‘Night night. Miss you too,’ I say, waiting for Mum to ring off before I hang up. She’s in Tenerife with Aunt Susan; they’re both still in mourning, I think, but helping each other through it. In this case with sangria and sun. I don’t blame them; I seriously contemplated their offer to tag along, but in the end the pull of a dreary, cold London Christmas on my own was just too tempting to pass up. I’m kidding. Half kidding. I do at least have the house to myself for a couple of weeks though; my flatmate and her clan have all decamped to Wales until New Year. My plan, such as it is, is to just chill out, stuff my face and see a couple of friends here and there. Anna and Daryl have insisted I go to them for New Year, but aside from that, I’m as free as a bird. I wander into the kitchen and flick the kettle on, trying hard to feel urban and cool rather than lonely girl in London at Christmas.
An hour later, and I’m making a cake. I know, totally out of character, but the bottle of Baileys Mum sent me was next to a pile of cookbooks in the kitchen and I was suddenly overcome by the urge for cake. I’m on my second generous Baileys, and I couldn’t care less that it’s nearly ten at night and it’s taken me nearly an hour to mash up a load of unripe bananas. I’m even humming along to Christmas songs on the radio. Is it sad that I tune in to Jack’s station most nights? His late show is one of those where people can call in to talk about anything they fancy, sometimes funny, sometimes sad. He’s not on yet though, and I’m having a full-on croon to Nat King Cole. I’m reminiscing; he was my dad’s favourite.
I sit down at the kitchen table and close my eyes, and I’m back in my mum’s kitchen, the same smells of cake batter and Christmas songs, old-fashioned fairy lights pinned under the wall cupboards. We’re all there. I’m probably five or six, Daryl a year or so older, Ginny about three. Mum and Dad are there too, of course. No one’s doing anything in particular, no schmaltzy dancing or profound speeches. We’re all just there, and it’s so heart-warming and perfect that I don’t want to open my eyes and see all the empty chairs round the table. And then the music stops and Jack’s voice washes over me, and I’m okay again because his company stops me from feeling so alone.
I follow the recipe, weighing out the rest of the ingredients as he takes a couple of calls, one from a guy who wants to tell him about the fight he got into today with the Santa at his local garden centre, and another from a woman whose decree absolute arrived in the mail this morning; she feels like the luckiest woman alive because her husband had been the very definition of The Grinch. It’s all very light-hearted; Jack is an old hand at keeping the tone just right.
I scrape the cake batter into the tin I’ve lined, licking my finger to test it as the next caller comes on.
‘I want to tell my girlfriend that I love her, but I can’t,’ he says. From his voice, I’d say he isn’t much more than a teenager.
‘What do you mean, can’t?’ says Jack. ‘Do you love her?’
The guy doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Oh yes. I nearly told her today after college. I was looking at her, and she asked me why I was looking at her oddly, but then the words got stuck in my throat. I can’t get it out.’
Jack laughs softly, and the sound is so familiar that I can see him clearly in my head, that amused glow that lights his eyes. ‘Look, if there’s one bit of advice I can give you, it’s for the love of God, man, just say it. You won’t die, I promise. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘She might laugh?’
‘And she might not. The way I see it is you’ve got two choices here. Take the risk and tell her you love her or wait until it’s too late and someone else tells her they love her. How will you feel then?’
‘Like a fool?’
I stand there with the cake tin in my hands, ready to put it in the oven.
‘For the rest of your life, mate. Trust me, I know, because it happened to me. It’s Christmas – take the risk. You’ll always regret it if you don’t.’
I stare at the radio, and then I put the cake tin back down on the table and reach for my phone.
I’ve lied to the radio show producer about my name. I’m Rhona, and I’m up next.
‘Hi, Rhona,’ Jack says. ‘What would you like to talk about?’
I’ve turned my radio off because of feedback, so it’s just me and Jack chatting on the phone, like always.
