About the Author

BELINDA MISSEN is a reader, author, and sometimes blogger. When she’s not busy writing or reading, she can be found travelling the Great Ocean Road and beyond looking for inspiration. She lives with her husband, cats, and collection of books in regional Victoria, Australia.

Readers Love Belinda Missen

‘An awesome read’

‘I fell in love with Belinda’s writing’

‘There is an air of lightness and love over the whole novel’

‘Wonderful heart-warming romance’

‘This is a perfect fun, flirty beach read’

‘Belinda has a warm, witty style of writing that makes characters and emotions leap off the page’

‘A lovely summer read’

Also by Belinda Missen

Lessons in Love

An Impossible Thing Called Love

A Recipe for Disaster

One Week ’Til Christmas
BELINDA MISSEN

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Belinda Missen 2019

Belinda Missen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, 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.

E-book Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008296933

Version: 2019-10-01

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers Love Belinda Missen

Also by Belinda Missen

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For the SBG

Chapter 1
10 Days ’til Christmas

The bell above my head chimed as I stepped inside from the cold. My hair stopped whipping around my face and I loosened the belt of my coat. The reassuring clack, clack, clack of my suitcase followed me over the tiles like a trusty steed.

‘Here she is!’ Alfred looked up from behind his glossy red coffee maker, tapped the portafilter on the bench and dangled a takeaway cup in the air. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘I’m just like Halley’s Comet,’ I teased. ‘Only I show up more often and I’m not as bright.’

‘I won’t hear a word of it.’ He laughed. ‘How long are you here for this time?’

‘An entire eight days.’ I dug my purse out of my backpack. ‘Well, seven and a half now, I suppose. I’ve just dropped the hire car at Heathrow.’

‘Hire car? You mean you’ve been here long enough to have a road trip, and this is the first I’m hearing of it?’ He feigned disgust. ‘You awful woman.’

‘I probably shouldn’t tell you about Belfast, then?’ I smirked.

Alfred clucked his tongue.

I guess the first thing you should know about me is that I love to travel. There’s nothing more thrilling than the thrust of an aeroplane the moment the wheels leave the tarmac. It says, ‘Here you are, welcome to your next adventure. Enjoy your stay, make sure your tray table is upright, and tip your wait staff accordingly.’

In my decade as a travel writer, I’ve been to places I never thought possible. I’ve been smeared in coloured powders during the festival of Holi in India, bumbled my way through hymns inside St Mark’s Basilica, and watched the Northern Lights on a night so cold it felt like I’d found the dark side of the moon and decided to dance the jig in a polka-dot bikini.

But above all that, I’ve made friends in every corner, crevice, and back alley of the globe. Like a sailor (allegedly) has a girl in every port, so too do I have a bed in every city. It might be a couch, sofa bed, or bunk in a shared room, but it’s the unspoken pact of international friendship. The front door is always open. The keys are yours. You just have to get here.

Right now, here was London – ooh, and a text message.

If you’re at Alfred’s, can you grab a fresh baguette? Like The Proclaimers – I’m on my way.

I smiled at Estelle’s message and slipped my phone back into my pocket.

Estelle was one of those friends. We met during a sweltering summer in Japan ten years ago. It was my first assignment with the Melbourne Explorer, and her fifth with the magazine she wrote for. Like that scene from Forrest Gump, the only seat left on a crowded bus to Furano was next to her.

Our friendship was pieced together in the following weeks aboard tour buses and bullet trains. We gazed at rainbow ribbons of flowering fields, were rendered speechless at the haunting beauty of Hiroshima, and puffed our way up Mount Fuji with nothing but a bottle of water between us. By the time we said farewell in Sapporo, I knew I’d have a friend for life.

She’d since left journalism in favour of life as curator of Check-1-2 Gallery, a Chelsea art gallery. It kept her busy, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous intent on expanding their collections of priceless pieces. It paid well enough that it afforded her a perfectly modern maisonette off the high street full of modern appliances and retro furniture, and me a warm bed whenever I was in town. When I wasn’t here, I missed her and our late-night wine-soaked chats dearly. More than once, we’d mused over how much fun we’d have if I lived a few thousand miles closer, rather than in Australia.

‘So, what’s the plan this time?’ Alfred asked, weighing a gingerbread person in one hand and fruit cake in the other. He was a regular scale of gastronomical justice … I pointed to the cake.

‘Nothing but Christmas,’ I said. ‘I’m getting my yuletide on.’

When my boss had first floated the idea of ‘popping over to the UK’ (his words, not mine) for a few weeks in December to report on a refreshed Game of Thrones tour and a new distillery in the Cotswolds, I’d leaped at the chance to swap the endless summer nights of Melbourne for the icy British air. I’d even managed to wrangle a few extra personal days into the deal so as I could experience all the snow-white beauty of Christmas in London.

‘Speaking of Christmas, I’ve been playing around with almond milk eggnog,’ Alfred said as I readjusted my backpack. ‘You want one to go?’

‘For you, I’ll be a willing guinea pig but I also need your best baguette to go with dinner.’ I wrapped my hands around the piping takeaway cup he handed to me as the aroma of vanilla swirled with cinnamon in the steam of the drink. Warmth radiated into my fingers and seeped across my palm. And if it smelled divine, it tasted even better. I let out an appreciative groan after my first sip. ‘This? This is amazing.’

‘Good, am I right?’

‘You know, I could have done with that a week ago when I was buried in cold showers and mud.’ I took another sip of my drink. A trip to the Giant’s Causeway was a lesson in wearing better shoes on my adventures. Finn McCool or not, it was an uncomfortably soggy trip back to Belfast after stumbling into the North Atlantic. To add insult to injury, the hot water in my accommodation had taken its own holiday.

‘Consider it on the house,’ Alfred said, handing me my change and a crusty baguette. ‘The drink, that is.’

‘You’re amazing. Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘See you soon!’

‘Don’t leave without saying goodbye!’ he called after me as I used my shoulder to shove past the dangling tinsel Christmas trees and through the door.

Drink in hand and baguette tucked under my arm, I pulled my coat tighter against the icy breeze and made my way towards the bus stop. Estelle’s was close by but, with slippery footpaths and a light drizzle, it wasn’t near enough that I wanted to walk the whole way. When the lights at the crossing changed, I skipped across the road with the crowd.

Passing an M&S, I veered into oncoming pedestrians to avoid a well-dressed man who’d burst from the doors like a long-held breath with a phone to his ear and newspaper in his hand. He fell into step behind me.

‘Is this article your doing? I’ve just picked up this rot you pass off as a newspaper,’ he stammered, his voice dropping a few notches. ‘Secret love affair … what? Are you kidding me? Who thinks of this? I was having coffee with her. To assume I’m now in some kind of sordid love affair is ridiculous.’

I resisted the ticklish urge to turn towards the scandal. Quick extrapolation told me he was either a politician or a celebrity, especially if his love life had hit the papers. A brief look at his face as he walked along behind me registered nothing but his outfit: dark trousers, a blue-knit pullover, shirt and long coat. Classically nice in that take home to Mum for Sunday roast kind of way. I fumbled about in my pocket for an Oyster card.

‘You have to do something,’ he pleaded. ‘You can’t just leave it like this! I’ll be tarred and feathered by the morning. Or was that the whole point?’

I winced. That sounded painful. My breath came in clouded puffs as I dodged another puddle. I was relieved to see the bus stop up ahead. It was beginning to feel like I was eavesdropping on something that both I and the rest of the city really shouldn’t be privy to.

