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It Won’t be Christmas Without You
Beth Reekles
From the author of the smash hit Netflix romcom The Kissing Booth! Eloise, a self-confessed Christmas obsessive, can’t wait for the big day. Devoted to her Michael Bublé playlist, she’s organising the school nativity play and even her gorgeous Grinch of a neighbour, James, can’t get her down. Her workaholic twin sister, Cara, on the other hand, plans to work over the holiday – and figure out what secrets her seemingly-perfect boyfriend George might be keeping from her. The sisters used to be close but since Cara moved to London, everything’s been different. Only, Eloise isn’t giving up just yet, and with a white Christmas on the cards, Cara can’t fail to be moved by the magic of the season … can she?



It Won’t Be Christmas Without You
BETH REEKLES


One More Chapter
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Beth Reekles 2019
Cover images© Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com)
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Beth Reekles asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008354497
Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008354480
Version: 2019-08-01
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue1562c85-88ae-57d3-a514-472e2bcb0816)
Title Page (#u66c2a8e4-cb61-56d4-9721-bdec61b45b70)
Copyright (#ub43e559a-33e4-59db-8698-4c168cae08ef)
Dedication (#ud51e6b96-90fb-5396-b111-dd5180501abe)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
For my sister, my tree-decorating and singalong partner. Love ya, Kat.

Twenty-five days to Christmas
Chapter 1 (#u1196083a-b3dd-5518-be27-f373491419cc)
Eloise stared so hard into the camera that Cara tapped on her iPad screen, wondering if the connection had cut out. But then her twin blinked.
“What do you mean, you’re not coming home for Christmas?”
Cara’s face twisted. She knew Eloise would react like this. She’d braced herself for a screaming match, for tantrums, for tears and threats of never speaking to her again.
But she plastered on a big smile, noticing that her lipstick needed touching up. “I mean, technically, I will be. I’ll just be there a bit … later. It’s not the end of the world!”
She really didn’t see what the big deal was.
Eloise pursed her lips, eyes closing, head tilted down. It was a look of grave disappointment, punctuated by a slow shake of the head. She looks exactly like Mum when she does that, Cara thought.
“That’s not the point. Christmas is – well, it’s Christmas. It’s the whole holiday season. My tree’s been up for weeks. And you’re going to spend Christmas morning on a bus.”
“It’s not like there’s much public transport running on Christmas Day. And it’s the cheapest fare I could get,” Cara admitted, before she could second-guess telling her sister that part. It wasn’t as though she didn’t spend a bloody fortune already, living in London. She rented one room in a five-bedroom house. Three bedrooms, technically – but who needed a dining room, or a loft, when you could convert them to bedrooms and rent them out at extortionate rates to desperate graduates trying to kick-start their careers?
Predictably, Eloise let out a snide bark of laughter, her phone screen tilting back towards the sky before she realigned it with her face. “Oh, of course. I hope you remembered to get yourself on Santa’s Naughty List this year, Car, or you’ll have to go buy that lump of coal to warm the house yourself.”
Not for the first time in this conversation, Cara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. But her cheeks did colour, and her jaw worked furiously. So what if she was trying to save money? (And by save, she really meant ‘not be broke’.) And so what if she wanted to go all out proving herself in her job to try and get a promotion in the New Year? Dave Steers was leaving his editorial role in January and she knew for a fact they were going to recruit internally, and they were looking for someone with fresh, new ideas. Which could be her.
She’d worked so bloody hard over the past eighteen-odd months since graduating. Just four months into the job at the online lifestyle magazine and they’d run with one of her pitches to work with a handful of vloggers she’d suggested. Then, just a few months ago, they’d let her head up a campaign with a hugely popular mental health charity (an idea she’d pitched in the first place), with Dave Steers lending her a hand.
He knew she was gunning for his job. So did everyone else.
And if they wanted someone to fill his shoes while he was out of office for the week leading up to Christmas – well, she was more than happy to stuff on eight pairs of socks and fill those shoes.
Eloise was ranting at her while Cara tried to get a handle on her temper and not say something she regretted. Eloise was prattling on about her lack of Christmas spirit (Had she even worn her reindeer antlers yet this year? Her Santa hat, at least?), her workaholic attitude, the fact that they’d barely seen each other since that mini-break to Amsterdam in October their parents got them as a late birthday present, and what about their parents, and –
“And it’s not like I’ll be spending it with Josh this year,” Eloise added, her tone quiet and sorry for herself.
Wow. She’d actually done it. She’d gone for the blackmail card. Guilting her twin with her own broken heart.
(Although, judging by the myriad of catastrophic Tinder conversations Eloise was always forwarding her screenshots of, Cara was willing to bet Eloise’s heart was well on the mend.)
Cara arched an eyebrow at her sister. “Really? You want to play dirty? Fine. How about this: I can’t afford to come home. I’m a poor graduate –”
“Content editorial assistant,” Eloise interjected.
“– with a space heater to keep my shitty London loft room warm because the landlord won’t fix the heating, and bugger all savings –”
“I did tell you I don’t need a Christmas present this year. Especially one from Selfridges.”
“Don’t be stupid – you love that Bumble and bumble stuff. Anyway, that’s not the point. I have to work. I need this promotion. People twice my age would kill for it. I’m lucky they’re such a new company and they’re willing to give me a chance like this. I’d have to work twenty years somewhere else for this kind of opportunity. If it means missing out on Dad’s bacon sarnies and stockings on Christmas morning, well, that’s fine by me.”
Eloise gawped at her. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
She was going to miss Christmas morning at home, she knew, but she wasn’t about to show Eloise any sign of weakness. The second her twin found a chink in her armour, she’d wear her down. And Eloise just didn’t get it. She never had. Everything was always so easy for her.
Cara sighed, tapped her screen again to check the time. “Look, love, I’ve got to go. I need to freshen up before I go out.”
“Is this another date with the dashing George?” Eloise’s face finally brightened up, the sullen look disappearing in an instant at the inkling of gossip. “This will be – what, your fifth date now? Where’s he taking you? Can it possibly top the couple’s cooking class he took you to? Or, no, I take that back. Date number two was my favourite. Ice skating.”
“Ice skating was a disaster. He sprained his wrist!”
“And you spent all night together in A&E laughing about it and getting to know each other. He said he only picked it because you said how much you like it. Although I’m still convinced he knew how bad he was going to be and only chose it as an excuse to hold your hand.”
Cara grinned. She’d thought exactly the same thing from the second George had wobbled out onto the ice, grasping at the side and looking at her pleadingly until she’d taken his arm.
“They’re playing White Christmas at some little cinema. We’re getting dinner – probably just a Pizza Express or something, I reckon; he’s not mentioned anything special – and then going to see the film.”