‘Hi, Jack,’ I say. ‘I was listening to your earlier caller and I wanted to say how much your advice rang true with me.’
‘It did? Why’s that?’
I can’t gauge whether he’s realized it’s me or not yet. I don’t think so.
‘Because I know what it’s like to miss your chance and to spend the rest of your life waiting to feel that way again.’
He pauses for a beat. ‘Want to tell everyone your story, Rhona?’
‘It’s pretty long,’ I say.
‘That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Well, it started on a snowy December day almost a decade ago.’
‘Fitting,’ he murmurs. ‘Go on.’
‘I was on the bus home from work. I’d had a God-awful day and I was done in, and then all of a sudden I looked out of the window and saw the most beautiful man – or boy as I thought of him then – sitting at the bus stop. I looked right at him, and he looked right at me, and I’ve never in my life felt anything like it. Not before and not afterwards,’ I say, letting it all out in a rush. ‘I spent a whole year looking for him in bars and cafes, but I didn’t find him.’
Jack’s breath is uneven in my ear. ‘You never found him?’
‘Not until my best friend found him first and fell in love with him too.’
‘Wow … Rhona,’ he says slowly. ‘That must have been tough.’
‘Unimaginably,’ I say. I’m done, and I have no idea what to say next.
‘Can I tell you something you probably don’t know?’ he asks after a second of silence. ‘I bet it was as tough for him as it was for you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘I asked him once, stupidly, if he remembered me from the bus, and he said no.’
I hear him swallow. ‘He lied to you. Of course he saw you sitting there. He saw you there with tinsel in your hair, and he felt the exact same way, and he wished like hell that he’d got on that damn bus before it was too late.’
‘Do you really think so?’ I ask, my eyes closed, remembering. I’m that girl again.
‘Yes,’ he breathes. ‘But he didn’t know what to do. So he did nothing, like a mug, and then he stood on the sidelines and watched you fall in love with someone else, and still he didn’t say it. He had his chances and he missed them all.’
‘Sometimes you just meet the right person at the wrong time,’ I say softly.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘And then you spend every day afterwards wishing that time could be rearranged.’
I can’t speak; tears clog my throat.
‘Did you ever tell him how you feel?’
‘No.’ Tears spill down my cheeks. ‘He told me a while back that he loved me, and I didn’t say it back.’
‘No,’ he says, low, fractured. ‘You didn’t.’
‘I should’ve.’
‘Is it too late?’
I take a second to get my breath and hope his listeners will bear with me.
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper.
‘I think you should tell him. Perhaps he’s still there, waiting for you to say it. What have you got to lose?’
I’m trending on Twitter. Or rather Rhona is.
#FindRhona #WhereIsRhona #JackAndRhona
It seems that David Tennant heard my late-night radio conversation with Jack, tweeted #findRhona, and in doing so caught the imagination of the entire nation. I’m now one half of a Christmas love story that the twittersphere is determined to give its happy ending. I scroll through the hundreds of tweets that have popped up in the minutes since the call, wide-eyed. Thank God I used a fake name, I think, listening to the snippets of our conversation shared all over the net.
I jump as my mobile rings. Sarah. Of course. She always listens to his shows too.
‘Oh my GOD!’ she shouts. I can hear the baby crying in the background. ‘You’re Rhona!’
I put my phone on the table in front of me and hold my head in my hands. ‘I’m sorry, Sar, I didn’t mean to tell everyone like that.’
‘Christ, Laurie, I’m not angry, I’m bloody crying buckets here! Get your sorry ass up there to him this minute or I’m getting on a plane to drag you up there myself!’
‘What if …’
She cuts in. ‘Check your emails. I’ve just sent your Christmas present.’
‘Hang on,’ I say, dragging my laptop over and opening my inbox to see Sarah’s new email.
‘Ah! I need to go, Lu, the baby’s just piddled all over me without his nappy on,’ she says, laughing. ‘I’ll be watching Twitter for Rhona updates. Don’t screw this up!’
