Originally from Devon, Jessica Bragg is currently living in Cornwall. Alongside creative non-fiction, she enjoys writing literary fiction and scripts for stage and screen. This is her first publication. For more of her work, visit her website, www.isittrueenough.co.uk.

The Night before New Years Eve

Jessica Bragg

Can something be a tradition if you have only done it once before? If there is the intention to do it every year, is that enough? My close friend Lauren was visiting from her teaching job in Dubai, and before she returned we had to have our annual New Year’s meal. This was our second one, does that make it a tradition now? The first was on the 6th January 2024, we decided that the expression of the year was ‘twenty-twenty-four the plot’. Lauren said she needed a change, wanted to switch it up that year, and I wanted to find a nice boy who actually wanted to be with me. Not just because he was bored. We joked that next year we would be sat with two lovely, wildly attractive and rich men, whose only desire was to look after us.

This year’s table was only booked for two, 8 PM at Bodega 18 in Falmouth, the same venue as last year. The date, however, was slightly premature, 30th December 2024. Given my work schedule and her flight back to Dubai, it was the only available slot we had before she left. We got ready together at my house. I curled my hair, burnt my neck in the process and put it in rollers. I looked like a 1950s housewife. Although the 1950s version of myself would have a husband and at least two kids to look after at my ripe old age of 29, rather than being back at university, waitressing in a pub part-time and going out drinking too much and too often.

My body didn’t feel like the one I was most comfortable in when trying to pick an outfit. It had swollen from the Christmas indulgences. Not massively, but to the extent where clothes that used to feel like a second skin, pinched and pulled sneakily, making me feel all too aware that I was wearing them. I grabbed us both a drink from my abundant supply of alcohol. A haul that had me thinking I should almost definitely cut down on the drinking in the new year. It was a potent pre-made cocktail. It claimed to be a Burnt Orange Martini. Burnt? No. Orange? No. Martini? Yes, it was definitely that. It was pure alcohol. “Are you sure you aren’t supposed to add a mixer?” Lauren scrunched her sun-kissed face after her first sip.

“I followed the instructions on the bottle,” the more concerning part was that after my first few mouthfuls, I was used to the toxic taste. Lauren was not. She put her mousey-blonde hair in a relaxed half-up-half-down style and donned her new black dress from M&S. Being a fickle woman, she redid her hair and curled it whilst I rummaged through my wardrobe to find an outfit. One that I could feel good in whilst I consumed monumental amounts of tapas. Eventually, I settled for an old faithful dress, also black, long-sleeved and short like Lauren’s, but mine was more floaty, only fitted from the waist up, with two long strands of fabric that are supposed to be tied around the neck. I have never worn this, scared it will make me look frumpy. The open neckline suited me much better. Knee-high boots to give the outfit a sexy look, tights and a waterproof puffer for the impractical weather of late December.

The night was bleak outside. The dampness in the air coated everything in icy droplets, and the streets were empty of life. Inside the restaurant was a contrasting mirror world. Warm not just in temperature, but in the glow of the lights, and the friendliness of the waitress. Full of people, laughing, chatting, and general merriment that comes in spades this time of year. The usual suspects behind it being the consistent consumption of booze and the spending time with those we rarely otherwise make moments for. Lauren gave me the diet version of an ‘I told you so’ expression when I said it was busier than I was expecting. Being the day before New Year’s Eve, I was anticipating everyone to be staying in and saving their energy and money. However, Bodega 18 is the sort of place that is constantly busy, and for a good reason.

While we were waiting for our table, a couple came in after us. No booking. Rookie error. They were told it would be at least another half hour, and there wasn’t space to wait at the bar. Lauren and I were then shown to a table big enough for four and briefly wondered if the couple would’ve fancied joining our dinner, in which we assessed in great detail our highs and lows of the last year. The majority of which centred around our dodgy taste in men. It turned out that we needed the full space of the table anyway, after ordering copious amounts to pick at. Lauren insisted that they do the best bread, and I was inclined to agree, firm crust with a spongy soft centre. It was prime to dip into the perfect amount of balsamic and olive oil, a balance that is rarely achieved in any restaurant, but tonight we were successful. It was accompanied by sweet and tangy green olives. She also ordered the Pork Cheeks, something I skipped, as meat-eating has not been a part of my world for the past 6 years now, other than the odd drunken bite here and there and one major freakout in the summer when I had a Big Mac as an attempt to feel in control of my life. I soon found out that the memory was better than the reality of the mammoth burger. It had too much bread, dry patties and a blandness that was only momentarily interrupted by a thimble of sauce. So, Lauren had the Pork Cheeks to herself and in return, I ordered the Anchovy Tostadas, knowing she wouldn’t want any. And I am glad she didn’t. Four puffed-up triangular tortillas topped with an icy cold smoked tomato sorbet and a salty anchovy. A truly unique mouthful that I could have easily repeated over 50 times. Equally delicious food kept arriving at our table, creamy Mushroom Croquetas, King Prawn Pil Pil that had a fiery chilli kick and crispy Fried Calamari.

The table behind us had a problem with their Calamari. Lauren and I went silent as they complained to the most delightful waitress, “We’ve had a lot of calamari before… this just isn’t right…we lived in Spain…” they went on. With this, Lauren and I both exclaimed how much we enjoyed the calamari to each other at a volume loud enough for them to hear, but quiet enough that we had plausible deniability. Sharing a jug of Sangria that simultaneously tasted like summer and Christmas, we started our debrief, recapping the year just gone. Lauren got her new start in Dubai, but it turned out it wasn’t what she was hoping for. “Inauthentic” was the word she repeated a lot. Being a girl who grew up in the Devon countryside and moved to the Cornish coast, a city built in the middle of a desert was never going to be somewhere she felt at home. She told me about how everyone looked the same. Bleach blonde hair, cosmetic surgery and incredible bodies. I, of course, told her she didn’t need to worry about any of that. But it sounded worlds away from the chilled fashions in Falmouth. We talked about the boys we shouldn’t have given time to and passed judgment over mutual friends’ lives. We concluded that the motto of the new year was ‘twenty-twenty-five and thrive’, it was to be a year of smaller but more meaningful decisions, of peace and contentment. I hoped that my new boyfriend, Joshua, would still be around by this time next year, and Lauren wished again to find someone to look after her. We also said that we should decentralise men in our lives. However, that one might be harder than it first seems, given we have only had a handful of conversations over our friendship that would pass the Bechdel test.

We paid up and walked through the lifeless high street in the direction of my home, hoping somewhere half decent would be open. We made predictions before we left: Toast would be closed, Mangos would be dead, but Grapes would be a little livelier. We got two out of three correct… unfortunately, Grapes was also empty of punters. Being a Monday night, Games Room had free pool and as much as we only fancied drinks, the free offering would at least bring other human life to the establishment. Cider for me, gin and tonic for Lauren. Sitting at a table with oversized Jenga pieces scattered across it, we found the conversation going down the path of conspiracies about our families, ones we had not shared with each other before. In amongst Lauren unpacking one of her theories, I received a message from Joshua. He had a rare day off and yet somehow had been persuaded to attend after-work drinks. They were at the dodgy Irish Bar on the corner, making it our next stop.

Before I met Joshua, I had never stepped foot in Finns, now I feel like a regular. This was only Lauren’s second visit, and she didn’t seem overly impressed with the vibe, although the cheap drinks were a slight consolation. I briefly chatted with Joshua, but I didn’t have much time left with Lauren, so I wasn’t going to ditch her. We were both staring up at the array of different currencies that were, for some reason, attached to the ceiling, when two men came over to talk to us. They seemed like regular enough blokes. Maybe they were both a bit too drunk. They told us all about their lives and their businesses. One was a financial advisor opposite the park, and the other had a double-glazing business. “The best double glazer in town!” The lanky one exclaimed about his bearded mate. They asked both of us if we were single. I said no and turned around to Joshua, who, although engaged in another conversation, had at some point positioned himself right behind me. In that moment, we didn’t look well matched. He somehow ended up at the pub in his trackies. I had never seen him wear them outside of the house. I think he might have been physically dragged there by his housemate and colleague, not just metaphorically. I was still dressed up in my fancy meal clothes. It didn’t matter to me, though. Yet, it might have looked to these strangers that I found the first man nearby and decided to proclaim him as my boyfriend as a technique to get their attention away from me. They asked Lauren the same. She said she didn’t have a boyfriend, but by no means was she giving any impression that she was interested. Her arms were crossed, and she was answering their questions with the shortest possible answers. We both were.

They were odd, they were pissed, we did not like their company, but we didn’t feel intimidated. Near the very end of our conversation with them, they told us they both had wives and drunkenly sputtered out something flippant about how they would be divorcing them anyway. As last orders were called, they stumbled out of the pub. Lauren and I shared our thoughts of sympathy for their wives, at home, potentially looking after their kids while these men were out, hammered, slagging them off and attempting to try it on with other women. Another moment of “what the fuck is wrong with men” was shared between us as we made our way outside, where my hopefully exception-to-the-rule boyfriend was having a smoke. I kissed him goodbye, and we both remarked how peculiar it was to be going home separately. Any other night, we would have stayed together. But this was my last night with Lauren, so a sleepover was essential. We walked in opposite directions, and we kept shouting our goodbyes as we got further apart, like a cheesy romcom, but I was more than happy for my life to feel like a romcom rather than a dating horror show. Lauren and I headed towards the gargantuan hill that my house was unfortunately at the top of.

We passed an alleyway, the hiding place of two annoyingly familiar men. Lauren shouted to them, “Bit creepy lurking in alleyways”, and we chuckled up the road. She joked about knowing self-defence and how to stop someone from strangling you. I asked her to show me. We were joking around with it, still jovial and confident. But something made Lauren turn back around, that sense you get when you are being watched. I felt it too. “They’re following us.” The silliness was suddenly snatched away. What it left behind was fear. At this point, we didn’t know for certain that they were trying to catch up to us, but we didn’t want to risk anything. The air changed. It wasn’t crisp and light and full of laughter anymore. Instead, it was barely there. No matter how much I tried, my lungs would not fill up. We picked up the pace. I didn’t want to look back, seeing them behind us would make it true. Power walking up a steeper part of the hill, a sense of realisation kicked in. That these two ‘normal’ blokes were no longer something to take this piss out of, but a threat.

We came to the part of the hill where it splits in two. The left is towards my house, much steeper and bends around more. The right-hand side was more straightforward but downhill and by the water. Lauren was slightly ahead, so I told her to go left. The bend in the road meant they wouldn’t have been able to see us for a few seconds. Once out of sight, we ran. There was a closed pub up ahead with an outdoor beer garden filled with higgledy-piggledy furniture. In the shadows of the bolted-together tables, we hid. My heart was thundering. It felt too big in my chest. I whispered to Lauren that I was calling Joshua, and she peered over the furniture down the hill, still sheltered by the shadows. She could see them at the junction, looking bewildered. Although they were puzzled, they were not leaving. They were waiting. I recalled the situation on the phone, and Joshua came straight away. He must have ran given how soon he said he could see the men. I couldn’t tell by his voice, calm, not out of breath or stressed, I think he knew I needed calmness.

“Yeah I can see them, they’re just stood there…” Moments that felt like hours passed, “Oh, no, they are coming back this way now.”

“That’s because they saw you,” I say to him. A swell of anger emerges, “Will you stay on the phone for a while, just to be sure?” He did. Lauren and I continued our journey as he recalled to me the men’s movements until they were out of his view. At this point, we were minutes from my home, so we said our goodbyes and hung up. Lauren and I paced in silence for a moment. Words finally split out of us in a mess. We were both confused. Both scared and angry and actually fucking furious that someone was able to make us feel that terrified.

As more thoughts emerged in a jumble, my brain became clogged with questions. I couldn’t hold it all in any longer, and boiling tears escaped my eyes. I was crying not with sadness but with rage. This town that I have felt so safe in, that I had walked home by myself in the early hours of the morning many times, was poisoned. What did they want? To drunkenly talk more? To hurt us? To do something to us? What would they have done? Two regular men. Predators. They only respected the presence of another man. How is that all it took? They stole the night from us. One that was so precious and rare, was full of hope and happiness for our future, they tainted it with fear. As much as I will say that I won’t let it ruin the memory, it already has. They ruined the night. They ruined my town. They destroyed my peace.

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