Page 47 of Five Gold Rings

‘The ring. To the address in Notting Hill. It needs to go somewhere else,’ she squeals. ‘Don’t bring it into the house.’

But as I look up to the house, I see a man inviting Joe in and the door shutting behind him.

Oh my life, oh my days, oh my shit. I don’t know what to do. Mostly because I’m really quite drunk but also because I seem to have misplaced my shoes. How have I lost my shoes? We have a ring emergency. It turns out the giver of the ring is not in that house where Joe has just entered. Mrs Caspar missed a voicemail. If Joe hands over that ring to the person in there then he’ll spoil their surprise proposal or worse, they will think Joe is proposing to them. The ring needs to be somewhere else, the person in there needs to be somewhere else. I have all the info, but my head is swirling, working out what to do. We can’t ruin this. Joe’s not got his phone so I try to find my shoes. Sod shoes. I get out of my car with bare feet on the super icy cold cobbles and creep towards the house. This is cold and undignified and not a solid plan but hell, this may sober me up quicker than that Coke will. The door is closed. Do I knock on the door? How do I fix this? Maybe I should set off a car alarm. I jog on the spot when I reach the house, pulling my fur wrap around me. The curtains are slightly open revealing a wonderfully on-theme Christmas tree in red and white with wooden decorations and I see Joe standing there, chatting with someone. No, I think they may be arguing. I run back to the car and scan the back seat, grabbing a lipstick, then head to someone’s recycling bin where an old cardboard box is propped up against it. I rip off one side and write a scrappy message on it and return to the window, jumping on the spot, hoping Joe may see me. DON’T GIVE IT TO HIM. I look in again and see the man is sat down now, crying. Oh my, what have we done? And all at once, I think about the same emotion I felt when I saw a ring I was given only yesterday. My eyes well up. Or maybe that’s from the fact I can’t feel my feet anymore.

‘Excuse me, miss… Are you OK?’ I hear a man’s voice say.

I look up for a moment. ‘Santa?’ I say, widening my eyes. I’m really very drunk. Santa’s come for me. To tell me off? To save me?

‘Well, not officially. I’ve just been at a party. I dress like this for the grandchildren.’

I readjust my eyes. Oh yes, that’s a stick-on beard and there’s no glass in his spectacles. He gives me a kind enquiring look while I keep jogging. He’s holding a pair of house slippers in his hands and puts them on the floor. ‘I’m also a podiatrist, the other eleven months of the year. Look after your feet. It’s very cold.’

I slide my feet into the slippers, sighing out loud to feel the sheepskin lining around my toes, then turning to see his whole family looking at me through the window of their house, waving curiously. I wave back.

‘Is there a problem here?’ he asks. ‘You’re not one of those protestor people, are you?’

I shake my head. I care about the environment, but I don’t quite know how I’d be making any sort of statement standing here in an empty street.

‘I just need to tell a man in that house something,’ I say. Except I’m not pointing at the house. I seem to be drunkenly pointing at a skip outside someone else’s house.

The man smiles. ‘Is it like that filmLove Actually?’ he says hopefully, glancing down at the cardboard sign in my hands, looking confused at the very red and manic nature of my writing that I’m smudging with one of my hands. There’s two possibilities here: she’s either in love or demanding a ransom.

'Oh no. It’s just he’s got a ring… He can’t give it to him…’ I explain, my teeth chattering. ‘It’ll ruin everything.’

‘Because you love him?’ he asks, smiling, a hopeful, warm look in his eyes.

‘Oh no,’ I reply. I’ve been crying which must make me look even more lost and lovelorn than usual. ‘I mean…’

‘Maybe just go in there and tell him how you feel?’

‘I… I can’t. It’s not…’

‘It is Christmas after all.’

But I don’t feel that way about him. I can’t feel that way about him.

Santa offers me a sympathetic hand as I stumble over the cobbles. Cobbles are the enemy when you’re drunk, they really are. No wonder so many medieval people died young. ‘Well, however this ends, young lady, please take care. It’s cold out here. And Merry Christmas. I hope you get what you want. When you’re done with the slippers, just leave them outside the green door,’ he says, pointing towards his own home. I turn to wave at all his family.

‘Thank you. Merry Christmas to you, too… Santa,’ I mumble, looking down at his black dress moccasins. Now I know you aren’t real. However, I’m still confused. Because I’m drunk but because it’s not like that. With Joe. This isn’t love. I want to say it, but I can’t quite get the words out. I turn again to the window. Joe and the gentleman in there are chatting. I don’t think they’re arguing anymore. The other man is in a pinny. Now they’re hugging? Please just look at me. Catch my eye, Joe. Notice me. Please tell me we’ve not fucked up here – I don’t think my emotions could take that.

And suddenly, he looks up from that embrace and sees me. He raises his eyebrows, squinting his eyes, completely perplexed. It’s the sign, right? Or the house slippers? Either way, he laughs and looks at me through that window and gives me a thumbs up. We’re good. This isn’t over. But the comfort and intensity of that look floors me, and the warmth of my breath fogs the air with relief.

Joe

‘Evening.’

‘Evening?’ The man at the door is in Christmas jumper, apron, jeans, Timberland boots and thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses. It’s that trendy baristo look that lets you know he has a sourdough starter in the kitchen and only uses Himalayan sea salt. He stands there for a moment studying my face and I can’t read that look. Is it anger? Confusion? ‘Who are you?’ he asks, looking down at the dinner jacket. I really feel we’re overegging the well-dressed look with these ring deliveries.

‘I’m Joe,’ I say, glad drunk Eve is safely in the car as I don’t think he’d be too impressed by her drunken tomfoolery.

‘Oh dear, are you one of those singing telegrams? This feels like something my mother would do,’ he says in strong suspicious tones.

‘Definitely not. Umm, I have a delivery for you.’

‘You’re well-dressed for Amazon,’ he mumbles coolly, his expression changing.

‘Oh, I’m not from Amazon,’ I mutter hesitantly. I study the number on the house again, just in case it’s the wrong one.