Page 84 of Last Christmas in London

‘One of my errands!’ I called back, gathering the large travel bag I had already packed for the venue. The other errands were of a more personal nature.

Chapter 25

The staff at the theatre were all in a tizzy when I arrived, and I had to put out a few fires about not enough programmes being printed, confirming which guests would need the red-carpet arrivals, and ensuring the box seat attendees each had their complimentary Pimm’s upon entry.

I left all Pim’s belongings in her dressing room, removed all the drooping red roses and loose leaves from the bouquets sent with well-wishes from admirers and friends, and then checked my watch. I had three hours until the show began. Just enough time to get ready and sort out one pressing issue.

Exiting Covent Garden Tube station on Christmas Eve was tantamount to completing a second obstacle course. I ducked under and jumped over gift bags, nursing several bruises on my elbows and legs from the remaining bags I missed. It was the retail version of a game of Sardines until I reached St Paul’s Church.

I looked around the buskers, who seemed to have multi-plied, given the day, but I couldn’t see Simon anywhere. He wasn’t skulking by the Christmas tree, enjoying a show, nor in the church, people watching.

Glancing at my watch and realising I needed to hurry, I found an off-duty busker packing up his knife-throwing props.

‘Hey! Excuse me!’ I said, approaching him. He looked up, his bobble hat jingling. ‘Great hat.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, giving his head an extra vigorous shake for effect.

‘Do you know Simon?’

‘Oh, aye,’ he said with a strong Scottish brogue.

‘Is he performing today?’

The busker looked suspicious. ‘How d’y’know Simon?’

I opened my mouth to reply but didn’t have a ready-made answer, so stuttered for a moment as the busker’s eyes narrowed.

‘I’m… uh… I’m – we ran the Pudding Race together!’ Given that Ethan, Simon’s other busker friend, had built a crowd around the race to specifically watch Simon in full Grinch mode run while carrying a Christmas pudding, I made an educated guess that another busker who also knew Simon would be well aware of the anecdote. ‘I was dressed as Jovie, he was the Grinch.’

He immediately started to laugh, and my body relaxed slightly.

‘Ah, you’re the lass that persuaded him to give up his dignity.’

‘And he did me proud – but do you know where he is? I really need to speak to him.’

The busker shook his head. ‘Not today, love,’ he smiled, still laughing. ‘He never performs on Christmas Eve.’

‘Oh? Really?’

The busker’s bobble-hatted head jingled jauntily. ‘No, it’s the anniversary of his mum’s passing. He must have told you.’ He clearly assumed I knew more about Simon than I actually did. ‘He works on Christmas Day, but not today. I think it’s the only day he takes off all Christmas. Glutton for punishment, our Simon.’

‘His mum?’

The busker nodded. ‘Aye, love.’

A chill that had nothing to do with the December air settled over me. I knew Simon had lost his mum, but I had never realised how close to Christmas it had been. He’d never said as much. And now, suddenly, it made sense why he threw himself into busking for charity in December and only December, why he worked relentlessly through the season, barely stopping to breathe.

Christmas wasn’t just Christmas for him. It was the time of year his world had changed forever.

Now it all felt glaringly obvious.

Throwing himself into the noise and chaos as if trying to drown something out. The way he had brushed off conversations about Christmas traditions with a joke or a change of subject.

The way, just last week, when we had been in Covent Garden watching the carols, he had turned to me and said, ‘You love Christmas, don’t you?’ in a voice that had been both wistful and something else, something I hadn’t recognised at the time.

Grief.

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. ‘Right.’