Page 2 of Mistletoe and Macarons

“Are you all right?”

There’s a long silence. I check my phone screen, but she hasn’t hung up.

“Jocelyn?” I say, cursing Ben in my head. “I love you, too.”

She hangs up without saying anything else, although I’m sure I hear a squeak of some sort.

“Was that meant for her or me, or both?” Ben demands to know.

“Both. What the bloody hell, Ben?”

“What?” Ben says. “I was in the dressing room. Some woman was slathering me in green paint and she chooses that moment to tell us that!”

“Yes, and now you’ve made her feel like shit about it.”

“Did I? How? Are you sure? I just thought—”

I hang up. Sometimes he’s just so fucking clueless. I’ll deal with Ben later. Actually, that’ll be fun. It’s very rare that I’m not in control in our relationship, but at the moment I realise I’m pretty much hanging on by a thread.

I hit the Find My Phone app and check Jocelyn’s location. Then decide it’s easier just to ask her, rather than trying to puzzle out what train she’s on, and work out when she’ll get into Waverley. This time I message her directly so that Ben can’t have another attempt at screwing tonight up.

Me: When are you due into Waverley?

But after five minutes, there’s still no response, even though I know she’s read the message. I remember how tearful she sounded, something Jocelyn rarely is, and after cursing Ben again, I send another message.

Me: Tell me, Jocelyn. Now.

She knows better than to disobey me when I use her full name.

Joss: 18:28 but you don’t need to meet me.

I heart it because she’s done as she was told, but I clench my teeth. She just can’t help pushing it, can she? I check the time, work out when I’ll need to leave to be waiting for her. She’d said she didn’t want us to meet her at the station. Ben couldn’t anyway, but I can tell me she needs me, whether she’s willing to admit it or not.

Joss: I might get off at Haymarket.

I don’t respond. Now she’s really pushing it. And whether she realises it or not, I can see what she’s doing. Perhaps I should have anticipated this. It’s clearly a bigger thing for her than I realised and so she’s pushing at her boundaries. Pushing for reassurance. I curse Ben once again for fucking up the conversation earlier. And now Jocelyn is trying to manipulate me into doing what she wants me to do this evening and not come to meet her. Well, that’s just not how it’s going to go.

The flat is roughly equidistant between the two stations, it’s just easier to get off at Waverley as there are more taxis and it’s the end of the line for her train so there’s no panic about packing up while the train is moving and navigating your way to the door. And by telling me she might get off at Haymarket, she thinks it means I won’t go to meet her. But I’ve got an hour to plan.

I’d been going to make another batch of macarons before she arrived this evening, but it looks like I’ll just have to get up early instead. It’s not ideal, but this is important. I think it might end up being the most important thing I’ve ever done. And even if it’s not… I can’t stand the thought that Jocelyn’s upset and that I’m part of the reason for that.

So far, I’ve only mixed the almond flour and icing sugar. I haven’t even separated the eggs yet, so I cover the bowl of dried ingredients and head out, locking up the shop behind me. I walk down through the drizzly, gloaming and turn left onto Princes Street. Towards Haymarket. She’s not going to stop me from meeting her on the platform. I don’t care which station it’s at.

Joceyln

Istare out atthe passing countryside. It’s getting darker by the minute and I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I’d gone to the loo on the train and sent my boys a photo that I hoped would get them in the mood for celebrating this evening. And when I say celebrating, I mean in bed. Definitely not sleeping.

Then I had to go and spoil it all. Why on earth did I text that to them? I knew I should have waited, it’s just… I don’t know. When I returned to my seat, there was a woman sitting on the seat opposite me, tears streaming down her face. She had a narrow canvas tote bag cradled in her arms, and she was on the phone.

At first I hadn’t realised that. She had earbuds in, and so when she spoke at first, I thought she was talking to me. Thankfully, before I opened my mouth, she responded to whomever was on the other end of the call.

“I picked his ashes up already.”

I shivered a little as I stared at the bag that looked about right for one of those cardboard urns they offer if people are going to scatter ashes rather than keepthem on the mantelpiece or whatever else people do. I’ve never really known anyone who died, although my friend Rohan’s parents were killed when he was very young, but while I have some images in my head of them, his mother in particular, I don't remember any of the details about the funeral or anything. Just standing beside Rohan in the rain next to their headstone after the cremation.

I’d asked my own parents if Rohan’s parents were buried there, but they’d told me the headstone was just for show and their ashes would be returned later to the family.

“I just went for coffee,” the woman said, tears nearly choking her voice. “If I’d known it was the last time I’d see him, I’d have told him I loved him. I’ll regret not saying that before I went out forever.”

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