Page 20 of Last Christmas in London

He looked remarkably similar to the last time I’d seen him, even wearing the same kind of outfit in front of the same microphone stand. This time, he was playing a blue-ice-coloured guitar.

I watched for a few moments, mouthing along to ‘Sweet Caroline’ as the crowds ignored him and wandered past, only involving themselves in the song’s famous chorus with fist-pumps and mouthed singalongs.

As he came to a close, I reached into my pocket and found my trusty purse I’d had since childhood, and you could tell – it had diamonds stuck on the purple velvet in the shape of the word Diva – and pulled out a £10 note. Stepping forward I dropped it into his upturned hat on the ground.

‘For charity,’ I said with a wide smile.

It took him a moment to place me. When he did, his eyes widened. ‘Covent Garden girl.’

I sucked my teeth in amused embarrassment. ‘The very same. Although I’m surprised my moniker isn’t “beggar girl” or “insulting cow”.’ We both laughed. ‘Sorry about that, by the way.’

‘You said that… before, I mean.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ I nodded and felt suddenly like my arms were very out of place at my sides. ‘Oh, well! That was really good,’ I said, gesturing to his guitar.

‘Thanks!’ I waited for him to carry on, to say anything, but he just stood smiling confidently. It was mildly infuriating.

‘You’re a man of few words.’

He made an agreeable ‘hmm’ sound and rubbed the back of his neck; whether self-consciously or just because he was cold without a scarf I couldn’t tell.

‘I can be.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those singers that lets the songs speak for me,’ I mocked and realised I had gone right back to insulting him. Shaking my head and scrunching up my eyes, I almost shouted. ‘Sorry! That was rude too.’

‘Mocking, not rude,’ he laughed. ‘And it was funny.’

‘I’m not normally so insulting.’

‘That’s what they all say.’ He was still smiling as he leaned down to pick up some loose change that had fallen short of his upturned hat.

‘No, truly.’ I leaned down to help him. ‘Most people tell me I’m too nice for my own good.’

‘I’d say giving a tenner to a busker is pretty nice, so maybe they’re right,’ he said, lifting the hat so I could drop the collection of five- and twenty-pence pieces back into it.

‘Well, it’s for charity,’ I pointed out, groaning much louder than a twenty-nine-year-old should as I pushed myself back up to standing again. He didn’t groan at all, the bastard.

‘Actually…’ he began playfully, his lips tilting into a lopsided smile that I often associated with charming bartenders and waiters looking for a tip.

‘Aha, so this time it is for you.’

He shrugged. ‘Man’s got to earn a living.’

‘Indeed he has,’ I said, crossing my arms but still smiling. ‘I won’t begrudge you for that. You may keep the £10 note.’

‘You couldn’t get it back now if you tried.’

‘And why not? Technically I gave it to you due to false advertising.’

He looked around him dramatically for a moment.

‘What advertising?’ Oh, the cheeky bugger!

‘I meant from last time,’ I said, dragging the word last a little too long.

‘So you assumed it was for charity. That’s not false advertising then, is it? That’s just a mistaken assumption and, if you were to attempt to take the money back now, that would be stealing?’

‘Stealing!’ I said, smiling at this humorous conversation that was slightly darker than I expected and much, much longer than I had intended. Although I wasn’t complaining.