Page 101 of Last Christmas in London

He clambered over a security gate, before helping me clamber over as well, holding shamelessly on to my waist to place me down with as much grace as possible. His friend was nowhere to be seen, but would no doubt return to dismantle the last igloo as promised.

Close up, I could see some more of what was behind the mottled plastic sheets that acted as windows. There were sheepskin rugs across the floor, two electric heaters on at high levels so that the igloo was as warm as a fireplace. A portable speaker sat on the floor, softly crooning ‘Last Christmas’ at a comfortable volume. More blankets and rugs were thrown across the chairs, and our table was laid with some basic Christmas plates and cutlery from a supermarket, with a choice of mince pies, sausage rolls, cocktail sausages, the best cheeses, crackers, grapes, and a bottle of expensive red wine.

‘It may look a little Supermarket Sweep, but I promise it will taste delicious.’

Simon’s voice was light, teasing, but there was excite-ment there too, like he genuinely wanted me to love this, like it mattered to him.

‘This is the food of my childhood,’ I told him, practically salivating, as he pulled out my seat with an easy chivalry that made my stomach flutter. ‘Honestly, I can’t wait to dive in.’

And I did, popping a juicy grape into my mouth before Simon could take his own seat.

‘There’s a box of Celebrations outside as well,’ Simon added, gesturing towards the heaters. ‘Didn’t want to keep them in here in case they melted.’

‘Good thinking.’ I glanced around at the scene he’d set; the festive feast laid out between us, under the twinkling stars of the South Bank. It all felt surreal, like something plucked from one of those Christmas movies where everything just works out with little to no effort, and a sprinkling of a Christmas miracle.

Simon lifted a blanket from the pile he’d moved off his chair, draping it around my shoulders before scooting in beside me. The warmth of it – of him – was instant, wrapping around me like a hug.

I snuggled in, shifting closer. ‘I think this may be the best dinner date I’ve ever had.’

He quirked an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips. ‘Oh, yeah?’

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance as I reached for a mini sausage roll. ‘Not that you need to know my dating history.’

Simon let out a low chuckle, eyes twinkling as he poured us both a drink. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll just assume I’m winning.’

‘Undeniably.’

A comfortable silence settled between us as we tucked into the food. The air inside the igloo smelled of pastries and warm wine, mingling with the crisp scent of winter beyond the plastic walls. It felt cosy, private, like we were in our own little snow globe while the rest of London hummed on around us.

I dived into the sausage rolls and grapes, cutting up large pieces of brie and wensleydale, so that each mouthful of cracker and cheese was more cheese and crumbs. Simon was a big fan of a cocktail sausage, and the obvious jokes that came with that.

As I sipped my drink, the conversation shifted, the way it sometimes did with Simon – effortless, natural.

‘I didn’t think I’d be doing this,’ I admitted after a moment.

‘Eating an entire tray of mini sausage rolls?’ he teased, nudging my knee against his under the table.

I huffed a small laugh. ‘No. Well, yes, but also… celebrating Christmas. Properly, I mean.’ I stared down at my glass, watching the liquid swirl. ‘I didn’t really do it last year. Or the year before.’

He chewed more slowly, leaving me space to open up if I wanted to. He really could read my mind, I thought. And if you can, I’m falling head over heels right now, I added to myself.

I sighed, leaning back against the fleece. ‘Christmas was always our holiday,’ I said, my voice filling with emotion. ‘Me and my mum. We didn’t have a lot, but she made it feel like we did. She’d go all out: paper chains, John Lewis decorations, all the eighties bangers playing the moment we reached November. She’d make this ridiculous Christmas dinner with whatever we could afford – only the trimmings we liked – and we’d sit in our pyjamas all day watching movies and eating chocolate for breakfast.’ I smiled at the memories, which I cherished but hid from others. They felt like a delicate things, fragile, like cupping water in my hands. What if I shared them and they disappeared. Or if I made new memories and it covered them up.

‘She sounds amazing,’ Simon murmured, reaching for my hand under the blankets and running his fingers over my knuckles soothingly. ‘My mum was more traditional.’ He bit his cheek. ‘Midnight masses, Christmas carols, and volunteering. It’s probably why I’ve always thrown myself into that side of Christmas.’

‘Was she religious?’ I asked and he shrugged in response.

‘Not really, but she was very aware it was a religious holiday. A time for giving at the very least.’

‘She sounds great too, very kind.’

He nodded and smirked as a sudden memory crept into his mind. ‘She used to make all the nativity outfits at school. No other mother seemed to bother, but every year she would stitch me a new jumper or make a new tea-towel headdress.’

‘Let me guess, you were Joseph.’ I rolled my eyes at the vision of him, looking so proud as the brand new ‘father’ of Jesus, but he shook his head.

‘I was a shepherd, the innkeeper, and once, ready for this, the door.’

‘The door?’