Page 57 of Not Just for Christmas

I groaned. ‘That’s all we need. I’ve got calves due any minute.’

‘Ooh,’ said Caroline, as she prepared to leave. ‘Almost forgot. Lunch tomorrow, Wild Swim Girls. Think about it, I’ll even pick you up, if you like.’

I shook my head. ‘Thanks but I can’t. Have fun.’

‘Have a word with her, Dylan,’ said Caroline, kissing his cheek. ‘For some reason she needs convincing to have a good time these days.’

Dylan narrowed his eyes. ‘Really? Not the Lucy I remember who had a limbo dancing competition on the beach for her thirtieth birthday.’

‘Exactly,’ said Caroline, prodding me in the chest.

I conceded a smile. ‘Ancient history.’

‘I seem to recall you trying to infiltrate the Wild Swim Girls too once, Dylan,’ Caroline said. ‘Feel free to join us.’

Dylan groaned and smacked his hand to his forehead. ‘Please don’t mention the—’

‘Bikini?’ she deadpanned. ‘OK, sure.’

My throat tightened at the image of Jack and Dylan turning up at one of our summer meet-ups years ago. They’d dressed up in bikini tops and ridiculous wigs and put on high-pitched voices. Jack had loved it because I was trying to stay cross with him for gatecrashing a strictly girls-only event but the sight of them splashing in their bras and long hair was too funny. I think Dylan had loved it because when he was with us, away from the spotlight, he could properly relax and be himself without the pressure of being famous for a while.

‘Just think about it!’ she said with a final wave.

‘What now?’ Dylan asked once the three of them had dashed off.

I nodded in the direction of the village. ‘We join the throng, see Santa and get s’mores from the Christmas market?’

‘Yay!’ chimed Sam, holding on tightly to Dylan’s chin.

Fifteen minutes later, we were fighting our way through the crowd on the way back to the car. Sam and Dylan were tucking into sticky s’mores, and I was sipping piping-hot, kirsch-flavoured mulled wine.

‘I don’t want bedtime,’ said Sam happily, ‘I want today to carry on.’

‘That makes me very happy.’ I looked at my boy and felt as if my heart might melt.

‘Then I’m happy too,’ said Dylan, as we exchanged complicit smiles.

Everything about Sam’s body language tonight told me how content he was; his hands waving in the air while he told us some story or other, his eyes shining, his feet barely able to stay still. He was unrecognisable from the boy he’d been last Christmas and the year before that. There had been days when I didn’t think either of us would smile again, and yet here we were, surviving, living, and in Sam’s case at least, thriving.

‘Come on, let’s stick together,’ said Dylan, taking each of our hands.

For the next couple of minutes I concentrated on moving with the flow of the crowd towards the car park, rather than the fact mine and Dylan’s bodies were pressed against one another. This was just a practical arrangement, I reminded myself, nothing more. It made sense to hold hands. Just until we got to the car.

‘Before we go, have we got a few minutes?’ Dylan asked when we got to the top of the high street.

I nodded. ‘Why?’

‘I just want to go in here.’ He pointed to the surf shop.

My stomach clenched. Jack had been on first-name terms with all the staff in there at one time. I hadn’t been in the shop since his accident.

‘What’s up?’ Dylan asked, sensing my hesitation.

‘I’d rather not go in.’

‘You Brits might be brave enough to go in the water in swimwear and a Santa hat on Christmas Day, but this Brooklyn boy definitely isn’t. I’m going to need a wetsuit.’

‘I’m not brave,’ I began. ‘Not at all. In fact, I’m not planning on—’