Page 7 of Last Christmas in London

‘Not with people that don’t look where they’re going.’ He fiddled with the amp’s dials, focusing on his set-up.

‘I was!’ I said indignantly, and then I remembered actually I wasn’t. ‘Okay, maybe not this time, but I usually do. I’m very responsible, I even check the streets before I cross on a green light.’ This was such an overshare, but I wasn’t going to have him think I was a clueless tourist with no manners or sense of direction. But he said nothing, he just kept preparing his amp.

I crossed my arms. ‘I’m sorry.’ He continued to say nothing, and I rolled my lips, trying not to laugh with frustration. He kept on with his set-up, but he wouldn’t quit staring at me. It was unnerving, in a strangely enjoyable way. ‘What? Are you saving your voice for the show?’

That made him smile – a proper smile – it lit up his face, making it impossible not to notice how handsome he was.

‘No, I just don’t usually talk to people before my shows. I’m not used to it.’

‘No friends around to cheer you on?’ I immediately regretted how that sounded. ‘I mean… are they at work, or maybe they don’t live nearby, or—’

‘I don’t have many,’ he said, unfazed by my awkwardness. ‘Not many who understand busking, at least.’

‘That’s a shame,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s kind of cool, isn’t it?’

His brow furrowed. ‘Are you asking me?’

‘No, I mean it is cool. I always thought busking was like begging. But then I learned how much work goes into it. In the city, I mean. You have to audition, right? Get a licence and everything for it.’

‘Oh, really?’ he replied sarcastically.

I was rambling. ‘And Covent Garden is, like, extra-exclusive. Special licence, strict time slots…’

‘That’s true.’ His tone was neutral but his expression became amused as I gave him a run-down of the procedure he had clearly already been through. It was full-on word vomit. I couldn’t stop.

‘… and you can only perform at specific times, like…’

‘Like now,’ he interrupted, nodding towards the knife-thrower, who was clearing the performance space.

‘Oh, crap!’ I stammered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You say that a lot.’ He was already picking up his amp and moving towards the centre of the space. ‘Sorry. You say “sorry” a lot.’

‘I’m British.’ I shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like; it’s a reflex. Especially abroad.’

‘You’re not from London?’

‘Yes and no,’ I replied, following him like a stray dog. The crowd from the knife-thrower had started to disperse, though it wouldn’t take long for a new one to gather, I expected, there were so many people in the piazza. With the Christmas tree sparkling nearby and the first flurries of fake snow scheduled to start any minute, it was a prime slot, I imagined.

‘I should leave you to your show.’ I began awkwardly stepping back. ‘Break a leg, I guess.’

‘You say that to actors, not buskers.’ He smiled faintly as he adjusted his mic.

‘What do you say to buskers then?’

‘Good luck.’

Funny, that.

‘Good luck!’ I added, before retreating into the crowd, hoping my face wasn’t turning the same shade of red as one of Josh’s Santa suits.

‘Evie!’ I heard Josh call. I turned to look for him, spotting him weaving through the crowd, holding two steaming cups of mulled wine. ‘Hey, I thought you were getting seats?’ He handed me a cup.

‘Sorry. I lost them, and then…’ I trailed off, glancing back towards the busker. ‘Let’s just say I’m feeling a little embarrassed right now.’

Josh raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, what did you do?’

‘I, uh… kind of told that guy over there that buskers were beggars and explained how hard it is to get a licence.’