Page 95 of Last Christmas in London

Christmas seemed to pass in a flash, true to the adage that time flies when you’re having fun.

Christmas pudding was served as an episode of Doctor Who was dissected with many arguments over who was the best Doctor. I will forever be Team Tennant, but Josh and Bob were vocal fans of Tom Baker and Denise was a rogue Paul McGann fan.

‘He’s barely in it!’

‘They did him dirty!’

I turned off my phone after the sixth email alert from Elijah. Denise was right, it could wait. I wanted to enjoy this Christmas and, boy, did I.

By the time we went to bed, all of us were waddling we were so full of food.

‘I apologise in advance for what may occur this evening,’ Megan had told me on the way up to her bedroom. She was yawning and burping simultaneously. ‘I had about sixteen Brussels sprouts.’

Oh, dear God!

‘Maybe I’ll sleep in my old room tonight,’ I told her, already dragging the air mattress from the floor of her old bedroom. ‘With Josh.’

‘Yay! Sleepover.’ Josh clapped, and then whimpered, ‘I feel like a beached whale.’

The springs of my old bed rang out as he fell onto it.

Entering my teenage bedroom was a flashback, but not a particularly detailed one.

It was hardly ‘my’ room at all. I never put my stamp on it, despite Denise and Bob always encouraging me to. Unlike Megan’s room, which still held the evidence of multiple boy band posters, edgy floor rugs and doodles across her bedroom furniture, my room was neat and tidy with nothing on the walls except for some basic artwork Denise helped me to choose at IKEA when she took me shopping to ‘find my style’. What ten-year-old has the style of ‘Farmhouse’ or ‘Kitsch Kitchen’?

I never allowed myself to find my style, I was too concerned about behaving and not upsetting the flow of the family just because I had become part of it. Now I regretted it.

I refused to be sad about the past on Christmas Day, though, not after the wonderful day we’d had. Besides, next on the calendar was New Year’s Eve, and that was a time for looking forward.

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ I told Josh, but he was already snoring. I forgot how loudly he snored, but was reminded at 3.00, and 4.00… and 5.00 a.m., until finally, at 6.00 a.m., I gave up and reached for my phone, turning it on for the first time since the previous day.

As predicted, a flurry of emails from Elijah buzzed on my screen, which I promptly swiped away, and then there was one text alert:

‘Hey, it’s Simon.’

Underneath there was another text.

‘Simon Holland. The busker.’

‘I got your number from Doug – he’s the one who throws knives.’

‘It’s his job. He’s a busker who throws knives. Not just a regular guy who throws knives.’

‘Not that there are many of those – not regular guys at least.’

‘Anyway… it’s Simon Holland and I wanted to give you my number and say merry Christmas.’

A grin so large erupted on my face that for a moment I wondered if it would rip my lips. I knew I was back in my teenage room, but the giggle that escaped me was downright girlish! I was five seconds away from hugging my phone to my chest.

Checking the time, I realised I could leave him a text and say a belated merry Christmas, it wasn’t too early.

So I did.

‘Hey, it’s Evie Frost. Merry Christmas to you too. I hope you had a good one.’

As soon as I pressed ‘Send’, a lump the size of a piece of coal landed in my stomach as I remembered about his mum, and his dislike of the Christmas season as a result of her loss.

But all fear of upsetting him was removed when my phone suddenly began to ring. Out loud. I had knocked it off ‘Silent’ when I was texting.