Julia lay sprawled on the old sofa, tears making dark patches on the cushion beneath her cheek. My world, it seemed, was unraveling quietly and relentlessly. Only a couple of months ago, my husband confessed he had met someone else. She was expecting his baby.
Im sorry, Jules, but well, after two years together, no kids, I started to wonder if it was me, stammered George, his hands twisting nervously. And now, well, shes pregnant. Were having a baby soon. Im sorry.
Your mistress? I whispered.
He frowned, searching for the right words. Call her what you will. The baby arrives soon. Im sorry.
I didnt press him for explanations, didnt even ask why he waited until now, just weeks before the babys due, and just as the New Year approached, to leave. I didnt even undress that night, just curled up, exhausted and sorrowful.
Oddly, my mind wandered back to a New Years Eve from my childhood. I was eleven, in Year Six. I remember how after school, my friends Emily, Sophie, and I used to pop into the charity shop at the end of our road in Norwich. It was something of a treasure trovea proper Aladdins cave.
We didnt care for second-hand clothes or scuffed shoes, but we could spend hours marvelling at old trinkets, toys, and costume jewellery.
That afternoon, it was the music box that caught my eye. Sky blue, inlaid with gold, it looked otherworldly to me. I felt my breath catch. When the kindly shopkeeper wound it up and opened the lid, a tinkling melody played and a ballerina, all in white, pirouetted smoothly from a velvet stage. I felt utterly spellbound.
There was even a secret compartment for jewellery. My friends gasped appreciatively.
How much is it? blurted out Emily, always the bold one.
The shopkeeper smiled gently. Five pounds, love.
Five pounds! A kings ransom for us. Pocket money in those daysjust thirty pence each week. Enough for a plate of chips at the café, but never for something so fine.
Maybe, if I fibbed about going to the cinema, I could wrangle fifty pence from Mum, but thatd barely scratch the surface. Dad was away for worka week still before hed be backand Mum would only scoff.
I could picture her sharp response: Five pounds on a ballerina music box? Id rather buy a joint of beef and feed us all week! No, there was no sense even mentioning the box. Id have to wait for Dad.
Every day that week, I stopped by the shop. The dear shopkeeper would put on the music and let me watch the ballerina twirl. I memorised every detail: the chipped corner, the faintly scratched gold trim, and the little dancers missing slipper. I even noticed a freckle-sized dot on her skirt. I loved her, flaws and all.
As soon as Dad returned home, I dragged him straight to the shop. My heart thumped, sure this time Id be bringing the ballerina home. But the shopkeeper shook his head regretfully. Sorry, love. It sold just a couple of hours ago.
My tears came fast then, blisteringly hot on my cheeks.
Oh, love, Dad muttered softly, dont cry. Shall we get your favourite cake instead? Trifle? Or that chocolate log you love with the little mushrooms on top?
I nodded, trying to let the rich, fudgey taste console me, but my heart still ached for the music box.
The next day, Sophie burst into school triumphantly carrying it. My treasureher treasure now. She wound it up, filling the classroom with its music. I felt envy and heartbreak twist inside me.
Sophie beamed. Gran bought it for me. Shes here for New Year and we went shopping together. I stared at it all week.
Emily piped up with a grumble: So did I.
I couldnt help itI burst into tears once again.
Peter Rance, always hovering nearby, asked in concern, Jules, why are you crying?
Leave me alone! I choked, running out into the corridor.
Everyone knew Peter had a crush on me, but I barely noticed him, always so caught up in my own world.
Later, as I stood at the frosty window, Peter found me. Jules, I promise Ill find you another one. Dont cry.
How will you ever find one like that? I snapped. Idiot, I added, feeling cruel, and I dashed outside.
Even out in the playground, shivering, my heart achedbut now for having let myself lash out at him. I caught a nasty cold that week, and Peter even skipped football to come by my house.
Still no luck, Jules, he said sheepishly from the doorstep, but Ill find you your ballerina one day, promise.
His determination seemed so sweet and foolish. Peter, you silly thing. Its foreignit says Made in Germany on the bottom. Where do you think youll find another?
Ill find a way, he replied with quiet resolve.
From then on, we became friendsat first shy and childlike. By Year Ten, Peter grew bolder and kissed me after class. We became inseparable after that: holding hands, sharing secrets, dreaming about the future.
After our GCSEs, Peter joined the Army and, by strange fate, was stationed in Germany. He sent me letters, teasing that he was still searching for that elusive music box.
But I didnt wait for Peter. Six months before he returned, I met George. He sang me a song, made a fuss over me. Somehow I was swept away, and we married quickly.
Peter came back, found out I was married, and left to work on a North Sea trawler. I barely saw him after that.
* * *
I rose from the sofa as early evening shadows crept across the lounge. I made a cup of tea, feeling a pang of nostalgia for Peter, more so even than regret for my failed marriage.
It was December 31st. New Years Eve. My friends were all busy with their families. I couldnt bear to intrude. I shuffled down to the market, picked up some nice bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine, hoping to make the night bearable.
As I entered my sadly familiar block of flats, the lift doors opened and out stepped Father Christmasred suit, fluffy beard, and all.
At that, the tears returned. The sight of him felt like both a mockery and a blessing.
Now then, my girl, whats with the waterworks on New Years, eh? he boomed in a passable Norfolk accent, his voice a bit forced. Its a time for cheer! With a theatrical flourish, he pressed a box into my hands and disappeared down the dim corridor.
I stood stunned, the box oddly heavy. In my kitchen, I carefully lifted the lid.
Inside was a brand new music box, sky-blue and edged with gold, just like all those years ago. I wound it up, and as the melody floated out, a perfect ballerina twirled on two pristine slippers.
I opened the secret drawer. Inside, a golden ring sparkled.
I hurled myself to the window. On the street below, Father Christmas lingered for a moment. I raced downstairs, ignoring the cold against my slippers. As I reached the door, Father Christmas turned.
We rushed into each others arms. I clung to the scratchy red coat, my voice trembling.
You silly thing! You actually found her.
He grinned, familiar mischief lighting his eyes. Told you I would. Found her in Germany, just as I promised, Jules.He took off his beard, his cheeks red in the brisk air and something elsesomething boyish and hopeful. I nearly missed you again, Jules, Peter whispered. But I thoughtmaybe this year, you needed the magic most.
I laughed through fresh tears, overwhelmed with gratitude and astonishment. All this time, Peter you never forgot.
He took my hand, pressing the golden ring into my palm. Never. Every year I looked, and every year I wondered if it was too late. But youre still here.
Above us, fireworks bloomed in the night sky, painting our faces in fleeting bands of blue and gold. In that moment, past heartbreaks and losses faded, outshone by a melody from long ago and a promisea simple, silly promisethat had grown into something bigger than regret.
I slipped the ring onto my finger. The music from the box drifted faintly from my flat windowour song, echoing through all the lost years.
I think, I said softly, that this New Year, Id very much like to start againwith you.
He squeezed my hand, hope flickering between us. Then lets go inside. Theres a whole future waiting, and you promised me a slice of chocolate log.
We walked back upstairs together, the weight in my chest transformednot gone, but warm and glimmering with possibility. For the first time in so long, I didnt feel alone. The new year was openinguncertain and imperfect, but beautifully, finally, ours.
