Page 22 of Last Christmas in London

A fresh crowd began to gather and soon we were not the only ones dancing awkwardly. Simon stepped back to enjoy the scene.

I thought he kept looking at me, but it was probably just the glare of the neon lights in my eyeline. Everything was distorted, a magical hue settling over a perfect Christmas moment – that or I was bobbing around too much and my jingle-bell hat was starting to give me a migraine.

‘Come on!’ I said breathlessly to Megan as Simon got to the bridge. ‘We’ve got more shopping to do.’

‘Are you sure?’ she asked, still dancing. ‘It’s not every day you get attracted to someone.’

I tried not to roll my eyes. ‘I’m graysexual, not a unicorn.’

The truth was, it was rare for me to catch feelings, even a few. And that flicker of feelings I felt, noticing him, being noticed back, surprised me more than I wanted to admit. I wasn’t used to that spark, and certainly not when I was supposed to be packing up my life and moving to another country.

Megan wolf-whistled Simon, and I cringed. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ Hooking my arm through hers, I led us back up the street.

But I couldn’t help myself; just before we turned the corner, I glanced back over my shoulder to Simon.

He was fully immersed in the crowd, but he caught my eye and winked.

Chapter 7

‘It’s Pim Hardcastle, everybody!’ The host, an energetic thirty-something who recently came second on a popular TV dance show, was welcoming Pim onto the morning TV show with more excitement than was normal. It made my insides squirm, but the early-morning TV viewers loved it, apparently.

Pim stepped onto the set, confidence radiating from her as she waved and then gave a subtle tug to her bright fuchsia-pink suit jacket. No one would have known that twenty minutes before she was having a mini-meltdown from stage fright, which only I – and Gerald, her supportive Chow Chow – could pull her out of. But here she was now, undoing her jacket button and sitting down with elegant ease.

The cameras adored her, and she knew exactly how to give them what they wanted.

I hovered near the edge of the set, stealing glances at the assistant producer’s clipboard. He stood tall, his tailored suit fitting like a second skin, exuding an effortless authority that made him look as if he’d stepped out of a GQ photoshoot. One day, I promised myself, I’d match his easy confidence. For now, I focused on imitating his air of competence, my eyes flicking between his paperwork and the camera angles.

With my job change imminent, I’d found myself shadowing every producer I could, learning the rhythm and chaos of live TV from behind the camera instead of from the green room. I loved the immediacy of it, the way the decisions were made on the fly and the quiet authority of people who knew exactly what they were doing and how to do it well. But the more I watched, the more my chest tightened with anxiety.

This was nothing like the cushioned chaos at Salient when I worked with Pim behind-the-scenes on one of her many guest spots on cookery shows. Maybe British TV was more cut-throat. Or maybe I’d never really paid attention, too busy finding the exact brand of tuna Pim liked in her sandwiches or making reservations at three restaurants in case she changed her mind over where she wanted to go for dinner.

When I undertook my new role at Salient, there’d be no buffer or famous name to hide behind. It would be my own crises I was dealing with, not someone else’s.

The thought was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.

Whenever the nerves threatened to take over, I clung to that idea. Of having my name on call sheets and of being trusted to make decisions that mattered. Not the idea that I would be alone to handle it all myself. Besides, thinking too far ahead made everything feel too overwhelming. I’d never been good at looking forward anyway; the possibilities were what frightened me.

TikToks were great for looking back, a digital diary of all my experiences and learnings.

I produced a lot of videos while in the UK studios, but I didn’t dare pull out my phone to take any sneaky videos on set now. Not with this eagle-eyed AP with sexy gravitas standing next to me.

Pim was in full flow, talking about the upcoming charity screening of Wuthering Heights and her exclusive in conversation after the screening. She hadn’t been on stage live, even to host an event, for years. It was going to be quite the event for her fans, of which there were surprisingly many. ‘It’s so exciting that so many people are still eager to discuss and review Wuthering Heights forty years down the line. I’m…’ She clapped her hands together, her rings catching the studio lights. ‘I’m blown away. Absolutely blown away.’ She sounded so sincere, but I’d heard her earlier, bemoaning to a make-up artist, how frustrating it was to be pigeonholed by her past.

‘Tickets are selling out fast, I hear, and a portion of the proceeds will go to charity,’ the presenter said. Pim nodded enthusiastically.

‘Absolutely! It’s happening on Christmas Eve! The time for giving and helping others,’ she said with a tinkle of a laugh that the presenter mirrored. ‘And as an LGBT+ production of Wuthering Heights, it only seemed right to donate to LGBT+ charities. Though I’m only an ally, as a she/her heterosexual, as someone who was part of this ground-breaking movie, helping others within the community has always been a big part of my life.’

I released a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. Last night, she’d railed against the whole ‘ally’ narrative. ‘I don’t care if you’re diagonal and purple, but why do I have to spell out the alphabet backwards!’ she’d snapped, arms crossed, chin jutting out stubbornly. It had taken an hour and two glasses of wine to convince her that showing solidarity mattered.

I could see the assistant producer and presenter were impressed. They exchanged approving glances as Pim hit every talking point perfectly. A surge of confidence rushed through me, straightening my spine and lowering my shoulders, which had slowly reached my ears.

I gripped my phone in my pocket, wanting to shoot my shot.

‘Sorry,’ I whispered to the AP as they cut to an advert break. ‘Do you mind if I take some photos for social media?’

He barely looked up from his clipboard, waving his hand. ‘Sure, go ahead.’

I stepped around the massive TV camera, capturing clips of Pim and the presenter having their make-up retouched, adjusting their jackets on the vibrant orange sofa. Pim looked regal, commanding attention even when the cameras were offline; she was in full-on performance mode, refusing to let nerves get the better of her. Put me in front of one of those cameras and I would go weak at the knees and forget the entire English language, but Pim was a professional faker. She knew how to appear confident – even if the reality was she’d had to use several CBD oils and listen to a calming meditation, as she clung to Gerald and me during the taxi ride over.