A little of the sullen look returned, Eloise’s brow furrowing. “Sure that’s not too holly jolly for you?”
“Right. Thank you. I’m going now.”
“Text me and let me know how the date goes!” Eloise shouted, leaning into the camera, as if she could force herself through it and be heard even if Cara hit the red hang-up button. Cara couldn’t help but laugh at the beyond unflattering angle, giving her a great view of three chins and right up her sister’s nostrils. “And use protection!”
“We’re not sleeping together!” Cara protested, shouting just as loud, and then blushing quickly, having forgotten her housemates for a moment. At least two of them were home: she’d heard their footsteps clattering around the house.
“Well, excuse me. I thought you had a five-date rule.”
Cara watched her ears turn red on the screen. “That’s a personal guideline. Not a guarantee. And it’s not like he’s one of those guys who pushes for it. It’s all totally PG right now. Which is just fine with me.”
Eloise ignored her squirming, instead singing, “You lurve him, you want to kiss him, you want to –”
“I’ll text you later.”
London was pretty at Christmas, in its own way. There were no rolling hills that might get a dusting of snow, no roads lined with thick rows of trees that would droop heavy with frost. And the Tube – God, the Tube was a nightmare at the worst of times. And Oxford Street, for that matter.
But there was something uplifting about the solidarity of the commuters and the tourists when Christmas tunes carried out of almost every pair of headphones and out of every shop front.
She’d been giddy with it last year. Eloise had come to visit for two days before they’d got the train back home together, and they’d spent an evening doing late-night Christmas shopping, taking dozens of photos and selfies for Instagram amidst all the lights and window displays on Oxford Street.
And it was still pretty, but this year it seemed to have lost a little of the magic.
Maybe it was because she wasn’t going home for Christmas. Maybe it was because she and her housemates had all been too busy to sort out decorating the house. Maybe it was because she’d not even watched Love Actually yet.
Or maybe Eloise was right. Maybe she was turning into Scrooge.
Although she was sure Scrooge wouldn’t have minded a free glass of prosecco on a Christmas voucher offer at Prezzo. She grinned at George as they clinked glasses over their pizzas.
(And damn if he didn’t have the cutest smile. Those dimples would make anybody swoon.)
He worked in finance, for some big firm she’d seen at all the career fairs at uni. He was two years older than her, and she’d met him through one of her housemates. (So old school, Eloise had joked, promptly regaling her sister with another story of a disastrous date with some guy she’d met through Facebook.)
They’d been seeing each other, for want of a better term, for the past month. They both worked a lot, totally threw themselves into their jobs and loved it, and they both understood when the other wanted to postpone a date to just catch up on some sleep. Or stay late at the office.
Maybe they were a perfect match.
She never really thought of herself as a hopeless romantic, but Cara really wanted that to be the case. She’d never met anyone who made her believe in the concept of Mr Right until she’d met George.
There was that guy she’d dated briefly for three months in the spring. She’d known him from school and seen online he was working in the city, and they’d chatted online for a while before agreeing to meet. He hadn’t been able to handle her working so much, and Cara had shrugged him off like a cold. She didn’t need that kind of negativity around her.
But George – George was sweet. George used online voucher codes to nab them discounted pizza and free prosecco, a bargain-hunter after her own heart. George was clean-shaven with sweeping, always-immaculate blond hair, and she’d yet to see him without his Barbour jacket. He was the kind of guy she’d like to take home to her parents. (At some point. Maybe after date number eleven. If she ever had a weekend where she wasn’t so exhausted or busy she could go back home to visit.)
And he was beyond easy to talk to. There was always something to talk about with him. And he was funny.
It was almost a shame she wasn’t going home for Christmas. Maybe she’d have asked him to come visit, so she could introduce him to her parents.
Calm down, idiot, she told herself, getting carried away with her daydreams as George told her about his office’s upcoming Christmas party, reliving anecdotes from last year’s. You’ve gone on five dates with the guy, counting this one. And texting him every day doesn’t really count. You don’t even know if he sees you as his girlfriend yet.
Eloise would’ve called her a cotton-headed ninny-muggins.
But then, Eloise quoted Christmas films all year-round. Eloise would have mince pies at Easter if she had her way.
Almost as if he could read her mind, George segued from his absurdly drunk boss at last year’s do to, “But I haven’t even asked you yet – what are your plans for Christmas? When are you off home to the family?”
She didn’t beat around the bush this time, like she had when she’d discussed it with Eloise. She just smiled, laughed breezily, and lifted her prosecco glass. “Oh, I’m not. Well, not until Christmas afternoon. I’m working through Christmas Eve.”
George’s head tilted to the side. “Is this to do with Dave’s job?”
She nodded, grateful he didn’t question her Christmas spirit. This was why she liked George so much. He got it. “Yeah. I need to show them I’m serious if I want to be in with a real chance.”
“That makes sense. And I bet you’ll actually get peace and quiet going home Christmas Day. The trains’ll be mad the couple of days before, with everyone trying to get home.”
Cara’s eyes widened, and she gestured a little too enthusiastically with her glass, almost sloshing prosecco everywhere. George smiled at it, eyes twinkling as they crinkled at the corners. “Exactly! This is what I mean! And it’s like, so much cheaper – but according to Eloise I’m just being Scrooge. I’m not, right?”
“Absolutely not! I’m staying in the city over the holidays completely. All my mates will be around for New Year’s, and I’ve got so much work to try and get through – year end deadlines, you know. My dad and step-mum said they’d like to get some winter sun, so I told them to go ahead. Might as well, eh?”
Okay, now maybe that was a step too far. “You told your parents to go away for Christmas? You won’t see them at all?”
“They’re going to come visit in the New Year. I’ve got a few days off. I’ll take them to see a show; they always like that.” He tore a pizza crust in half, concentrating on it for a moment before looking up at her through his fair eyelashes. “You could come with us, if you like. If that’s not too presumptuous. I’ve –” He cut off with a laugh, blushing. “I’ve told them all about you. Is that weird? I know we’ve only had a few dates but …”
“Oh, my God, no, I’ve done exactly the same thing with my parents about you!” Maybe the prosecco had made her bold, or maybe she was just excited to hear he was as keen on her as she was on him. Cara grinned at how relieved he looked to hear it.
They finished up their meal and walked hand-in-hand to the cinema around the corner, and Cara thought the lights all looked a little more magical already.
She wasn’t being a Scrooge. Christmas in London was already looking up.

Twenty days to Christmas
Chapter 2 (#u1196083a-b3dd-5518-be27-f373491419cc)
“You need a hand with that?”
Eloise huffed, turning to look over her shoulder at Number 3, who was bundled up in a pea coat, woolly scarf and beanie hat, bracing himself for the cold. He smirked at her, and she doubted the offer was a serious one.
