Friday Fiction: Last Christmas
I gave you my heart
Here’s this week’s Friday Fiction, and it’s a special post where I share another writer’s words, rather than my own. I’d like to do more of this, so I can amplify other authors’ voices.
This short story is by S.J. Wildling. She pinged into my life when she sent me an email about how much she’d enjoyed It Will Be Quick. Then she travelled to Scotland to attend one of my WRITE classes and talk about short stories and creativity, and managed to impress me greatly with her talent, ideas, experience and her infectious friendliness which makes her so easy to get along with. So I’m more than happy to share some of her words with you today.
Last Christmas
The 4x4 breathing technique isn’t working. She’s forced to rummage through her bag, grabbing at the various sheets of pills she always carries with her. Like a baby blanket. A safety net.
A cheeky valium or two just to take the edge off, she reasons.
Freya sashays her way to the train’s buffet carriage. Her eyes dance across the fridge doors and their shining contents, landing decisively upon the alcohol section. It is 11:11am. A frozen, snowy Monday. She averts the judging gaze of the woman behind the counter who makes a point of repeatedly looking at her watch, with cocked brows.
Message received, bitch.
A hard stare and smirk as she pays. Returning to her seat, she washes the pills down with a pre-mixed can or two. Or was it three? Either way, despite all that, by the time the train pulls in, she feels electric. Feels…silly.
***
She squeezes her way through the bustling crowds, out of the frosty hustle of King’s Cross Station and into The Black Phoenix, she is struck by the warmth, laughter and stale tobacco lacing the air. Years of spilt Chardonnay and ale, trodden deep into the paisley carpet. She somewhat trips in across the threshold, for the uncharacteristic fact she is wearing heels today. For him. She stamps and shakes the snow from herself. Her eyes, searchlights seeking.
Is he here? Breeeeathe.
Her heart is racing. Her cheeks burn a horny shade of fuchsia.
I can always blame it on the cold.
She’s never been subtle. Shit at poker. She’d named her face ‘Judas’ in the mirror one messy night, years ago in some stranger’s bathroom. She takes in the festive glow of the twinkling lights draped around the bar and windows. George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’ croons through the speakers, weaving its way between loud cackles and hushed chats. A smile slithers across her lips.
So this is why they call it the silly season. Ha.
She bites her lower lip. Silly is an understatement.
The heat pumping throughout the cosy pub feels especially luxurious, considering the whipping cold outside and the crippling recession which has stifled the country with its cost of living. Old friends with grand bellies sit around small wooden tables, chuckling with nostalgic glee. The knitted sleeves of xmas jumpers wipe froth from whiskered chins.
A ruddy faced barfly calls out:
‘Oi oi, Captain, another, eh? Good lad,’ as he proudly slams his empty pint glass down. A leathered wink and a discreet stumble. Glasses clank loudly as they collide, amber contents splashing and spilling out.
***
She shrugs her bag off down to the floor with a thud and straightens up, craning her neck to see.
There he is. Perfection. Tall. Insanely good looking. His muscular physique is visible despite the puffy jacket and baggy jeans he wears so well. Molasses eyes shine from under his baker cap as their eyes lock, magnetised. She feels her smile spread wide across her face, mimicking his.
‘Hey, Beautiful. Sooooo good to see you.’
She runs and throws herself at him, into him; can’t squeeze him tight enough to convey the avalanche crashing within her.
Oh thank God you’re here. Can we just stay like this forever?
She burrows deep into his pillowy warmth and strong arms, but also yearns to see that face of his. Her favourite smile. So, like a frenzied puppy, she swings between hugs and cheesy grins until she registers how ludicrous her excitement at seeing him again is. A bashful beam. He laughs and smiles sweetly, because he knows.
‘So, what we having, Gorgeous? G&T ok?’
‘You don’t fancy Jagerbombs?’ she asks with a wink, a private joke between them.
‘You find us a table, whilst I get the drinks.’
‘Sure.’
She glows.
Whatever you say, Jase.
She chooses the quieter side of the pub, where the carpet absorbs the footfall. Looking for a private spot, she clocks the table of lads on a stag do. They’re wearing crass lycra unitards and various other amusing costumes. Silly. The sight makes her smirk, kindly. She enjoys watching happy people. She wants to be one of them. She didn’t think she was capable of happiness, but Jason set her on fire. She wanted the world to disappear and for it to just be them. Minimal distractions.
