Page 6 of Last Christmas in London

‘You’re so lucky you get to experience this every year,’ I said, watching Josh’s face light up as his endless Christmas energy began to rise.

‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing my hand. ‘Let’s get the mulled wine before the snow starts at eight.’

‘The snow?’

‘Yes!’ Josh grinned. ‘They pump out a load of artificial snow around the tree every hour.’

‘What time is it now?’ I asked, glancing around. I spotted the clock above St Paul’s Church. ‘Quarter to. Plenty of time.’

Before I could offer to stay with him, he darted into the growing queue, leaving me to search for a table. I made a beeline for a pair of empty chairs, only to be beaten by a mother and her young son. He was wearing a Santa hat and a sweater vest with nutcrackers on it. I couldn’t begrudge them the seats. Who could? Smiling awkwardly, I backed away, trying not to look as if I was sulking.

But then I walked into something. Actually, I walked into someone. A man, sending everything in his arms clattering to the ground.

‘Oh my gosh!’ I exclaimed, dropping to my knees to help. ‘I am so sorry! I didn’t see you!’

‘It’s fine,’ the man mumbled, scooping up his things: a large black box, a tangle of wires, a hard-shell suitcase, and a microphone.

‘Can I help you carry anything?’ I asked.

Then he looked up.

Hello, gorgeous man.

‘Hi,’ I said, painfully aware of the breathlessness of my voice.

‘Hi,’ he replied, narrowing his eyes at me before straightening up.

‘I’m so sorry, I—’

‘Yeah, I heard you…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, and I could tell it wasn’t exactly fine. His expression showed the internal struggle of someone trying not to be rude while undoubtedly thinking a few choice words.

‘Seriously, can I help?’

He sighed, his gaze flicking over me and pausing briefly when he noticed my red-and-white striped jeans. It was a look, I know. Finally, he gave in.

‘Yes, I’d appreciate that,’ he said, pulling over the black hard-shell suitcase.

Though I had offered, fairly insistently, I was still surprised when he accepted. Strangers rarely do, especially when another stranger has just barrelled into them.

‘You can carry this,’ he said, handing me the suitcase. It was much heavier than I expected. Without another word, he turned and began weaving through the crowd. I had to jog to keep up.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, suddenly remembering Josh was waiting for me, and that I was supposed to be finding us seats before the snow started.

‘Not far. Just by the church,’ he called over his shoulder, slipping through the throng with practised ease. He stopped under the arches of St Paul’s Church and began unloading his gear.

‘You can put that there,’ he said, gesturing to a neat pile of items at his feet.

I hesitated, glancing around. For a split second, I wondered if he was homeless, living under the arches with all his worldly possessions packed into tidy cases. But then I noticed the knife-thrower wrapping up his act nearby, thanking the crowd and collecting tips in an upturned hat.

The penny dropped. ‘Are you a busker?’

‘Might be,’ he quipped with a small smile. He began to plug the wires into the black case, which I suddenly realised was an amp, before he began building a mic-stand.

‘You’re a singer?’

‘Could be.’

‘You don’t talk much, do you?’ I said, crossing my arms, now determined to coax more than two words out of him.