Page 81 of Last Christmas in London

The kiss.

‘Only You’ scoring the moment I would never have even dreamed of; it was too perfect.

The mere memory made my chest ache with wordless longing as the feelings washed over me – the cold air, the soft glow of the rink lights, the way his hands had settled at my waist, sure and steady. The way he had kissed me like he meant it. Like he felt something.

I should have stayed. I should have said something, rather than bristle and run when he said something I didn’t want to hear. But instead, I had run, because that’s what I did. Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know how to want something and not immediately talk myself out of it.

I glanced at the time. After 21.00. Too late to go to Covent Garden. The busking would be over. And we’d never exchanged numbers – he had pointed it out himself, half amused, half exasperated.

And now I regretted it.

I missed him. That’s why I had returned to the rink, only once after, to find the magic again – and hoping to run into him and reclaim that perfect evening, to correct its ending – but he wasn’t there. And the magic wasn’t the same without him. Though viewers had commented about how dazzling it looked, how they wanted to visit, how they could feel the love I had for this city. Maybe more than the city?

And I did. I really did. I set my phone aside and picked up the next gift to distract myself. Megan’s gift. A beautiful leather journal, embossed with her initials. Josh was getting a ridiculous cookbook I’d found in a second-hand shop, called Meals Men Can’t Mess Up – he’d either laugh or be deeply offended. Possibly both. For Pim, a thick, cable-knit scarf in a deep forest green. She always complained about the cold but refused to wear anything practical. Denise and Bob were getting a beautiful, framed print of a London street at Christmas, the kind that felt warm and nostalgic, like a memory you weren’t sure was yours.

I placed the last gift in the pile, stretching my legs out in front of me as I turned my attention back to the documentary playing in the background. Michael Holland was standing on a wind-battered cliff, hair messy from the sea breeze, speaking passionately about the history of smugglers along the Cornish coast.

He was good. Really good. Even if he came across as a bit of a dick sometimes.

There was a sharpness to him, a slight arrogance in the way he spoke. But he knew how to hold an audience, how to make you care. And he cared, that much was obvious. His enthusiasm bled through the screen, making history feel alive, instead of something buried in textbooks.

Curious, I picked up my phone again, fingers idly typing his name into Google.

Michael Holland.

It was there, in one of the first articles. His wife had died of cancer in her early fifties. I frowned, scrolling further. He had a son. No name, no details, just a passing mention.

I sat back, chewing my lip.

It was strange the way we only ever saw fragments of people’s lives. On-screen, he was confident, opinionated, larger than life. Off-screen, he was a man who had lost his wife too young, he was a father raising a son. It made him more human, I supposed.

I dropped my phone onto the bed sheets, my thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely. But almost immediately, my phone buzzed.

I picked it up, expecting another outfit update from Josh. Instead, it was another email from Elijah, chasing me for a reply.

I stared at it for a moment before locking my phone and tossing it onto the coffee table.

It could wait.

Everything could wait.

For now, I just wanted to close my eyes and pretend I was still on the ice, with Simon’s hands on my waist and the world slowing down around us.

Tomorrow, I’d figure everything else out.

Chapter 24

As expected, the day of Pim’s event was hectic.

Pim had been in a near-constant state of a nervous breakdown since the moment I arrived. The grand suite, which had once felt spacious, now seemed impossibly small – crammed with stylists, make-up artists, assistants, and various hangers-on, who all seemed to be talking over each other.

‘What if I forget everything I prepared?’ she kept asking, pacing about the room barefoot on the plush carpet, as the stylists tried desperately to get her to stand still long enough to finish her contour or zip up her gown.

We were still a few hours away from the show, but with the travel and time it took to get Pim ready, it was better to get her initial make-up and dressing done now before she got to the theatre.

‘You’ve got all your notes and Emily won’t let you slip.’ Emily was currently sitting in her own suite going over talking points with her publicist, like a true pro. She was calm, professional, and, unlike Pim, not currently causing a make-up artist to silently beg the heavens for patience. ‘Both of you have rehearsed this to the nines. It’ll be great.’

‘It’s just muscle memory,’ a stylist said, somewhat desperately, as she held onto Pim by a zip, trying not to let it slip so that Pim was left standing in only her knickers and nipple covers.