LITMIR.BIZ

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home now as it happens, shoehorning myself into a cocktail dress (in black), which I haven’t worn in years, to get ready for the Christmas Eve drinks do my mother is insisting on hosting, same as she does every other year. Although frankly, I’m hard-pressed to think of anything I’ll enjoy less. Left to me, I’d catch up on work, do some preparation for tomorrow in the studio, and be in bed with a cup of chamomile tea (in a china cup) and my eye mask on by eleven p.m.

      My mother, however, has put her foot down about this and there are some battles in life that just aren’t worth fighting. She’s heading off to the Caribbean shortly, as she’s done every year since my dad passed away, to spend the holidays with her cousins in Trinidad. So tonight is the last time our little family will be together till the New Year. And that’s it. That’s the sum total of my social plans for the holidays.

      Already, it’s seven-thirteen p.m. – which gives me exactly seventeen minutes before I collect Jess, my sister and ‘date’ for the night. But for some reason, tonight I’m moving at half speed. Ordinarily I’d be a powerhouse of energy, buzzing around the place getting organized so I can be punctual to the dot. On a special occasion such as this, I even allow myself a strict limit of 1.5 units of white wine (Sauvignon Blanc, never, ever Chardonnay) served with a single cube of ice.

      Tonight, though, I’m already onto my second glass and it’s not having the desired effect at all. Instead, my mind is unfocused and all over the place, as all manner of unwelcome thoughts bubble to the surface.

       Piteous.

      That’s the word that springs to mind, I think, dabbing on eye make-up that I bought a year ago on the advice of a personal stylist. Which, by the way, is still stuck in the same box that it came in, unused, up till now at least.

      They all looked at me piteously at work earlier today. You may be a big success at work, I could almost see them thinking, but it’s Christmas and you’re all alone and that doesn’t make you any kind of role model for the rest of us.

      Which wouldn’t bother me in the least, ninety per cent of the time. So why is it that tonight their stinging comments hurt me so deeply? After all, this is what I’ve chosen and I’m happy with my lot. Well, reasonably happy. I may not exactly be about to burst into song like some idiot in a Broadway musical, but compared with other people, I’m doing absolutely fine, thank you very much.

      My days are full to the brim. I’m supremely busy. And active. I pay extortionate fees for gym membership and have disciplined myself to take two six a.m. Pilates classes at weekends, to maximize the value I get from it on a strict cost per use basis. I could socialize more if I chose to, but when do I have time? No matter what the twenty-somethings at Channel Ten may think, I actually do enjoy my job and am happy to spend all my waking hours there.

      Women can have it all, we’re constantly told. In the à la carte buffet of life, you can pick and choose the kind of life you want to lead. But it’s not true, is it? You want to be a working mother with a young family? Fine, away you go, but don’t expect to scale the heights anytime soon. How can you, when family life takes up such a vast chunk of your time? There are, after all, only twenty-four hours in a day, last time I looked.

      But if, like me, you’ve got a burning ambition for work and a real passion for your job that unexpectedly propels you to the top of the ladder, then good for you and away you go. However, you needn’t expect anyone to dance on tabletops at your wedding anytime soon because what man in his sane mind would put up with the hours you need to work, just to stay where you are?

      I’ve done everything that good girls are supposed to do in life, I think, spritzing on perfume that I seldom ever wear. I worked hard when I was young, got great grades, went to a top college and then went on to my dream career – the only career I ever really wanted to pursue. I love working on a news show. It fulfils me; it challenges me every single day to be the best that I can be. I adore the fact that the day’s news stories can change on an hourly basis and it’s never a chore for me to work long hours, because I’m genuinely passionate about news.

      So why is it that at this time of year, when the whole world is out celebrating, there’s a gnawing feeling of emptiness inside me that won’t go away? Ordinarily I’m a mistress of denial; I have the ability to box away emotion like you wouldn’t believe. But today it’s different.

      Carole is basically living the life of a nun on a six-figure salary.

       If I end up like her, spending Christmas all alone, shoot me.

      Why do their words keeping coming back to me? They’re just a pack of idle gossips at Channel Ten, I remind myself, and that’s beyond dispute.

      Then why am I letting them upset me so much? Is it that I envy my team their youth and general perkiness and the fact that they’ve got all these magical plans for the Christmas holidays lying ahead of them? Whereas apart from Mum’s drinks do tonight, I’ll work this Christmas, same as I do every other year. But then, I remind myself, I do run a 24/7 rolling news station. And the news doesn’t stop, so why should I?

      Everyone I work with thinks I don’t have a life. That I’m utterly alone, friendless, and destined to live out the rest of my days like this. That I’ll end up unloved and unmourned when I’m gone, with money in the bank and a trophy shelf full of news awards on my sideboard, but no one to share either with.

      Which isn’t true at all.

      Well, it’s only partly true. Well, OK, so it may technically be true, but this is how I live my life and that’s all there is to it.

      Slowly, I put my purse and keys into a neat little black bag, while I’m utterly wrapped up in thought. The same niggling feeling that I’ve had all day is still there and now that I’ve acknowledged it, it won’t go away.

      Could it be that what everyone says about me behind my back is actually true?

       CHAPTER THREE

      Punctual to the dot, I clamber into the back of a taxi that stinks of cheap aftershave and stale sweat, give Jess’s address, then pray that the driver isn’t the talkative type. No such luck though.

      ‘So where are you off to then tonight?’ he asks, leaning back on the driver’s seat and taking in my neat black cocktail dress, pearl necklace, and the court shoes with good, sensible heels. For all he knows, I could be off to a funeral. You’d be hard-pressed to tell.

      ‘To a Christmas party, as it happens,’ I say crisply, then whip out my phone and start scrolling through news apps, hoping he’ll take the hint that I’d like a quiet journey, thanks.

      Again, no such luck.

      ‘So, big night for you tonight, yeah? I’d say the aul head will be minging in the morning, wha’?’

      ‘No,’ I sigh, ‘as it happens, it’s not a big night at all. Just a drinks do at my parents’ house with some of my mother’s friends – that’s it.’

      ‘But your family and all your mates will all be there, yeah? And your mum and dad? ’

      I shrug, but say nothing. Dad, I think with a sudden pang. My darling dad. Probably the only person who I really wish was still around, if only to see how well I’m doing at work. Just like he always wanted me to.

      Hard work and discipline are the secrets of success, he always used to say to me. You’re not afraid of hard work, Carole, and you’ve enough discipline to run an army on. You’ll get there, pet. Just decide what it is you want out of life and there’ll be no stopping you.

      Which is exactly what I went and did, Dad. But you’re not here to see me now, are you?

      ‘It’ll be some big piss-up tonight then, yeah?’ the taxi driver chats on, distracting me yet again.

      ‘As I already told you,

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