Chapter 1
Friday lunchtime, 8 December
I don’t own a Christmas jumper, it’s against my religion,I type, feeling smug. Excellent, now Andrea from HR won’t bother me about it because she’ll be too afraid of offending me. But in case she sends a follow-up email to suggest other options, I add:I’m also against fast fashion, so I went to the charity shops but couldn’t find any brightly coloured jumpers (or ones with sparkly wool either). They must’ve already been snapped up by the students!
It’s like clockwork. Every December, the casual but firm request comes through that everyone wear Christmas jumpers on Zoom calls. UGH. I hate this time of year. If it were up to me, I’d take the whole month off and go somewhere that doesn’t celebrate it, like Outer Mongolia. But I’m at the business end of a project, so I can’t. I’ll just have to grit my teeth and power through.
A low growl emits from underneath the desk. Crumpet, my mini schnauzer, is picking up on my black mood. He’s my emotional support pet, and we’re so in tune that sometimes I think he’s me in fur form.
‘Exactly,’ I tell him, nudging his flank with my foot. ‘Buckle up. We’re entering festive hell, and it’s going to be a bumpy ride.’
I’m well aware that my reluctance to join in on the office cheer will be noted by upper management. But why should I have to wear a silly jumper if I don’t want to?
I grab Crumpet’s lead, and he bounds around, mad with joy. This dog loves going outside, unlike me. I work from home, so there’s no commute and no annoying colleagues chatting in my ear. Ordering groceries online means no queuing at the checkout or shopper drama either. The only reason I leave the house these days is to walk Crumpet. Bliss.
On the street, the frigid air that fills my lungs is a shock to the system after the warmth of my second-floor flat. It’s so cold I can feel icicles forming on my nostril hairs.
‘Maybe just a quick walkie,’ I say to Crumpet, burrowing deeper into my scarf. At this time of year it’s dark at 3 p.m. and I don’t want to be outside for longer than I have to. Crumpet doesn’t need telling twice; he’s already straining against his lead, eager to get going.
I live a couple of streets over from the Royal Mile, but we head in the opposite direction, away from the holidaymaker hoo-ha. There’s no way I’m getting involved in that throng of commercialism. No, we’re heading to the local graveyard, where the people are much less lively and it’s wonderfully quiet.
Creaking open the black wrought-iron gate, we slip through and walk amongst the avenues of mossy graves interspersed with dripping wet boughs. Relief. This is my small pocket of peace in the middle of busy Edinburgh. Even Crumpet stills for a moment, and I bend to let him off his lead. He likes snuffling around the crumbling headstones, and occasionally, there’s the odd mouse to chase.
Propping myself up against a sturdy rectangular crypt with a praying angel, I check my phone for messages. Four calls gone to voicemail. The first three are easily dealt with: the mother, the father, Violet—delete, delete, delete. The fourth is unexpected. It’s from Lewis Kirkcaldy, the CEO of the hotel we’re currently working with to implement sustainability measures. He never calls me. What does he want? Hopefully, it’s nothing bad. The project is going well from my perspective. With some trepidation, I play the message.
‘Hi, Holly. It’s Lewis. Just a brief end-of-week call to say good job on setting up the third stage of the initiative. Looks like we’re on track, but there’s an addition I’d like to discuss with you. I’ll send through a Google invite for a Zoom early next week. Have a good weekend ... Oh, by the way, you’re all invited to our Christmas party on Friday, the 22nd, at the hotel. I’ve emailed the details to Andrea.’
I lean back on the crypt and heave a deep sigh. There’s no way I’m going to that! I’ll have to come up with some excuse. Lewis’s hotel is high-end. I’m sure he’ll pull out all the stops to make it a great party, but the thought of having to endure drunken conversations with people—and at Christmas, no less—makes my skin crawl.
However, it would be interesting to meet Lewis face to face. We’ve had dozens of Zoom calls, but he never has his webcam on and just uses audio. He said something about it being broken, which I might believe. But I checked him out on LinkedIn, and there’s no photo on there either. I’m intrigued, but not enough to go to his Christmas party.
I whistle to Crumpet, who’s busily nosing about through a pile of dead leaves. But he ignores me as usual. ‘Come on, mate! It’s freezing.’ I’m just about to go over and fetch him when there are heavy footsteps on the path.
‘Excuse me. Is that your dog?’ I turn to see an older woman rugged up in a tweed coat and a fawn scarf, her brown stockinged legs tapering into a pair of sensible brogues of the same colour. She stops alongside me and peers through her wire-rimmed glasses at Crumpet, who’s now sniffing at a headstone.
‘Yes,’ I say, expecting a formulaic ‘Och, sooooo cute’. But it’s not forthcoming.
Instead, I get ‘This is sacred ground. It’s not a dog park’, said in a hoity-toity manner, which instantly gets my back up.
‘I’ve been coming here for months, and no one’s ever said anything.’ In fact, I’ve never seen a soul, and how dare she assume I’m not visiting some dearly departed relative that left this earth in 1885!
‘Well, they should. I’ve half a mind to report you to the council.’
‘By the time they look into it, we might both be six feet under ourselves,’ I say, attempting to make a joke.
But she just eyes me sternly without cracking a smile. She obviously doesn’t get my sense of humour, or she works for the council. A phone is pulled out of her pocket. ‘What’s your name?’
I roll my eyes. ‘It’s Ms We’re Just Leaving. Crumpet, come here!’ I call.
He runs over, and the woman watches as I fasten his lead.
‘See, no harm done. No graves desecrated,’ I say sarcastically.
‘You’ve got a right mouth on you.’
Sensing this exchange is about to get heated, Crumpet lifts his leg, and a stream of yellow urine soaks the woman’s stockings and runs down onto her shoe. Her mouth drops open. ‘He did that on purpose!’ she screeches angrily.
‘He didn’t. He just thought your leg was a tree trunk.’
