Page 50 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

Without saying a word, Ethan laced his fingers through mine and led me up a few steps to the front door of what looked to be a terraced house.

‘You have a whole house?’

‘Ha, no – it’s a studio in the loft. It’s pretty compact, but perfect for one. Cosy for two.’ He squeezed my hand tightly, to the extent that I could feel the intensity of his pulse on my own wrist. I couldn’t help but think of the parallels between Ethan’s loft apartment and the attic flat back in Bath, but I left the observation unspoken – it was information he didn’t need.

There was no elevator up to the top floor this time, just a dimly lit stairwell that smelled vaguely of paint and damp. By the time we were two floors up – and there were exactly the same number of steps up to his front door as there were to mine – I was out of breath. That said, the way my heart was pounding in my chest, I’d probably be out of breath if he lived in the basement.

He extracted his keys and inserted them into the lock, still holding my hand. This time, it was my turn to squeeze his palm as he turned the key. I knew the instant he closed the door behind us we’d be kissing up against it – my entire body was ready to let go of all resistance in anticipation of that very moment, which was just seconds aw—

‘Surprise!’ A man and a woman who looked to be in their sixties stood up from the sofa at the foot of the bed and turned to face us.

What in the name of actual fuck?

‘Mom! Dad! What are you doing here?’ Ethan turned to me, eyebrows raised, face swiftly draining of colour.

‘We decided to drive down a day early before the storm and thought we’d stop by since we haven’t seen you since…’

His mum’s words trailed off as she noticed me standing bashfully behind her son. I was still holding his hand, which I released quickly.

‘Oh! Hi there, sweetie! I don’t think we’ve met? I’m Ethan’s mom, Chrissie. And this is his dad, Saul.’

I extended the hand that had been pressing against the skin of their son seconds ago and shook theirs.

‘Oh! How very formal,’ Ethan’s mum said. Her nails looked like they’d been freshly manicured, filed to neutral, talon-like perfection. My own chipped, black nail polish made me feel like a hovel-dwelling troll in comparison.

I cleared my throat. ‘Hi, so nice to meet you. I’m Flora. I’m—’

‘My colleague!’ Ethan butted in, his face now burning so fiercely I could feel the heat radiating from it. ‘Flora’s my colleague. She’s a freelancer for the agency and she’s agreed to help me out with my speech for Tuesday.’

Ethan’s fib caught me off-guard: just seconds ago I’d felt like the most decisive iteration of Flora Bell that had ever existed, but now I felt myself regressing right back to a younger, more pliable version of myself – the one who’d had no choice but adapt to whatever fad or fabrication had taken Mum and Anneka’s fancy on that particular day. I swallowed down a slew of memories and activated my invisible armour.

‘That’s me!’ I said, contemplating an American accent but deciding to stick with British after remembering what Ethan had said about one of his clients being UK-based. But Chrissie was frowning in Ethan’s direction, as if she’d forgotten I was there already.

‘Your speech, Eethy?’

Eethy?!

‘You told me you’d finished that months ago!’ His mum seemed aghast.

Ethan’s mouth opened but the words didn’t materialise, so I tried my best to fill in the gap. ‘We’re just making some finishing touches, aren’t we, Ethan? Honestly, it’s going to be sooo good.’

Ethan glanced at me and flashed me a grateful smile before turning back to his parents.

‘I just wish you’d told me you were coming! I made plans for tonight,’ Ethan said, looking between his parents in turn, as if to confirm that they were definitely here, in the room.

‘We can see that,’ his dad said, with a wink.

‘No! I mean, later. It’s the monthly cartoonist hang.’

‘A work event? On a Saturday night?’ Chrissie looked confused. She’d be even more confused if she could see the image of a bunch of cartoonists hanging upside down like bats that had just flown into my brain.

‘They’re my friends, Mom. We meet every month for beers; you know that.’

All of a sudden, Ethan sounded like a whining teenager. Fuck, was I starting to get the ick? Then I remembered my position as moaner-in-chief within my own family unit and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, my floundering attempts to code-switch between ‘functioning, successful adult’ and ‘disappointing youngest child’ would probably make him run a mile if the roles were reversed.

‘Well, I guess we should get out of your hair, then,’ Chrissie said, her lips pursed.

‘Mom, don’t be silly. I’m free until six thirty.’ He turned to me and mouthed ‘sorry’. I flashed him a resigned smile which I hoped came across as ‘I’m disappointed, but I get it’. This moment – this encounter – simply wasn’t meant to be.