Morgan got her phone out. “I’m not really expecting you to deliver a tree to my grave. But I’d love your number so I can send you a thank you gift.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Dave swung the van off to the next exit, and followed the sign to Lockerbie.
“I know, but I want to. You’ve been so kind, and you got us out of Bothwell services. For that, we’ll be forever grateful.”
Dave gave Morgan his number, and she saved it to her phone under ‘Dave Mr Christmas’.
“We’ll be sure to tell everyone we know to get their tree at the services next year, won’t we, Ali?”
Ali nodded. “Absolutely. We promise to come and get both of ours from you, too.”
“You just said you don’t have a real tree,” Dave replied.
“But I always wanted one,” Ali said. “I’ve always thought you had to have a reason to have one. That you had to be hosting Christmas, or have kids. I never thought I could just get one anyway. But you’ve convinced me, both you and Morgan. From now on, I’m going to be more festive.”
He gave them both a warm smile. “Here’s to spreading a little Christmas cheer.”
CHAPTER8
Against all the odds, when they boarded the train at Lockerbie station, there was a spare double seat by the door. The digital reservation display said it wasn’t going to be occupied until Manchester. Maybe their luck was changing. Morgan took the window seat, and Ali took the aisle. It was just gone 6pm, and they’d sprinted over the bridge to make the train. It wasn’t until it moved that Ali relaxed. Possibly for the first time that day. She took off her ear muffs and put them in her bag, then rubbed her lobes and yawned.
“I thought I’d be home by now. Having a drink in the bar. Being forced to serve customers when it got busy.” She smiled at the thought. She’d been reluctant to go home this Christmas, but now it seemed like the only place she wanted to be.
“Inhaling the fake pine smells. Yet here you are, starring in your own festive adventure.” Morgan fished in her bag and brought out the turkey and cranberry sandwich they’d bought in the services. There had only been one left, so they’d agreed to split it. Morgan unwrapped it, got out her half, then took a bite. She chewed, made a face, then handed the other half to Ali.
“I’m going to leave mine until it’s a little less cold.” Ali pulled down the plastic table on the back of the seat in front of her and put the sandwich on it.
“I’m not sure any amount of time is going to improve the taste.” Morgan gave her a rueful grin, but took another bite anyway. “It’s not Francesco’s. Let’s put it that way.”
Ali blinked. “I love Francesco’s. The one on Pollen Street?”
“Yes.” Morgan frowned. “You know it?”
Ali snorted. Francesco’s wasn’t just a sandwich shop. It was a religion. “Of course I bloody know it! They do the best sandwiches. Have you tried their chicken, pesto, and avocado?”
“It’s my favourite.” Morgan’s face lit up.
“Mine too.”
Morgan finished her disappointing sandwich. She made a face. “By contrast, that sad excuse for a sandwich would not pass a Francesco’s taste test.”
“We have the same favourite sandwich bar. How about that?” How about that indeed. This wasn’t just a passing comment. This wasnews. “If you’d said you preferred Pret, we might have had to part ways now.”
“Dirty talk.” Morgan gave an exaggerated shiver.
“Do you live around there?”
“Not far, but my office is nearby. Do you?”
They’d probably waited in the queue together. “A five-minute walk. I’ve often dragged my sorry hungover self down there on a Saturday for a brunch wrap, too. They’re a lifesaver, literally.”
“I’ve done that a few times.”
Outside, the coal-grey night whizzed by. They were on the move, and they shared a love of Francesco’s. Don’t ask her why, but somehow, that connection was important. Ali’s bones eased.
“How’s Nicole and her brood doing?” Morgan asked.
The announcer came over the tannoy listing the stations the train was due to stop at.