Jamie Darcy, her neighbour, put the arsey in Darcy.
And right now he looked more than a little miffed that she was blocking the stairs, jangling his car keys from the end of one of his leather-gloved fingers.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, breathing a little heavily. She was sweating inside her coat. The bloody tree wouldn’t fit in her Polo, and she’d had to take the bus. Which meant carrying the eight-foot thing up the hill to the block of flats, earning glares whenever a rogue pine needle jabbed someone who got too near. The single flight of stairs up to her front door was the real struggle, though.
Jamie stepped to one side, watching her struggle to drag it up another step. “Isn’t that a bit too big for the flat?”
He would know: the flats on this street were all identical. Six in a building, two per floor, and seven block-like buildings of them curving around the street. And while they were reasonably spacious, they probably wouldn’t fit an eight-foot tree easily.
“It’s not for my flat.” God, she really had to get to those cross-fit classes more. Or, like, at all. “It’s for the school.”
“Right. And you’re stuck with it because …?”
“Because I offered to pick it up. Because some of us like to do nice things for other people at Christmas.” And because when the head had asked her to get it, she couldn’t exactly turn around and say no, not when she’d made such a big deal out of how much she loved Christmas, getting stuck into the nativity and setting up lunchtime craft classes with the kids to make their own decorations, or decorate Christmas biscuits. Plus, she was the one who’d found a real Christmas tree within budget. She’d kind of made it her responsibility.
“Alright, hint taken. Mind out the way.”
Before she could object, he brushed past her. Apparently immune to the pine needles poking through the netting, he hoisted it up, wrapping his arms around it.
Eloise tripped out of the way, fumbling in her coat pocket for her keys and unlocking the door so Jamie could drop it just inside the hallway. He looked around, curious, taking in the wooden white-painted snowflakes hung on red string from the ceiling, the tinsel around the canvas on the wall, the reams of wrapping paper spilling out of a box she’d left out in the hallway.
“It’s like an elf threw up in here.”
“I went for an understated look this year,” she deadpanned, although it wasn’t a lie. Last year she’d tacked up those shiny concertina things all over the place. Josh had hated them though, so she’d donated them to the school after a week of him complaining.
Of course, she could have whatever she liked in the flat this year.
The thought still kind of stung.
“Yeah, looks like it.”
“Thanks for the help,” she said a little brusquely, by way of telling him to stop trying to see the rest of her flat and leave now, please.
Jamie had been in the building a couple of months before she’d moved in, in August last year, and even though they’d been polite enough to each other, he always gave the impression he had somewhere better to be. She’d never taken much of a liking to him – and Eloise prided herself on being someone who made an effort to get on with everyone. (She’d had to when Cara had always been such a social butterfly at school, the one who everyone wanted as a friend.)
“No problem. But, um, quick question – how exactly are you planning on getting that to the school? Or even back downstairs?”
“Someone’s giving me a lift. Someone with a big enough car to fit this tree. They’ll give me a hand.”
Jamie nodded, and gave her a cursory smile as he stepped back out. “Fair enough. See you.”
“Yeah, see you. Thanks again.” And she shut the door behind him.
The stress of the tree finally off her shoulders, she sagged against the door, sighing out heavily before kicking off her boots and tossing her coat and bag onto the chair she left near the door purposely for that. She’d hang the coat up later.
She flicked the kettle on and padded into the living room to put the TV on, flipping through the channels and settling on Film4. It was one of the Fast & Furious movies – not as festive as she’d have liked, but one she didn’t mind joining partway through.
The sound of the kettle boiling pulled her back to the kitchen, but not before she snapped on the fairy lights. She’d laid a string of them on the cabinet the TV sat on, and of course there were the ones on her own Christmas tree. It was a five-foot, slightly sparse-looking thing, but once she’d smothered it in tinsel and baubles and multi-coloured fairy lights (and, of course, some Cadbury tree chocolates) it was perfect.
And a sit-down with a movie for an hour was exactly what she needed, completed with a mince pie and cuppa in her snowman mug. Perfect.
Perfection was interrupted in the next ad break though, with the sound of an incoming FaceTime.
Eloise sighed, licked the last mince pie crumbs off her finger and set down the plate on the sofa before reaching for her phone and swiping the screen open. “Hi, Mum.”
She was greeted by the sound of Mele Kalikimaka playing from somewhere, and a pair of snowman deely boppers wobbled on her mum’s head.
“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” she asked, before her mum had chance to say hello.
“Oh, darling! I thought it was dark!” This was punctuated by a giddy laugh that made Eloise wonder if her parents had cracked the Christmas Baileys open a little early. Her mum swept the sunglasses off her face. “We’ve got news! Your dad’s just on FaceTime to Cara to tell her now. Actually, it was all her idea. Sort of. That boyfriend of hers, George. He gave us the idea.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’ve booked a holiday!”
Eloise caught sight of herself in the little window on her phone: one eye squinted shut, brow furrowed, top lip pulled up on one side in utter confusion. “Um, okay. That’s nice, Mum.”
“For Christmas!”
Eloise practically heard Santa’s sleigh crash-landing to Earth.
Her mum, oblivious, carried on, talking a mile a minute, eyes glazed and mouth in a beaming smile. “See, Cara told us all about how George’s parents have booked a last-minute holiday to get some winter sun for a week over Christmas, so we had a look and oh, sweetheart, you wouldn’t believe the deal we got! A week in Tenerife, all inclusive! Absolute bargain! We fly out on the twenty-third, so we’ll be back just in time for New Year. I’d hate to miss Sandra’s New Year’s do down the pub. They put on a cracking night.”
Oh, yeah, Eloise thought bitterly, fighting hard not to say it out loud. God forbid you miss the New Year’s do at the local pub, but sure, skip Christmas; that’s not a big deal. It wasn’t like Cara hadn’t already mucked things up by deciding to travel home on Christmas Day instead of a few days earlier. It wasn’t like she wasn’t already kind of dreading her first Christmas in years without Josh and looking forward to a few days with her family more than ever. Especially with Cara. It felt like forever since they’d really hung out or spent any time together.
“I’m so glad I’ve been going to those fitness classes with the girls to shed a few pounds ready for Christmas. I don’t know where I would’ve got a swimming costume and sundresses at this time of year if I didn’t still fit into them! And your dad’s bought one of those Hawaiian shirts, a bright yellow one with big pink flowers on. Looks bloody ridiculous, of course, but there was no stopping him!”
There’s no stopping you going, either. Clearly.
“So …” Eloise swallowed the lump in her throat. Vin Diesel was back on the TV, and she reached for the remote to mute it. “So you’re going on holiday for Christmas. And Cara’s not coming home. So I’m – I’m spending Christmas all on my own.”
