I left America and moved back to the UK because my relationship fell apart. Because I needed a fresh start. Because my visa ran out and my business failed. Because I was broke and broken-hearted. Because I was sick of the blue skies and sunshine when all I felt was grey inside. Because I missed my family and friends. Because I couldn’t bear to stay and be reminded of everything I’d lost.
And because I didn’t know what else to do, and tea tastes better here.
All of the above is true. But I should have added one more. Because of the Christmas cards.
Christmas isn’t easy at the best times, especially if you find yourself single. Worse still, forty-something and single. We’re forever being told that Christmas is all about family, so if you haven’t managed to bag one of your own and a lovely home to put them in (along with a gorgeously decorated Christmas tree), there’s a chance you might feel like a bit of a fuck-up.
But just to make sure, your friends will send you Christmas cards to prove it.
Unlike the Brits and their packs of generic charity Christmas cards, Americans have a tradition of sending personalized cards with smiling family portraits on the front. A bit like our royal family do, only with much better teeth.
And these photographs are lovely, truly they are, whether they’re professionally shot in black and white, or taken with a phone on a beach wearing Santa hats. And the kids always look cute and your friends always look happy, and when you read the update inside telling you everything they’ve been up to that year, how the kids are doing at school and news of any accomplishments, you think how proud they must be of their family and everything they’ve achieved.
And then you put them on your mantelpiece and go to pour yourself another gin.
No, but seriously.
Actually, I am being serious.
Because when everything fell apart last December, it was all too painful. As soon as the first one arrived, I knew I couldn’t sit around to open the rest, and went to stay with Liza. I loved seeing my friends happy in their lives but their family portraits only emphasized what I didn’t have. I looked at those cards and saw the ghosts of a future that I once thought was mine but now I’d lost.
So, anyway, being back in the UK this year, I don’t have to worry. It’s all glittery reindeers and jokey cartoons about snowmen and carrots. Picking several off the doormat, I wander through to the kitchen, tearing them open. That one must be from Holly and Adam; it’s just his sense of humour. I look inside. It’s Holly’s handwriting but she’s signed it from Adam as well. Apparently they’ve started counselling. I got a text from her just last week saying it was the first time they’d really talked in years. I hope they make it.
I stick it on the shelf, next to Mum and Dad’s snowy woodland scene; it’s one of their usuals from the National Trust. Some things never change. This year I’ve never been more grateful.
But it looks like it’s going to take more than a transatlantic flight to shake off one particular Christmas card. I look at the envelope and recognize the handwriting. It’s from some friends in Houston. To be honest, they were Ethan’s friends really. He went to college with the husband and I met them once at a Thanksgiving dinner, but they always sent cards with family-photo montages and these mammoth updates on their children.
A few months ago, the wife had emailed to ask me for my new address so she could send a card. I tried to gently put her off, telling her it was fine, not to worry and save the postage. But she insisted. I tried again, saying I wasn’t sure if I was going to be spending Christmas with my parents or in London, but instead she’d asked for both addresses. ‘I’m sure it will find you eventually,’ she’d replied cheerfully.
I DON’T WANT YOUR BLOODY CHRISTMAS CARD TO FIND ME! is what I’d wanted to type back, all in caps, and equally as cheerfully, but that would make me not a very nice person. She was only trying to be kind by chasing me down with her glad tidings. After all, it’s Christmas. Goodwill to all men and all that.
So of course I emailed her both my addresses and said I couldn’t wait to receive her card, and Happy Holidays!
On the front is a photo of them all in matching Christmas sweaters. Even the dog. And is that a rabbit too? I smile, then stick it behind the large vase that used to belong to Edward’s great-aunt.
‘Anything for me?’
I hear the front door go, and Edward appears in the kitchen wearing a scarf and beanie. He’s holding a takeout flask and a yoga mat, and looking like people only look when they’ve been up since 6 a.m. doing a Bikram class.
No, not smug. Healthy.
‘Christmas cards. Here, there’s one addressed to you.’ I hand him an envelope.
‘Thanks.’
I turn my attention to my coffee pot.
‘Well, I’ve had better cards.’
‘It can’t be worse than the matching Christmas jumper one,’ I laugh, grinding my coffee beans.
‘Hmm . . . well, it’s less Merry Christmas and more Happy Divorce.’
‘Huh?’
I turn around to see him holding a piece of paper instead of a card.
‘It’s my decree absolute.’
‘Oh shit . . . I mean, wow.’
I have no idea what you say to someone when they get their final divorce papers through.
‘Better than the matching Christmas jumpers then.’
But I’m pretty sure that’s not it.
‘Yes,’ he nods, but his expression is unfathomable.
‘Are you OK? That’s good – isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’m not sure you’d ever describe a divorce as good, not when there’re children involved.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’ I feel tactless. Told off. Stupid.
‘No, you’re right,’ he says quickly, seeing my expression. ‘It’s the right thing. I’m glad for both of us.’ He smiles, but I’m not sure for whose benefit. ‘We’re free to start our new lives now. Move on properly.’
‘Yes,’ I nod, and I wonder if he’s referring to the woman he’s been seeing. I want to ask but something stops me.
‘So what are your plans for Christmas?’
And now we’ve changed subjects.
‘My parents—’
‘Of course,’ he nods.
‘My brother and his wife are coming with the baby; it’s going to be quite a full house. I’m going to invite my friend Cricket too.’
‘I must meet this Cricket friend of yours one day,’ he says, emptying organic porridge into a pan and adding oat milk.
Edward really should be on Instagram.
‘Yes,’ I smile, ‘you must.’ And now I’m wondering if I should invite Edward too. I don’t want him to be on his own at Christmas.
‘I’m taking the boys skiing.’
‘Oh, that will be fun,’ I enthuse, ‘and it’s good you get to spend time with the boys.’
‘Yes, and their iPhones,’ he grins.
Lucky I didn’t invite him. That would have been embarrassing – asking him if he wants to kip on my parents’ sofa when he’s probably going to be staying in some fancy five-star resort.
‘Sophie’s going away with her boyfriend.’
‘Wow, that’s quick.’
‘It’s not really, though. We’ve been broken up for a long time.’ He’s not looking at me as he stirs the pan. ‘Both of us have wasted too much time. Life is short.’
Edward glances up at me now and a look passes between us. Since getting back to London, neither of us has spoken about what happened at the hospital. I’ve hardly seen him. I’ve been so busy and he’s been out at a slew of Christmas work things. But looking at him now, we don’t need to say anything. He was there. It’s like having an indelible marker scored across some hidden part of me that nobody else can see but him.
I think about Ethan. I think about that time in my brother’s old bedroom, when Edward said from now on we should always say what’s on our minds. I look at him next to me, only inches away, and think about all the stuff I want to talk to him about. Stuff I need to say.
‘Your coffee’s boiling—’
‘Oh, yes . . . thanks.’
But I don’t say any of it.
I’m grateful for: