Page 115 of Last Christmas in London

EPILOGUE

TWO YEARS LATER

All was quiet about the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Simon’s face was buried in the pillow, peaceful and oblivious, while I stared at the ceiling, ticking off tasks in my mind.

‘Stop thinking so loudly,’ Simon moaned, his voice muffled by the pillow. I smiled.

‘We need to get up.’ I rolled onto my side and wrapped an arm around his chest, kissing his shoulders which were lovely and warm. I could have stayed there all day. But there was so much to do. ‘I need a cup of tea.’

Simon didn’t move.

‘I said, I need a cup of tea.’ Brutally I pushed myself up and pulled the blinds open in one swift movement, letting in a stream of harsh winter sunlight.

‘Oh, bloody hell!’ He burrowed back under his pillow like a mole, while I laughed evilly and kissed his bare shoulder again, since I couldn’t get to his stubbly chin.

‘I’m going to get the turkey on.’

‘It’s not even…’ Simon squinted at the clock. ‘… eight o’clock.’

‘The oven’s not big enough for beef, turkey, roast potatoes, parsnips, Yorkshires, and pigs in blankets, you know.’

‘And why do we have to have beef?’ he called as I entered the landing and began slamming my feet down the flight of stairs as noisily as I could, just to be sure he wouldn’t fall back asleep.

Our new place was in Sidcup, just outside of London – still close enough to allow us to say we’re Londoners, far enough that we could actually afford a terraced house and not just a garage with ‘charm’. I had had a list: I wanted a staircase, a spare bedroom, and Simon had wanted a garden so he could learn the manly task of barbecuing.

It had taken us nearly two years, two side hustles, and one mildly exhausting attempt at selling homemade Christmas jumpers on Etsy to save enough for the deposit, but we’d done it, miraculously, even after I’d torpedoed my big Canadian career move.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that I was due to work as a Broadcast Production Assistant at Salient, only to serve the most awkward one month’s notice instead of starting my job at the station. Even for a limited time of working on bit-tasks, reality hit fast and I realised I had dodged a bullet. Elijah had bombarded me with so many last-minute urgent tasks that I began to suspect the real job description involved being psychic.

Quitting Salient, moving back to Kent, reuniting with Simon, and spending all my time in London – to the point I almost started decorating his flat like it was my own – felt like the universe finally giving me a nudge in the right direction, or rather a full-on shove. It was still the best decision I had ever made.

Now I was back where I belonged, in a job that didn’t drain the soul out of me by 10.00 a.m., working as a Social Media Coordinator for the BBC. It was a move away from Executive Assistant after my skill on TikTok grew to such a level that even my boss – who’d once called TikTok ‘the slow death of civilisation’ – couldn’t ignore it, and marched me into an interview with the Social Media team instead. Now I balanced growing my own TikTok channel with getting paid to run actual TikTok campaigns; every day, going to work, was like putting on a new dress that fitted me perfectly in every single way and had pockets.

A whole new life had taken root.

Even Pim had re-invented herself. She and Alison had long since departed the shores of England for somewhere with micro-climates and mojitos on tap, and currently were happily working on the set of a film.

Pim had got the itch to act in front of the camera again after her talk-of-the-town event. Though the swashbuckling pirate flick she was shooting somewhere gloriously sunny in the Caribbean was an interesting choice, as Pim was only voicing the role of a parrot but had somehow managed to get an all-expenses trip to be on set to run lines with the actors, as they acted with a hovering tennis ball, ahead of special effects adding in some colourful plumage.

When we moved into our new home, Pim – or rather Alison – had sent a Fortnum & Mason’s gift basket so large it came with its own driver. There was a postcard signed with a pawprint from Gerald the Chow Chow, whose own TikTok channel was flourishing, and occasionally I side-hustled as his social media manager, a gig which had boosted our deposit when Pim insisted on paying me a year’s fee upfront. It was her subtle-not-subtle way of helping Simon and me over the line, and I would forever be grateful to her.

We had yet to unpack most of our belongings, but the bonus was the space we had without furnishings, which allowed us to host a full house during our first Christmas, with all our loved ones.

But only if I got the turkey in the oven on time.

Simon had insisted on unloading the Christmas decorations first. ‘There’s no such thing as a Christmas dinner if you haven’t got a tree up,’ he had argued. Though I pointed out the dining table was probably a better idea.

He had taken his role as content-creator cameraman to heart and had insisted that we throw a bauble into an empty room filled with packing boxes, before shutting the door and re-opening it to reveal our Christmas grotto – not styled by Josh, but definitely side-eyed by him.

The place now sparkled with tinsel, paper chains, hanging Christmas stars, and a tree that was as random and as beautiful as could be.

‘Right, time to fire up the kettle,’ he said, rolling up imaginary sleeves, while I stood against the door frame of our living room, admiring our green, red, and gold handiwork.

‘My hero.’

‘Have you basted the turkey?’ I called to Simon from the entrance hall. The doorbell had just rung with our first guests but, thankfully, Simon and I had managed to get dressed in between our many preparations and were now sporting matching Christmas jumpers that I had knitted for us with smiling reindeer on – because we’re that sickeningly domesticated now.

‘Hello!’ Denise and Bob shouted, arms laden with presents and a few random kitchen items.