She rings off as I click open her gift: a one-way train ticket to Edinburgh.
Shit. There’s press outside my flat and my mobile has been ringing non-stop since I got home last night. Everyone wants to know who Rhona is, because it was pretty damn clear from our conversation that we know each other very, very well. Unbelievably, it’s just scrolled across the rolling TV news tickertape – have they got nothing else to talk about? This wouldn’t happen at any other time of the year. Scotland has officially gone into a Christmas love story meltdown, and unlikely as it would seem, I’m playing Hugh Grant.
My mobile rings yet again, and this time I answer it because it’s my boss.
‘O’Mara!’ he barks. ‘What’s all this then?’
I struggle to answer. ‘It’s all a bit crazy, Al. Sorry, man.’
‘The switchboard’s flashing brighter than the bloody Christmas tree, son! The whole damn country will be tuning in to see if Rhona calls back again. You’d better get your scrawny backside in here pronto and make sure she does!’
As usual, he dispenses with the social niceties, hanging up without a goodbye. I stand in the middle of my lounge and rub my hands through my hair. What the hell am I supposed to do next? I don’t think I can even get out of here without being mobbed. I look at my mobile and finally pluck up the courage to ring the one person I really need to speak to.
‘Hi, this is Laurie. I can’t pick up right now. Please leave a message and I’ll call you soon.’
I chuck my phone on the side and sit down out of view of the windows.
I’ve never been in through the back entrance of the studio before; we save that for the celebrity guests who sometimes rock up for the breakfast show.
‘Big for your boots now, fella,’ Ron, our sixty-something security guard, jokes as he lets me in. He’s usually posted out in reception doing the crossword at this time of night. ‘Go on up.’
I take the lift to the top floor, and as I step out, I get a little ripple of applause from the handful of staff on duty.
‘Very funny.’ I shrug out of my coat, sticking my thumb up to Lena through the studio glass. She’s on air before me every night, and she waves like a loon then makes a heart symbol with her hands. Great. I don’t think there’s a single person in Scotland who doesn’t know about me and Laurie now. Or Rhona. I’ve tried her a dozen more times, and she still isn’t picking up; this whole circus must have freaked her out. I almost tried her mum last night, but common sense kicked in; I’m sure the last thing she needs is a late-night call because I can’t find her daughter. Laurie’s gone to ground, and the whole country is waiting for me to find her.
I had to lie to the cab driver just now. All I knew was the name of Jack’s radio station, and the first thing he said when I told him where I wanted to go was, ‘Here, you’re no’ that Rhona, eh?’ He was joking around, but my stomach was in knots every time he glanced at me in the rear-view mirror as we slipped through the busy, Christmas-bright city streets. I’m here. I’m actually here. I’ve been on the train since four o’clock this afternoon; I thought the long journey would give me some valuable thinking time. What am I going to say to Jack? What am I going to do when I get to Edinburgh? But in the end I just laid my head against the cold glass and watched the scenery change as we moved northwards.
It’s a much more beautiful city than I’d imagined, soaring grey buildings and grand, imposing architecture. Perhaps it’s the fact that the streets glitter with frost and there are snowflakes blowing in the air, but there’s a magical edge to it. It’s Christmas in two days; revellers spill on to the cobbled pavements from the bars and pubs, and it’s wall-to-wall festive music on the cab radio.
‘There you are, doll.’ The driver pulls over into a bus stop to let me out. ‘It’s just there.’ He nods across the street towards a glass-fronted building. ‘Good luck with getting in there tonight.’ I follow his line of vision and my heart clenches at the sight of the gaggle of press photographers hanging around on the stone steps outside. I look back at the cab driver, uncertain.
‘How much is it please?’ My voice sounds thin and wavering.
He looks across the street, shaking his head. ‘You’re her, eh?’
