Page 97 of The Wake-Up Call

He waits so long I sigh in frustration and straighten up, spinning to look at him.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” I say. “I’m fine.”

He just looks back at me, and for a moment I have to fight not to tear up. This is stupid. Iamfine. I’ve known about this Christmas business for months—it’s just a logistical problem, that’s all, and it’s easier to keep everyone in the dark so they don’t worry about me. I’ve not cried about it once, so I’ve no idea why I’m feeling so emotional now.

“Would you put that table down?” I say, exasperated. “It must weigh about twenty kilos.”

Lucas glances at it, uninterested, shifting its weight slightly in his hand. “Christmas will still be special, even though they’re all a long way away,” he says.

“I know. Iknowthat.”

“Ooh, are these teacups a set?” asks a woman behind me.

I spin, never so grateful for an obvious question. “Yes! They all match. Saucers are just here...”

I chitchat until I feel Lucas move away. The woman is just the sort of customer I like—an over-sharer in a fabulous bobble hat—and by the time we’ve finished talking, I’ve managed to push all the Lucasness of the morning out of my mind. I’m back to bouncy Izzy again. Smiley, sparkly, and firmly in control.

•••••

The next day is the twentieth of December, which means I’m off work for the day. It’s my mum’s birthday, and—even in the days when I couldn’t bear to be alone for a moment—I’ve always spent it solo. The year before Mum died, we’d had a girls’ day, just the two of us, and I like to do the same now.

I wake up late and have coffee and cereal in front ofNativity!, which my mother always staunchly declared was the world’s best Christmas film, though my dad wasDie Hardall the way.

At first, after the accident, I missed my parents with an awful, gulping pain. The sort of pain that scoops all the breath out of you. It’s not like that now—the ache is duller, and I’ve adjusted to the emptiness, so it rarely catches me off guard. But as I watch the kids ofNativity!dance their way across the stage for the finale, I let myself sink back there for the first time in years. I double over, head on my lap, and remember the day when my life tore in two.

Maybe Lucas did have a point when he said nobody can live life to the fullest all the time. Sometimes it’s good to curl up under a blanket and wallow. Afterwards, I pick myself up, chuck the tear-and-snot-soaked blanket in the wash, and wipe my face. I shrug on my mum’s old denim jacket, pin back my hair, and head to Southampton for some Christmas shopping.

I’m just browsing through the rails in Zara when I spot Tristan. My ex-boyfriend.

Tristan and I lasted about three months. I ended it with him, but it could have gone either way—in a matter of weeks, he’d gone from writing me lengthy WhatsApps about how much he loved me to the occasionalHey, sorry, work’s so busy!, despite the fact that his job was reviewing tech products and he hardly ever seemed to besent any. He was very defensive about the job. He was defensive about a lot of things: his receding hairline, the fact that his parents bought him a flat, the way he sometimes texted his ex-girlfriend when he was sad or drunk.

He has a new woman in tow now, someone petite and pretty. I watch her fetch Tristan the shoes he wants in a different size, and from over here behind the dresses, I feel as though I’m watching the scene play out on TV, with Tristan in the role of “very average man.” He’s sosmall, and I don’t mean that physically, I just mean he’s... blah.

Tristan will no doubt continue to flop through life, eventually marrying one of these women and letting her support him as he pursues some far-fetched ambition he’ll be very sensitive about. I can’t believe I ever wanted this man.

Really, I’m not sure Ididever want him much. He was sweet, at first, and I’ve always gone for sweet guys—they’re safe and comforting, like milk chocolate, or boots with a two-inch heel. Nothing remarkable, but no risk of breaking an ankle, either.

But there’s nofirein Tristan. No grit. Tristan would never stand up for me; he’d never dunk me in a swimming pool fully clothed or dirty dance with me in a divorcée’s living room. In the entire time I was with Tristan, we never did anything more exciting together than start a new show on Netflix.

I turn away, abandoning the dress I’d considered buying, and head blindly for the car park. I can’t start comparing Lucas to my ex-boyfriends. I shouldn’t even bethinkingof him in those terms. The man has already hurt me once, and everything I’ve seen of him tells me that he’s capable of doing it again without so much as blinking. He’s an emotionless, uptight perfectionist, and yes, we have great sex, but that’sallwe have. And it’s very, very important that it stays that way.

But I can’t stop thinking about wishy-washy Tristan. Playing out scenes from our relationship. Imagining those moments with Lucas, and then trying very hard not to notice that if Lucas had been there, they wouldn’t have beenblah, those moments. No single moment with Lucas ever has been.

Lucas

I am stuck. I don’t have a clue how to move things forward with Izzy without scaring her off, but I can’t go on like this for much longer, having her without having her. I know it’s exactly what I agreed to—but it’s also torture.

Surprisingly, it’s Pedro who finally gives me an idea. He comes over for a beer in the evening, and he tells me that if you want to change the way someone sees you, sometimes all you need to do is change the background. This is actually a comment about optimising Smooth Pedro’s Instagram page, but wisdom can come from the most unexpected of places.

So on the night of December twenty-first, I tell Izzy that we aren’t going back to my flat, we’re going to Pedro’s caravan in the woods.

“Pedro lives in a caravan?” she asks.

“A very nice one. He needed someone to look after it while he’s away.”

(Staying in my flat.)

“And it’s in the middle of the woods?” Izzy asks with suspicion.

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