One Week ’Til Christmas. Belinda Missen
a text message.
If you’re at Alfred’s, can you grab a fresh baguette? Like The Proclaimers – I’m on my way.
I smiled at Estelle’s message and slipped my phone back into my pocket.
Estelle was one of those friends. We met during a sweltering summer in Japan ten years ago. It was my first assignment with the Melbourne Explorer, and her fifth with the magazine she wrote for. Like that scene from Forrest Gump, the only seat left on a crowded bus to Furano was next to her.
Our friendship was pieced together in the following weeks aboard tour buses and bullet trains. We gazed at rainbow ribbons of flowering fields, were rendered speechless at the haunting beauty of Hiroshima, and puffed our way up Mount Fuji with nothing but a bottle of water between us. By the time we said farewell in Sapporo, I knew I’d have a friend for life.
She’d since left journalism in favour of life as curator of Check-1-2 Gallery, a Chelsea art gallery. It kept her busy, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous intent on expanding their collections of priceless pieces. It paid well enough that it afforded her a perfectly modern maisonette off the high street full of modern appliances and retro furniture, and me a warm bed whenever I was in town. When I wasn’t here, I missed her and our late-night wine-soaked chats dearly. More than once, we’d mused over how much fun we’d have if I lived a few thousand miles closer, rather than in Australia.
‘So, what’s the plan this time?’ Alfred asked, weighing a gingerbread person in one hand and fruit cake in the other. He was a regular scale of gastronomical justice … I pointed to the cake.
‘Nothing but Christmas,’ I said. ‘I’m getting my yuletide on.’
When my boss had first floated the idea of ‘popping over to the UK’ (his words, not mine) for a few weeks in December to report on a refreshed Game of Thrones tour and a new distillery in the Cotswolds, I’d leaped at the chance to swap the endless summer nights of Melbourne for the icy British air. I’d even managed to wrangle a few extra personal days into the deal so as I could experience all the snow-white beauty of Christmas in London.
‘Speaking of Christmas, I’ve been playing around with almond milk eggnog,’ Alfred said as I readjusted my backpack. ‘You want one to go?’
‘For you, I’ll be a willing guinea pig but I also need your best baguette to go with dinner.’ I wrapped my hands around the piping takeaway cup he handed to me as the aroma of vanilla swirled with cinnamon in the steam of the drink. Warmth radiated into my fingers and seeped across my palm. And if it smelled divine, it tasted even better. I let out an appreciative groan after my first sip. ‘This? This is amazing.’
‘Good, am I right?’
‘You know, I could have done with that a week ago when I was buried in cold showers and mud.’ I took another sip of my drink. A trip to the Giant’s Causeway was a lesson in wearing better shoes on my adventures. Finn McCool or not, it was an uncomfortably soggy trip back to Belfast after stumbling into the North Atlantic. To add insult to injury, the hot water in my accommodation had taken its own holiday.
‘Consider it on the house,’ Alfred said, handing me my change and a crusty baguette. ‘The drink, that is.’
‘You’re amazing. Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘See you soon!’
‘Don’t leave without saying goodbye!’ he called after me as I used my shoulder to shove past the dangling tinsel Christmas trees and through the door.
Drink in hand and baguette tucked under my arm, I pulled my coat tighter against the icy breeze and made my way towards the bus stop. Estelle’s was close by but, with slippery footpaths and a light drizzle, it wasn’t near enough that I wanted to walk the whole way. When the lights at the crossing changed, I skipped across the road with the crowd.
Passing an M&S, I veered into oncoming pedestrians to avoid a well-dressed man who’d burst from the doors like a long-held breath with a phone to his ear and newspaper in his hand. He fell into step behind me.
‘Is this article your doing? I’ve just picked up this rot you pass off as a newspaper,’ he stammered, his voice dropping a few notches. ‘Secret love affair … what? Are you kidding me? Who thinks of this? I was having coffee with her. To assume I’m now in some kind of sordid love affair is ridiculous.’
I resisted the ticklish urge to turn towards the scandal. Quick extrapolation told me he was either a politician or a celebrity, especially if his love life had hit the papers. A brief look at his face as he walked along behind me registered nothing but his outfit: dark trousers, a blue-knit pullover, shirt and long coat. Classically nice in that take home to Mum for Sunday roast kind of way. I fumbled about in my pocket for an Oyster card.
‘You have to do something,’ he pleaded. ‘You can’t just leave it like this! I’ll be tarred and feathered by the morning. Or was that the whole point?’
I winced. That sounded painful. My breath came in clouded puffs as I dodged another puddle. I was relieved to see the bus stop up ahead. It was beginning to feel like I was eavesdropping on something that both I and the rest of the city really shouldn’t be privy to.
‘What am I doing?’ he asked incredulously. ‘You actually want to know what I’m doing? All right then, well, I’ve just left Marks & Spencer’s, where I very contentedly bought a single-serve meal, because that’s what I am, a single, solitary man. Neil Diamond even wrote a song about it. One person, like that lone mouldy apple no one wants to buy, or that one lost Tupperware lid, or that random sock you find under your bed that you were sure ran off to jump over the moon with the aforementioned Tupperware lid.’
I snorted. Single-serve meals. Now that, I could relate to.
‘Bloody journalists,’ he continued. ‘Not one of you is rooted in truth or the real world. Pack of fantasists.’
Why, I never! I must have gasped aloud, as heads turned towards the noise behind me.
It became infinitely more difficult to resist the urge to shoot him my best how-very-dare-you scowl and, maybe, the two-fingered salute. Then again, who was I kidding? This wasn’t my battle. I pulled my phone from my pocket to find a text from my sister, Miriam.
I know I’ve asked a dozen times, but you will be home for Christmas, right?
That was one of the things I didn’t love about my job. The nature of being a travel journalist meant I had no control over my plans or where I’d be at any given time, and I was usually at the mercy of my boss. Trips often overlapped with family events, leading to terse phone calls, huge swathes of guilt, and expensive gifts to try and smooth over the cracks in relationships when it was revealed that, no, I wouldn’t be home for a birthday party. Again.
More than once, I promised myself that I’d start my own blog one day so I could work for myself. Then, the electricity bill would arrive and I’d remember why I couldn’t just throw caution to the wind, dance right out the front door of my job and make it happen.
‘You know what? Don’t worry about it. All I need to do is tweet and it’s out to millions of followers … Okay, all right, thousands if you now want to be pedantic about the truth. If you lot can’t do your job properly, then I’ll do it myself.’ His voice cut in again as his pace quickened and he got closer. ‘Now, where’s my bloody car?’
Typing out my reply to Miriam, I skirted the small crowd at the bus stop until I reached the timetable, in time to see a black saloon car roll into the kerb. Its tyres were slick with moisture, and beads of water rolled off highly polished panels. Midnight-black windows made sure nobody was seeing the precious cargo within. By comparison, my ride, a big ol’ red bus, rumbled, lurched, and rattled its way towards us.
‘Excuse me … pardon … out of the way.’ There he was again, moving through the crowd with forceful, heavy sighs. ‘Move, please, I’m so sorry. Yes, I realise he’s parked illegally. I’m terribly sorry.’
As