Page 8 of Last Christmas in London

Josh’s eyes furrowed a little as he wondered why that was an issue, and then he realised I meant the busker currently preparing to perform and his eyes went wide. ‘You didn’t!’

‘Not on purpose!’

‘He probably knew you didn’t mean it.’

‘I hope so.’ I could feel my cheeks warming to the temperature of the wine.

Josh led me to the steps near the tree. ‘Come on, the snow’s starting soon. We’ll watch his show – you should really, after your terrible comments.’

I grumbled, but Josh dragged me along, and we sat as the crowd began to form around the busker.

‘One minute until the snow,’ Josh added, looking at his watch as the busker began to talk to his audience. I didn’t hear his introduction, so I missed his name. But what would I have done with it, had I heard? Stalk him on TikTok? Tag him in a video?

I got my phone out and began to record.

‘Get your content, girlie!’ Josh slurped his mulled wine as we listened to the singer. ‘He’s got a good voice,’ Josh commented, after the busker made a joke that caused a wave of laughter to trickle through the crowd. As ever, Josh’s assessment was right: the busker’s voice was rich and tuneful. He had a slightly Matthew Macfadyen-esque accent that put visions of Mr Darcy into my head, which I quickly shook away as I spun the camera around for a full view of the crowd.

The singer continued to speak to his audience: ‘I know what you’re all thinking, ‘Oh no, here comes another Covent Garden beggar. I mean, busker.’

Josh nearly did a spit take. I stopped recording and put my phone away as the busker’s gaze found mine, his smile full of mischief.

I smiled back, mouthing a silent sorry.

He winked before continuing, as he pulled the leather guitar strap over his shoulder. ‘But whatever money you do choose today will be donated to Crisis, a charity for the homeless.’

Josh’s second attempt to drink some mulled wine went as well as the first, and he burned his tongue.

‘Thank you for your kind thoughts, and Merry Christmas!’

Then, as the snow began to fall, the busker strummed the opening chords of ‘Last Christmas’ on his electric guitar and the song filled the square. The magic of the moment unfolded; phones went up, voices joined in, and the singer’s soulful voice turned the bustling piazza into something extraordinary.

‘George Michael, eat your heart out,’ Josh whispered, as the busker’s voice rang out, his tone a mixture of Tom Odell and Lewis Capaldi. ‘He’s brilliant.’

‘He is,’ I agreed. But I wasn’t paying attention to the snow or the song. I was too busy watching him.

Chapter 3

It’s official, alarm clocks and hangovers are mortal enemies. They can never be friends.

I had no recollection of getting back to my Travelodge in St Martin-in-the-Fields. There was a hazy memory of Josh bundling me into one of those extortionately priced pedicabs in Piccadilly, the kind decked out with cheetah-print fur, blasting an odd mix of Sabrina Carpenter and Cyndi Lauper at eardrum-bursting levels while you cling on for dear life in the back; like a fever-dream nightclub on wheels. I shuddered at the thought and groped blindly for my phone, which was screeching its 6.30 a.m. alarm.

Eventually – painfully – I silenced it, collapsing back against the pillow. A message from Josh stared back at me, sent at 3.00 a.m.

Josh: Did you get in okay?

I’d had three hours of sleep. Not great, not terrible. I could probably survive the day on that.

‘Why?’ I said into my pillow, my disgustingly acidic breath making me want to gag. It would have been a much calmer evening if I had just had that one cup of mulled wine with Josh, as we said we would. But then one turned into two, as my embarrassment over insulting the busker overcame me. And then, open to suggestion through the headiness of alcohol, I was convinced by Josh to go to Heaven after all. Needless to say, my Friday night was not spent clipping my nails in my hotel, but singing ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ with two drag queens and a BDSM enthusiast. The chains were great for percussion.

Groaning, I peeled myself off the bed. Last night’s clothes clung to me like a bad decision, and I desperately needed a shower and any kind of hydration. Shrugging off the straps of my dress, I shuffled around the room collecting my washbag and a slightly damp towel from the back of a chair, waiting for my dress to fall before I reached the bathroom. I still had tights on and, with a hangover-induced lack of care, I hooked a finger into an already trashy ladder and ripped them off me Hulk-style. If this were a romance novel, it might’ve seemed sexy, but in reality – panda eyes down to my chin – it was nothing short of vulgar.

The shower lasted longer than usual – I needed it – but, by the time I stepped out, I felt marginally human again. By 7.30, I was dressed in a classic Evie Frost ensemble: black jeans with flower patches hand-sewn onto the back pockets, an extra-fluffy jumper that shed like a nervous cat, and for a festive – if unprofessional – touch, a Santa hat with diamante sparkles. You couldn’t miss me in a crowd, even in Christmas-mobbed Leicester Square.

I grabbed my phone, holding it up in selfie mode.

‘Good morning, my lovelies! Today is a very exciting day – it’s the first of many tech rehearsals,’ I said, channelling my inner Anna from Frozen. ‘I’ve got a great feeling about today, and I can’t wait to take you along with me. So, without further ado, let’s get going!’ I saved the video, popped the phone into my bag, and promptly downed a bottle of water, two paracetamol, and rubbed a liberal dose of menthol headache balm onto my forehead.

‘Good morning!’ The hotel receptionist greeted me at the front desk as I came downstairs with my oversized handbag and my gaze deep in my phone, looking at today’s itinerary.