“Oh, no, don’t be silly! Of course you can still come home, and Cara will be here – just not first thing in the morning. And she’s said she can work from home for a day or so if she has to. And you could always go see your aunt and uncle and your cousins.”
The aunt and uncle and cousins who lived over an hour’s drive from home, who she didn’t actually talk to all that much, and only saw a few times a year since she’d gone off to uni. And who didn’t even cook a turkey on Christmas Day, because ‘it was too much hassle’.
Her mum was still going on: about the hotel (four and a half stars on TripAdvisor, you know) and the one utterly scathing review (but of course it was probably a one-off) and how close they were to the beach, and –
And Eloise could see how excited her mum was. Her dad’s voice was faint, somewhere in the background under what was now Michael Bublé’s Holly Jolly Christmas, chattering away to Cara to tell her exactly the same news. He was just as excited.
And why shouldn’t they be? They loved their sunny holidays in the Mediterranean. Of course they’d love a bit of winter sun for a change.
It wasn’t their fault she didn’t like to let on how homesick she got or how lonely she could be here.
So she plastered on a smile, asked her mum all the right questions, pretended that this was fine – they’d FaceTime from the beach! Her parents would have the best time! Of course Eloise didn’t mind! They’d send each other pictures of their Christmas dinner! Ha ha!
(God, Christmas dinner – that was always her dad’s domain … What the hell would they do? Would Cara expect her to do it all? They couldn’t not have a roast dinner on Christmas Day.)
It was all Cara’s fault. Cara and that bloody guy she was seeing, George. Eloise had only heard wonderful things about perfect, dashing, handsome George so far, but this made her kind of hate him. He’d ruined Christmas.
Cara had sort of ruined Christmas when she’d phoned a few days ago, to say she wouldn’t be there the whole day. But Eloise could just about live with that. It wouldn’t be great, but they’d still have most of the day, and it wasn’t like she’d be off to Josh’s in the evening like she had the last several Christmases.
She could live with Cara bailing on Christmas morning.
But this?
Christmas was the best time of year. For Eloise, it properly started as early as November. She’d been so excited about going back home and spending a few days with her family, watching the usual suspects on DVD, playing games, eating too much …
And now she’d be waking up on Christmas Day all alone. In a big, empty house.
Alone at Christmas.
Did it get much worse than that?

Eighteen days to Christmas
Chapter 3 (#u1196083a-b3dd-5518-be27-f373491419cc)
“You coming?”
“Huh?”
Jen rolled her eyes, absently tapping her card wallet on the dividing wall around Cara’s desk. “Starbucks. I literally just explained. You said you were listening.”
“Sorry.” Cara stared intently at her screen, eyes scanning the email once more, deleting one more exclamation mark before she hit send. She looked up at Jen again. “Sorry. I swear I’m listening this time.”
“Starbucks time. Are you coming?” Cara’s eyes flicked towards Dave’s office, and she barely opened her mouth before Jen added, “Dave was the one who asked if anybody else wanted to go out and grab a Christmas coffee in the first place.”
“I don’t know. I’ve just got so much to get through for next week’s last-minute gifts campaign …” As if on cue, an email from some boutique candle company from North Wales pinged into her inbox. Promptly followed by a reply from the high street retailer they were still hoping to pin down. “I’m just …”
“Oh my God,” Jen sighed, exasperated but half-laughing, “don’t bother. You’ll just have your nose in your phone. What shall I bring you back?”
Jen had started her role in the PR team the same week as Cara had joined the company. Despite the four-year age difference, they’d clicked instantly. It hadn’t been long before their joint coffee breaks and lunches turned into after-work drinks and weekend wanders around the shops. Jen was a brilliant friend, especially at times like this, when she understood how much Cara had on her plate.
The company – Klikit – had been around for maybe four years now, but it had only really started taking off about a year ago, hitting the front page of the App Store, their followers spiking on Twitter until they were real competitors, a real household name. They still had a way to go, and everyone in the office worked hard to make it happen – and Cara loved it. She thrived on the pressure, the new challenges that hit her email inbox every day. She loved the team, the platform, the work, all of it.
But she also loved a good Christmassy coffee.
“Toffee nut. With cream. Unless you end up at Costa instead, then I’ll have the gingerbread latte. Ooh, and grab me a muffin while you’re there? Something festive-flavoured. I don’t care what. So long as it’s not a mince pie. I might vomit if I have to see another mince pie.”
People had been bringing boxes of them into the office for about a month now.
Eloise would have loved it. And Cara had at first – but there were only so many mince pies a person could eat. What was she – Father Christmas?
“Gotcha.” Jen waggled her fingers as a few others wandered over, already wrapped in coats and ready to go. “We’ll see you in, like, an hour.”
Cara waved them all off as they passed by her desk and stuck her head back into her computer, sucked into a world of draft posts and stock images and emails, barely looking up until the smell of toffee nut slid under her nose.
“Love ya.”
“You’re welcome,” Jen sang back. Cara looked up long enough to roll her neck, reviving the muscles there, and taking a long sip of her still-steaming hot latte. Heaven. This was liquid Christmas. Sod eggnog: this was the real magic, right here.
Jen was already chattering away, telling her about the latest office gossip that had surfaced, and Cara gave herself ten minutes to indulge in it. (Because damn, was Molly in Finance really hooking up with Patrick from IT? Didn’t she have a boyfriend, or something?)
Eventually, Jen wandered back to her desk and Cara shifted back into full-on work mode.
When six o’clock hit and she broke off another bit of muffin to munch on, Dave passed by her desk.
“Dude,” he said, “go home.”
He called everyone dude. He even called the cleaning lady dude.
“I will, in a minute. I’ve just …” Ping. Who the hell was even still working at six o’clock to reply to her emails now? Weren’t office hours over?
Cara started replying.
Dave laughed, leaning against the desk next to her. “You don’t have to keep working twelve hours a day, you know. You’re already a shoo-in. You work twice as hard as anyone here. You already do half of my job for me.”
Cara dragged her face away from the screen, and then her eyes a moment later. She smiled and said, “I swear, I’ll go home as soon as I’ve sorted this. I just want to make sure it’s done before I head off.”
What she didn’t add was that she did have to keep working like this, to prove herself. That was how she’d always been, though, in fairness, it wasn’t so much to do with the company as it was her. But, even so, there were people who’d been here since Klikit started who would be interested in Dave’s job. She was twenty-two and had been here only eighteen months. It seemed like way too soon to be looking for a promotion. So yes, she did have to work like this.
If she didn’t get the promotion, nobody could say it was because she didn’t work hard enough. Besides, she loved her job. It didn’t feel so awful working this much when she enjoyed what she was doing.
