A Miracle on Hope Street: The most heartwarming Christmas romance of 2018!. Emma Heatherington

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       Chapter Four

       Ruth

       Eight Days before Christmas – One Year Later

      ‘Stop talking about me like I’m not here, please. I can hear you, you know.’

      The squeal of the wipers on the windscreen, the whirr of the engine, the boom from the stereo . . . I feel drunk but I’m perfectly sober, sick but I’m in physically great health, invisible but I’m very much in person here in my colleague’s car on our way out for pizza on the evening of the first anniversary of my father’s death and I feel hot and claustrophobic. I knew this was a bad idea.

      ‘I’ll take her home once I drop you all off at the restaurant,’ says Gavin to Bob who looks across at Nora, and then Gavin catches me in the rear-view mirror, his head tilted in pity.

      ‘I’ll be okay when we get there, I promise,’ I say to Gavin who’s in the driving seat. It’s our once-a-month-after-work evening out to Caprino’s, when we usually promise to be home by twelve, but almost always end up crashing at mine and staying up at least three hours later than we should do on a school night.

      An uncomfortable silence follows with more staring, more head tilting, more blurring in my head.

      ‘You’re on a different planet there, Ruth,’ Bob says.

      At just twenty-seven, he’s the youngest of our group of workmates but sometimes I do believe he is the wisest of all.

      ‘She needs to go home.’

      ‘She’s allowed to cry if she wants. Bawl your eyes out if you have to, Ruth, or stay at home if you have to. No one is forcing you into this, you know. Your dad—’

      ‘Go easy! It’s not even five in the evening, it’s only a bite of pizza and a few drinks then home again. Hardly like we’re taking her out on the razz, is it?’

      I have no idea who is saying what. All I can hear is their voices, muddling up, swirling around in my head.

      ‘It’s a tough time of year, Ruth, that’s all I’m saying.’

      Wise young Bob this time . . .

      ‘Caprino’s will be here next month and the next and the next and I’m sure you can catch up again on Gavin’s nonexistent love life and Nora’s never-ending marriage problems. It’s not like you’ll miss anything new if you want to go back home instead.’

      ‘My never-ending marriage problems?’ says Nora. ‘Tell it like it is, why don’t you, Bob! At least I have a man!’

      ‘Not to mention Bob’s latest hypochondriac moaning,’ says Gavin, never one to let Bob off with too much. ‘What is it tonight, Bobby? Back trouble? Ingrowing toenail? Dumped again by the man of your dreams?’

      ‘Sore back if you must know,’ says Bob. ‘I swear I’ve been in agony all week. Why does no one ever believe me? You believe me don’t you, Ruth? Don’t you?’

      I can’t even answer my friend, so I lean my head on the car window from where I stare out at the white lines racing by, trying desperately to convince myself that a bite to eat with my workmates is just what I need to make me turn a corner and distract me from the day. It’s my everyday job to understand other people’s problems, so a night at the pizzeria, listening to each of their moans, won’t be any different to what I usually deal with. I can do this. My dad would want me to do this.

      A bus passes us with my smiling face emblazoned on the side panel and no one bats an eyelid, nor do they when we pass a billboard with my giant, very airbrushed, may I add, larger-than-life features. My ‘Ask Ruth Ryans’ column in Today is by miles the most popular weekly feature and I’m a true expert at shelling out advice on City Radio every Sunday evening on family issues, relationship problems, health and lifestyle issues, you name it. I can advise them with my eyes closed, yet I can’t seem to manage my own issues at all, these days. I just can’t seem to take my own advice when it comes to this overwhelming grief that just won’t go away.

      ‘It’s time for her to get out of the house more. It can’t all just be about work and stupid dates and reality TV. She needs to keep busy, keep her mind off things.’

      And I know they are right and I have tried keeping busy; I have focused on work and tried to see the positive in my life; I have talked to everyone who will listen, but here I am, a full year after my father’s death, and I can’t even take this baby step forward to join a few friends for pizza.

      ‘She could be depressed. Do you think you might be depressed, Ruth?’

      They just keep talking but I can’t find the words to answer.

      Maybe I am depressed? Or am I just sad all the time? Is there a difference? Mornings are dark and evenings are dark at this time of year and the last thing I need to be doing is sitting at home alone, thinking about the past twelve months and how agonising it was to watch my father, once a strong, handsome, intelligent man wither away before my eyes.

      ‘He didn’t even remember my name,’ I say aloud and then I do exactly what I had promised myself that I wouldn’t do tonight. I heave and sob, gently turning to Bob whose strong arm draws me into his shoulder and lets me ruin his good shirt with a mix of makeup and tears as I cry for the man who was my hero in every walk of life.

      ‘I’ll take you home,’ says Gavin. ‘Maybe we’ll all go to yours and order a takeaway again instead? Would that be better, Ruth?’

      I don’t answer, but they know I mean yes. I rub my forehead, looking out at the traffic and we pass another billboard with my smiling face.

      Ruth Ryans will solve your problems, it reads and I feel a pang of guilt when I think of all the people out there who are awaiting a reply from me.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper into myself. ‘I don’t know if I can help anyone any more. I can’t even help me. I’m sorry, whoever you are.’

       Marian Devine

      Marian Devine hadn’t left the house in twenty-one days.

      Every other year, by now she’d already have all of her shopping done, a juicy turkey ordered, a prizewinning cake made, her house decorated to within an inch of itself with trees and sparkling lights and enough cinnamon candles burning to make the house smell like a Christmas haven. But this year she’d just about managed to get in an online shop from one of the big supermarkets who delivered and that was only for the stuff she’d bought every other week. No wine, no fancy crackers and cheeses, no cranberry sauce, no Christmas crackers with plastic bits inside that she’d find down the side of and under the sofa for weeks after. There was no point any more. Her breath caught in the back of her throat in a forceful gasp when she realised that this year she’d have no one to pull a cracker across the table with. How sad. How unbelievably sad compared to the Christmases she used to share with her family.

      Marian СКАЧАТЬ