‘What am I doing?’ he asked incredulously. ‘You actually want to know what I’m doing? All right then, well, I’ve just left Marks & Spencer’s, where I very contentedly bought a single-serve meal, because that’s what I am, a single, solitary man. Neil Diamond even wrote a song about it. One person, like that lone mouldy apple no one wants to buy, or that one lost Tupperware lid, or that random sock you find under your bed that you were sure ran off to jump over the moon with the aforementioned Tupperware lid.’

I snorted. Single-serve meals. Now that, I could relate to.

‘Bloody journalists,’ he continued. ‘Not one of you is rooted in truth or the real world. Pack of fantasists.’

Why, I never! I must have gasped aloud, as heads turned towards the noise behind me.

It became infinitely more difficult to resist the urge to shoot him my best how-very-dare-you scowl and, maybe, the two-fingered salute. Then again, who was I kidding? This wasn’t my battle. I pulled my phone from my pocket to find a text from my sister, Miriam.

I know I’ve asked a dozen times, but you will be home for Christmas, right?

That was one of the things I didn’t love about my job. The nature of being a travel journalist meant I had no control over my plans or where I’d be at any given time, and I was usually at the mercy of my boss. Trips often overlapped with family events, leading to terse phone calls, huge swathes of guilt, and expensive gifts to try and smooth over the cracks in relationships when it was revealed that, no, I wouldn’t be home for a birthday party. Again.

More than once, I promised myself that I’d start my own blog one day so I could work for myself. Then, the electricity bill would arrive and I’d remember why I couldn’t just throw caution to the wind, dance right out the front door of my job and make it happen.

‘You know what? Don’t worry about it. All I need to do is tweet and it’s out to millions of followers … Okay, all right, thousands if you now want to be pedantic about the truth. If you lot can’t do your job properly, then I’ll do it myself.’ His voice cut in again as his pace quickened and he got closer. ‘Now, where’s my bloody car?’

Typing out my reply to Miriam, I skirted the small crowd at the bus stop until I reached the timetable, in time to see a black saloon car roll into the kerb. Its tyres were slick with moisture, and beads of water rolled off highly polished panels. Midnight-black windows made sure nobody was seeing the precious cargo within. By comparison, my ride, a big ol’ red bus, rumbled, lurched, and rattled its way towards us.

‘Excuse me … pardon … out of the way.’ There he was again, moving through the crowd with forceful, heavy sighs. ‘Move, please, I’m so sorry. Yes, I realise he’s parked illegally. I’m terribly sorry.’

As I reached for my pocket, I heard the polyester ruffle of fabric. My elbow, then my shoulder connected heavily with someone behind me, that same someone who’d been pushing through the crowd. I stumbled as my feet slipped out from under me on the icy footpath.

Everything slowed as time stretched out between us like an elastic band. Sound drowned out to an underwater mumble and the world rushed past me. I felt the pressure of fingers curling around my upper arm in a desperate attempt to stay upright. I pulled one way, he pulled the other, and shop fronts tilted as asphalt approached. I landed with a thud and a puff, and then he landed in my arms to the sound of a bus braking and hissing as it pulled to a shuddering stop.

When I unclenched my eyes, it was like pulling up for a gulping breath after a deep dive. Conversations were dialled up to a dull roar, and car horns sounded in the distance. But it was okay. The sound, the heaving chest, the desert dry mouth, all of it meant I was alive. That was good. I’d take that.

I tipped my head back to the enormous red cliff-face of the bus. When confronted with something of that scale upside down, you realise how truly impressive they are. I was close enough that I could notice the stone chips in the registration plate and see the brake cables that had just saved my life.

I should have been angry. I should have been gnashing my teeth and lecturing the Shouty Man on safety near roadways. But, right now, I could only think of two things. Firstly, that my backpack was so laden I probably looked like a turtle ready to be picked off by a predator. If someone didn’t help me up, there was every possibility I’d rock myself to sleep trying to get myself up off the ground.

The second thought was that I hadn’t paid him enough mind when he’d burst from the supermarket. In fact, I was more irritated at having to navigate him like a roundabout. Up close? Though wide and bewildered, his eyes were a beautiful cosmic cerulean blue.

Oh, and he was between my legs. He had the dubious honour of being the first man to boldly go there in the better part of twelve months. No, wait … eighteen. Hell, it was that long that even my maths was getting sketchy. Either way, it had been an age.

My heart danced a tango against my ribcage as I continued staring at him. How could I not? His nutmeg hair was pushed back from his face in short curls, he had lips that were screaming to be kissed, and don’t even get me started on the stubble that barely concealed a slowly forming dimple in his left cheek. He was the most handsome man who ever did handsome. Maybe I was dead after all.

Wow.

‘Well, then,’ he blurted, shifting uncomfortably on his hands.

His knee knocked the back of my thigh and, despite the initial fright, laughter – jittery and so very glad to be alive – bubbled up and out of me.

‘Well, then,’ I echoed.

My backpack! My laptop! The last thing I needed was my work equipment full of water. Have you ever tried to write anything lengthy on a phone? I’d be blind by forty. And where was my suitcase? Lazing about in the gutter like an overfed cat. I lurched forward underneath him and, while I was held down by the contents of my bag, it brought him to life.

Leaping to his feet, he held out a hand. ‘Oh my God, I am so sorry. Here, let me get you up.’

Gingerly, I let him pull me up from the ground. His hands were cold and shaky but, beneath that, an unmistakable surge of energy shot up my arm and wound its way around my heart. I slung my bag around my front and alternated between watching him and checking the contents. If something was broken, better to find out now than after he did a runner.

Eggnog clung to my pants like a dropped tin of paint, the cold chill of the gutter seeped into the seat of my pants, and I winced at a sharp bite in the palms of my hands.

‘Are you okay? I haven’t damaged you, have I? Let me just … I’ll fix your hair—’ His hands bounced around nervously before his finger traced the outside of my ear, and my stomach took a bow. There might have been hair involved, but I … phew. ‘—there, where it was.’

‘Where it was?’ I asked, studying him as his eyes darted about my face.

‘As you passed M&S,’ he mumbled, his hand suspended in the air near my head. ‘You had it just so.’

‘Oh.’ My lungs squeezed. Right now, I might’ve forgiven him just about anything.

The bus sounded its fiery angry horn. I looked around him, to the driver tapping at her wrist.

‘Are you … are you okay?’ he asked, brows knitted in concern. ‘I feel like a complete arse.’

‘I … I have to go,’ I sputtered.

‘Go? Sorry?’ he asked. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Yes. The bus.’ He extended his hand again, and I shook it, warm and tight, much more than it had been moments earlier when he’d helped me off the ground. ‘Again, I’m ever so sorry. Have a good day.’

‘I do.’ Oh, shit. ‘I will … I mean, I will. You, too.’

‘Thank you.’

The doors of the bus opened again with a pneumatic hiss and I was greeted by a driver wearing a Santa hat. I was still brushing my pants off as I boarded. She smiled knowingly as I tapped my Oyster card and grabbed for the handrail.

‘There are worse ways to land on your arse.’ She winked.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks as I looked around to find an entire busload of people watching, waiting. For me. I shied away as the bus pulled out into the street, my mystery assailant watching on from the kerb. Even if I now had a backside that hadn’t been this wet since I was a baby, it truly was the most wonderful time of the year.

If only I’d caught his name. Or, you know, his number.

Idiot.

* * *

Estelle’s home sat at the end of a narrow cobblestone mews with honey-brown brick buildings on either side, glossy white window frames, and bulbous shrubs. I’d never been happier to see her front door than I was today. I dropped what was left of my takeaway cup into a galvanised rubbish bin, wiped a sticky hand down my front and grabbed at the brass knocker.

