory to forget that little snippet.

‘I can’t speak for your wife,’ I say with a smile, ‘but maybe we look lovely because we’re careful about what we eat?’

‘It’s a shame.’ Jonathan shakes his head, ‘Take a seat, Robyn. I’ll bring these over.’

What a gentleman! See, it’s always the good ones who are taken.

I find a couple of battered armchairs and bag them for us. While I peel off my soggy cardigan and rearrange my hair by peering in the display of my phone, I try to dredge up anything that I might have once known about Jonathan Broadhead. He has a wife but she wasn’t at Faye and Simon’s dinner party. I seem to remember that she was held up at work and does something really high powered. Merchant banker? Neurosurgeon? Astronaut?

Oh dear, I really can’t remember. In my defence, we last met at around the time things were going pear-shaped (or should I say Jo-shaped) with Pat. Maybe I can wing it?

‘Here we go,’ Jonathan places the coffees and a large piece of carrot cake onto the table. ‘Get warmed up.’

Carrot cake. The man has excellent taste.

‘Thanks,’ I wrap my hands around the mug and instantly the warmth starts to thaw my frozen fingers.

‘What a shame about your shoes,’ Jonathan remarks. ‘Will they dry out?’

‘I hope so.’ I look sadly at my poor shoes. ‘They are fifties Dior; quite my favourite thing. Collecting vintage clothes is one of my passions.’

‘What are the others?’ he asks, smiling at me.

I think about this. ‘Weddings, obviously! I love all things fifties too. And,’ I smile back at him, ‘carrot cake!’

Jonathan pushes the cake into the centre of the table. ‘I suspected as much,’ he says with mock seriousness. ‘Which is why I brought two forks.’

I laugh. ‘Wow. A mind reader. What talent.’

Jonathan helps himself to a forkful. ‘I totally get the fifties thing. I love the music. Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin. Elvis. Actually, I’ve just spent an embarrassingly large amount of money on a genuine fifties juke box which is now my pride and joy.’

‘Worth every penny though,’ I say. ‘I feel the same about my vintage shoes.’

We chat happily for a while about all things fifties. It’s great to meet a kindred spirit. Gideon can’t bear the ‘clutter’ in my flat, being more a chrome and black marble minimalist, and Faye tries hard not to wince at the very thought of second-hand shoes. Jonathan totally gets it though and we talk for so long that I fetch more coffees because we’re hogging the table.

‘So,’ Jonathan tips sugar into his second latte, ‘how’s life treating you? Your comedian chap’s doing well, isn’t he? I was reading in the paper that he’s been given his own all-male discussion show.’

I read that too. Apparently it’s called Talking Boll* ks. Need I say more?

‘We’re not together any more,’ I say, stabbing at the carrot cake with my fork so he can’t see my face. ‘He’s with somebody else now.’

And she’s pregnant. And they’re getting married.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

‘I’m sorry, Robyn.’ Jonathan places his hand over mine, halting the destruction. ‘I didn’t mean to be nosey.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It was nearly a year ago. I’m fine about it.’

Jonathan doesn’t move his hand. It remains covering mine, warm, strong and oddly comforting. It’s a friendly gesture.

‘It’s not easy though, is it?’ he sighs.

I slide my hand out from under his.

‘How is Anita? Is she still a … um …’

‘A biochemist?’ He pulls a face. ‘Yeah, ’fraid so.’

I’m not sure quite what a biochemist does exactly but I’m sure it’s really important and I tell him so.

‘It is important,’ he agrees, and now it’s his turn to attack the cake by mashing it with his fork.

I say nothing.

‘And I try to be understanding, really.’ I can tell he’s wrestling with something. ‘Like, last night, we had plans to catch a movie. I was making ’Nita supper when she called to cancel with some excuse to do with single-handedly revolutionising stem cell research. What could I say to that? “Well, you try resuscitating the carbohydrates in a dried-out lasagne.”’ Jonathan smiles weakly at his joke. ‘Of course I didn’t say that. Instead, I said, “OK, honey, I understand”, and then moped around feeling sorry for myself.’ Jonathan laughs, awkwardly. ‘God, sorry! I’m doing it again.’

‘We all do,’ I say. ‘I’m the world’s expert.’

By the time that I’ve finished telling Jonathan about the time Pat popped out for tea bags and ended up in Paris with a supermodel (‘Nothing happened, Robs, so it didn’t, I swear on my mammy’s life!’) Jonathan is laughing so hard that other shoppers are casting disapproving looks our way. I’m laughing too because looking back these stories are really funny. And telling them no longer hurts quite as much, so hurrah! I really am over Patrick! My Christmas wish list is right on track; just need a new man to replace him. Such a shame that it won’t be Jonathan.

‘Christ!’ Jonathan exclaims, looking at his watch. ‘It’s nearly three! I’d better be going. My secretary’s probably sent a search party out for me. At least the rain’s stopped.’

‘Oh yeah,’ I say, peering out at the sunshine which had replaced the rain in that way that only ever happens in England in spring. ‘When did that happen?’

‘No idea,’ Jonathan shrugs. ‘I was having far too much fun to notice. Thanks, Robyn, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.’

My sides are hurting from giggling. ‘Neither can I,’ I tell him.

He smiles, and I notice that his teeth are absolutely perfect. Does this man have any flaws?

‘You’ve snapped me out of my bad mood so I owe you one. How about I come back tomorrow and sign us both up for our classes – me for Business French and you for swing dancing? If you give me your mobile number, I’ll text you to let you know it’s done.’

I would have hesitated, but Jonathan is so upfront and so genuine that I reel it off straight away.

‘Great.’ Jonathan saves my number and pockets his phone, then he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, a kiss as soft and delicious as a buttery croissant. ‘It’s been wonderful catching up with you. I feel like I’ve made a new friend.’

I can still feel the brush of his lips and I have to sit on my hands to stop myself touching my cheek.

‘Me too,’ I nod. ‘Me too.’

‘I’ll text you,’ promises Jonathan, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and then he’s gone, a tall broad-shouldered figure striding through the crowd.

My hand slowly traces the place where his lips rested only seconds before.

Why, oh why, are the good ones always spoken for?

OK, Robyn, count to ten.

One … You are not going to let her wind you up.

Two … You’re thirty-four, with your own flat, your own business and your own overdraft.

Three … You do not answer to your mother!

Four … Remember that yoga course you did with Faye? Exhale stress and inhale tranquillity.

Five … And repeat slowly, ‘I will not let my mother get to me.’

Six … I’m a natural!

Or at least I am for all of seven seconds before my mother pushes her designer glasses up her nose and gives an exaggerated sigh. When she shuffles the papers and shakes her head for the fiftieth time my yogic calm is shattered.