• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

She knew if she told Dad about it he’d make her go. He’d lecture her about drink and drugs and abstinence and stuff, but he’d make her go. But that would mean leaving him alone on New Year’s Eve, and she didn’t want to do that.

She’d been out with her friends on the twenty-seventh. All day. They’d been to the sales, armed with the vouchers and wads of cash that Christmas had yielded, in a big giggling crowd of girls exhilarated by being freed from conversation with their grandparents and aged aunts. She’d been home much later than she’d said. When she’d opened the front door, there’d been all these boxes and bags lined up. Mark had cleaned out Mum’s wardrobe. He said he’d been meaning to do it for months, and that now was as good a time as any—new year, and all that. She’d known it needed to be done, and part of her was glad that she’d missed it. But he looked so sad and so pale and so lonely, standing among the carrier bags, that she felt awful.

He’d turned down all his own invitations. Vince and Sophie had practically begged him to go there. There were the usual suspects—neighbors, colleagues, old friends. He said no to everyone.

So she pretended that the invitation she was turning down was the less than thrilling opportunity to waitress at the same friend’s parents’ dinner party, with free drinks thrown in after dessert was served. If he questioned her truthfulness, it didn’t show in his face. They had rented DVDs of some of the films they hadn’t made it to earlier in the year…for obvious reasons…and bought some extremely posh ready-made food from Marks and Spencer. Hannah told Mark she wouldn’t let him cook on New Year’s Eve, coming so soon after Christmas, and that she certainly didn’t intend to wash up. They had king prawns with dipping sauce, and lobster, and imported strawberries. They ate in their pajamas and dressing gowns, in front of the fire, and let the machine pick up all their calls.

At 12:15 A.M., Dad woke her up, very gently, and they both went to bed. She’d missed it.

Once she’d climbed the stairs and slid between the sheets, cool on her skin after an evening in front of the fire, she felt very awake again. The party would be in full swing now, everyone laughing and dancing and shouting to one another over the thump of the music, and the house was so quiet.

Lisa

Lisa and Andy toasted the New Year at 7:30 P.M. Cee Cee insisted. She also insisted they do it because it was already New Year for her mummy, sailing in the Caribbean, and no amount of cajoling would persuade her that the Caribbean was five hours behind and not five hours ahead. They had picked her up from Karen’s on Boxing Day, and she’d been dictating the content and timing of their meals all week. As well as waking them up at 6:30 every morning. She’d heard noises from their bedroom a couple of nights ago and come in while they were making love. Andy had grabbed the duvet and covered them, and she’d climbed up between them, and he’d told her Lisa was having a bad dream. It was certainly a nightmare, Lisa smiled to herself, lying there left high and dry, but not the one he described. Cee Cee had gone back to sleep there almost at once, and they thought she might have forgotten, but the next day in Pizza Express she described the scenario in no small detail to the waitress, who blushed knowingly.

New Year’s Eve was no different. She was up before 7:00, demanding pancakes and Charlie and Lola. And to be honest, the absence of any kind of a lie-in all week meant that neither was inclined to argue anymore with her. They opened champagne, Cee Cee drinking hers from an eggcup, lit sparklers, and attempted a linked-arm “Auld Lang Syne,” which was largely unsuccessful. Andy had bought a single-fuse firework box, which he’d lit at the end of the garden, so they had a damp and somewhat unimpressive two-minute firework display at 7:35, and by 7:45 the brouhaha was largely over. They’d argued a little, earlier. Andy thought tonight would be a good night to tell Cee Cee they were engaged.