‘Shiiit!’ Estelle roared with laughter as she swung the door open full tilt. ‘You know you’re not meant to swim in the Thames, right?’

‘It wasn’t me.’ I pressed past her into the hall, knocking down a photo frame in the process. ‘Some jerk in a hurry to get to his look-at-me car wasn’t looking where he was going, and I ended up in the gutter.’

‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘Nothing broken?’

‘Only my ego.’ I pressed at the tacky spot on my jeans. There was no way they’d be escaping the wash tonight. ‘And I think we gave the bus driver a spot of angina.’

‘Is there an article in there about handsome men who bowl you over?’ she asked. ‘You know, for the paper?’

‘I didn’t say he was handsome,’ I grumbled.

‘No, but I’m not entirely convinced by your faux outrage, either.’ She bit the inside of her lip as she watched for my reaction.

‘All right, you got me,’ I said with a defeated laugh. ‘He was attractive. I suppose it’d make a decent story, wouldn’t it? What to do when your lady parts scream yes, but the raging torrent in your pants pats you on the shoulder and says no.’

‘And that’s just the gutter water.’ Estelle followed as I pushed my roller case into the living room. ‘Look at you, still travelling around with that tattered neon-green thing.’

‘Still,’ I said, pulling a paper bag from my backpack. ‘But, hey, I remembered the bread! It survived the gutter-pocalypse.’

‘Tell you what, you shower and clean up while I find some wine,’ she said. ‘I want to hear all about this guy.’

Chapter 2
9 Days ’til Christmas

I woke with a start. My face was mashed into a cushion on the sofa and my breath blew back on me like a vineyard that had been freshly razed. If my guess was correct, I hadn’t moved since we’d uncorked bottle number three last night which wasn’t long after we realised the pizza box was empty and we’d debated getting dessert delivered just to see the Deliveroo boy again.

My brain scratched its nails down the blackboard of my skull.

Last night had been a long overdue catch-up. It had been six months since I’d last stayed with Estelle and, while we messaged each other constantly over social media, nothing could make up for the bone-crushing hugs and shared stories that came complete with pulled faces and bad impersonations.

Neon numbers on the microwave told me the city was about to tip over to the afternoon hours, which explained why Estelle was nowhere to be seen. I did not envy her having to disappear to work if she felt half as bad as I did. While I’d planned on being up early to get out and explore the city, a thumping head reminded me that I needn’t be in too much of a hurry. My day would simply start later and maybe I could even take in some Christmas lights when the sun dipped into the night.

I grabbed a coffee and walked upstairs to my bedroom to find my phone still plugged into the charger and ringing wildly. As it turned out, four missed calls and five messages meant that something was rotten in the State of Victoria.

It was my boss, Edwin. His incessant calling meant one of two things. Either he absolutely hated my last submission and I’d have to rewrite it to within an inch of its life (farewell to today’s plans), or he was about to ask me for something. I wasn’t sure which was the lesser of the two evils.

Right now, I had two options. One was to ignore him, and that would be fair. I was on holiday, I’d submitted all my pieces, and I was done for the year. Or, I could answer. Realistically, I knew what I had to do because the longer I hesitated, the larger the sinking feeling grew in the pit of my stomach.

Sighing, I answered his call as I reached for my jeans. After dinner last night, before the bloom of alcohol took over, I’d managed to wash and hang the gutter-damp clothes. They’d been spread across the bannister, hung off the backs of chairs and the heater in my room and now, not only were they dry, they were perfectly toasty.

‘Isobel, thank God you’ve answered,’ Edwin said with all the relief of a burst dam.

‘Oh, no,’ I grumbled. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing, nothing. I haven’t done anything, but I do need a huge favour.’

A begging Edwin was my favourite kind. Actually, not really, but it did give me a little wriggle room for bargaining.

‘You do?’ I ventured.

‘How was your night last night?’ he asked. ‘Head out on the town?’

I shrugged at the mirror, turning gently to make sure my clothes looked okay. There was no clumped washing powder on my pants, which was a good start. I switched my boss to speakerphone, threw on a shirt, and dabbed at my make-up while wriggling my feet into ankle boots with far less grace than Cinderella had with her glass slipper.

‘Can’t say I did, no,’ I said. ‘Just stayed in and had dinner with a friend.’

‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Listen, this favour.’

I sighed. ‘Here we go.’

‘Don’t be like that. You’ll love this one, I promise.’

‘You say that about all the terrible jobs, Ed,’ I said, tucking my passport away in the top drawer.

‘I do not,’ he balked. ‘Okay, maybe I do.’

He really did. A miracle pet story ended up being a revived hamster that had choked on the head of a Lego minifigure. A film premiere saw me vomited on by a washed-up soap star and my number being passed around like it had been written on the back of a public toilet door. It got so bad that I had to change numbers the following week. Oh, and the cooking contest at the local women’s association? I found myself the unwitting centre of a stolen recipe scandal. It was always the ‘one last thing’ jobs that went to pot, not the relatively safe travel reporting.

‘So, what is it?’ I asked. ‘Adding, with just a gentle reminder, that my holiday began at midnight, so I’m now very much ready to embrace my time off.’

‘All right, so, you know how readership has been lagging the last twelve months?’

‘You’ve mentioned that at the last four or five meetings, yes,’ I said. ‘And in big, bold neon Comic Sans letters in emails.’

‘Okay, well, I think this might really help give us a boost,’ he continued. ‘And you’ve been asking me for more interview experience.’

‘I recall something like that, yes.’ I pinched the bridge of my nose. I knew that would bite me in the arse eventually.

‘I’ve just got a call from a friend who owes me a favour. He’s managed to wrangle us a fifteen-minute interview slot with Tom Bracken. Season one of his telly series, Countershock, was a ratings bonanza. Everyone loves a war hero covered in blood, sweat and mud, right? Sexy. He’s riding high on critical acclaim and heading into a theatre season early in the new year. There are half a dozen film projects lined up plus a possible superhero franchise. Basically, he’s everywhere including your grandmother’s fantasies.’

‘That’s gross.’ My grandmother was filthy enough as it was. She didn’t need the extra encouragement. I dithered about for pen and paper to make a note but, frustratingly, couldn’t find anything.

‘I suspect his success is purely down to screaming girl theory because I’ve seen him in action and, I’ll be honest, he’s no Olivier.’

Screaming girl theory? Urgh, because girls can’t just have free thought. I tossed my head back and shook a fist. ‘Yes, but you also have terrible taste.’

‘Only in women and booze,’ he quipped, the tell-tale sizzle of a burning cigarette filling the dead air. ‘Anyway, I really think it’ll be a boon for website traffic. What do you say? Ready to be swept off your feet?’

Despite my requests for experience, I don’t think Edwin realised it had been a good six months since I’d sat down to binge-watch anything except the inside of my eyelids, let alone consider anything in the entertainment industry.

My days were either spent in an office that still had dusty Easter decorations fluttering from the air-conditioner, or on the lowest of low-cost airlines to visit some new health retreat for an exclusive article. Nights were spent at the latest bar openings in Melbourne, racing home to write an article before I turned into a pumpkin. Television was a distraction I simply couldn’t afford. Between that and trying to maintain relationships with equally busy friends, I hadn’t had a lot of time to dip my toes into the world of celebrity.

‘What do you want me to put together?’ I asked. ‘A fluff piece? A five-minutes-with type article? A few hundred words on the rise of this magic star? Or something more in-depth?’

‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ he said. ‘But let’s not get too deep and meaningful. Just something to bring in the clicks.’