Dave shook his head, laughing softly. “Alright, but seriously – get yourself home.” He nodded at the screen. “That’ll still be there in the morning. And hey – make sure you turn your phone off at the Christmas party next week. We can’t have you working all night. This place won’t fall apart if you take a break, you know.”
She laughed. “Roger that, boss.”
It was eight o’clock before she walked through the door at home. It was pitch dark outside, but the house was warm (for a change) and smelled like enchiladas.
With all of her housemates working such different jobs (a bar manager, someone in digital marketing for a chain of clubs, one girl in HR for a high-street fashion brand, and another guy working as a journalist), they didn’t always get to spend a lot of time together. And some people (not that she was naming names, but it was totally Henry) never replaced the toilet roll when they used the last of it.
But times like this – when they made more than enough food and told her there were leftovers in the fridge – she loved them dearly.
Cara dumped her backpack near the door and tossed her coat onto the peg in the hallway.
“There’s food in the fridge!” shouted one of her housemates, Jamilla, from the living room. “Elliot made enchiladas.”
“Thanks!” Cara called back, heading straight for the kitchen now and digging the leftovers out of the fridge. Ooh, and they’d left some salad too. Absolute angels.
The idea of living with four total strangers had been terrifying at first, for Cara. A new city and a new job? Sure, that was exciting. But sharing a house with four totally random people?
A couple of people she knew from uni had done it too, and she’d heard a few horror stories of nightmare housemates or awful landlords, so she had to count her blessings: her housemates were so easy to get on with. And they did things like cook enough food for everyone and keep the house clean, which was a huge step up from some people she’d lived with at university.
Enchiladas reheated, Cara headed into the living room, where she could hear some of her housemates talking over the TV.
“Alright, Cara?” Elliot said, glancing up from his own plate of food. Jamilla was there too, stretched across the other sofa flicking through a magazine. While Cara ate, the three of them swapped stories about their days until Cara’s phone buzzed.
She’d not checked her phone since she’d left work and noticed she had a few notifications. A text from Eloise. A photo from her mum in their family group WhatsApp, of the matching #Elfie T-shirts she and Cara’s dad had bought to take on holiday. A missed call and now a text from George.
Her face lit up: it must’ve done, because Jamilla promptly said, “Oo-ooh, let me guess. A text from the famous George.”
“Maybe.”
“He’s a keeper, C, I swear to God,” Elliot pitched in. “How many guys do you think spend their lunch break coming to your office just to bring you your favourite Starbucks?”
“That was one time.” But it had been a really nice surprise yesterday: he’d had to cancel their date the night before at short notice and wanted to make up for it, even though she’d understood.
“Go on, abandon your friends; call lover boy back,” Jamilla told her, grinning. “If you don’t, I will.”
Cara stuck her tongue out, collecting the empty mugs, cereal bowl and her own plate to take to the kitchen. She called George back, sticking the phone on speaker as she loaded the things into the half-full dishwasher.
George answered almost straight away. “Hey! How are you? Are you back from work now?”
“Yeah. Sorry I missed your call; it must’ve been when I was on the Tube. I’ve only just had tea.”
“I’m visiting a mate about two stops from you – is it alright if I pop in tonight? If you’re not too tired? I’d love to see you.”
“Oh! Um, sure. Yeah, absolutely!” She cringed, gritting her teeth. Did she sound too keen? Too late now. “Text me when you’re here; I’ll come down and let you in.”
She’d been looking forward to cuddling up under the duvet with one of the Hallmark Christmas movies on Netflix. Eloise had been messaging her recommendations and out-of-five-stars reviews all week. But she could pass that up to see her (sort-of) boyfriend.
She hoped he was her boyfriend.
God, she hated this whole label thing. Talking to each other, seeing each other, dating – why were there so many labels for it now? Why was it so bloody intimidating to just ask him if they were a couple?
She hadn’t even wondered about it too much until she’d gone to buy him a Christmas card the other day – and realised maybe he’d be freaked out if she got him a boyfriend card. Or disappointed to get one that didn’t say ‘boyfriend’.
“I have to ask you something.”
“Sounds serious.” Cara twisted towards him. They were lying side by side on her bed under about three blankets, her laptop propped on George’s knees with the credits of Jingle All The Way rolling.
“Is it too weird if I get you a present? For Christmas? I mean, I know I said the other week about you meeting my parents, but you can back out of that easy with some excuse about work and I wouldn’t even know if you made it up or not.”
Cara wondered who’d made him so cynical about relationships.
She’d also never been so relieved to find a guy who didn’t mind tackling head-on the kind of questions she worried about herself.
“I’ll outdo you on the weird serious question front,” she said, propping herself up on one elbow. “Do I get to call you my boyfriend yet, or do we have to go through some weird phase of casual-yet-exclusive dating for a few more weeks before that?”
George laughed so warmly that she felt she already knew the answer. It gave her the same warm, fuzzy feeling in her stomach as she got whenever she watched Love Actually.
“I think we can skip that phase, don’t you?”
“Skip it all,” she deadpanned, waving a hand. “I’ll expect a Tiffany ring for Christmas. June wedding. Kids by October.”
“Steady on. It’ll have to be a winter wedding. My step-mum will murder me if she’s stuffed up with hay fever in all the wedding photos. You think your parents would mind a child out of wedlock?”
“Hmm, not sure. Or we could just elope.”
“Las Vegas at New Year? Elvis can officiate.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
“Well, thank you very much, little lady, thank you very much,” he said, in possibly the worst impression of Elvis she’d ever heard.
Cara broke into peals of laughter and George set the laptop safely to one side before rolling on top of her, propped up on his elbows and kissing her softly. Cara sighed, leaning up into it, smiling against his lips.
“I can’t stay too late,” he murmured, breaking away with a groan and pushing his forehead against her cheek. “Early start.”
“Or you could just … stay here.” Cara felt herself blushing furiously. Even though they’d had sex (after date number six) they hadn’t actually spent the night with each other. “I’ve got a spare toothbrush in a drawer.”
George laughed. “Well, that was the deal breaker.”
Clearly she’d done something right to get on Santa’s Good List this year, because George was utterly perfect.

Fourteen days till Christmas
Chapter 4 (#u1196083a-b3dd-5518-be27-f373491419cc)
She could do this. Only a few more days of school to go until they broke up for the holidays, and then – then she’d never have to go through another run of that bloody nativity again.
If Eloise had to hear Away in a Manger or Don’t Stop Me Now again any time soon, she’d scream. They’d been playing on a constant loop all day while the children did full run-throughs. And much as Eloise loved seeing them so happy and so full of Christmas spirit, it was driving her a little nuts.
