Page 2 of Last Christmas in London

Okay, fine, so Pim would put herself up in a five-star villa while I would sleep on the sofa, or occasionally have to taxi to and from the local B&B.

‘I got to see the world!’ Both knew they couldn’t counter that. While Megan had been building her own consulting empire – consulting on what, I still had no idea – marrying her perfect university sweetheart, Alex, birthing my joyful godson, Alfie, and building up her Nectar club points as the all-round queen of middle-class living, I’d been travelling across Malta, Australia, South Korea, and Canada.

It was in Toronto, during Pim’s stint as a guest judge on a Canadian cooking show, that I made the life-altering decision to apply for a new job in television production.

Somewhere between watching a contestant cry over a collapsed soufflé and fetching Pim her fifth flat white of the day, I slipped my CV filled with anecdotes more than experiences to HR and tried not to think about it too hard in case I didn’t get it.

A fortnight ago, I learned I’d landed it.

The email had sat unopened in my inbox for a full seven minutes while I paced the length of the latest hotel room, my stomach fizzing with an entirely new feeling; a mix of high anxiety and extreme excitement. Maybe fear? Maybe relief?

It was like riding a rollercoaster when you realise you’re not strapped in properly just as it sets off from the loading bay.

‘I love London,’ I said. ‘It’s truly my favourite place, but I can’t wait to go back to Toronto and start afresh. And I would never have had the opportunity to interview at Salient if it wasn’t for Pim’s hosting gig there.’ Salient Studios was my new place of work.

‘And your TikTok channel.’ Megan nodded towards my phone and the unfinished Assistmas video in need of editing. My TikToks had somehow reached the Head of Content while I was filming some B-roll and editing trailerised ‘days-in-the-life of a PA’ videos. I’d been experimenting with new edits, but he’d like the content enough to suggest I apply for the production role. ‘You’re an influencer, babe.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Josh chimed in, lifting his near-empty glass.

I grinned, clinking my tequila sunrise against his old-fashioned. ‘Content creator, actually,’ I corrected, and Megan laughed as she raised her glass with a smile.

‘I am proud of you,’ she repeated. ‘I hate that it’s in Canada, but this new job sounds perfect for you.’

‘I know!’

In one month, I’d be starting the new year in a new role. I already had my visa sorted, thanks to years of constant travel, and my familiarity with the Salient team from working with them on Pim’s TV show meant I’d be stepping into a role I knew I’d love. After eight years of being an assistant, TikToking my way to a viewership of thousands of followers and learning the ropes one terrible reality TV show at a time, I was finally going to apply my media-studies degree to an actual in-house job.

Best of all, I wouldn’t be living out of a suitcase any more. I could finally put down roots, something I hadn’t truly had since I was a child.

Denise and Bob, my foster parents, had never made me feel unwanted, but being fostered quietly teaches you to be grateful and behave, to never take up too much space. Always remembering that everything could be temporary and not to get too comfortable.

Now, getting this job in a new country and with a new house, I could exist without the unspoken labels. I wasn’t an orphan, or the girl who was spoken of in hushed conversations and given sympathetic looks, as I was in childhood. Nor the dependable assistant who fetched coffee and fixed crises while everyone else got promoted around her as I was as an adult.

In Toronto, I would be my own person, an ex-pat and a Brit, but not an orphan or the assistant of Pim Hardcastle. If I did move back to London, I would always feel like one or the other – and I would struggle to get a job. Eight years as a personal assistant had given me plenty of skills – and content for my TikTok – but in London it mostly gave people permission to underestimate me. There, I’d always be Pim Hardcastle’s PA first and anything else second. Someone who had got stuck in an entry-level position for eight years, who lacked ambition and drive to even get so much as a pay rise. Moving abroad meant a clean slate, more opportunity to climb the ladder, and the freedom to re-invent myself entirely. That’s what I wanted, or rather, needed.

Josh threw his arms around me, burying his face in the now-familiar chasm under my boobs.

‘My parents are bloody over the moon.’ Megan swirled her drink before pausing at the look on my face. ‘Okay, maybe not over the moon that you’re leaving to live in a far-off country – again – but they’re really proud of you.’

I flushed. My gut had dropped at the idea that Denise and Bob – Megan’s parents and my guardians growing up – were thrilled I wouldn’t be in the same time zone. They weren’t my biological parents, but we were close enough that they wanted to FaceTime every week, usually to tell me about Denise’s ophthalmology appointment and Bob beating his mates at snooker (a rare occurrence, so worth a FaceTime).

‘Honestly, Mum won’t stop bugging me for more details,’ Megan carried on. ‘She hasn’t asked me this many questions since I told her I’d started dating Alex.’

I laughed. ‘I love Denise and Bob.’ They were easily the most wonderful people on the planet. No contest.

When I lost my mum to cancer just as I was starting secondary school, I thought my world had ended. No dad worth mentioning, no grandparents to speak of – it felt like there was no one left to care for me. But when I landed with Denise and Bob, everything changed.

They’d been foster parents on and off before I’d arrived. Denise had me wrapped in her arms before I’d even unpacked my limited belongings, and Bob was assembling IKEA furniture for my new bedroom like he’d been preparing for me his whole life.

Megan had been my best friend since nursery when she threw Lego at my head, and I broke her dolly’s arm in retaliation; the respect was mutual. Our mums had been the only two sane parents at the school gates, thick as thieves from the moment they met. I can see now that they must have planned everything behind-the-scenes long before Mum passed. And thank God they did.

Mum had made sure I was housed, clothed and loved, and Denise and Bob took to it like ducks to water. A stranger would never have been able to tell that they weren’t my mum and dad, the way they always included me and made me feel a part of the family.

But I always knew.

There was love – so much of it – but it came with an unspoken pressure to deserve it. I felt like I owed them something, constantly. I couldn’t afford to get it wrong. I had to stay polite grateful and quiet. Never make too much noise. Never remind them I wasn’t really theirs.

It was a lot of pressure, to always be on my best behaviour, to not let Mum down. Even now, decades since she passed. I could still hear her voice in my head – ‘Mind your Ps and Qs’, her phrase for ‘please and thank you’. ‘Be a good girl.’ It was the last thing I remembered her saying to me. And I’d built my life around trying to be just that.