Page 10 of Last Christmas in London

‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said, turning back to the stove.

‘Fabulous. I’ll grab her coffee and come back.’

‘Got it.’ He reached for the volume knob, already tuning me out. Michalis wasn’t the chatty type, but he did love a compliment. After discovering his restaurant during a Pim-mandated quest for the best Greek food in London, I’d charmed my way into early-morning kitchen privileges with lavish praise and hefty tips. It turns out money and flattery really can open doors.

Pim’s coffee order was mercifully easy to fetch: a blisteringly hot, skinny caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso from Starbucks. The line was non-existent at this early hour on a weekend, sparing me the usual commuter chaos.

On the way back to the restaurant, with the coffee in one hand, dry-cleaning draped over my arm, and my oversized handbag balanced precariously on my shoulder, I ducked into a newsagent’s to gather the necessary literature that Pim expected every morning. Somehow, I managed to stack them onto my already overflowing load. There was no way to record this portion of my morning with all the items in my hands.

Back at Achilles & Sons, Michalis was waiting with a Styrofoam box in one hand and the card reader in the other.

‘Thank you so much.’ I tapped my well-worn phone and added the breakfast to my tower of burdens.

Balancing everything, I headed down the Strand towards the Savoy. Thankfully, the walk wasn’t as far as, say, crossing Central Park or the Opéra district in Paris. The familiar sight of the hotel was like a finish line, and I practically collapsed through the revolving doors, greeted by the ever-efficient bellman, who immediately relieved me of my load.

‘Morning, Miss Frost,’ Tony, the doorman, said with a nod, echoed by Charles, the concierge.

‘Good morning!’ I said breathlessly, handing over everything but the coffee to the bellman. ‘Charles, did the plate and cutlery make it to Pim’s room?’ Even with a hangover, I had a good feeling about today and no amount of hard work was going to dampen my spirits.

‘They’ll be on a trolley outside the room.’

‘Wonderful, and would it be possible to book a taxi for 9.40? We need to get to the Southbank Centre at 10.00 on the dot.’

‘I’ll organise that for you now,’ Charles said, reaching for the phone.

‘Amazing, and can you…’

‘I will call up to Miss Hardcastle’s room at 9.20 to say the car has arrived,’ he finished smoothly, cutting me off with a knowing smile.

‘Brilliant, you’re a gem.’ Pim never left her room on time, ever.

‘Thank you, Miss Frost.’ His eyes flicked to my sweater, his expression warming. ‘Fantastic jumper.’

‘Thank you, I made it.’

‘Really?’ His face lit up. It really was a joyful jumper. ‘I’ll have to get the pattern off you. My girlfriend enjoys a bit of knitting.’

‘It’s a great hobby when passing the time in airports and green rooms,’ I said, smiling as I reached for my phone. ‘Want to be in a TikTok again?’

Charles scoffed but couldn’t hide his grin as he stood from his desk. ‘Only if I don’t have to dance this time.’

‘How about a wave and that dazzling smile?’ I lifted my phone to frame him. ‘Cheese!’ Charles added a playful hip bop for good measure, making me laugh. ‘I appreciate you, Charles,’ I told him, before gesturing to the coffee in my hand. ‘But I’d better get this upstairs.’

‘Of course. Have a good day, Miss Frost!’ He exchanged a wink with Tony, who was smirking in the doorway.

‘It will be your turn next, Tony!’ I called over my shoulder.

I distinctly heard Tony mutter, ‘Not bloody likely.’ As I skipped past the floral display in the foyer, where two florists were meticulously replacing wilting blooms with fresh arrangements. The busboy was patiently waiting by the lift, holding open the door.

‘Onwards and upwards,’ I narrated as I entered.

Pim’s suite was on one of the Savoy’s most exclusive floors, in a room that practically doubled as a luxury flat, with its own living room and a grand wardrobe, which Pim had made a point of filling so it would barely close. She didn’t have a permanent home, preferring instead to rent storage units in various cities and multiple countries to be able to make a home wherever she landed. ‘A nomad isn’t a nomad if she can’t make a hotel room feel like home,’ she often said.

I opened the door to her suite with my keycard – Pim didn’t answer her own doors, especially this early. I asked the busboy to hand me the bags, rather than following me just in case he glimpsed Pim without her make-up and hair done – a firing offence if ever there was one – before handing him a £20 note and wishing him a Merry Christmas as I wheeled the plate and cutlery inside.

‘And to you, Miss.’

I shut the door. The air was infused with the faint scent of Chanel perfume, and it triggered the return of my hangover. I had to keep those symptoms at bay as long as possible, and the best way to get over a hangover is to get on with it.