Pouring herself a generous glass of white wine, she’d never been so glad to sink into her sofa. She FaceTimed Cara, but the call cut off before it was answered and she got a text instead.
Still in work and going straight to meet George. I’ll try to call you later xxx
PS How’s the nativity going? On the vino yet?
Eloise couldn’t help but feel disappointed, even as she typed out upbeat replies filled with emojis. It was gone six and she knew from Cara’s Instagrammed coffee at 7.32 a.m. that morning that she’d been in work early.
At school and at uni, Eloise always thought they’d both worked as hard as each other. They’d both fallen in love with Birmingham, and had lived in the same halls and house share throughout their degrees. Eloise wasn’t finding it hard to be away from Cara lately so much as she found it hard to just talk to her sister. Especially with all this promotion stuff going on. Cara worked too bloody hard.
So bloody hard she was even skipping Christmas and had encouraged their parents to do the same.
Eloise fired off the last few wine glass emojis to Cara and a Snapchat to match, then set her phone aside. “Humbug,” she muttered.
And giggled. A half-glass of wine and she was already tipsy. She probably should’ve eaten something before opening the bottle.
By the time she’d finished her glass, a movie had started on one of the TV channels and she left it to play, snuggling into her woolly cardigan and snapping off the lamp beside her. The Christmas tree and the fairy lights were all on, and she’d lit a cinnamon sugar-scented candle, so the room was lit with a warm, festive glow.
Bliss.
Lonely bliss, but still some kind of bliss.
Wryly, she thought this was probably more festive than Christmas morning would be.
Cara’s fault.
She’d barely settled in with the movie when there was a knock on her door.
Eloise sat up, muted the TV. Cocked her head and listened.
Another knock. Definitely her door.
She didn’t understand who it would be. Someone in the block, surely. You had to have a key to get into the building, or a special code for the intercom. If someone wanted to actually, physically knock her door, they had to get into the building first.
Another knock, this one harder, more insistent.
Eloise clambered up from the sofa, staggering a little as the wine hit her, and giggling while she steadied herself. Once she got to the door (which took at least three times as long as usual) she peered through the peep-hole.
Jamie knocked again, hammering his fist against the door. “I saw your lights on from outside, Eloise. I can hear you moving around.”
She undid the chain and opened the door. She lifted her chin primly, pursing her lips. “Can I help you?”
She hiccupped.
Giggled again, pressing a hand to her mouth. Her whole face felt warm.
Jamie raised an eyebrow, but then went back to looking sullen and moody. Brooding, maybe. Brooding was a word that suited him. In a very Jon Snow-esque way. And ooh, he was wearing glasses. She’d never seen him in glasses before. Rectangular, black frames. They suited him. A lot. He cleared his throat, distracting her from looking at him. (And she really was only looking, definitely not staring. Not at all.) “I, um, I need a favour.”
“Do you need more wrapping paper?”
He’d knocked on her door two days ago, needing paper to wrap a Secret Santa gift for someone in work. He’d laughed at her collection of ribbons and bows and tags, but taken some anyway, smirking when she told him he’d picked the wrong ones to match the paper.
“No. I, um …” Jamie cleared his throat and stood up straighter, which was when she realised he’d been slouching. He was so much taller than her when he didn’t slouch, and she wasn’t in her usual heeled boots. His cheeks reddened. “I locked myself out. I went to take the recycling out and just … I forgot my keys. Obviously I can get into the building, but … not my flat. I tried the estate agent for a spare key, but they’re shut till the morning. I know this is a really weird favour to ask, but …”
“You can stay here,” Eloise said, before he could stammer and drag it out any more. God, he was making it painful. Like this was more trouble for him than it would be for her. Prick, she thought, but smiled politely. “It’s not a problem. Have you eaten yet? I might order some pizza. I’m starving.”
“I could eat.”
Eloise stepped aside, waving a hand grandly to admit him into the flat. She closed the door after him, and was pleased that he made use of the shoe rack without her even having to ask.
Jamie followed her into the living room, perching on the other end of the sofa. He looked awkward and out of place. He must’ve felt it too, because he ran a hand back and forth through his hair, mussing it up, cleaned his glasses on his T-shirt, rubbed his jaw.
Had he always looked this cute?
Maybe it was the glasses. Or the messy hair.
He might be too long for the sofa, Eloise wondered. But she could hardly offer him the bed. That was where she was sleeping.
He pointed at the TV and she followed his finger while she picked her phone up from where it had fallen on the floor earlier. She checked it for notifications, even though she knew there would be none. “Good movie.”
“Is it? I’ve not seen it before.”
She couldn’t even remember what it was called. Just that it was some movie with Daniel Radcliffe, about magic, and not Harry Potter. Mark Ruffalo was currently on screen.
Eloise loaded the Dominos app, picking a two-pizza deal and choosing one for herself before handing the phone to Jamie to pick what he wanted.
“I’ll pay you back tomorrow, when I manage to get into my flat.”
She waved him off as she tapped in the credit card details she knew off by heart. A side-effect of a lot of online shopping at university and a lack of ability to budget. “Don’t worry about it, honestly. You want some wine? Tea? I’ve got some coffee, but it’s only decaf. Um … there’s some lemonade too. Or orange juice. Or –”
“Tea would be nice. I’ll make it, though, don’t worry. Do you want one?”
“Um.” Did people actually do this? Make themselves at home in someone else’s kitchen? She’d only ever seen that in movies before. Was it arrogance, or was he being polite? It was hard to tell. She’d have opted for some more wine if she’d been on her own, but sobering up seemed like a better idea now she had company. “Yeah, go on then.”
She half-watched the movie while she listened to him fill her kettle, look through a couple of drawers for the teaspoons, take mugs off the mug tree and open her tin labelled, unambiguously, TEA.
She wanted to text Cara. She wanted to call her and have a whispered conversation to say her arsey neighbour was spending the night at her flat. But Cara would be with George now, and she didn’t want to disturb them.
Jamie handed her the tea. “Sorry – I forgot to ask if you take sugar. But, given that there’s a canister of tea bags out and no sugar, I’m guessing not.”
Eloise shook her head. Her fringe was falling out of its hairpin, tucked off her face. “Nope. Thanks.”
“No – thank you. Honestly. I really appreciate this. I know it’s – I know I’m not exactly neighbourly, so I appreciate this.”
Aww. That might be the first genuinely nice thing he’d ever said to her.
“It’s no problem. Although, honestly, I’m a little worried you’re too tall for the sofa. And I don’t have an airbed.”
He assured her it’d be fine; he was just grateful he wasn’t stuck outside in the hallway all night. He asked her how the school nativity was going, so she spent the next twenty minutes until the pizza arrived (and she sobered up a little more) regaling him with mishaps and adorable moments and the teacher who’d tried to swan in during their second dress rehearsal today and change half the songs.
