Page 103 of Last Christmas in London

‘No?’ His lips quirked. ‘Damn. And here I thought I was really setting the mood.’

I smiled, warmth bubbling up despite the topic, and the ache in both our stories. Because it wasn’t just grief. It was understanding. Connection.

Simon squeezed my hand one more time before letting go and reducing the space between us, turning quickly back to the last of the food. We soon had devoured the rest, swapping Christmas playlists and opinions on the latest John Lewis ad.

‘How did you even see the ads abroad?’

‘Megan was very good at keeping me up to date. Plus, with apps like TikTok, all the Christmas content is curated just for me. I never miss a thing,’ I explained, pulling out my phone and opening the app just to prove my point. Immediately there was a video of a woman decorating her decadent home, using the age-old ‘throw a bauble like it’s a grenade effect’. ‘One day I’ll have a home big enough to do that video.’

‘Give it ’ere,’ he said, opening my profile with some difficulty, having limited experience with the platform. ‘You’ve got over two hundred and fifty thousand followers!’

‘I thought you saw my profile before, at the pub?’ I reminded him, but his eyes were bulging.

‘Your videos maybe, but not your followers. Bloody hell!’

‘It’s not that much,’ I said, reaching for the phone, but he pulled it away.

‘Not much? It’s more than the population of Saint Lucia.’

I gave up and allowed him to flick through my content, trying my best not to blush or barf whenever he played a new video. Eventually he gave me my phone back.

‘You’re good. Is that the kind of thing you’re going to be doing in Toronto?’

I was surprised he brought it up first but didn’t let myself show it.

‘Fetching coffees, you mean, and vlogging about it.’ I snuggled in closer to his shoulder, listening to the lapping of the Thames and the giggles and carolling of the South Bank walkers.

‘No, I mean content creation. You’re good. And I’m not just saying that, with my upbringing I know good content when I see it.’

‘You have a high opinion of yourself.’

‘I am a Holland.’ He blew a raspberry. ‘However much I try to suppress it.’

I patted his warm chest to comfort him playfully, and he placed his hand over mine, keeping my hand in place as he ran his fingers up and down my knuckles. It was soothing, as if the lapping of waves had reached my hand.

‘The content’s only good because I’ve been in London. I was inspired.’

He grinned. ‘By a certain busker.’

‘Do you want me to get you a fishing pole.’

His grin widened. ‘You could…’ He shrugged. ‘Never mind.’

‘No, what?’ I pushed myself up with his chest, facing him, just inches from his lips. ‘What were you going to say?’

‘Just that you could leverage your following, and your content. Stay in London and… stay inspired.’

‘By you,’ I finished for him, teasing him.

His smile should be illegal; it was utterly mind-melting.

All my arguments for leaving – most of which had lost a lot of potency during Pim’s show and Christmas with my family – were disappearing before my eyes.

My decision to leave Pim was the right one, I knew that much. It was time for me to get a new job; one with progression and choices. But did I really need to move to Toronto to start again?

Originally, my intent had been to finally lay down roots, from which a family tree might spring. But this Christmas had proved I already had roots and, instead of pruning them, I just needed to let them grow.

‘I could…’ Simon seemed hesitant. ‘I could talk to… my dad. If you want? About a job, or a contact at least.’