Holly and Ivy
...
Saturday 8th December
It's a tiny place, the restaurant she chooses, far in the outskirts of the sprawling city and well away from the craziness, the heaving crowds and the general chaos of city life. It's quiet, intimate, and informal. An old, ivy covered brick building that was converted from its original incarnation as a pub many years ago, it's an endless maze of tiny rooms, oak beams and eclectic, mismatched furniture.
He thinks it's every bit as quirky and endearing as she is, and consequently it was the first restaurant he took her to once they'd stepped, hand-in-hand, over that final hurdle together. Something of a first date, despite all the years of working and sharing meals together. He can still picture that night exactly, can remember precisely what she was wearing, can still see the look in her eyes as she watched him from across the table, still not quite believing their new reality.
It was wonderful then, and it's still wonderful now.
Tonight she's wearing something that's a deep, dark purple; it's long and flowing and fits her like a glove, teasing him, tempting him. The room is very softly lit by candles on the table, and in the muted light her eyes sparkle as she looks across at him. She looks happy and healthy; absolutely beautiful.
It's so easy, the way they are together. They laugh, they never run out of things to talk about, and they just enjoy each other's company. He's never felt such ease and warmth before. He's never felt so much, so deeply, before either.
The food is very good, the wine excellent and the atmosphere is cosy, seductive even. Someone has decorated for Christmas already, and there are strands of ivy mixed with tiny, twinkling lights wrapped around the many archways, elegant wintery flower arrangements tucked in out-of-the-way corners and sprigs of holly adorning the windowsills, the bright red berries starkly cheerful against the prickly green leaves.
He's not normally one for making much of a fuss about Christmas, he hasn't been for years now – too much sorrow and heartache, too many bad memories – but this year is different. This year he's got plenty of reasons to celebrate.
"Real tree or fake tree?" he asks, studying her inquisitively as he ponders the question himself.
Grace shrugs, suddenly a little unsure. "I haven't had a Christmas tree for a long time now," she tells him quietly, and the slightly indifferent, factual way she says it tugs at his heart.
"Why not?" he wants to know, leaning forward in his chair, suddenly a lot more intent.
"I suppose I didn't see the point in decorating when there was no one to enjoy it with," she considers, reaching for her glass.
"That's really sad, Grace," he sighs and she shrugs again.
"That's life," she replies, frankly. "Besides, don't try and tell me you do anything of the sort either."
She has a point, he has to concede, but he still can't get the terrible sadness of it out of his head. The idea of her alone and lonely is a haunting thing. Never mind that he himself has treated the holiday's that way for the past however many years now. It's irrelevant though, because it's not going to happen this year, or any year hereafter if he can help it. Definitely not going to happen.
"Real tree," he suggests, and she smiles, immediately following his line of thinking. It lights up her eyes, her entire face, and he feels that warmth, that ease, return.
"Could be messy," she tells him, fingers delicately and rather absently tracing the stem of her glass. "And it's a bit wasteful, don't you think?"
"A fake one it is then," he decides. "But one that looks real."
"If you say so," she agrees, nodding slightly.
"I do," he informs her, because he is entirely determined now. They are both going to enjoy Christmas this year, and they are going to enjoy it together.