Quelle surprise. It was so like him to just drop something on my lap with zero structure and expect me to pick it up and run with it. I looked longingly at the handwritten list Estelle had prepared of Christmas experiences I should have while I was in town. Did London have a 34th Street? At this rate, I’d be heading down there to try and conjure up a miracle just to get through half of it.

‘Have you got anything at all you can send through? A bit of a cheat sheet?’ I asked. ‘Some more details? Any questions you specifically want to focus on?’

‘You get yourself into a cab. I need you at the National Theatre by 1 p.m. I’ll shoot you through the details,’ he said, excited to finally have me over the line. ‘Oh, and make sure you take your camera equipment. I need some of those award-winning shots you’re so famous for.’

Cab? I huffed so hard my fringe blew into the next postcode. If I had to be in the seat by one, I had just over thirty minutes to get myself to the Southbank. Anyone with half a Google Map and a set of eyes could tell you a cab wouldn’t cut it in the middle of London. Not today. Not ever.

As for award-winning photos? While travel allowed me to indulge in my mistress of photography, if ever I’d won a prize for it, nobody had told me.

‘All right, okay,’ I said, as if I had absolutely any choice in the matter. ‘You do realise that I’m supposed to be on leave, don’t you?’

‘Just know that I adore your commitment to the Melbourne Explorer,’ he said.

‘You owe me an extra day. Or, you know, actual money so I can pay my bills,’ I said.

‘I’ll even buy you a slice of your favourite cake when you get back.’

If that were true, he’d be buying me mango and macadamia cheesecake and not one of Coles Finest chocolate mud cakes every time he ‘nipped out’ to the shops near the office, but beggars can’t be choosers, and cake was cake.

I unplugged my phone, threw my backpack over my shoulder and raced down the stairs. ‘I’ll have it through in, say, twenty-four hours?’

‘There’s that Christmas spirit. Thanks Iz, you’re a keeper, you are!’

Yes, I bloody well was.

I hadn’t even left home and I was already running late. I didn’t check to see if I had everything I needed before I stole Estelle’s leather jacket and made my way to the Tube at Sloane Square. By the time I made it to the street corner, snow was falling, and the neighbours were arguing as they tried to pull a fir tree through their front door. Fronds and needles littered the footpath but, boy, did it smell great.

And that was about as Christmassy as I was likely to get today.

Chapter 3

I hadn’t been to the theatre since a compulsory high school trip where we were told Macbeth would hold the answers to life, or at least our English essay due later that week. Immediately afterwards, we were spat out into local parkland to eat squashed sandwiches for lunch that were picked off by seagulls the size of chihuahuas. To add insult to injury, I failed my essay. Was it any wonder I’d sworn off theatre since?

As I hurried along the Southbank, I grew not so silently jealous of the winter market, which was bustling with all things yuletide. I could almost taste the freshly baked, sugar-dusted mince pies that still bore the bite of whiskey, not to mention the orange and berry scent of mulled wine. Hell, I’d give anything for something as simple as a hot chocolate with a few marshmallows right now.

It held much more promise than the National Theatre, which was an imposing grey beacon over the Thames. Even the sky was a brighter shade of mid-winter white, the sun hidden somewhere behind it all. I wrinkled my nose, curled my lip. Bloody Edwin.

It was just my luck that he hadn’t emailed me yet. I considered turning around and going home, bodging up a piece full of pull quotes from old articles and stock images, except I couldn’t remember the actor’s name in a fit. Also, the guilt would kill me quicker than two-day-old takeaway, so Edwin had that on his side.

So, here I was, going in blind.

Smile plastered on, press pass in hand, I made myself known to the burly security guard by the door. With his head gleaming under fluorescent lights and polo shirt pulled tight around his biceps, he looked like a charity store Dwayne Johnson.

‘You don’t look much like an Edwin,’ he commented, flipping papers on his clipboard. ‘Isobel.’

‘Yeah, see, I shaved my beard off this morning.’ I bounced nervously on the spot.

He narrowed his eyes at me and snatched up my pass. ‘What?’

‘Never mind,’ I mumbled. ‘Edwin should have rung to confirm. Or maybe he emailed? See—’ I tapped my pass ‘—I’m from the same newspaper. We’re really very good quality. Paper … of … the year.’

We really weren’t. In fact, I don’t think we’d ever been nominated.

Mr Security turned and walked away, mumbling into his walkie talkie and casting suspicious glances my way, brows tripping over themselves in confusion. Well, my fly wasn’t undone (I’d checked), I’d brushed my hair (with my fingers) and I’d stuffed half a packet of gum in my mouth on the Tube, but maybe there was still gutter mud on my backside. I did a very subtle feel about the seat of my pants as he walked away. No, all good.

A few, ‘Are you sure?’s later, he ambled his way back and handed me my press pass.

‘Right this way … Miss Bennett.’

I smiled tightly, and followed him through the foyer of the theatre, past posters for new shows that barely registered and a bookshop that pulled at me with the preternatural strength of an ACME magnet, and into the fittingly titled Olivier Theatre. Theatre might not have been my thing, but I knew who Sir Laurence Olivier was.

The rear door swept open to reveal stunning velvet seats set in steep tiers that fanned around and forced your attention in one direction: the stage. Today’s ensemble was simple. Two seats, a small table, and two glasses of water which were being eagerly replaced by someone balancing a clipboard in one hand and a pitcher in the other. Another journalist passed me on the stairs. She offered the dewy-eyed, flushed-cheek look of a teenage girl at a boyband concert, eyebrows up near her hairline as she continued nattering excitedly into her phone. If she were a cartoon, her heart-shaped eyes might pop from her head and she’d thump her foot on the floor.

‘… It seems like, right now, Tom Bracken has all the right moves.’ She winked at me. ‘Risky business, he is not.’

I clicked my fingers as realisation hit. Tom Bracken. That was his name.

My gaze followed her as she disappeared back up through the stalls and out of the theatre. If, in the next few moments, Tom Bracken happened to slide out of the wings in just his socks and a business shirt, I’d call Edwin to thank him for this assignment. Hell, I’d even buy him a drink or two. That would make my day, and then some.

The stage remained empty as I climbed the steps and arranged myself in one of the chairs on stage. I placed my recording device on the table, checked my email one last time and was relieved to find some notes from Edwin had finally come through. Then … I waited. When it looked like I was on my own for a while, I dug about my bag for my camera and the best lens and snapped a few random shots of the theatre.

Atmospheric. I scribbled on my notepad. Edwin would love that. He loved buzzwords like ants loved picnics.

I sneaked looks at the activity in the wings. A smartly dressed dark-haired man had his back to me as people gathered around him; one for reminders, another for a tease of the hair, and his own hands at his throat in that tell-tale move that said, ‘Be right there, just straightening my tie.’ It was momentarily fascinating and I noted what I saw, even if it did feel slightly voyeuristic.

Character. It would add some flavour to my story.

When the moment finally arrived, Tom Bracken crept slowly out onto the stage, backwards, still chatting to the attendant by the curtain. She smiled coquettishly at him. One final comment about it being almost the end of the day and, as he got closer, his footwork resembled a dance more than a stroll.

‘Good afternoon, Merry Christmas and all that. I’m Tom, lovely to meet—’ he turned slowly to face me as I stood to meet him ‘—you?’

‘You?’ I echoed, loudly enough that I heard my own voice call back to me from the rear of the theatre.

Life stopped; I was sure of it. Earth stopped spinning, gravity ceased to be, and the stage floated from beneath my feet like I’d thrown myself from the International Space Station. Behind me, I heard the footsteps of security get closer, and the attendant in the wings stepped forward apprehensively.

