LITMIR.BIZ

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didn’t need anyone; not in a cold-hearted way, but in an independent, self-sufficient way. I’d become cool. I’d be more Zen and detached than Marcia could ever be. If I didn’t need anyone, I couldn’t be let down.

      Marcia did come back a year later, but she didn’t return to the house or go to college. She and Pete had got married on a beach in Goa, so it wasn’t Marcia and Bea any more, it was Marcia and Pete. Her parents helped them buy a small house near Chorlton Green, and he started his vegetarian café serving Eastern-style food with Marcia by his side as manager. Though I grew to love Pete, and Marcia was still my dearest friend, it was never the same again. The lesson had gone deep: people move on, make their own plans, and I could never depend on anyone. You’re born alone, you die alone and sometimes you have to live alone too, I’d thought, even though by that time I had a boyfriend, Sam, who had declared undying love for me. I kept him at arm’s length. I wanted to make a life where I needed no one, and was perfectly happy with my own company.

      *

      A noise outside brought me back from my trip down memory lane. I ran to the window to see what had happened. A blonde lady at the wheel of a Mercedes sports car was attempting to park in a space much too small for it, and had reversed into the Volkswagen Golf behind: my Volkswagen Golf. And we’re back to reality, I thought as I raced to the front door. My neighbour, Jon, had also heard the commotion and was outside on his pathway laughing. Probably pissed, I thought.

      ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he called when he saw me. ‘Hey, you’re home. Have a good time in India?’

      ‘That’s my car she’s bashing into,’ I said. I could barely believe it. I’d been back five minutes and he was already causing problems. There was always something with Jon, usually involving one of his many conquests, parking in my space or parking without a permit, or generally causing problems. We’d had many altercations over it. Parking was sparse on our road and each resident had a limited number of permits to give out when there were visitors. With his many callers, Jon abused the system. He had so many women arriving at all times of the day and night that I’d joked to Marcia once that he was maybe a male escort for women who liked older men. Not that Jon was that old: he was in his mid-fifties, his brown crew-cut hair had only a little grey around the temples, and he had twinkly eyes that looked full of mischief. He worked hard at staying fit and lean, too. I often saw him out jogging or off to play tennis when I was leaving for work. And another one bites the dust, I thought, as the latest leggy girl got out of the car and tossed Jon the keys. ‘Be a darling,’ she said. ‘Parking never was my strong suit.’

      Jon headed for the car as I sighed and turned to go back inside. It was freezing out there, I was tired, and I could examine any damage better in the daylight the next morning.

      ‘So sorry Bea,’ called Jon. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Welcome home. Happy Christmas.’

      Without turning back, I waved. ‘And Happy Christmas to you too.’

      I couldn’t be bothered to get into an argument at that moment. The silver-tongued charm that won his women over had ceased to work on me months ago when, as well as the parking, he repeatedly left his rubbish in front of my house. He hadn’t got the hang of separating plastics from cardboard from glass, and I’d had to do it for him on more than one occasion for fear of inciting the wrath of the bin-men. God, he made me cross!

      Once back inside the warmth of my house, I found my laptop and googled Saranya Ji again to see if anyone had left a review of her readings. Once again, the pages came up showing links to people with that name, but not my Saranya Ji. I googled psychics in India and found that there were hundreds, some with thousands of reviews, many who claimed to do past life readings but, again, no sign of the woman we’d seen in Udaipur. Marcia must have found her somewhere, but I was hesitant to email or text to ask her where. It would indicate interest, and that would be adding fire to Marcia’s flame, something I did not want to do. Best I forget all about it, I told myself, it’s a pile of nonsense anyway.

      I went upstairs and flicked the TV on; I could unpack later. The screen filled with a commercial showing the perfect Christmas, a big happy family around a festive table, everyone laughing and smiling as newcomers arrived and were welcomed at the door. I changed channels to see that a rerun of The Holiday had just started. I’d seen it before. Two women, Kate Winslet in the UK and Cameron Diaz in the USA, do a house swap and find the loves of their lives. Now there’s a thought. Maybe next year I should do just that: take off to a house in the middle of nowhere and hide under a blanket until Christmas – and all its reminders that I was on my own – had passed. And maybe, just maybe, some handsome hunk in an Aran sweater, looking like Jude Law, would turn up and rescue me then … with my luck, would probably run off with one of my friends.

       8

      Should I text, phone, turn up with a bunch of flowers? Send a card? Send something amusing? What should I say? And what if my feelings for Bea aren’t reciprocal? I’m not her type, after all? I don’t know. Not really. Am I mad to imagine she would want a man like me? That’s just a chance I’ll have to take. Faint heart never won fair lady, and all that. Nor is this the time for self-doubt. Does she even suspect I harbour such deep feelings for her? I think she must know but then … why would she? But is it the right time? I have complications that I need to clear. Best wait a while? Yes. Clear the decks. The timing must be right.

       9

      ‘Love the tree and it smells wonderful in here, of pine forests,’ I said when I arrived at Pete and Marcia’s on Christmas Day to see a Norwegian spruce, as tall as the ceiling, in the hall. It had been decorated in red and gold and piles of presents were heaped around the base, to which I added the bag-full I had brought with me.

      ‘Ben and Ruby did the decorations yesterday,’ said Pete as he ushered me through into the kitchen diner, which was already full of family and friends.

      ‘Looks fab and I can smell cinnamon and nutmeg too. Mulled wine?’

      Pete nodded. ‘Just made. I’ll get you a glass. It’s all been a bit of a rush this year, though Marcia did some preparations before we went away.’

      ‘She ought to run the country,’ I said. Despite some of Marcia’s far-fetched ideas and predilection to be irrational at times, she was the most organized person I knew when it came to her family and work. She’d always had a gift for admin, project managing, and generally running things, though Pete often remarked it was actually just that she liked bossing people around. This season, she’d bought her Christmas cards back in October, had all the presents wrapped in November before we went away, and I’d seen her in the airport lounge in India ordering the fresh food online to be delivered on Christmas Eve. I hadn’t even bothered decorating my house because I’d missed the run-up, nor had I bothered buying any special food: there was only me at home and I didn’t plan on doing any entertaining this year.

      ‘Any news?’ asked Pete.

      ‘I have a letter waiting for me at home but have put off looking at it until after Boxing Day.’

      ‘It’s not like you to procrastinate.’

      ‘I know, but everywhere is shut over Christmas, everyone’s on holiday, so what’s the point in getting all worked up when no one’s in their office? So I’m having a bit more time off – proper time – and when everyone’s back at work, I’ll get in gear.’ Actually, part of the reason I’d been delaying the moment was that I wanted to be sure Stuart would be around to advise and, of course, he’d be busy with his wife and family over the festive period. He’d already seen me through some tough times with my business and finances, and I valued his calm approach and steadying influence.

      ‘I think that’s very sensible,’ said Pete as he handed me a steaming mug of mulled wine. ‘Good

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