We Met in December

by Rosie Curtis

The thing about being addicted to a certain kind of romantic movie is that you’re always half-expecting that your life might just suddenly take a turn for the better.

I tend to take the approach that you should hold life with one hand, and keep the other one spare just in case of emergencies.

‘Because three blocks of intimidating kitchen knives sitting out on the work surface was going to give me nightmares and I had visions of a serial killer turning up and murdering us all in our beds.’

‘I wish I could remember lines like that. I never think of the right thing to say until hours later, when I’m lying in bed reliving the whole conversation.’

‘Turns out that thirty is the perfect time to have my first oh my God what am I doing with my life crisis.’

Not only is he gorgeous, but he’s noble and ethical as well. He’s like a unicorn, or something.

I’m almost thirty, and I’d pretty much accepted that my secret love of terrible, brilliant, curl-up-on-the-sofa romantic movies had somehow cursed me. And yet here I was, looking directly into the chocolate-drop eyes of a man who looked like I’d ordered him online from the romantic movie store.

When I have a house of my own, I’m going to have a tree in every room and the whole place lit up with millions of tiny, starry white lights.

I shake my head. It’s taken me time to be able to talk about it so calmly. There were times when someone being kind would bring tears springing to my eyes. Grief is weird like that.

The trouble with me is I’ve always been a daydreamer. Always been a sucker for a romantic film, always loved a book with a good old-fashioned happy ever after ending.

‘I like your Instagram.’ Alex stirs sugar into his coffee, and the heart disappears from the froth. ‘It’s like you see all the good bits in London.’

Alex nods. ‘I get it. When my dad died I felt guilty because the first thing I felt was relief. He’d been sick for ages – and cancer just seemed to change him. He wasn’t the same person at the end.’

The truth was there’s something inside me that feels slightly discomfited by the idea of Jess – London walking buddy, housemate, fan of midnight toast-and-Marmite snacks and chats over the kitchen table – dating anyone. I have absolutely no right to feel like that for about eight million reasons.

Publishing is a lot like being a swan. You look very sleek and posh from the outside, but there’s an awful lot of furious paddling going on underneath. And a lot of mud.

‘I’ve heard some horror stories about Tinder,’ I say quickly (it’s the first thing that springs to mind, and it’s true at least). ‘What if I end up being chopped into pieces by an axe murderer?’ ‘That could happen any day of the week regardless of dating apps,’ says Sophie, reassuringly.

She pulls a fluffy blanket down and wraps it over her legs, building a cushion fort around her, and almost purrs with happiness.

Remember when we were little kids, and we thought being grown up meant having all the answers? Now we’re almost thirty, and I feel like I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.’

I think when Gen and Soph and I were young, we’d all been quite certain that by this age we’d all be settled and happy. Domestic bliss felt like a lifetime away for me. I guess that’s what happens when you start all over again at the age of almost thirty.

I feel a stab of grief. Weird how it hits you. It’s not the anniversaries or the birthdays, it’s the way a stranger shakes their newspaper open, or a song on the radio at the nurses’ station, that reminds you of what you’ve lost.

But of course, we’re British, and what we do best is awkward, slightly stilted social gatherings.

‘So I gather you two have been walking miles all over London?’ James says, looking at me intently. He’s very . . . solid. Golden. Like – oh my God, he’s like a Golden Retriever. Sort of healthy and sturdy and reliable. I have no idea why that just popped into my head, and now it won’t go away. The irony is that Jess would normally find that kind of comment funny, but under the circumstances . . .

And being together with the wrong person was a million times worse than being single.

‘Took you long enough to work it out,’ Becky teases. ‘I thought you two would be perfect for each other the moment you met.’