It was him, the guy from yesterday, from the sodden newspaper, angry phone call, arse in the gutter episode. Him with the universe in his eyes and Colgate smile. Tom. It was short and sharp and suited him perfectly. Pop! Straight into your life and out again. And here he was, standing before me, eyes wide, jaw dropped and arm outstretched waiting for me to shake his hand.

I stepped forward and shook. ‘At last, he has a name.’

Tom’s head tipped ever so slightly as he closed his other hand over mine. It was like someone had flicked a switch, and electricity swirled from my fingers to my toes and back around again. In the time since I last saw him, I’d been wondering if I hadn’t just imagined that feeling, perhaps confused it for an emergency rush of adrenaline. But, no, it was there, and it was as real as the sun and the moon.

‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely to … see you again? I can’t really say meet, can I?’

‘Likewise.’ I didn’t move. Neither did he.

‘Between almost being crushed by a bus and your running off, I’m afraid we didn’t get to introduce ourselves yesterday.’

‘I’m Iz,’ I said.

‘Is she a bird, is she a plane?’ He smirked and narrowed his eyes.

‘Isobel.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Isobel Bennett, I work with the Melbourne Explorer. I’m here to interview you today.’

‘Beautiful.’ His hand slipped from mine and moved straight for his hip. ‘How are you? I haven’t permanently scared you off public transport, have I?’

‘No,’ I said with a nervous chuckle. ‘Just street corners.’

‘Seat … sit … would you like a … for Pete’s sake, Tom.’ He took a loud, deep breath and clapped his hands. ‘Let’s start again. Isobel, would you like a coffee? Can I get you a drink?’

‘I’d trip someone up for a coffee right now.’

An easy smile formed. ‘Perfect. Me too. Even better if it had a chaser in it.’ He turned away and made furious hand gestures to an assistant, who in turn made like a marathon runner on a mission. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’

As I turned to sit, I eyed the chair like it was about to vanish into thin air before I sat down. Had there been any phone reception on the Tube, I’d have realised who I was interviewing and I might’ve been better prepared for this moment. Or, you know, added it to my reasons to run in the opposite direction.

‘How has your day been?’ Tom asked. ‘Drier than yesterday, I hope?’

‘It has been, yes. Thank you.’ I held my hand in place long enough to see my fingers shake. This was so ridiculous. I’d spent months asking Edwin for the chance to grow, to interview people and work on other articles, and here comes an actor to throw me off course. But he wasn’t just any actor, was he? ‘How about you?’

‘Ah, rather boring,’ he said, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Not that I should say that too loudly around these parts.’

Boring. Hmm. Not quite the word I’d have used myself, but anyway.

I reached for my notepad and pen. ‘Shall we begin?’

Tom stretched for my Dictaphone. Wait. What? I leaped forward, hand atop his. There it was again, warm and sharp and utterly exquisite. God bless this sleight of fate.

‘Relax.’ He clicked the red button. ‘You hadn’t hit record yet. Just helping you out.’

I whipped my shaky hand back and did the oh-so-casual tuck the hair behind the ear move. So suave. I was sure I fooled nobody. ‘I’m glad at least one of us knows what’s going on.’

He smiled gently, but all I could see was him in the gutter in front of the bus. On top of me.

My eyes darted nervously from him to the email on the screen in front of me, most of which now looked like Tolkienesque gibberish. What was worse was I had only fifteen minutes to nail this interview before I was booted out in favour of someone who actually had a clue what they were doing. I took a large gulp of coffee and rapped my pen against my notepad.

‘Is something wrong?’ Tom leaned in, elbows on his knees. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m sorry, I just … I have absolutely no idea what to ask you.’

‘None at all?’ He shifted, leaning back into his seat. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or amused, and I was sure I’d seen both of those expressions yesterday.

‘This thing, this interview, is a last-minute thing for me. My boss rang me about half an hour ago with a time and location and told me to get here.’

‘I was going to say, looking at my schedule before I walked out here, you don’t exactly look like an Edwin.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘Much lovelier than an Edwin, if I can be so bold.’

Oh boy. My mouth filled with sand and my heart dropped the needle on some EDM.

‘Well, I may not look like an Edwin, but I certainly feel like an imbecile, which is quite in line with his personality. I mean, he’s offered me one suggestion here: How do you unwind after a busy day? What even is that?’

‘In bed.’

Coffee cup to my mouth, I coughed. Had someone switched up the thermostat? As much as a sense of humour was the first thing I looked for in a man, I didn’t need that mental image. At least not right now. I rubbed at my chin and focused on my phone again.

I was way out of my depth and the realisation was crushing. All the daydreaming in the world wasn’t going to help me build my own brand or launch my own blog when I couldn’t stumble through the simplest of interviews. By now, I was sure I looked like I was begging and wasting everybody’s time.

‘I should explain that, usually, on a good day, I’m a travel writer. I go to health spas and restaurants, climb rope bridges and cram myself onto overstuffed bus tours. I don’t do interviews per se.’

Tom crossed one knee over the other. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’

‘Will it help?’ I let out a deep breath. ‘Because I’d really appreciate that.’

‘Why don’t you let me fill you in on what we’re doing here?’ he said, lacing his fingers together and crossing his legs at the knees. ‘That way, I toe the company line, you get all the important bits, and neither of us have to deal with any of the arbitrary garbage.’

It was the permission I needed to let go and relax. Lifting my eyes to his, I felt my body unravel. Blood stopped bellowing through my ears, and I was sure my teeth stopped doing their impression of a mortar and pestle.

He opened with a few brief sentences about his play, which was about a couple in the throes of a marriage crisis during World War II. That led to a discussion of how he’d indulged in books about wartime history, the psychological impacts of it.

His ability to correlate past events into minor details of the present, even extended to the fictional worlds he inhabited. This was especially pertinent to his role on Countershock, a role that saw him play a lieutenant caught in the middle of a modern-day war. His openness and intelligence made it so much easier to volley questions.

From then to now, and to what the future might hold, he had a studious eye, discerning taste, and was every bit in command of his own ship. Listening to him talk about roles and how he picked them, I wished I had more time to indulge in life, like normal people who binge-watched television over pizza and wine.

When somebody appeared to tell us our time was up, I felt a deep sense of deflation. Our time may have been short, but I’d found him to be utterly fascinating. He was handsome, whip smart, wryly funny, and wasn’t so tall he’d trip and hit his head on the moon. All I wanted was to listen to him talk about his world view a little more; it was deliciously addictive. Alas, it was over.

‘I guess that’s us?’

‘I guess so.’ He nodded once.

Tom’s eyes did not leave me as I watched his assistant walk away. Always with a phone to her ear, she looked to be holding four conversations at once. It made me grateful I’d only had to manage one with Tom. My gaze drifted back to him to find a whimsical smile set upon his face.

I stood and readied myself to leave. Stuffing my belongings into my bag was the only thing keeping my brain and my mouth from running away with me. My feet felt like lead knowing that I’d be heading out the door in the next minute or two.

When I’d done, I smiled and offered my hand. ‘Tom, thank you for being an insightful, intelligent interview.’

‘Yeah, well, you get me talking about my favourite topics and you’ll be stuck with me for hours.’ As he smiled, a tight dimple pulled at his left cheek.

‘That would not be the world’s worst way to spend a night,’ I threw him a look over my shoulder as I stepped off the stage.

‘So, let’s do that then.’

‘Sorry?’ I turned back to him.

‘It’s almost two. I finish here at four o’clock tonight. Meet me out by the foyer if you like. We can grab dinner and drinks and continue the conversation. Maybe compare Oyster balances, favourite bus routes and the like.’

