Not Another Calendar

When you really love someone, it’s possible to make the most ordinary gift into something wonderful…

We had a deal, Adam and I, not to spend much money on Christmas presents for each other. Still, as I felt along the long, flat parcel he gave me to the unmistakable spiral binding at the edge, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Not another calendar. I’d had a Word of the Day calendar from my gran (that would go in the downstairs loo) and a cute cat calendar from my niece (that would go on my desk at work) and much as I appreciated the thought, I’d looked forward to Adam’s gift, hoping it would be special. Even Adam looked sheepish. “I had no idea you’d get so many calendars,” he said.

“You’re learning more about my family every day,” I joked. “We’re a very organised lot.”

It was our first real Christmas together. Last year didn’t count – we’d met that December when we both started jobs on the same day in the student services department of a college, and we’d gone out for a coffee for mutual support.

Our first date was at the Christmas market. I’d bought him a bag of chestnuts and he’d bought me a cute badge of an elf surrounded by tiny lights. And then we hadn’t seen each other again until New Year.

This year we’d made plans to meet up on Boxing Day to exchange gifts after spending Christmas with our families. But at 11pm on the 25th I had a text from him asking if he could see me, and I was filled with happiness and relief because I was desperate to see him too.

Now we were sitting in his car outside my mum’s house like a couple of guilty teenagers wanting five minutes’ privacy. The moon was full and he’d put his jacket around me, and every so often my little elf badge sent a twinkle of light into the dark interior of the car. Was it any wonder I had high expectations?

I’d given him my present first, and watched his face as he unwrapped it.

Even if it wasn’t obvious from the shape of the parcel he probably could have guessed that my gift to him would be a photograph. I took my camera almost everywhere with me – Adam teased me all the time about it.

So he wasn’t really surprised when he drew out the framed photo of the two of us in the snow – him tugging the end of my scarf and me looking adoringly at him, not expecting the time for the shutter to click for another three seconds – but he did seem pleased.

I was glad. I’d agonised over which picture to print out of the dozens that had variously been my favourite.

“You’ve actually found a picture of me that I like,” he said, smiling.

I beamed proudly. I was so thrilled that he liked it that I nearly forgot all about his gift for me.

As I unwrapped it I was careful to arrange my expression so my disappointment wouldn’t show. Adam was someone who was kind to everyone, who made special dinners for me when I had a bad day, who’d taught

I turned it over and STOPPED. I really SHOULD have had more FAITH

me how to surf even though it took all summer. What did it matter if he was an unimaginative gift-giver? “I can always use another calendar,” I said, turning it over. But then I stopped. I should really have had more faith.

On the cover was printed: For Jenny. All the Photos You Didn’t Have The Chance to Take.

Carefully, I turned to the first page, which wasn’t labelled January2018, but December2016. The illustration was of a mop-haired young guy with square specs smiling shyly across a conference room at a serious-faced girl with thick brown hair and ballet pumps. Adam and me, the day we met. I didn’t look at him, but turned the page to January2017. There were Adam and I, sitting next to each other in the cinema in dorky 3D glasses, a tub of popcorn between us.

I took forever over those pages. He must have been frozen in the car, what with me having his jacket. But he didn’t say a word, and I didn’t notice the time passing as I studied each picture.

July: Adam cheering from the shore as I stood up for the first time on my surfboard. August: Adam and me and his whole family having dinner at a posh restaurant for his parents’ anniversary (he’d somehow caught my nervous expression perfectly). October: me passing the wrench to Adam as he sweated over changing a flat tyre halfway to a concert.

“These are amazing,” I said quietly. “I knew you liked to draw, but…” “So you like it?” he said anxiously. I held the calendar to my chest. “It’s the best present I’ve ever had.” I loved that he’d put so much thought into it, so much time and care. But the very best thing of all was seeing the way Adam drew me. Not bookish and big-nosed as I would have drawn myself; the girl in these pictures was bright and pretty, glowing and happy. But then, that was the way he made me feel.

Despite my reassurance, he still looked nervous.

“You haven’t finished yet.” He gently turned the page for me, to December.

In the picture, Adam was kneeling in front of me, holding out a ring.

I stared at it for a long time, trying to make sense of it. Adam opened the car door, and by the time my slow brain had caught up with what was happening, he had my door open too and was kneeling on the pavement beside me, smiling a lovely, anxious, questioning smile.

There was one more page in the calendar. It was of an elderly couple holding hands as they looked up at their Christmas tree. She had short grey curls; he had thick square specs. It was labelled December 2067.

So really, he couldn’t have been too worried about my response. He’d known all along what my answer would be.