Jamie, it turned out, was a great audience. Maybe he was just being especially nice because she was letting him stay. He hadn’t even made a sardonic comment about her Christmas tree yet.
And by the time they’d finished the pizzas they were barely paying attention to the movie anymore. Jamie was sat twisted towards her, one leg up on the sofa and his arm slung over the back; Eloise had her legs crossed, pizza box balanced there. He reached across to take a slice, even though he had some of his own left in the box on the floor, and she didn’t even mind.
He was funny, too, now he wasn’t being her grumpy neighbour.
She’d learnt more about Jamie in the past hour than she had in any conversation they’d had previously.
He worked at a mental health charity. It was a national one, with a local branch. He had a psychology degree and was a year older than her. He had three younger brothers and his family were from Nottingham, like hers. A few towns over, though. They had a couple of mutual friends on Facebook.
They had a few things in common too: a mutual love of Star Wars, The Crown and Game of Thrones; they’d both tried to read Lord of the Rings and given up after a couple of chapters; they’d both done French A levels. There were a lot of things they didn’t have in common too – like the fact he thought the Harry Potter books weren’t much cop, so hadn’t read past the second one. Eloise found it hard to let that one go.
“So, right, tell me, then,” she said, turning towards him and being careful not to spill her wine. They’d both had a glass, and she’d had to open another bottle. Eloise typically tried to avoid drinking on a school night, but it had been a rough day, and she figured tonight was as good as any to make an exception. She’d regret it like hell tomorrow, when she had a hangover and had to deal with another nativity practice, but right now it seemed like a great idea.
Jamie’s cheeks were ruddy under his is-it-stubble-or-is-it-beard, his green eyes bright. “What?”
“Why are you always so grouchy? Like, every time we’ve spoken, you’re just – you’re like Oscar. The Grouch. Not quite a Grinch.”
He laughed. It was a nice, full sound. “I’m not grouchy.”
“You are. You’re like full-on Mr Darcy.”
“Please, Mr Darcy is my father.”
Eloise snorted before saying, “I’m serious. Like at the start of the story. All aloof and moody.”
Jamie laughed again but looked abashed. “I’m not, am I? I’m not that bad. I know I’m a little … I’m a bit shy, but I’m not aloof.”
“You so are.”
“No. Nope, impossible. I’ve been told I’m approachable and friendly. Nobody has ever told me I’m aloof.”
“Well, you are here.”
“Maybe it’s just because you’re cute, and I’m shy.”
Eloise’s face was on fire in seconds, and Jamie laughed again, so at ease and smiling so widely she figured he had to be joking. He had to be, didn’t he? He’d said himself, he was shy. Shy people didn’t just say things like that, did they?
“I’m lucky you even opened the door to me, then, if I’m so bloody moody all the time.”
“It’s Christmas,” Eloise said, smiling and hoping she wasn’t still blushing. “’Tis the season for forgiveness and goodwill and all that jazz. Even if Christmas is turning into a pile of shite this year.”
“Whoa, hold on.” Jamie leant towards her. “You’re basically Buddy the Elf compared to most other people I know. And you’re calling Christmas a pile of shite?”
“Well, not Christmas exactly,” she conceded, nabbing another slice of pizza and taking a bite. She’d not even mentioned any of it to the other teachers at school, or any of her mates – because her mates were also Cara’s mates, and she didn’t want her sister to think she was bitching about her.
“What then?”
And despite the fact that Jamie Darcy from Number 3 was the last person she’d have imagined talking to about this, Eloise spilled it all, totally embarrassed when she even teared up a little, telling him how miserable and lonely she got sometimes, how homesick she was, how Cara didn’t even seem to notice she’d abandoned her for her fabulous, flashy London lifestyle. Her wobbly voice made him look away at the TV awkwardly, not sure whether to acknowledge it or not.
“That sucks,” he said eventually. “I can’t imagine not spending Christmas with the family. Or going abroad for Christmas. Who wants sun, anyway? You want to go out for a walk after dinner with your breath fogging up, everyone moaning about how cold it is, and kind of wishing it’ll snow but also glad it doesn’t, because snow’s a pain in the arse.”
“Oh, my God, no! I love the snow. Everything’s so pretty. Especially when it’s early and nobody’s been out in it yet.”
Jamie pulled a face. “Nope. It’s awful. Everything just comes to a standstill, and then it turns to slush and ice and that’s even worse.”
“Oh, humbug,” she snapped, laughing. It was easier to laugh over snow than go back to talking about what a loser she was. She realised then how late it was. It had been dark since four o’clock and was raining heavily against the windows of the flat – but she realised with a start it was already past ten. She was usually fast asleep by now.
“I’ll sort you out a pillow and some blankets,” she said, standing and tidying some of the empty cups around, and pushing the pizza boxes out of the way. Jamie tried to help her, offered to wash up, but she waved him off. She’d sort it all tomorrow, after work. Right now, she should get to bed.
She took the couple of blankets she had off the top shelf of the wardrobe and put fresh pillowcases on two of her pillows, carrying the lot back in to Jamie. “I’ve got a T-shirt that should fit you, if you want something else to sleep in.”
He cast a disbelieving glance over her, eyebrow arched. “Why, did you lose twelve inches? Go on a spin cycle when you’re not tumble dryer-safe?”
“Funny. No, it’s just a T-shirt I got from some night out at uni. I don’t know why I’ve still got it, really.”
She did know, but she wasn’t about to share. She knew how pathetic it’d make her sound. Eloise disappeared back to her room for the T-shirt, a black one that had a club’s logo on the left side of the chest and giant white lettering on the back saying ‘Don’t be #whiskeysour’ and ‘£1 shots all night’.
It wasn’t even something she should have felt sentimental about, and she knew it was stupid that she did. But Josh had been with her that night. He’d played beer pong and won the shirt, which he’d given to her. She’d worn it over her dress all night.
It was just a stupid T-shirt, but that had been the last time she’d been with Josh before everything had gone wrong.
Over five years together, and he’d ended it out of the blue to go travelling with some girl he knew from his uni course.
As if it was Eloise’s fault she’d been on her teacher training and then starting a job in a primary school. As if it was her decision to be sensible about her career when it was just starting out that had been the last straw in their relationship. Not his decision to pass up a really good grad scheme and go gallivanting around Europe and Asia for months on end instead.
A holiday to Thailand – sure, she’d have loved it. But months backpacking around, and sacrificing a job she really wanted to do it? He’d always known that wasn’t her thing.
(It hadn’t been his thing either, until Alyssa had convinced him to go along with her.)