Running into him at the bus stop may have been a simple accident of the universe. But this? This felt like … fate. It had to be. Simon Van Booy said coincidences were the universe’s way of letting you know you were on the right track. And, if that were even partly true, then there had to be a reason why all of this had happened.

Tom had been dropped into my lap twice, once quite literally. Despite the jelly legs and tunnel vision, I took one look at the exit and another at Tom. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, and here I was with a flickering tail and rubbing myself against the furniture.

‘Four o’clock?’ I searched his eyes. Please, don’t let this be a joke.

‘On the dot,’ he said.

‘Okay.’ I smiled. ‘Sure. I’d like that.’

‘Out in the foyer, where you came in.’

‘In the foyer,’ I repeated. There went my heart again, tripping and stumbling and sending papers into the breeze and eggnog down my pants.

‘I’m looking forward to it.’ His eyes crinkled as his lips turned up into a smile. With a spring in his step, he raced backstage like he’d done it a thousand times before. I turned and left, my stomach blooming with spring butterflies and the fizz of excitement. Security gave me a knowing look as I passed, and I scuttled out the door.

Four o’clock. Two hours and thirty minutes. Not that anyone was counting. I checked my watch and stepped outside.

Chapter 4

Just over two hours. It wasn’t much time if I considered heading home to get a decent article written. The travel alone would eat up almost an hour. The same could be said of Alfred’s where, while I could calm my growling stomach, I would be tied up in conversation. The winter market was another option, but I wouldn’t get a thing done there. So, I stayed close to the theatre.

At a bakery by the end of the concourse, I found a table near a fireplace, a full cup of coffee, and a sandwich to tide me over until my … date? Was it a date? I wasn’t sure. I sent Estelle a message telling her not to wait up for me. A flurry of messages followed as she tried to glean the tiniest sliver of information out of me. I pulled out my notepad and Dictaphone and set about my work.

And then, nothing happened. My head was still floating somewhere up around the rigging of the theatre and, try as I might, where I wanted to find words, none came. I spent more time staring at an almost blank notepad than I did with my pen in my hand. In the end, I fell into the void of social media and spent time catching up on travel groups and with colleagues. Oh well, I did say a twenty-four-hour turnaround.

When it was time to leave, I shouldered my backpack and walked back to the National Theatre.

Until now, nerves hadn’t been a problem. After all, I’d made it through that mess of an interview and still came out the other side with an invite for drinks. From where I stood, this was the least of my problems. That was, until four o’clock came and went without a hint of Tom.

Each time the door opened, my stomach did a handstand, only to find others leaving the theatre, talking and laughing. Yellow streetlamps glowed overhead, and Ariana Grande’s ‘Santa Tell Me’ drifted up the concourse from the market. I was beginning to feel like maybe I’d got my wires crossed, or maybe he’d changed his mind altogether and Not-Quite-The-Rock was about to come and sweep me away like a filthy cigarette butt. But finally, as the door of the theatre opened with a swish and Tom stepped out into the night, those worries receded as I felt an effervescent burst tingle up through my chest and across my scalp.

Help!

‘Isobel.’ He approached with a spring in his step and a boyish, lopsided grin. ‘Thank you for not running away on me again! It appears I owe you another apology. I’m really racking them up, aren’t I?’

‘It’s okay, your tenth one is free,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you a loyalty card you can put little stamps on.’

‘I’m awful, I know. We ran a little late on the end of day meeting,’ he explained, tucking a piece of paper in his back pocket.

My eye caught on someone in a gingerbread person costume as they bounced along behind Tom looking more like Mr Blobby. When my gaze returned to Tom, he looked on the cusp of a question.

‘So, ah, Tom … can I call you Tom?’ I threw him a quizzical look. ‘Or are you a Thomas?’

‘Now, see, that’s an interesting story,’ he began, lifting his shoulder in an invite to follow him. ‘There wasn’t enough ink in the pen when Dad was filling out the paperwork at the hospital, so he economised on the letters. Thus, I am just plain old Tom.’

‘Thus.’ I snorted.

‘Bonus points on the essay, right?’ As he slipped his hands into his pockets, his elbow knocked mine. I took a sharp, surprised breath. ‘It’s good to see you again, by the way.’

‘Third time’s a charm,’ I joked, then inwardly cringed. Honestly, it sounded much better in my head.

He wrinkled his nose and bit his lip. ‘Second time wasn’t so bad either, was it?’

‘It was okay,’ I said cautiously. ‘Like I said, interviews aren’t my specialty.’

‘See, I thought you did perfectly fine.’

‘Thank you,’ I said meekly.

‘Now, serious talk, you are okay after yesterday, aren’t you? I didn’t break you or your belongings, or anything at all? Please be honest, I don’t want to be one of those jerks who, well, you know …’ He grimaced. ‘Look at him, thinking he’s all that.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine. I was more worried about my laptop, but nothing got too wet, so you’re off the hook.’

‘I think we gave the bus driver a fright though.’

Squinting, I pinched my thumb and forefinger together. ‘Just a little.’

Tom moved away from the current of pedestrians and drew to a stop by the Thames. ‘Now, Isobel.’

‘Yes, Tom.’

‘I realise that, as the instigator of tonight’s activities, it is up to me to come up with a plan. However, I was wondering if you had any preference for dinner, drinks, something along those lines. Allergies? Aversions?’

I adjusted my backpack and glanced over his shoulder into the market behind him, towards the candy floss machines, fir trees, snowman decorations and swirls of light and colour. ‘Can I be really cheesy?’

‘The more cheese the better.’ He bounced once. ‘Bring on the brie, roll it in mozzarella, and tell me when to stop with the parmesan.’

‘Oh, we never stop with the parmesan,’ I played. ‘You just leave the block right there and take the grater away.’

‘I like you.’ He rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘Right. Hit me with your idea.’

‘Okay, so, the thing is,’ I leaned in conspiratorially, palms bouncing off each other, ‘I really love Christmas.’

‘Come here.’ Tom wriggled a finger, inviting me further into his space. When I finally got close enough, he whispered, ‘Me too.’

I recoiled with a disbelieving laugh. ‘You do not! You’re just saying that to be agreeable.’

‘I absolutely do,’ he said, false shock all over his face. ‘What other time of year do I get to drink mulled cider like it’s cordial and call it indulging in tradition?’

As a lover of a cheeky mulled wine or two, I had to agree. ‘All right, points for that.’

‘Shall we avail ourselves of a warm drink and the winter market?’ Tom pointed lazily towards the market. ‘Two birds, one stone and all those other idioms?’

‘You’re an ideas man, Tom,’ I said. ‘See, when I woke up this morning my plan was to spend the day getting festive. That is, until my phone rang, and we got stuck together again.’

‘I really have done a number on you, haven’t I?’ Tom asked, pinching at his chin.

‘You’ve certainly been a prominent feature these last twenty-four hours, yes.’

‘Shall I make it up to you, then?’ He took a comically large step towards the crowds and urged me to follow. ‘Let’s go, Alice, down the rabbit hole.’

I slid my hands into the warmth of my pockets and followed. ‘Does that make you the Mad Hatter?’

‘On that, my mother would probably agree,’ he said. ‘Now, wine or cider?’

Down a set of stairs onto the main thoroughfare, we passed a fairground carousel brimming with light and colour, horses that glistened with the pearlescent sheen of boiled lollies. At the Beltane & Pop cart by the main entrance, we bought a mulled wine each and sipped on the spiced contents as we passed through the main entrance of the market. I wondered how hard I’d have to petition to have all markets begin with a drink stand.

I craned my neck for a better view of the glittering lights strung between buildings and posts like an extra galaxy of stars to love and admire against the inky sky.

‘So, Isobel, you mentioned today that you’re a travel writer?’

‘Usually,’ I said. ‘Today was just a lucky coincidence.’

‘Does that mean you get paid to travel around the world?’ he asked. ‘Because I would not say no to that.’

‘Not quite.’ I dodged a buggy that careened its way between us and pushed away a balloon that blew back and bopped me on the cheek. ‘Ninety per cent of the time, it means I hang around art galleries, cafes, and local festivals. I try out new tour buses with the over-sixties and health retreats with people who have more dollars than sense. So, not the worst job in the world, but it’s not always the glitz and glam of the Olivier Theatre, either. It’s mostly waiting in the queue at Burger King for cheap coffee.’

‘Glitz and glam?’ he guffawed. ‘You should see that place after rehearsal. There is zero glam there. There’s more sweat than a sauna in summer, and not a lot of fancy.’

‘Most of my articles are written in pyjamas while I snack on a bag of jelly snakes and bemoan the fact I’m out of wine and too lazy to walk the block and a half necessary to procure another bottle,’ I added. ‘I’m surprised I don’t own seven cats and have bird’s-nest hair.’

‘Oh, but I hear bird’s-nest hair is all the rage right now.’ Tom frowned and pushed out his lips. ‘I’m sure you would rock that look.’

‘Marginally,’ I said. ‘Although I’m disappointed your job is hardly the glittering beacon everyone’s presented with.’

‘I wish it was,’ Tom said. ‘I really do. Half of it is simply trying to remember lines. That’s honestly the worst and hardest part. The rest is a jumble sale of make-up chairs, weird poses, and the nightmarish echo of a clapboard. I swear I’ve woken up from nightmares that have ended with someone screaming “Action!” at me.’

‘And shitty journalists who lie about your love life, right?’ I nudged him with my elbow. Static electricity jumped up and bit me like a rabid cat.

‘You heard that?’ Tom drew to a shocked stop.

‘I think everybody heard that,’ I said. ‘At least everyone within a mile radius of King’s Road.’

‘I wasn’t that loud.’ He dropped his head into his hands with an embarrassed laugh. ‘You didn’t even wait, what, ten minutes to bring it up.’

I drew my sleeve back. ‘Seven minutes, thirty-seven seconds.’

‘Well done.’ He gave me his best faux-serious face.

‘Seriously, though, did you sort it out?’ I asked. ‘Because it sounded horrid.’

Tom shrugged. ‘Who knows? I tweeted; it ran its course. It’s all just tomorrow’s chip-shop wrapping, isn’t it?’

‘Very philosophical,’ I said. ‘And probably not wrong.’

We fell in step with the crowd, and each other, a slow meandering wander taking us towards dozens of tiny stalls, each of them fashioned like log cabins, their eaves draped in pinecones, fir fronds, warm yellow twinkle lights, and wooden snowflakes dangling in windows. It felt homely and inviting, like knocking on the front door of your best friend’s home to enjoy a warm night of fun and laughter.

‘So, speaking of parmesan cheese …’ Tom stopped about halfway along the thoroughfare, a boulder in a raging river of people. ‘What I normally do here is walk all the way to the end and then double back before making my dinner choice. But if it’s parmesan you’re after, laced with a bit of pasta, we can go straight to the Pasta Wheel.’

‘I don’t know what that is, but it sounds delicious,’ I said. My mouth was already watering at the idea of parmesan cheese. And pasta. All the carbs and fat.

‘Shall we?’ he asked.

‘Please.’ I gestured ahead of us. ‘Lead the way.’

We might have decided on dinner there and then, but we still spent another hour browsing quietly before we did anything about it. Wines were refilled as we passed drink carts, and we marvelled at the charm of the micro-village vibe, complete with the occasional trinket stall. Tom navigated like someone who’d memorised the floor map before arriving, dodging crowds, fire pits and buggies in the process.

We arrived at the Pasta Wheel to a small queue and the biggest wheel of cheese I’d ever seen. In fact, the last time I’d seen a wheel that big, I’d had a flat tyre in the middle of the freeway and had to wait for roadside assist to come and scuttle me out of the way of traffic.

I watched on in glee as a chef tossed steaming fettuccini into the hollowed centre of the wheel of cheese, stirring it until the edges melted and it looked like one great big mess of dairy and cholesterol. It was topped with fresh goat’s cheese, cooked sausage and chives – and then handed over the counter to me. Delicious!

With plates piled high with pasta so cheesy we’d kill the lactose-intolerant, we made our way to the nearest dining hall. A tent full of heaters, ambient lighting, and a loop track of carols that played a tad too loud. Tom led the way to a back corner and an empty pair of seats.

‘Okay, now, Isobel.’ He threw a leg over the bench seat and wriggled about to get comfortable, fork and napkin placed carefully to the side, dinner container opened for the obligatory oh-God-let-me-eat-it sniff.

‘Hmm?’ I dumped everything in a pile, fork tinkling down on the table and dangling precariously in a gap between two slats.

‘Given you’ve had the opportunity to interview me today, is this the part where I interview you?’

‘Oooh.’ I frowned. ‘No, I need to apologise for today.’

‘Apologise?’ Tom frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘My interview. It was awful.’ I stuffed the first bit of food in my mouth. It was so much better than I could have imagined.

‘It wasn’t awful, I promise you. I’ve had worse,’ he said, shaking his head and prodding at his dinner.

‘It’s just … I should have been more prepared.’

‘Really? Because the impression I got was that your boss hung you out to dry. Last-minute invite and all that,’ Tom reasoned.

I sat back and thought for a moment. It was a little from column A, and a little from column B. ‘Maybe, but I said to him last year that I wanted to do more interviews, wanted to get my experience up. Purely selfish reasons though.’

‘What reasons are they?’ he asked.

‘Honestly? I want to move away from travel writing and on to something else, something I have more control over.’

‘You don’t like the travel?’ he asked.

My eyes popped. ‘Don’t like it? I love it. I have seen so much of this world, but I want more from this job. I want to write things that matter. I want to interview people on deeper topics. I want to be in control of when I’m away.’

‘Now you’re hitting on a sore point.’ Tom’s fork dangled in the air in agreement. ‘The uncertainty of time away.’

‘You know what I mean?’ I asked. ‘What am I talking about? Of course you would.’

‘Absolutely.’ He nodded. ‘I miss so many family events because I’m away on set. People have this idea that I have this astounding jetsetting life. I mean, for the most part, it is. It’s the best. Like you, I see all these great places, and I have my dream job, but there’s the built-in guilt at not being there for things. I get the phone calls asking if I’ll come to birthdays, weddings, even funerals, and sometimes I just can’t.’

‘See?’ I held my hands out. ‘You get it.’

‘I promise you, I do.’

‘See, I figure that if I can create my own blog that’s, I don’t know, part travel, part feature articles, maybe I can create something with a bit more clout, something that’s a bit more in line with me and who I am. I can write about more than the temperature of the water in the hot springs, or—’

‘—what’s your favourite cheese?’ Tom broke in.

‘Please don’t tell me someone asked you that?’ I cringed, embarrassed that someone could ask something so arbitrary.

‘The reporter after you,’ Tom nodded. ‘Apparently, they thought it would be a great idea to open up their Twitter feed for questions.’

I buried my face in my hands. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Pfft. Don’t be. Just don’t be so hard on yourself.’ He stirred his dinner. ‘Just know that, when you interview me for your blog, you can ask me way better questions.’