If we sat at that window we could watch the snow, that’d be romantic…and I do love snow! But I want his eyes on me. Hmmm.
It would always snow again. Time with Jase was sacred. He was all she wanted now, him and the way he made her feel.
She slid into a booth, brushing her thighs down, nervously. Trying to steady her breathing; but it’s quick and shallow.
I feel fifteen. This is mad.
Peripherally, she watches him approach, and starts clearing the glasses and wiping down the table.
Look at me making it nice for you.
His shoulders fill the room, his voice drowns out all the chatter and distant traffic. All the frustrated honking of London drivers seemed to disappear as he slides in beside her and they toast:
‘To us!’
Goofy grins and her stomach, glitching.
‘Well, Madame, it’s fucking amazing to see you. Damn.’
Her innards melt.
She tucks an auburn curl behind her ear, thoughts racing. Feels the embers under her skin. Knows that she's staring. Internal squealing like a pig.
***
The boys in high school called her ‘Frigid Freya’, because none of them could get close to her. They didn’t know what went on behind the closed doors at home. Survival was her MO. But now, being with Jase, brought about some primal change. The walls had come down.
I’d do anything for you. I adore everything about you, she thinks as he speaks. She can’t quite believe it herself. The impact he’s had.
His eyes bore into hers over the rim of his glass, setting her aflame as they laugh, talk and gently let their hands fall upon each other at times. Like the swirling snow outside that she deliberately faced him away from.
‘So….. how’s Mike?’ he asks gingerly, clearing his throat. New lines etch his forehead. The reality check pinches hard. She’d put those details out of mind. Ah, yes. They are both married. The bubble of bliss bursts and each retreats into contemplating their individual realities, sipping solemnly.
‘Erm, my shout! Same again or something different?’ She leaps up quickly, the smile too forced.
‘Errr, sure. Whatever you fancy. Thanks.’
He cracks his neck. The air around them has thickened somehow. He pulls out his battered mobile.
BABE flashes up on the screen.
Green is not her colour, but she’s flooded by it.
Stop it, she scolds herself.
She feels weird; simultaneously sweaty and cold as she trips her way to the bar. Whilst she waits for two more beers and two shots of tequila, she zones out. She tries to count back on what she’s taken today and how many drinks she’s had. Uppers, downers, what, maybe… five, six drinks by now?
Hmmmm… Maybe I should eat something. Drink some water?
She feels blurry as she pays, slaps cash and coin down hard.
Shouting splinters the air as a fight breaks out between two of the stag do lads. Former pats on backs have turned to insults. Hugs become tugs at jackets and shoving, arms swinging.
What a shame, she thinks to herself, teetering back to the table. He slams his phone down, eyes downcast and stormy.
‘What’s wrong? Was that…. her?’
‘Yea. She’s, argh…doesn’t matter.’ He’s swallowing down hard. Won’t look at her.
‘No, tell me! What’s wrong?’
‘She’s pissed, okay? That I’m here… with you. She’s just gone fucking ballistic.”
‘What do you mean? Why? Had you not told her we were catching up?’
‘Nah, Frey. I didn't. But ah, she’s got a tracker app on my phone.’
An incredulous screech escapes her.
‘What? Are you serious? She tracks you? Oh my god, Jason Burns on a leash! This I find very hard to believe!’ gobsmacked but also desperate to break the tension. She wants him back, his attention. The pub sways gently… or is it just her?
Storm clouds gather in his eyes. A darkness cast over her beautiful Jase.
***
The atmosphere is amplified. Lights are blinding; a throbbing builds behind her eyes. She realises the background noise is in fact her grinding teeth. The contrast of before and now is too much. The mixed emotions, drinks and drugs swash around in her gut. Woozy. Sloppy. She grabs her purse, excuses herself and stumbles into the toilet, bashing the side of her head hard into the cubicle door. She fumbles through the contents till she finds what she needs.
Man, I’m DRUNK! Need to straighten up. She teeters like a wounded antelope, sniggering, craning her neck like a baby giraffe as she racks up and stumbles, snorts a huge line of snow.
She staggers out towards their booth. His face creased with concern. Unimpressed? Hard to tell, really.
‘Ummm, Freya… are you alright?’ He asks cautiously.
She steadies herself by grasping his forearm, but also, just to feel him. His skin is warm and soft. Intoxicating. She plops down beside him. Her face is a smudged paint palette.
