And they walk on.
I stand there, staring after them, feeling about as small as it’s possible to feel. Turning, I fish out my keys to retreat back inside.
Then I stop.
The Winter Ball is just a few days away and I’d pretty much decided to tell Jackson I’d go with him, after all. What if he’s been sitting at home, feeling as gloomy as I am, thinking it’s all over between us? Perhaps he was in a business meeting when I phoned and he hasn’t even listened to my message yet.
I should give him another chance – leave him another message telling him I’m looking forward to wearing my new dress …
The idea brings a little surge of relief at the thought that it might not, after all, be the end for Jackson and me.
The Winter Ball would be the perfect opportunity to patch things up, smooth over the catastrophe of Saturday night and get back to the way things were.
Standing there in the street I phone his number, preparing my little speech in my head. I’ll go for a bright and breezy tone, to let him know I’m back to my normal self and looking to the future …
‘Jackson’s phone,’ breathes someone in what sounds like a French accent. An alluring female voice.
An icy hand grips my heart.
A series of giggles on the other end of the phone turns into full-blown shrieks of delight.
Then, abruptly, I’m cut off.
I stand there, stunned for a moment, feeling sick. My legs feel wobbly so I sit down on the wall outside the house and stare for a long time at the Christmas lights strung over the windows of the café over the road.
After a while, the lights blur into one another, but I continue to sit there with my hands thrust deep into my coat pockets, thinking about Jackson and how it was never going to work out for us anyway. What with me scared to take the relationship to the next level and Jackson being a total babe-magnet.
It was a recipe for disaster. I just couldn’t see it at the time.
I really thought that this Christmas would be different because I’d found Jackson and we’d be spending at least some of the festive season together. I’d been so confident of this, I’d even told Mum and Dad that they should book the winter Caribbean cruise they’d been wanting to go on for years because I’d be spending it with Jackson. And now, that’s what they’re doing. They leave in a couple of weeks and will be away until after New Year. So I really shot myself in the foot there!
The festive season of love and goodwill is here. And I will be all alone.
Why on earth did I imagine someone as clever and popular as Jackson could be serious about a no-hoper like me? I mean, thinking about it, what the hell have I achieved in my life so far – apart from a job at the biscuit factory?
I probably could have achieved more. But after the accident, my confidence hit rock bottom, and I’ve never really recovered. I suppose part of me still thinks I’m not good enough to try for something different.
That look on Billy’s face when he broke off our relationship has stayed with me, resolutely refusing to disappear into the mists of time. It happened eleven years ago, when I was only nineteen, yet even now I can recall – as if it happened only yesterday – that heart-stopping mix of pity and guilt in his eyes.
But isn’t it time I moved past that?
I’ve lost Jackson and now my future is an open book. A big fat question mark. Instead of living in fear, maybe I should see it as a golden opportunity to throw off the chains of the past and start living my life differently.
But am I too late, at the age of thirty, to start my life over again? To finally throw off the hang-ups that have held me back and maybe find a career that inspires me – instead of just working to pay the rent?
The first step is to get over Jackson. Because, clearly, he’s already well on the way to getting over me …
Getting up off the wall, I take a deep breath and force my legs to move in the direction of the supermarket.
I’m done with humiliating myself over Jackson Cooper.
It’s time to move on …
Arriving at the supermarket, my throat is choked with held-back tears but I’m determined not to give in to them.
I head straight for the milk, then march purposefully into the home-baking aisle in search of Betty Crocker. She makes great chocolate cake mixes. She will save me from complete despair.
Funnily enough, the last time I was here, I was also on a search for cake mix.
Our irritating next-door neighbour, Edna Hartley-Pym, had knocked on our door, requesting cakes for her home-baking stall at the church hall’s Christmas fayre. She’s a difficult woman to say no to, so I promised her a homemade chocolate cake, which got her off our doorstep nice and smartly.
I thought I’d cheat with a Betty Crocker cake mix but, to my horror, there were none to be had and the fayre was the following day. So I’m afraid I resorted to buying a Marks & Spencer concoction, roughing it up a bit in my Tupperware box to make it look like an authentic home bake.
Needless to say, Edna was well impressed.
Thankfully, the cake mix section has now been thoroughly restocked. I hover in the aisle, trying to choose between Devil’s Food cake mix and Super Moist Party Rainbow cake, eventually solving the dilemma by throwing both into the basket.
My attention is caught by a woman further along the aisle who seems to be having a problem. She’s trying to reach something on the top shelf and keeps jumping up but failing to grab it. The grunts she’s making with the effort are growing more desperate by the second, so eventually, I go over and offer to help. (Being so tall, I’m used to people asking me to reach items for them from the top shelf.)
The girl turns, dashing her dark hair out of her eyes. ‘Oh, would you? Thank you. It’s the last bag and I really need it.’ Her face is flushed with exertion. Or possibly anxiety.
‘No problem. They didn’t nickname me Beanpole at school for nothing!’ I assure her with a grin, reaching up with ease and handing her the prize – a bag of self-raising flour.
‘Oh, thank you!’ she gasps gratefully. ‘I run a catering business and, believe it or not, I’ve run out of flour.’
‘Ooh, what’s the name of your business?’ I ask.
‘Truly Scrumptious.’
‘Great name!’
‘Thanks.’ She smiles warmly. ‘It’s just me, really, although my friend, Erin, sometimes helps out. I’m baking for a children’s birthday party tomorrow so I need to get my hands on some flour. I can’t believe this is the only bag left.’
‘People must be making their Christmas cakes.’
She smiles, looking a little less flustered. ‘Yes, it’s that time, isn’t it? I’ve got twenty Christmas cakes to bake for next weekend.’ She holds out her spare hand. ‘I’m Poppy.’
We shake. ‘Roxy.’
‘Nice to meet you, Roxy. Now, I really must get back. Those fairy cakes won’t bake themselves, worse luck!’
She turns to go but, as she does, the bag of flour somehow slips out of her grasp. It falls to the ground, catching her boot buckle, which tears the bag open. The contents spill out across the floor.
Poppy stares at the mess in stunned disbelief, and I feel her pain. She looks as if she’s about to sob her heart out right then and there, in