Page 53 of Last Christmas in London

I hadn’t known things were so bad between her and Alex, but her eyes were red and glassy with tears; they shared more than she knew. She was used to crying, this was her normal.

And I hadn’t asked, not really.

I swallowed hard, guilt rising thick and fast. I had stayed out of it, because looking too closely meant getting tangled up in things I didn’t know how to fix. And maybe, deep down, I was still that ten-year-old girl who had watched her mother slip away, helpless to stop it. I learned early that love didn’t always get to win. And that the best way to survive the pain was to run.

So I ran. For years, to other countries, other jobs, other lives, convincing myself I was chasing adventure, not just outrunning the grief that had long since built a home inside me. Convincing myself that living life to the fullest was what Mum would have wanted. But maybe all that running made me blind to what I was leaving behind. To who I was leaving behind.

A flash of Simon’s face crossed my mind; the busker with kind eyes and hands that could make magic out of a battered guitar. There could be something there, something real, if I ever dared to stay still long enough to find out.

But Megan was right, when had I ever stayed?

I rubbed my eyes, feeling the night crash down on me, all of it.

I had wanted to argue my side; I wasn’t the one who cheated after all – and me keeping Josh’s secrets was hardly a demerit on me as a friend. I’d keep Megan’s secrets the same way, not that she was sharing them with me these days, apparently.

As the train station came into view, my gut felt hollow. I knew it was for the best that I left the scene, no matter how much I didn’t want to leave things as they were; I especially didn’t want her to feel alone. She was my best friend, my sister.

But I had left her standing there, holding Alfie, both crying in the dark.

So I walked, vacantly staring ahead until I reached the train station, only realising it had begun to snow as a homeless man shook out his sleeping bag at the entrance to the platform. I gave him the change in my pocket – barely enough for a coffee in McDonald’s these days – and continued to cry.

‘Cheers, love, and cheer up. It’s Christmas,’ he mumbled in thanks.

I removed my phone to pay the Oyster charge. It buzzed, once and then again. And again.

At first, I assumed it was Megan, maybe regretting sending us all away, having come to her senses after a few minutes alone. But when I opened the screen, I was flooded with notifications.

TikTok alerts. Instagram tags. Work WhatsApps blow-ing up.

I clicked on one. A video. Pim and Michael Holland, mid-argument, outside the BBC studios. The caption underneath: Pim’s O’Clock? More like Pim and the Cock!

My stomach sank as I tapped the ‘Play’ button. Holland’s sneering face filled my screen, followed by Pim’s unmistakable clipped tones, her retort sharp, her body language defensive.

And then, the final notification at the top of my screen. A message from Pim herself:

‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ABOUT THIS?’

Chapter 17

Ididn’t hear anything from either Josh or Megan the next day, despite multiple texts from me, both separately and in the group chat. But I had a text message from Denise, Megan’s mum, saying Bob had driven to collect Megan and Alfie the night before, and she was at home with them in Kent.

I was relieved that Megan had had the sense to call her parents and ask for help – and unsurprisingly that they immediately offered it. Bob was the sort of father that still waited up for Megan, and me, during a night out, even though we were both nearing thirty. And I could picture Denise getting fresh bed sheets ready and making sure all of Megan’s favourite meals were defrosting out of the freezer before Bob had even got his car keys.

‘We’re not getting much out of her at the minute, but she just needs to sleep it off. We’ll call you later this week. Don’t worry about anything, she just needs some time,’ Denise had texted.

How much had Megan told her about our blow-up? About Josh, and my knowing more than I’d said, even if I’d never condoned what he was doing?

I still wasn’t quite clear on why I had become her proverbial punching bag. Was it because I kept it from her, as I knew she’d have absolutely kicked off at him, or was it simply misdirected anger at Josh for bringing it up on the night we were there to comfort her about her absentee husband? We didn’t even know if Alex had cheated. I didn’t even fully understand what was going on in their relationship at all.

It was all one big mess.

Meanwhile, the internet had exploded.

Michael Holland and Pim’s exchange outside the BBC had gone megaviral. The clip had spread like wildfire once the tabloids had got hold of it.

Pim’s calm evisceration of Michael for his outdated, condescending comments, as he stood there, face increasingly puce, the unpleasantly placed shirt stain, stammering in response was hot gossip.

The comments were a mix of applause and horror: