Only One Woman by Christina Jones

Author:Christina Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Accent Press
Published: 2017-10-09T04:00:00+00:00

Renza’s Diary

December 25th 1968

Christmas day. I shouldn’t be here, I should be with Scott. I know I’ve had time to get used to the idea of not being with him but deep down I’ve been hoping something would turn up and we’d spend Christmas together after all. The disappointment is crippling. I know it’s self-torment, but I can’t stop imagining what it would be like to spend Christmas Eve with him.

I’ve been imagining the farm house in Jersey, a huge decorated tree in the sitting room, with gifts around its base and every room decorated and filled with the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon, with big open fireplaces where we could snuggle under blankets on the hearth and watch the fire dying before curling up in bed, excited about spending Christmas day together, as part of Eva’s family. Christmas afternoon the band would arrive and we’d give gifts and play silly games and sing songs and just have fun.

Or perhaps Narnia’s Children would be gigging in St Helier Christmas Eve with all the rich and trendy people specially invited and, as if by magic, I’d have something really far out and amazing to wear and all the girls would be wrung out with envy at the sight of me with Scott – two of the ‘beautiful’ people – as they watched our every move at the lavish after gig party. I’d enjoy seeing them watch the ring on my finger flashing as the crystal chandeliers caught its diamonds when we announced our surprise, but ‘official’ engagement. Fans would be crying –wishing it were them – and Scott would scoop me up in his arms and drive me home along one of the coast roads, stopping off at one of the many beautiful bays he’s told me about, where we’d run barefoot in the waves, hand in hand, kissing under the moonlight and, and… well that’s just it. And what? I need my head read, dreaming such nonsense. I’m losing the plot. He’s in Jersey up to goodness knows what – and with whom I wonder – and I’m here, about to go downstairs and help prepare our Christmas dinner, miserable, lonely and fed-up.

Oh Scott, if only you’d be more reliable, and your mum too. Always promising and rarely delivering. Marjorie Proops would advise me to forget you and find someone else should I ever write a letter to her agony column. She’d most probably be right. But I can’t. I can’t forget you. You’re an excruciating pain deep within my soul that nothing will cure. Something’s got to give. I can’t stay here. It’s not fair.

I’d better go down and start the dinner before Mum gives me grief.

Downstairs the sitting room floor’s covered in wrapping paper, cardboard boxes and toys where the kids have ripped their presents open in a frenzy of excitement. Lucy is pedalling up and down on a tricycle, Crispin is bashing hell out of a drum kit – whoever gave it to him is on my death list – and Jasper is kicking a ball around the room.

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