I nod, terrified. I don’t know if I can trust him, but at this point, I don’t have any better options. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, thinking. ‘Stay there.’ Then he flicks the hazards on and gets out of the cab, dodging the traffic as he jogs towards the radio station building.
Every caller so far has been someone asking about Rhona or giving me some kind of tip about how to win her back, and I’ve tried to fend them off as vaguely as I can. I’m almost done for the night and I’m just about to treat the listeners to ‘Fairytale of New York’ when Lorne shakes his head at me from his booth and tells me there’s one last caller on line one. I flick the red flashing light and wait.
‘Hey, Jack. It’s me again. Rhona.’
At last.
‘Hey, you,’ I say, and I think I hear the whole country sigh with relief.
‘It’s so good to talk to you again. I wasn’t sure you’d call back.’
‘I missed you,’ she says. There’s a soft, husky note to her voice that makes me wish I was the only one who could hear her.
‘I’ve missed you for the last nine years.’ My voice cracks; the truth is the only thing I have to give Laurie now, and I don’t care who else is listening.
I hear her intake of breath, and outside in the office, Haley, my assistant, stands up at her desk and smiles at me through the glass with tears running down her cheeks.
‘I love you, Jack,’ Laurie says, and I can hear she’s crying too.
‘Don’t be sad,’ I say, gentle. ‘I’ve spent nearly a decade wishing I’d got on that damn bus.’ Suddenly I realize: I need to be wherever she is, right now. ‘I need to see you,’ I murmur, and Haley clasps her hands and kind of punches the air.
‘I’m here, Jack,’ Laurie says, half laughing. Confused, I swing towards Lorne in his booth, and she’s there. Laurie. Laurie’s really there, smiling at me like that first time we ever saw each other. She’s here, she’s smiling, and she has tinsel in her hair. Lorne grins behind her and throws his hands up in the air, then thank God he cuts to the next track.
‘I’ll take over now,’ he says, smooth in my ear. ‘Get in here. This girl’s come a long way to see you.’
If I needed any reassurance that coming to Scotland was the right thing to do, the look on Jack’s face when he sees me is it. My guardian angel/taxi driver and the radio station security guard cooked up a plan between them to sneak me in through the back door, ably assisted by Haley, Jack’s assistant. She met me downstairs, thoroughly overexcited, and when we stepped out of the lift she gave me a quick hug.
‘I’m really glad you came,’ she said, shiny-eyed. I thought for a second she was going to cry. ‘I’ve always thought there was someone … he’s never seemed properly settled,’ she added. As we passed the office Christmas tree, she stopped and grabbed my hand.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Let me just …’
And then she tugged a strand of silver tinsel from the branches and wound it in my hair.
‘There. Perfect.’
And now, finally, it’s just me and Jack. He laughingly closed the blinds on his cheering colleagues, giving us some privacy in the tiny glass booth.
‘How did you …?’
He reaches out and holds my face in his hands, looking at me as if he can’t believe I’m really here.
‘I had help,’ I laugh, giddy. ‘The taxi driver and –’
He stops my words with his kiss, making me gasp, his hands in my hair, his mouth full of longing and sweetness and relief.
After a long, breathless minute he stops kissing me, and his eyes lock with mine. ‘Why did we wait this long?’
‘I’d wait a lifetime for you,’ I say. ‘I love you, Jack O’Mara.’
‘And I love you, Laurie James,’ he breathes. ‘Stay with me?’
‘Always.’
He kisses me again and I melt, because his kisses have been forbidden for so long. Finally I pull back in his arms and look up.
‘Do you ever wonder what might have happened if you’d just got on the bus?’
He half shrugs, laughing as he unwinds the tinsel from my hair. ‘Boy sees girl. Girl sees boy. Boy gets on the bus, snogs girl’s face off, and they live happily ever after.’
I laugh softly. ‘It’s a pretty dull story when you put it like that.’
‘We got there in the end,’ he says, pressing a kiss against my forehead.
I hold him, and he holds me, and for the first time in years, there’s nothing missing at all.