Page 46 of Last Christmas in London

‘I don’t want to be a nepo baby,’ I joked, though that wasn’t the full truth either.

I wasn’t aware of many studios in the UK that Pim had connections with; we were hardly ever in the UK for work. Any connections she did have were probably out of date. I had never dared to ask her for help, not directly at least. Not only because of the nepotism, but because it felt disrespectful to ask: I know I’m your assistant but could you help me get another job using your connections?

Besides, I was used to fighting for others, not for myself.

I moved hair out of my eyes. ‘That being said, I think I mostly got this new job because I got the chance to work with the company during one of Pim’s TV stints, so who am I to say I hate nepotism?’

‘That’s not nepotism, that’s networking.’

‘Sure,’ I mumbled. ‘That’s just the industry, I guess.’

He nodded, saying nothing more for a moment. And then he smiled again, his lovely warm, slightly lopsided smile. ‘I’m happy for you.’ He lifted his beer in the air. ‘To you and your new job!’

I felt the light in me flicker as I remembered my new job. My new home come the New Year. The new start I was really looking forward to. The do-over I needed for my life to really begin. It was in Toronto, not London. No relationship could last, so I shouldn’t be cruel and let it begin.

Forcing a placating smile, I lifted my glass to his bottle with a light chink.

‘And to you, for your first Great Christmas Pudding victory. I hope this will become an annual thing?’

‘Once will be enough.’

Chapter 14

‘Iam going to complain.’ Pim stormed out of the BBC building, her heels clicking aggressively against the pavement. I had to half-jog to keep up, which wasn’t ideal given my questionable choice of shoes – a pair of newly broken-in (or almost broken-in) Doc Martens I had treated myself to when I realised my usual Vans and slip-ons hardly suited the London climate.

‘What now?’ I asked, attempting to balance a takeaway coffee in one hand and the leash of Gerald in the other. He barked like a prince but acted like the court jester.

‘The call sheet, Evie! The bloody call sheet!’ she seethed, waving a crumpled piece of paper in my face. ‘They spelt my name as Pimm. Like the drink. As if I am some sort of novelty alcoholic beverage rather than a serious actress.’ She rolled her r’s on actress, which hardly helped her cause in my opinion.

‘Well,’ I started, unable to help myself, ‘you are refreshing on a hot day.’

Pim shot me a look that could curdle milk. ‘Don’t.’

I rolled my lips together nervously. ‘I’m sure it was just a typo.’

‘A typo that completely undermines my entire existence. This is a national broadcaster. They wouldn’t call Olivia Colman Olive Colman, would they?’

‘Maybe if she was starring in a very specific cooking show.’

‘Evie.’ Her eyes thinned.

‘Right. Not the time.’

Before I could attempt any more damage control, Gerald – who had the strength of a small bear despite looking like an overgrown teddy – suddenly yanked the leash from my hand and took off down the pavement, his tiny legs moving at lightning speed.

‘Gerald, NO!’ I shrieked as Pim growled aloud, her hands rising like Evita in damnation at the way her day was going. I was the one being flung around the BBC office entrance.

Suddenly, Gerald spotted his target, a pigeon pecking the ground in blissful ignorance, and the prized pup barrelled towards it, only to completely miss and instead – in strikingly ironic fashion – barrel into the legs of a very well-dressed man stepping around the corner with a cup of takeaway coffee.

Everything happened in slow motion.

One moment the man was upright, dignified, clearly important. The next he was flailing, his long coat billowing around him like a disgruntled bat, coffee spilled all down his front. He landed in a completely ungraceful heap on the pavement.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he snapped, propping himself up on his elbows and brushing at his soiled coat, his voice rich with disgust. I recognised him with horror as I battled to keep Gerald within my grasp. It was Michael Holland.

‘I am so sorry…’ I began, but Gerald tugged me away, forcing me to give a strangled cry of ‘Stop! No! Gerald.’

Michael Holland lifted his head, fixing me and now Pim with a look that was both affronted and incredulous. ‘Honestly! You’re a danger to society, Pim Hardcastle.’