Page 51 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

‘We won’t be in your hair for long, son,’ his dad said, the family mediator. ‘We just thought we’d swing by before heading over to Ricky’s place. There was no answer so we let ourselves in so your mom could use the bathroom.’

‘Yeah, of course, that makes sense. It’s… great to see you both,’ Ethan said, finally stepping fully into the room to embrace his parents. Chrissie looked at me and grinned for the duration of the hug while I remained rooted to the spot in the still-open doorway.

Time to go.

‘I’ll be heading off, then, Ethan. Good luck with… everything!’

Ethan turned to me, his mouth frozen in a smile, his eyes boring into mine in place of a farewell snog. Talk about an anticlimax, on every single front imaginable.

‘Don’t be silly, Flora! Stay for a drink and tell us all about that fantastic accent of yours! What is it – Irish?’ Seemed like Chrissie’s knowledge of accents was as bad as Ethan’s.

‘No, I’m from England.’

‘Huh! You sure don’t sound like Kate Middleton!’

‘I’m from the south-west of England originally – we don’t speak much like the royal family – we’re all “errrrs” and “arrrrs”.’ I exaggerated my West Country accent for effect. ‘In fact, I was born not far from Bristol, which is where John Cabot set off from when he became the first documented discoverer of North America.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Ethan said, as Chrissie took my rucksack off my back and guided me to the sofa.

‘Let me guess, you thought it was Christopher Columbus?’ I said, sitting down next to his dad.

‘No, I meant I didn’t know that’s where you were born. I assumed you were born in London.’

‘Well, we’re colleagues, Ethan. We’re not meant to know everything about each other.’

‘Touché.’

In this equivalent scenario in the UK, Chrissie would be putting the kettle on for a polite cup of tea that we would make chitchat over before I made my escape. But there was no kettle in the minuscule kitchenette that was nestled into one corner of the square room, and there were probably no PG Tips in the cupboards, either. Chrissie rummaged inside the fridge while Ethan joined me and his dad on the sofa, me sandwiched in between them like a sweating slice of ham.

‘Aha!’ Chrissie cried, brandishing a bottle of champagne. ‘Shall we?’

Ethan sighed. ‘I mean, I’d kinda been saving it…’

‘Ricky’s getting married in three days; I think this qualifies as a special enough occasion, don’t you, Saul?’

‘If you say so, honey. I’m gonna go take a leak.’ Saul heaved himself off the sofa, leaving me and Ethan sitting together while Chrissie searched for some glasses.

‘I wouldn’t have taken you for someone with champagne in their fridge,’ I said to him quietly, making a lot of effort to ensure there was plenty of air between every part of our bodies.

‘My friends bought it for me the time my cartoon got selected for the contest.’

‘The ones you’re meeting later?’

‘Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry about all—’

‘What are you two whispering about, hmm?’ Chrissie set down the bottle on the coffee table along with four mismatched glass beakers.

‘Oh, I was just telling Flora about who gave me the champagne. Check out the label.’

She peered at it. ‘It’s got one of your cartoons on it, sweetie!’

Chrissie passed the bottle to me for a look – I recognised the cartoon from the contest instantly. It depicted two chickens playing tennis in a packed stadium while a pair of humans dressed in tennis gear watched on from the side of the court, judgementally, one of whom was speaking to the other. The caption I’d submitted at the time had been ‘“That’s a poultry serve.”’ It hadn’t made the final of that week’s contest, and rightly so.

I handed the bottle to Ethan. ‘Probably best if you do the honours.’

He popped it open and began to pour the frothing, golden liquid into the four glasses.

‘Just a small amount for your father, Eethy. He’s driving.’