Page 9 of Last Christmas in London

‘Morning, Andy!’

‘Busy day ahead?’

‘Yes. Lots more guests arriving for the holidays today.’

I paused at the exit to face him. ‘Good luck! I hope they’re not humbug.’

He chuckled. ‘I hope so too.’

I stepped out of the automatic doors and emerged onto the street. London in the early morning had a specific kind of magic. It was too early for the masses to have descended into the city centre, but there was an air of anticipation. Porters and security guards were setting up signs outside the National Gallery, artisans and chefs were arranging their festive stalls in nearby Trafalgar Square, and a street sweeper was whistling ‘Step into Christmas’ as he picked up crisp packets and beer cans with his grabber on the corner of the road.

‘Morning!’ I shouted, as I pulled out my headphones – which also acted as earmuffs – and walked past, taking a quick video of my surroundings. The sweeper looked up, startled by my cheer.

As I made my way from St Martin’s Lane towards the Strand, I slipped on my headphones and hit ‘Play’ on my signature Christmas playlist. Wham!, Mariah Carey, the Ronettes, and Brenda Lee crooned into my ears as I hummed down the street.

I had plenty of tasks to tackle before meeting Pim at the Savoy at 9.00. First, her dry-cleaning, then breakfast, followed by a quick trip to the newsagent’s for her essential reading material, as she can’t eat breakfast without the latest news from gossip magazines, despite me showing her time and time again how to use Instagram.

The dry cleaners weren’t technically open for another two hours, but years of working for someone like Pim had taught me to make inconvenience feel worthwhile. And I found a genuine smile, an easy-to-deal-with attitude, and a generous tip was more than enough to make people feel comfortable doing the odd favour for a relatively well-known figure, even if they were really just dealing with me. I might have seemed to pop up out of nowhere, but being polite, grateful, and mindful of people’s time went a long way, and I genuinely enjoyed getting to know them.

As I approached the shop, the dry-cleaner was already outside, cigarette in hand, smoke curling into the frosty air.

‘Aha! You’re late,’ he said, glancing at his watch. It was 8.05.

‘I was letting you have a lie-in,’ I replied, following him into the shop, where his perpetually bored teenage daughter perched on the counter with three large dry-cleaning bags draped over her lap.

‘Here you are,’ he said, sweeping the bags off her knees and gesturing to her to get down. She rolled her eyes and slouched into the chair behind the counter.

‘You’re a dream,’ I said, juggling the weighty bags while fumbling to open my phone’s card function to tap his machine.

‘When should I expect the next lot?’

‘Probably the day after tomorrow. She’s going shopping and she hates wearing clothes others might have tried on until they’ve been properly cleaned.’

He tore the receipt from the machine and handed it to me with a bemused shake of his head. ‘You know what we call that kind of person? A diva.’

‘I thought you had heard of Pim Hardcastle.’

He smirked, pausing to hold the door open for me. ‘Until the day after tomorrow then.’

‘You can catch up on some sleep in the meantime,’ I said, shifting the bags.

‘Me? How about you?’

‘Wouldn’t that be nice.’ I waved awkwardly and made my way further down the Strand to a tiny bistro tucked into a side street. Its front was dark and uninviting, the closed sign still firmly in place, so I slipped round the back. Like the dry cleaners, I had spent some time coaxing my way into the kitchen of a well-rated, family-run restaurant, reliant on light-hearted humour and easy-going discussions about my time in Greece to make the owners feel excited about cooking for the one and only Pim Hardcastle.

A goods-in door was open. Over my headphones, I caught snatches of a Greek rock band blasting from within the kitchen.

‘Michalis!’ I called out. ‘Michalis!’

The sous-chef looked up mid-grill, spatula in hand.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, flipping the halloumi expertly. ‘You here for breakfast?’

‘For Pim’s breakfast. She said what she had last time was…’ I hesitated, translating Pim’s passable and filling into something more complimentary. ‘Delicious. The cheese pie with nuts and honey?’

‘Sfakianopita.’

‘That’s the one.’ I hoped it was the one. I may have spent three sunny months living in a hostel with a fantastic view of the Acropolis, but I had never mastered the basics of the beautiful Greek language.