Page 57 of Last Christmas in London

‘I need more powder,’ Pim replied, calling over another make-up artist, who quickly flourished a powder puff and did as Pim instructed.

Poor Alison, I thought. Although it wasn’t me being difficult, I felt like I was really messing her about. I knew what it was like to lack stability in a role, particularly at Christmas, and I wanted her to be secure in the knowledge that the job was hers, if she still wanted it. But she needed to meet Pim. There was no other way around it. And maybe I just had to stop pussyfooting around it, like I did with everything else.

With a deep breath, I stepped out of the shoot and called Megan. Straight to voicemail. Again.

‘Megan, pick up,’ I sighed, frustration tightening my chest.

I had left about ten messages but still she hadn’t messaged me back. I had spoken to Denise and Bob multiple times, and each time they had tried to get Megan to take my call. Denise even got sharp with her; and this was the woman who couldn’t bring herself to give anyone anything less than four stars on review sites, even when the service was terrible.

‘Megan, it’s Christmas. My last Christmas in London for a while. Are you really not going to talk to me because you’re annoyed that I knew about Josh’s affair and you didn’t?’ I hesitated, unused to letting my frustrations pour out of me. ‘It wasn’t for me to say anything, and I didn’t want to add to your…’ To her what? Worries? Stress? No one had an issue adding to mine lately.

I hung up, exhaling forcefully. Now was not the right moment to leave a message, clearly.

Instead, I took myself for a walk around London. By the time I reached Covent Garden, my go-to place lately, the tension had eased. A hot chocolate on the steps of the open market, surrounded by the hum of Christmas music and the laughter of strangers, was exactly what I needed.

Maybe I’d see Simon. To tell the truth, I was really hoping to see him.

He hadn’t been on a shift – if buskers had shifts – the last few times I’d been by. But still the setting of the market brought me peace, amidst Christmas chaos.

He wasn’t busking when I arrived. There was a group of female carollers at his usual spot singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ at the open doors of St Paul’s Church. The warm glow of the interior beckoned, twinkling lights and signs pointed to the entrance through Bedford Street, and I thought, why not? It was something new.

Following a slow but steady stream of intrigued listeners, I headed through the gates into a small courtyard, following the sound of harmonised notes and the smell of freshly brewed mulled wine.

The church was warmly lit with many yellow candles, a second group of carollers inside stood on a raised plinth near to the altar and sang a gentle rendition of ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’. The church was not yet full, although I felt the propelling electricity in the air that was leading not just me, but also many others, into the hall, and I knew it wouldn’t be long. People cuddled together on pews, while others gathered near a makeshift bar at the back of the church.

I thought of swapping my hot-chocolate order for a mulled wine when—

‘Was this one from your list?’

The familiar voice sent a spark through me.

I turned to see Simon leaning casually against the wall, a flask in his gloved hands, his smile warm enough to thaw me from the inside out.

‘It might have been,’ I admitted, practically jumping over a church patron to lean against the wall with him. I’m nothing if not subtle. I could feel my bad mood lifting from my body immediately as soon as I spotted him laughing at me. There’s something magnetic about being able to make someone laugh, even if it’s at you. ‘It wasn’t on the cards for today, though.’

He offered me the flask and I took it without hesitation. The scent of mulled wine hit me before I even took a sip.

‘Busking in the cold is fun,’ he mused, crossing his arms and shivering a bit. ‘But this is the real treat.’

‘Caught a chill?’ I asked, handing the flask back.

‘Always. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it gets bloody cold in December.’ He smirked.

‘Careful, we’re in a church. Don’t think you can say the B word.’

‘Bollocks, bloody, or blimey?’ he asked – loudly – just as the carollers reached their crescendo. Heads turned in our direction, as I blushed and nudged him in the ribs with my elbow. He grinned, utterly unrepentant.

‘I haven’t seen you around here in a few days,’ he said eventually, as the carollers began ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’.

‘I’ve been around,’ I admitted, shrugging. ‘Didn’t spot you, though.’

‘We must have missed each other,’ he agreed.

‘Well, it’s not like you have a schedule. In fact, do you even have social media?’

He shook his head. ‘Hate all that.’

‘I got those vibes from you,’ I laughed. ‘Can’t really see you making TikToks of your shows or making reels for fun.’