‘Interview you for … wait, are you saying you would do that?’

‘Absolutely, I would,’ he nodded. ‘You know, if I told anyone else this, they would tell me to shut up and be grateful. In fact, I had that conversation with a friend recently. I bemoaned wanting to see a band play in town, but I was going to miss them because I was away, and I got the old—’

‘—I don’t know why you’re so ungrateful,’ I mocked my sister. ‘You just got back from Disneyland.’

‘And I am grateful. I’m so humbled by everything I have right now. My life is amazing, but there is more to me than photoshoots with puppies, fan fiction, favourite cheeses, and asking me whether I would date a fan.’

I screwed my face up. ‘I cringe because I would have eaten that stuff up at fourteen.’

‘I know,’ he chuckled. ‘And I get it, but …’

‘But there’s more to Tom?’ I asked.

‘Yes. So, let’s do this. You want to launch your site and do this interview over again? Let’s do it.’

I bumbled around a bit. ‘I mean, we could.’

‘Don’t back out on me now,’ he said. ‘What else have you got planned this week? Let’s set a time. We’ll make it way better than this afternoon’s effort.’

‘Plans for this week?’ I raised my cup. ‘I am going to stuff myself with mulled wine—’

Tom nodded in the direction of my cup. ‘Good start.’

‘—and eat all the Christmas food, and just generally be Christmassy. It’s the first chance I’ve had to spend time in London over Christmas, so I’m feeling especially festive with bells on! I need to go ice skating and get my photo taken with Santa.’

‘Hold up.’ Tom poked the air with his fork. ‘Your first Christmas in London?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And where, pray tell, do you usually spend your Christmases?’

‘Usually?’ I looked up from my dinner. ‘Melbourne.’

‘I love Melbourne,’ Tom gushed. ‘I was there, oh, about six months ago. It was only for three weeks, filming this godawful straight to DVD film, but I loved every minute of my time there.’

‘Excuse me?’ I feigned my disgust. ‘You were in Melbourne and didn’t call? Tom, how very dare you. If it’s not bad enough that you body slammed me into a gutter, you don’t call the next day? What are you?’

‘I am but an awful man, a husk of a gentleman,’ he teased with a laugh.

‘Tell me all about Melbourne,’ I said. ‘I want to hear your version.’

Wherever I travelled, I adored talking to people who’d been tourists in Melbourne. Because I lived there, I often felt that the city had lost some of its wonder in the rush of everyday life. As much as I tried to see the city through a tourist’s eyes, I’d been there, done it, seen it a million times. Sometimes, that caused some of the finer, more beautiful details to fade into obscurity. So it was refreshing to hear about our restaurants and zoos, shopping strips and tourist traps from people who’d only ever had fleeting visits.

We pulled out phones and compared photos of places we’d both been, talked about Tom’s newfound love of all things Lygon Street and the three P’s found along the famous dining strip: pizza, pasta, and patisserie. He’d been to the Eureka Skydeck, comparable to The Shard for its sheer height and scale, and he’d loved that the trams reminded him of his hometown, Sheffield.

I’d been to Sheffield twice; both times different, but equally brilliant. The first time was a stopping point between London and Edinburgh, somewhere to park the hire car for the night and stretch my legs. I wandered around Sheaf Square, up through the middle of the city, and used the tram system to find my way back to my B&B booking by the River Loxley. The second time I’d been, I’d spent my time covering local industrial museums before heading to Chatsworth House for a Pride and Prejudice festival.

‘You know, you didn’t call me either when you were in Sheff,’ Tom played, patting his napkin against his eyes far too dramatically for anyone to believe. ‘If I die tonight, Isobel, it’s from heartbreak. It’s on your head.’

‘You poor love,’ I chortled. ‘Next time, you can be my personal guide.’

‘Football and beer at The Howard it is, then.’

I snorted, hand clapped over my mouth to stop food and laughter spilling across the table. I was delighted to see Tom’s eyes crinkle as he peered up at me from under thick eyelashes. Something in me fluttered.

‘Speaking of all things food and drink, that was ah-mazing.’ I blotted my mouth with my napkin. ‘Piggish me would totally go back and get another plate.’

‘Feel free.’ Tom nodded in the direction. ‘I’ll wait.’

‘But then there’d be no room for dessert, would there?’

‘Amateur. There’s always room for dessert.’

‘In that case, do I get to pick?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely not.’ Tom slapped the palms of his hands against the bench. ‘Of course you can, what did you have in mind?’

Shouldering my backpack, I gathered our rubbish and wedged myself between tables full of people and loud chatter. A quick check of my phone revealed we’d been sat under the oversized tent for hours, though it had felt like the blink of an eye. That explained why the last of my dinner was delicious, but cold. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I found Tom catching up, looking as though he’d been stopped in the crowd for a quick hello.

‘I saw this gorgeous little German bake stand, up towards the far end of the market,’ I said as we stepped back into the flow of people. ‘I thought we might check it out?’

He nodded. ‘Sounds great.’

The market was quieter than it had been earlier, but what I loved about these evening markets, even ones at home, was that they brought locals out in their droves. It added vibrancy to a city that may otherwise be sleeping, though I suspected London never did. The bakery stall was thriving as the perfect end of evening dessert stand.

‘Okay, what’s the order?’ Tom looked to me.

‘I’d love a bag of pfeffernüsse.’ I smiled.

‘Who’s a goose?’

‘You’re a goose.’ I pinched at his jacket, urging him forward in the queue.

‘All right, but if you’re going to get biscuits, you have to get some butter grog as well,’ he said, pointing to a mug that had just been handed over the counter.

‘Butter grog?’ I looked at him, confused. ‘That sounds like a Harry Potter character.’

‘I promise it’s not.’ Tom offered up a twenty-pound note. ‘I may die of a heart attack with the amount I’m about to consume, but it’ll be worth it. Make it two doubles, chuck them in milkshake cups if you have to. It’s amazing. Please and thank you.’

As I took my first uncertain sip, I watched him watch me and, for a moment, I decided that I enjoyed the way he looked at me. There was a certain softness I hadn’t seen in a long time. I would’ve taken more if I could.

‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Of the drink?’

The fruity undertones of cider, lashings of butter, the acid of lemon and orange, coupled with the back of the throat bite of ginger and rum. I might have found my favourite drinks night tipple. ‘Can we go back and get a vat of this?’

‘I’m going to have to learn to make it, I think,’ he said. ‘It can be my new party trick.’

Without even thinking, discussing, agreeing, or disagreeing, we’d found ourselves wandering out of the market. We walked along the Thames towards the London Eye, which was illuminated a deep red colour and rotating slowly.

Armed with my bag of biscuits and nothing more than the courage of too many mulled wines, I drew Tom into a quiet corner by the Thames, the lights of Westminster burning in the background. I gave him my phone and stood back against the river barrier.

‘Please, can you take a photo? I need to Instagram this.’

‘You do?’ he asked.

‘Travel writer?’ I jangled the bag about and posed, drink in one hand, bag of biscuits in the other – labels facing forward, thank you – as he took one, two, three photos.

‘Are they okay?’ He hovered while I checked the results. ‘Do you want me to take them again?’

‘They’re perfect, thank you.’ I flicked through the handful of shots. ‘Are you on social media?’

‘Me?’ Tom picked through the bag. ‘Why? You gonna follow me?’

‘Everywhere.’ I batted my eyelids. ‘I’m going to turn up on your doorstep and tie ribbons around your fence while offering up a dance to the fertility gods.’

‘Well, in that case, it’s Release the Bracken,’ he said dramatically. ‘Full stop between “release” and “the” and all one word—’

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