The Next Balcony Over

The city had never been so quiet. Or if it had, Frankie had never been around to witness it. She usually always fled London at Christmas, along with pretty much everyone else she knew. There would be the obligatory pints and ill-advised shots in Soho on the 23rd, and then they would all decamp to family piles in Berkshire, Sussex, and Kent, while Frankie would end up sitting on her suitcase next to the loo on a northbound train to see her dad.

When it had dawned on her that she needn’t make the journey this year, Frankie had laughed, relieved to have finally found an upside — no matter how small — to being an orphan. The realisation, of course, led to a minor crying jag, as most things tended to these days.

Still, the serenity of the abandoned street counted for something, she thought, reaching forward to top up her wine and then huddling back under the afghan in the tiny chair on her tiny balcony. A few friends had extended invitations to join them at their homes, but if Frankie were honest, the only thing that sounded more appalling than a Christmas alone was the prospect of being inundated with sympathy from people who still had families. Charity at Christmas was fine, as long as it was aimed elsewhere.

‘Besides,’ she’d told Sarah, ‘I’ll only wind up getting drunk and trying to snog your brother.’

She had been joking, mostly, but Sarah had just given her a strange look and then dropped the matter.

This wasn’t so bad. Not really. Tonight was Christmas Eve, and it had been painless enough so far. Frankie had drank the better part of a bottle of Malbec, and when it ran out she could simply head inside and open another. The flat was well-stocked; her bags hadn’t clinked and clanged so loudly since she used to be the designated booze-buyer of her schoolfriends, by virtue of being the tallest and the first to turn 18.

‘Are you having a party?’ The lady behind the till had asked her yesterday, as she rang up bottle after bottle of Yellowtail, Gordon’s and Baileys.

‘It’s Christmas,’ Frankie had said, presenting her debit card without another word.

So yes, she was prepared. The fridge and freezer contained enough M&S dinners to see her through an apocalypse if necessary. All she needed was to get through tomorrow. How hard could it be? It was just one day. She already had a plan to avoid social media and terrestrial television. Perhaps she could finally catch up on The Crown, or fill her day watching mindless action films which featured more explosions than dialogue. Easy.

Frankie pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and closed her eyes, savouring the calm of the night. A moment later, her ears were assaulted by music blaring from the flat next door. It was Slade, or maybe Wizzard — a cacophony of Christmas crap, either way.

‘Bah,’ she muttered. ‘Humbug.’ She hauled herself up and hammered on the partition that separated the adjoining balconies.

‘Do you mind?’ She yelled. ‘Some of us are trying to have a silent sodding night around here.’

The music continued, infuriatingly merry.

‘Oy!’ Frankie reached as far as she could over the ledge between the balconies and waved her non-wine-holding hand wildly in the air, trying to get somebody’s attention.

‘For God’s sake,’ she shouted. ‘Who do I have to kill to get some peace and quiet?’

The music stopped just as abruptly as it had started, and a second later she heard the metallic whoosh of a patio door sliding open.

‘Sorry about that,’ came a bashful voice. ‘I didn’t know you were still here.’ Her neighbour, Nat, stepped into view.

Frankie and Nat had lived next door to one another for nearly three years. In that time, she had gathered precisely three facts about him, besides his name. He was American, hailing from one of the Dakotas (she forgot which); he was a subscriber to GQ, a magazine which routinely ended up on her doormat by mistake; and he was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen who wasn’t drawn by Disney.

‘Well,’ Frankie huffed. ‘It’s alright. Just maybe play your carols a little bit quieter, hmm? Unless you want to give your guests all burst eardrums for Christmas.’

Nat laughed, and rubbed the back of his neck.

‘It’s actually just me in there,’ he said, sheepishly. Frankie couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in judgment.

‘My family are all back in the States,’ he said, clearly feeling the need to explain himself. ‘And I couldn’t fly back to be with them this year, because…’

The sentence went unfinished. They both knew why. Frankie’s eyebrow immediately got back down off its high horse.

‘My friend said I was welcome to spend the holidays with him and his wife,’ Nat continued, ‘but, well…’

‘Nobody wants to be the Christmas charity case,’ said Frankie.

‘Exactly. So I guess I was just trying to get into the spirit of the season, feel some festive cheer and all that. I made eggnog, baked mince pies, even though I think they’re kinda gross, found a Christmas playlist on Spotify.’

‘That all sounds…’ Frankie had been about to say ‘sad,’ but didn’t think her glass house would withstand a stray snowball, let alone any stone-throwing.

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘You don’t like mince pies?’

Nat shrugged. ‘Never acquired the taste for them.’

‘Honestly. Americans.’

‘I can bring you one out if you like,’ he said. ‘Although I can’t promise you they’ll be any good.’

Frankie thought of her self-imposed embargo on all things Christmas, and nearly declined. But then she imagined what Sarah would say if she admitted to turning down home-baked goods from her snack of a neighbour.

