Page 102 of Last Christmas in London

‘The door,’ he repeated proudly. ‘It was my finest role.’

‘I can see the reviews now: Simon Holland was effortlessly wooden.’

We laughed. ‘Go on then, were you Mary?’

I looked at him as if he had just insulted me greatly. Mary, of all characters. ‘I was a sheep three years in a row.’

‘You were typecast.’ He patted my shoulder, falsely apologetic, and I pushed it off.

‘At least I was always warm when we left. My mum used to spend hours hot-gluing cotton balls on old jumpers. Though, by the end of the shows, you would probably have thought I was a snow cloud, by the way they’d just fall off. I used to throw them at Megan – she was Mary.’

He nodded and smirked. ‘Makes sense.’

‘It really does, doesn’t it?’

‘Do you think your mum would have liked me?’ he asked, cutting the last mince pie in half for us to share. It was a personal question; one I hadn’t expected – to the point I almost let him have my side of the mince pie. Almost. ‘Would she have found me charming?’

‘At the rate I’ve dated,’ I began, taking a moment to really consider what my mum would think about him, and chuckling as I realised the answer. ‘She’d probably be pleased as Punch that you’ve got a pulse and you’re breathing.’

‘Wow, low bar.’

I bit into my mince pie with a smirk. ‘Seriously though, she would have loved you. You’re good-looking, musical, kind, and…’

‘Really good-looking?’

I slapped his shoulder. ‘Fish much?’

He pulled me forward suddenly by my chair, my knee between his legs as he rubbed some crumbs from my cheek.

‘My mum would have grilled you,’ he said. ‘And you’d have sworn she hated you, when, in actual fact, she’d be planning our wedding and telling everyone behind our backs that she thinks you’re the one.’

‘Really?’ He had a very clear-cut vision of his mum’s opinion. But he had been older than I had been when I’d lost mine. My mum was fun and happy-go-lucky, seemingly all the time, keeping a brave face on her diagnosis for my sake. ‘I do feel intimidated.’

‘She’d have loved you. I imagine my dad likes you as well.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Really? I think he hates me. Because of me and my boss, he went viral for all the wrong reasons.’

Simon shook his head and moved a piece of hair from my face. ‘Nah, he’ll have liked the attention. Besides, he’s just guarded. Iron on the outside, gold on the inside.’

I pushed his hair back now, realising just how close I was to his face, more specifically his lips.

‘You seem to have a high opinion of the man who earlier you said you couldn’t stand.’

He clicked his teeth. ‘Son’s privilege. The less I see of him, the more I like him.’

‘You only see him at Christmas, right?’

‘On my mum’s anniversary. It’s so close to Christmas it feels like the right time to exchange gifts and pleasantries, in the name of her memory.’

‘But not Christmas Day?’

He shook his head again. ‘He’s always working or away. And I volunteer. It’s just the way it’s become.’

I didn’t say anything, giving him the space to carry on if he wanted to. But suddenly he laughed.

‘Well, aren’t we just the picture of festive cheer?’ We nearly butted heads. ‘Nothing says Christmas spirit like bonding over our dead mums.’

‘It’s probably not the most romantic conversation I’ve ever had on a date.’