It didn’t stop her from checking Josh’s Instagram before she went to bed, though, bitterly realising how happy he was without her. He’d been updating all his social media with photos of him and his new girlfriend all over the world, rubbing salt in the wound.
It stung, when she’d worked so hard to keep their relationship together while they had been studying at different universities.
It stung even more when she thought about how she was the one who’d always had to put in that effort: he always had some excuse why he couldn’t visit her, but she could come to him, or why he hadn’t been able to text her back (but had no problem uploading Snapchat stories with his mates).
“’Night, Eloise,” Jamie called from the living room.
She almost dropped her phone on her face, but composed herself quickly, the wine already wearing off.
“’Night.”
It was nice to have someone to say goodnight to, for a change.

Twelve days till Christmas
Chapter 5 (#u1196083a-b3dd-5518-be27-f373491419cc)
Friday nights were the one time Cara let herself go home at five, on the dot. Like so many of the others did every other day of the week.
But this Friday it was two in the afternoon, and she and Jen had cracked open a bottle of prosecco in the loos while they did their make-up. Most of the others had gone home to get ready. Their boss, founder and CEO of Klikit, Marcus, had declared the office shut as of half eleven that morning, saying they should all go home and get ready for the Christmas party. Cara had still had a few things to finish up for the weekend, and Jen knew what she was like.
So Jen, Christmas angel that she was, and always Cara’s saviour when she was in desperate need of some caffeine or a pick-me-up, had gone home, gathered her shit and brought it back into the office to get ready.
Jen knew Cara well enough that she didn’t have to ask what Cara would do about her outfit. The sequinned spaghetti-strap dress was folded neatly inside her backpack, along with a clutch. She’d planned to leave her things in the office over the weekend: her keys, money and phone would fit in the clutch.
“I love you, have I mentioned that lately? You’re literally the best friend ever. Like, an actual hero. The kind of hero who needs her own TV show.”
“Only about three times in the last minute.” Jen laughed, leaning into the mirror to fix on a fake eyelash. She grinned at Cara in the mirror. “But keep going, please. It fuels my ego.”
Cara reached for the bottle of prosecco, taking a swig. Why pour it into mugs when you could just drink from the bottle? They were a classy pair: getting ready in the bathroom at work, glugging down cheap prosecco from the Tesco Express down the road at two in the afternoon, with a Spotify Christmas playlist blaring out of Jen’s phone as loud as it could go.
The party wouldn’t start until five-thirty, but it’d take the best part of an hour to get there in traffic.
Which gave them a solid two and a half hours to get through three bottles of prosecco (they’d been on offer, they couldn’t just buy one) and a box of Quality Street.
Cara would’ve been happy to save money on a taxi and get the Tube, but Jen had been horrified at the idea, moaning about what it would do to her hair, and had Cara seen the size of her heels?
“But it’ll be so expensive.”
“Don’t be so bloody miserable. I’ll pay. I’m not getting the Tube. I’m not putting this much effort into my make-up just to sweat it off on there.”
And of course Cara wouldn’t just let her pay, but she’d need a good drink before forking out that much cash on a bloody taxi. She was trying to tot up how much tonight was going to cost her before realising maybe Eloise was right. Maybe she was a bit of a Scrooge.
Cara shook it off, and took another gulp of fizz before hopping up on the counter and plucking cheap, glittery red nail varnish out of her make-up bag. No Christmas party outfit was complete without a little glitter.
There was shiny foil confetti all over the tables. White tablecloths. Silver-painted leafy centrepieces adorned with pine cones and ribbon. Piano covers of Christmas carols played gently through speakers and a photographer was hanging around in front of the giant blue-and-silver decorated Christmas tree.
Cara hiccupped. “This is goddamn adorable.”
Jen giggled, squeezing her arm. “Think it’s too early to start on the wine?”
“Naaah.”
The bar was packed. The whole office had turned out – all forty-three of them – and were keeping the three people behind the bar on their toes, to say the least.
“Ah, there she is!” Cara turned, and Dave was grinning at her, beer in hand. “I almost didn’t expect you to show up. We thought you’d still be working.”
She laughed but didn’t know how to respond. Was it really such a bad thing, working hard?
“I should probably buy you a drink,” he said.
“Why?”
“Hail you as my successor properly. I don’t know that I’ll get chance after I leave.”
Cara blinked at him for a long minute. The prosecco had really gone to her head on an empty stomach. They’d only made it through a bottle and a half.
Successor.
The word took a while to register.
“Wait. Are you saying I’m – I’ve got it? I’m getting your job?”
Dave laughed and clapped her on the shoulder. “It’s not official yet, but I’ve been having a word with Marcus and – let’s just say it’s looking good.”
Cara smiled stiffly, and then Dave moved on to talk to someone else after handing her the bar’s signature Christmas cocktail, a spiced red drink with a slice of artistically burnt orange peel. She manoeuvred through a few people to catch up with Jen, who was all of two feet closer to the bar, chatting to Alfie.
It’s looking good wasn’t exactly a guarantee. He’d really got her hopes up for a minute there.
Alfie smiled at her as she wiggled into a space near them. “Alright, C?”
“Hiya.”
“Love the dress.”
This time her smile was more genuine. “Thanks. Love the tie.”
Alfie looked down, fingers lifting his tie a little. It was a bright red monstrosity with lurid green Christmas trees filled with tiny LEDs that flashed out of sync. “Subtlety is my strong point.”
Cara had to laugh at that. Alfie was thirty-four, married with three kids, and was basically a big kid himself. He’d shown up last week in a Christmas pudding outfit. He’d grown a ridiculous walrus moustache for Movember and dyed his hair pink when they did a Race for Life in the summer.
He and Jen had cocktails to match hers, and Alfie lifted his between them. “Cheers!”
The three of them toasted. Cara wasn’t sure what was in the drink; it tasted strong, and she took another sip. It was good.
“So, have they told you yet? Are you going to be the new boss?”
Jen slung an arm around her. “Of course she is! This is Cara we’re talking about. She’s a machine.”
“I’ve not heard anything for definite,” she said. Sure, Dave had sounded confident, and he wouldn’t have said anything if he didn’t think she’d get it, but she was scared of jinxing it. She poked her orange peel around with the straw. “And I wouldn’t be the boss.”
“Might as well be. You’ll be running this place in two years. Mark my words.”
“Don’t let Marcus hear you saying that,” Jen mock-scolded, then giggled. “We need him in a good mood if he’s going to buy everyone a round later.”
Conversation turned to plans for Christmas. Alfie and his husband were taking the kids to visit their grandparents in Devon. Jen was going home to her family in Brighton. Bryan, from the digital team, had joined them, and mentioned he was heading up to Scotland for Hogmanay with his family.

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