‘I mean, if they’d otherwise go to waste,’ she said, ‘I suppose I could help you out.’

Nat grinned, showing off his superior American orthodontistry, and disappeared back into his flat. Frankie scrambled to find her phone in the depths of the discarded blanket, and hastily checked her appearance in the front-facing camera. Her hair was acceptable, and her skin surprisingly clear for this time of year thanks to the dearth of parties. The red wine had stained her lips slightly; she scrubbed at them angrily with her index finger and hoped it wasn’t too noticeable in this light.

Nat reappeared a minute later, a plate in one hand, a glass of something creamy in the other. He carefully balanced the plate on the narrow ledge between the two terraces. In addition to a mince pie, it held a small, slightly burned and misshapen gingerbread man.

‘I told you I couldn’t promise good,’ he said, taking a sip of eggnog. ‘But I can assure you they’re full of love.’

His tongue darted out to lick away the trace of eggnog on his upper lip. Trying not to stare, Frankie picked up the gingerbread man and bit off one of his squat legs with a snap.

‘It’s nice,’ she lied, washing down the dry, bitter crumbs with a glug of wine.

‘My mom and I used to make cookies every Christmas Eve,’ Nat said. ‘I thought maybe if I kept up the tradition this year, it would be like she wasn’t quite so far away.’

Frankie’s throat tightened. After she’d moved down to London, she had promised dad she’d visit every month. That had soon proven highly optimistic; train tickets cost about the same as front row seats on the West End, and her job, friends, and various terrible boyfriends had all taken up more and more of her time. She was lucky to get out of the city once a quarter. Dad had assured he didn’t mind, that he was proud of all she was achieving and that he was busy working on his golf game anyway. He would tell her lengthy stories about his friends at the golf club during their weekly phone calls, knowing full well it bored her, and she would let him, just happy to hear his voice. She still expected the phone to ring on Sunday evenings.

‘It can be hard,’ she said. ‘Loving somebody from a distance.’

Nat looked her right in the eye, as if only really noticing she was there for the first time, and nodded.

‘But that doesn’t make the love worth any less,’ he said.

Tears pricked at Frankie’s eyes, which she disguised by shivering dramatically and reaching for her blanket.

‘What about you?’ Nat asked. ‘How come you’re…’

‘Drinking alone on a cold balcony on Christmas Eve?’

‘I was going to say, how come you’re still in London. I normally see you setting off with a ridiculously big suitcase.’

So he noticed her comings and goings. Interesting.

‘Not this year,’ Frankie replied, and she must have said it some kind of way, because Nat simply took another sip of his eggnog and didn’t press her any further.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘I’m just not feeling particularly festive right now. I could probably do with a visit from three ghosts or something.’

‘Would you settle for a good meal?’ Nat asked.

‘Pardon?’

‘Forgive me if this is forward,’ he said. ‘But… how would you feel about coming over and joining me for Christmas dinner tomorrow? I went a little crazy with all of the food I bought. You’d be doing me a favour, if anything. It’ll take me days to eat it all by myself.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Frankie protested.

‘No obligation,’ Nat assured her. ‘If you want, you can just show up, eat some turkey, then go back to your own apartment to FaceTime with the Grinch or whatever it is you might have planned.’ And he smiled so widely that Frankie almost instantly forgave him for the mild burn he’d just given her, and for how clearly he seemed to see what was going on with the stroppy woman on the next balcony over.

She shouldn’t, really. This flew in the face of her carefully constructed plan to survive Christmas by pretending it didn’t exist, to numb her pain by shutting out all of the other feelings as well.

But here was a man who loved his mother. Who chose joy even when he was all alone on a cold night in a deserted city. Who was a terrible baker, it must be said, but who shared his crooked, awful little gingerbread men with his moody neighbour. Who smiled as if this entire nightmare of a year had only been the sad first five minutes of a Pixar film, and the real adventure was about to begin.

‘I apologise if I’ve offended you,’ Nat said. ‘It’s just my mother would never forgive me if I didn’t at least ask. Not that the offer isn’t genuine. And it’s not a pity invite either, I promise. You’ve made your feelings on being a charity case clear. Free mince pies notwithstanding.’

He finally shut himself up by taking an enormous sip of eggnog, and this time when he lowered the glass, a droplet of it remained on his upper lip. Frankie could all-too-easily imagine him as a little boy, so earnest and excited for Santa to come.

There was no such thing, of course. But who needed Santa, who only showed up once a year, and even then only if you’ve been good? Frankie had been lucky enough to have someone who loved her even when she was a little shit, and he had loved her every day, no matter where in the world she might be. She had an inkling Nat knew a thing or two about how that felt.

‘Go on then,’ she said.

‘Really?’ There was that smile again.

‘Sure, it’s a date,’ she said, smiling back at him. ‘I’ll bring the wine.’