I’d convinced myself he’d come round as the night went on. After all, I’d got a plan to stick to. We’d walk through town, the Sheffield Christmas lights strung out along Barker’s Pool hanging underwhelmingly over our heads as we made our way towards the enormous (yet sparsely lit) Christmas tree in front of the imposing Victorian town hall. From there we’d stroll arm in arm to the Peace Gardens, a popular meeting point in the centre of town, where we’d giggle fondly as we reminisced about how far we’d come since sharing our first kiss there one balmy Saturday afternoon, back when we were fifteen and free from care.
In my mind it’d been wonderfully romantic, like something from a black-and-white film. The fountains and cascades would be on and the fairy lights wrapped around the spindly trees would make a stunning and dreamy backdrop for my proposal. In my mind it was going to be magical. In my mind it was going to be perfect.
In reality, the evening itself had been nice enough. Therein lay the warning, I suppose. Nice enough isn’t magical. Nice enough isn’t perfect.
We’d gone for drinks at one of the upmarket bars in town, Justin opting for his usual beer whilst I’d splashed out on a Manhattan. I’d used the excuse that it was to celebrate reaching the end of term without collapsing in a heap with the other teaching assistants amidst the rush of Christmas parties and visits from ‘Santa’ (who was actually Mr Thomas, the headmistress’s husband), when really the alcohol was Dutch courage, pure and simple. I’d been turning the question over in my mind; it had taken all my efforts not to blurt it out before heading to the show.
Wicked had been brilliant, a glorious spectacle of a musical, and the cast had us captivated as they belted out the amazing show tunes. The wannabe performer in me wished I wasn’t sitting in the plush gold velour seat – how I longed to be up on that stage, the glaring white spotlight shining on me just as it had on a much smaller scale in that school hall during Guys and Dolls! Musicals have the power to transport me to another world, whisking me away from my mundane life. But as soon as the house lights came up in the auditorium a nervous niggle had started gnawing away at me. No matter how hard I’d tried to push it to the back of my mind, I hadn’t been able to shake it off.
I felt cold to the core as we walked down the venue’s sweeping stone steps and it wasn’t just the December chill clawing away at my skin. It was something worse. Justin seemed as though he was holding back, his face hidden under the fur trim of his parka. His hand was loose around mine. He was distant. Barely there.
The rows of festive decorations strung out before us, a twinkling ladder across the sky. It was the only part of the image I correctly predicted, and we silently sauntered through the streets whilst revellers enjoying five-too-many ‘Mad Friday’ beers fist-pumped the air as they sang along to Slade’s Christmas classic ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ at the top of their lungs. Looking back, we’d been the odd ones out, Justin and I, sober in both body and spirit.
We reached the fountain, although it wasn’t turned on because of the gusty weather, and sat near by. All the while Justin looked awkward. Fidgety. On edge. He took a deep breath, a visible cloud appearing from his mouth as he exhaled.
I swallowed uneasily. Something was up.
‘I wanted to speak to you,’ he’d said finally. He had this funny lop-sided grin plastered on his face, unfamiliar even though I’d been swooning at his smiles for a decade. He looked different, somehow, and for one brief moment I’d laughed, convinced he was building up to asking the same question I’d been preparing to ask him.
My stomach lurched with hopeful anticipation and I wondered if he might produce a ring. At the time, it had seemed entirely possible he might, but looking back everything about that night made me feel foolish.
I’d been dreaming. Only momentarily, but a lot can happen in a moment. I’d even wondered whether the hypothetical, mythical ring would be a square-cut solitaire like the one I’d saved in the favourites folder on my laptop, or an antique he’d picked up from one of the quirky antique shops on London Road or Sharrow Vale. Justin knew how I adored anything vintage.
Seconds later my world crashed down around me. I was dizzy, stunned, confused, and all it took was three little words.
‘I’m going away.’
Justin had looked excitedly out at me from beneath the safety of his hood, the weird enormous grin peering out as he waited for my response.
I’d not understood what he meant at first; not known that those three words said it all.
‘What do you mean?’ I’d stumbled finally. I genuinely didn’t understand the statement.
He was going away, he’d said brightly, heading to America for a year to work at the Chicago-based head office of the bank he was a slave to. He oozed gleeful delight, prattling on about how it was a wonderful opportunity and what an honour it was to be considered a suitable candidate. I could go with him, he’d said, his puppy-dog eyes full of expectation.
I was so shocked I couldn’t even formulate a simple sentence.
‘When?’ I managed eventually.
He’d proudly told me January 4th and that it was a year-long contract. He’d been specially selected by the Big Boss when the person they’d lined up for the role backed out due to ill health. That was why it was such short notice, he explained. Justin had been put forward as the best possible replacement, the opportunity a reward for the long hours he’d been putting in recently. It was too good an offer to pass up, he’d said, something he had to do now whilst he was young, before he was tied down by responsibilities and a family.
I’d wanted to scream at that bit. He had a family here who loved him, his younger brother Benji worshipped the ground he walked on and aspired to be just like him. He had parents who doted on him and bought him everything he wanted, from designer clothes to a brand new car.
And me. He had me.
But Justin was radiant with excitement, unleashing all the joy he’d obviously forced himself to suppress earlier in the evening. He hadn’t said a word about America as he’d slurped on the spag bol I’d thrown together as a quick tea to line our stomachs, nor as he’d tapped his fingers against the pint glass in the pub. He’d kept schtum in the theatre too, letting me believe everything was fine, when all the time he’d been holding a bomb.
He rabbited on about head office and career progression, his tunnel vision blinding him to everything else. I’d never felt more irrelevant. I wasn’t even a Christmas cracker-sized spanner in the works. His mind was made up and that was that.
‘I can’t just drop everything,’ I said, feeling a smidgeon of annoyance that he expected me to. I had my job at the school, for starters, I couldn’t let them down by buggering off to the other side of the world. And then there were my dance classes, the ones I attended every Thursday night without fail. The six of us in the class had been dancing together since we were tots. They were my extended family, my safety net. I didn’t want to leave them behind, but I didn’t want to be without Justin either.
‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he’d repeated, the light in his eyes not dimming despite my lack of enthusiasm. ‘For me and for you.’
His hand had rested on mine and I’d flinched. I didn’t pull away, even though the last thing I wanted right then was for him to touch me. I just didn’t have the energy to move.
‘Imagine it, Mon. Me and you in the big city, living the American dream.’ His eyes were alight with a passion he normally reserved for Saturdays when the Blades were playing at home. I knew, then, that he was going to go regardless. His mind was made up. Nothing I could say would change a thing.
‘I can’t go,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want to. It’s not my dream. Anyway, there’s no way I could get on a plane and go all that way. Have you forgotten the melt down I had on the way back from Corfu?’
I could tell by his expression that he had, but I hadn’t. We’d suffered terrible turbulence