Page 5 of Five Gold Rings

‘You’re my sister, my only sister. You are my person.’

I sob silently on the other end of the phone.

‘You’re abandoning us at Christmas again to spend time with your boyfriend. I get it.’

But he’s not my boyfriend anymore. Tell him. He’s Noel, your Noel. But I can’t. The shame, the sadness is too strong, and I don’t want to share that with someone I love so dear.

‘I’m sorry…’

‘Fine. Both of you will at least show your faces on Christmas Day though, right?’

‘Noel.’

‘Eve!’

‘Noel, I can’t…’

‘I can’t do this. Just make sure you at least explain yourself to Dad.’

He hangs up and I take a massive glug of wine. God, that was awful. I never lie to Noel, ever. I do flake out on many a social occasion with him because he’s the sort who doesn’t plan. He’ll send a quick text to say, ‘Hey, I have festival tickets? I’ll pick you up in half an hour!’ without even thinking he may have to bring a tent, some wellies and a change of underwear. I can’t share this with him. I just can’t. I can’t share it with anyone because, unlike my boyfriend, I fear I may have empathy and when you’re downing Christmas drinks and getting into the rhythm of the festive season, the last thing you want is some sad sack on your doorstep looking like a loveless orphan. Maybe I’ll hide out here, tell him on Boxing Day. In the form of a meme and a YouTube link to a sad song – he’ll get it because he’s my twin and that’s how we communicate, via the power of noughties rock ballads. I miss him now. I miss his reassuring hugs. I think back to the time I got dumped at university and he came to find me with a banoffee pie, a shopping bag full of alcohol and an offer to ‘find the douche who’d dumped his sister and sucker punch him.’ I declined the offer. We drank all the alcohol.

I sit there blankly. Maybe I should call Noel back? But it’s only then that something catches my eye on the coffee table nestled in a pile of paperwork: a printout for tickets. Ice skating at Somerset House, bookings for today, a 10 a.m. session followed by a champagne brunch in the oyster bar. A full-on Christmas date. Just not with his girlfriend because I was scheduled to come back here for 4 p.m. So a date that was going to be followed by him playing happy families with me, and a proposal? He was going to ask me to be his wife. Like, part time? When was that proposal going to happen? What was he going to do? Get on his knees? Like her? Or was the ice skating his parting gift? The blowies in the shower have been fun but I’m off for a life of domestic bliss now. I picture Chris and Allegra ice-skating. She’s in one of those big fur Dr Zhivago hats, the snow falling lightly around them, and giant, glamorous trees twinkling in the background. They cling on to each other, skidding all over the place. He wipes a snowflake off her cheek. They kiss. I look at the booking confirmation. He’s a liar and a cheat but not a very clever one. I scan the QR code on the booking. I cancel the booking. They have a twenty-four hour no refunds cancellation policy, am I sure? Yep, very sure.

And as I click the button to confirm, a tear curves down my cheek ever so slowly. Because cancelling a reservation is not a hugely gangsta move. But also, because in all that paperwork, I also see a receipt. £725. For an engagement ring he bought in early December. Lovely. I hope someone found that ring. Hopefully that old lady who wears the orange beanie and a thick tweed skirt and spends a lot of time walking between Lidl and the bus stop on our street. I hope she pawns it in and buys herself the biggest fucking turkey you’ve ever seen.

Why do we give each other rings? These small, metallic circles that are supposed to cement a relationship, that are supposed to be lifelong symbols of commitment. I’d have worn that ring. I’d have worn it with pride, with hope, and all of it would have meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have nothing. So, I cry, desperately wanting to hold back the tears but it’s like someone’s turned on a tap. Flashbacks flooding into view of moments, words, promises that really amounted to nothing. I’m just here, alone at Christmas. I don’t even have a bed anymore because I dismantled that. And through my tears, in the corner of the room, I see a red velvet ring box from Caspar & Sons on the floor where I threw it.Solitaire, round cut, gold ring, low clarity.At least he went to my place of work to buy that ring. I glance down at the empty box. I need to get out of this flat. I need answers. I need to go there.

Joe

‘I’M GETTING MARRIED, BITCHES!’ our future bride shouts at the top of her lungs across this crowded bar, at a volume usually reserved for people stuck at sea trying to flag down help.

The bride’s name is Tiffany and I reckon she might be eighty percent alcohol at the moment. Whoever she is marrying will need both luck and carbs to sober her up ever again. A group of her friends squeal in reply, and they all gather in a collective twerk around Tiffany to Destiny’s Child’sEight Days of Christmasso even though it borders on obscene, it is at least festive. A Christmas twerky, one could say. One of them twerks with such velocity that she actually loses a chicken fillet from her bra, so one half of her bosom looks slightly deflated. There is no way I can fix this situation, can I? I stare at the fillet on the floor as someone steps on it. Too late.

‘Do you want to see her ring?’ one of her friends shrieks at me, staggering, slurring her words, her hand on my chest. Another friend cackles in reply at the euphemism. I’m fine with seeing neither but I smile because that’s part of the job and the tips are what will keep me going today. ‘I’m sure it’s a beautiful ring,’ I reply and one of them falls off the velvet banquette she was sitting on. I offer her an arm so she can rejoin us at the table.

‘What’s your name?’ she asks me.

I never give my real name. I learned this the hard way when I was stalked online a year ago by a bride’s mother who sent me unsolicited pictures of her breasts.

‘Douglas.’

‘Hi, Douglas, I’m Bianca,’ she says flirtily, a penis straw in between her lips. The maid of honour (the bride’s sister, who has already visited the bathroom five times since we’ve been here) has gone hard on the penis motif this evening: there are penis games, penis drinks accessories, the bride even had an inflatable one on her head before, like a hen unicorn, and people threw rings at it and cheered every time she caught one. Willy hoop-la. Bianca does not seem undeterred that I have a very unsexy, imaginary name. It was the name of one of my uncles who ate a lot of meat that came in tins. I think he died of gout.

‘Are you single, Douglas?’ she says, uncrossing her legs and pushing her chest forward. Bianca is classically beautiful but there’s a ferocity to her that scares me, and that’s just in her eyebrows.

‘I am an elf, so we have a very strict non-dating policy in the North Pole. Santa doesn’t allow it.’

Bianca cackles so hard, a bit of cocktail shoots out of her nose, not that she’d notice it. ‘Oooh, roleplay. Well, you’re down south now, Douglas. I won’t tell Santa if you want to be a bit naughty.’

‘But Santa will know,’ I reply, diplomatically. ‘I like my job.’

‘Do you make toys?’ another one of the hens asks.

‘I do.’

‘I have some toys I’d love to show you…’ replies Bianca.

I try not to think about where that woman’s toys have been. This is not my first hen do. If we’re keeping a tally, then we’re on about twenty-five. I have had women eat sushi off my naked body (someone tried to pick up my penis with chopsticks…), women have painted me in the nude, I’ve roleplayed all sorts from firemen to Vikings (which I don’t mind as the fake fur keeps me warm at least). I went to a tennis hen do once and had to wear a sweatband and there were many jokes about the bounce of my balls. Is this a forever job? No. Just a little side career that keeps me afloat and pays the bills whilst I meander through my mid-twenties thinking about what I really should be doing with my life. For now, I am here for the cold hard cash, my dignity parked outside with my battered old Mini.

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