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Chapter Eighteen

So, as it turns out, spending time at a Christmas market in Scotland is not the relaxing experience you might have been led to believe. Not when you have a Secret Santa present to buy for a brother-in-law who is notoriously difficult to buy for, or when, as a result of said Secret Santa, you realized that you had a family of seven to buy presents for the day before Christmas Eve. Which is exactly the situation Mel now finds herself in, trying to get round all the stalls in record speed while at the same time realizing that it is hopeless—because she can only buy Mark’s Secret Santa present from the market, can’t she? If she buys everyone else’s presents from here, they’ll know she only thought of them last minute, won’t they?

Around her, there is the tinny sound of Christmas music coming from God knows where, and despite the freezing cold, the slushy snow on the streets, she is hot and sweaty under her coat collar as she fights through the crowds—not as bad as in London by a long shot, but still that definite Christmas chaos. The smell of roast chestnuts and gingerbread lingers in the air in a way that would be comforting if it weren’t for the panic that is currently clutching her insides.

Why—why did she not think of this beforehand? She should have remembered to buy them all presents before she left London, for God’s sake. But no, instead, as Susan was handing around the hat of names this morning, while Kristen explained to Freya what a Secret Santa was, the penny had finally dropped. On Christmas Day, when everyone else is giving out presents, she will have nothing to show for herself. And Finn won’t have thought of it, will he? So here she is, barely able to see what’s on the stalls because she’s moving so fast, catching sight of carved wooden reindeers, Scottish shortbread, Christmas ties. Fuck it, maybe she should just get Mark a tie.

Her phone buzzes in her gloved hand and she looks down to see a message from Priya. Thank God.

Okay, the thing with Finn at the pub—I think that is going to take a proper conversation, so let’s deal with the immediate problem at hand first. Presents. You could just ask Finn to put your name on the ones he’s already bought—assuming he’s done that. It’s the least he could do. But, failing that, what about:

Freya—a toy or a book. Anything cuddly. Kids are easy, buy the first age-appropriate thing you see.

Hattie—a gimmicky thing? Like something with a slogan on.

Kristen—a scarf? Generic, but that’s all I’ve got. Or, better, buy a few bottles of wine for Mark and Kristen as a joint present, then you don’t have to worry about Mark.

Dylan—never met him, obvs. Some popcorn—a movie-star reference? JK. But seriously, all I’m coming up with is hair gel or an expensive watch—what do movie stars like???

Susan—she won’t care, in a nice way. A candle? A book—isn’t she in a book club? If that’s too boring, why don’t you download an experience voucher or something?

Needless to say, do not buy Finn anything.

It is to-the-point, practical advice, which is just what Mel needs right now. Though she hasn’t actually answered any of the questions Mel asked about Australia—which she deliberately asked after sending her a panicked what the hell do I buy everyone message. Is that deliberate? Maybe she’s just focused more on Mel’s crisis at the moment. Mel hopes she doesn’t feel like she can’t talk to her about her life anymore—maybe she doesn’t want to throw happiness in her face?

She’s looking down at her phone as she walks, starting to type a reply to Priya to thank her—plus reiterate her questions about Australia—when a solid body slams into hers, sending her backward a few steps. Hands reach out to steady her, just as she scowls up to whoever it is—and sees Finn looking down at her. Well, of course.

He looks down at her hands—which are currently empty of bags. He, however, is holding a giant ridiculous reindeer toy—so he either got Freya or Hattie. “Secret Santa not going so well?” he asks.

“I got Mark,” she blurts out. Wow, there is way too much adrenaline coursing around her body right now for what should be a simple shopping expedition—she feels a little dizzy.

“Okay, so not so secret.”

“I have no idea what to get him.” Her voice is too high, too panicked, but she can’t seem to stop it. “I saw a stall selling Christmas ties, but I just couldn’t do it.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s—”

“And I haven’t got any presents.”

He frowns. “I don’t—”

“I haven’t got anything for anyone, Finn. Even your mum. Even you! It’s going to look weird.” She tries to take her voice down an octave, can’t seem to get there. “When they see the lack of presents, they are going to know we’re lying about being back together and it’s all going to be ruined and your mum will be sad and—”

He takes hold of her hands, as if he’s trying to ground her. “Mel, honestly, it’s—”

But she is breathing far too hard, too fast. She thinks, dimly, that she might be about to have a panic attack, which strikes her as odd, given she’s never had one before. But she’s definitely not breathing properly, the cold air scraping down her throat in an attempt to feed her oxygen. She is definitely spinning, or the market is spinning around her—she’s not quite sure which. And Finn’s blurry face is definitely looking at her with alarming concern as he drags her toward a row of picnic benches near a food stall.

“Sit down, Mel.” His voice is almost harsh, full of command, and he shoves her down on the bench, which is a good thing, because her legs feel like they might be about to give way.

“I can’t—” It comes out as a gasp, even as she’s not sure, exactly, what she’s referring to. Can’t buy presents? Can’t be here? Can’t breathe?

“You can,” he says, still in that forceful voice. Well, it’s a good thing he thinks so. “Breathe, Mel,” he says, and his hand comes up to stroke her back. He lifts her chin with his other hand so her eyes meet his. “Breathe,” he says again. And with his eyes on hers, with the feel of his hand on her back, she finds herself steadying, the world around her settling.

Around them, chatter and laughter rise in waves, along with the sound of bagpipes somewhere in the distance. No one nearby seems to have noticed her complete breakdown, for which she is grateful. No one apart from Finn.

Maybe she should feel embarrassed. But the thing is it’s Finn. And she can’t bring herself to be embarrassed. No matter how things ended, she knows he won’t judge her for this. It’s alarming, how certain that knowledge is, when she should be finding reasons to hate him, to hold on to that feeling so she can walk away unscathed at the end of this holiday.

She lets one final breath out on a whoosh and drops her gaze from his. He releases his hold on her chin, though the echo of his touch lingers.