Please look at me, she urges silently.
He turns, looks right at her. A flicker of hope. Her eyes dart about, trying to focus on him.
‘Ermm….I’m really sorry, but I need to head home…. aaaaand I gotta cut contact with you… unless I fancy a divorce.”
‘What’s her problem?’
‘She’s just, very…. fuck, look, I don’t know….’ He’s rubbing at the back of his neck uneasily.
‘I mean, I know she’s your wife and all, but we go way back and to be reconnecting now is so incredible. Jase! Please! Like… no.’
‘I know, I know… I get it.’
Her heart leaps at the admission. The rollercoaster rattles on.
A message tone punctuates the moment. She watches him hesitantly pick it up, read it and sigh deeply.
‘Yeah. I gotta go.’
‘Please don’t,’ she pleads. She can feel hot tears prickling behind her eyes.
‘I’m so sorry. Really, I am. You’ve clearly got a lot of shit going on that I wish I could help you out with, really. Just add this to that list of fuckups I told you about. I really wish it wasn’t like this.’
‘But Jase, we haven’t done anything wrong! You can’t go! I came all this way to see you.’
‘I’m sorry. I have to leave.’ The words sting. Each syllable is another paper cut.
‘What do you mean you’re leaving? You can’t just fucking leave me. I’ve just got here! Jason! What the fuck?’
They both register the strange quiver in her voice. She’s shrieking at him now. All heads have turned their way. Her skin itches. Everything is so… overwhelming. Her tongue drags over the craggy molars at the back and she’s struggling to swallow.
But it was all going so well! It was perfect. We are perfect for each other, her brain screams.
Trying to shake the weight of her disbelief from her head, it feels there’s a traffic jam up there. Under the table, her fists ball, fingernails cutting into clammy palms.
‘So what are you going to do then, huh? Run home to your master, your Mommy?’ She sneers, pouting aggressively. She knows it’s pathetic. She feels deranged. She’s not eaten; she’s drunk too much, taken too much; sleepers last night; uppers this morning. Pills to prevent tomorrow’s hangover. A self-medicating clusterfuck. She’s lost count, and control. Now the coke has kicked an angsty edge her way; her skin prickles. Her world feels like a lorry swerving on an ice road, with no steering wheel.
The ferocity of her heartbeat is deafening. She can’t look at him when she splutters out the ridiculous ultimatum:
‘Me or her, Jason.’
Ten seconds of his silence hangs in the air, seemingly for an eternity. Slowly, he pushes back from the table, stands, his head hung low, heavy with shame or sadness or defeat.
‘I’m sorry.’
He turns to leave, the corner of his jacket knocking over a glass. It crashes into the significant army of empties they’ve accrued. Shattered pieces splayed across the sticky table. She is frozen with disbelief, bewildered about how this perfect day has played out. Her trembling hand reaches out and she slowly slides a jagged fragment back towards her. He watches her twitching and suddenly, doesn’t recognise her as the girl from next door from 30 years ago, but sees the insanity, clearly.
‘Frey, what are you doing? Hey! Don’t!’
Tears double glaze her hazel eyes. Her face has changed. Everything has.
Sniffling, she sneers:
‘Wrong choice, Babe.’
She slams the shard deep into her wrist, her bulging eyes wide, still locked on his, disbelieving. Her impossible dream. His mouth agape in shock. It burns as she drags it, jaggedly, up towards herself, sobbing. He screams, crying, falling to his knees as her blood pumps out, scarlet seeping into the crusty carpet as ‘War is Over’ begins to play behind the chorus of screaming punters.
© S.J. Wildling – 2023
About S.J. Wildling
S.J. is an emerging multi genre writer born in Australia but now living in Manchester, with a passion for complex characters and the unexpected. She creates stories which inspire, move or disturb. She holds qualifications in the Arts, Psychotherapy, Social Sciences and Interior Design and is currently studying Creative Writing. With 20 years dedicated to human services, she is fascinated by human behaviour and the psyche and her penchant for the dark side of life comes through in her writing. She has lived in Australia, New Zealand, Japan, America and the UK, but dreams of living in a treehouse in Wales or on a tropical island.
She works as a therapist with amazing children and is developing a short story collection and several novellas currently. She has danced on stage with Vanilla Ice, upset the local Yakuza whilst living in Japan and survived a kidnapping in Thailand.
Thank you Karl! For all the support, guidance and inspiration… ☺️