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I nodded, fully agreeing with her and swigging back my drink. ‘Literally, I know! I’m a total fraud. I hate it and always have done. So, this year I’m not posting a thing about shitty Christmas or my shitty life.’

‘And if you have to stay here,’ Claire said, ‘will it be at your mum’s?’

‘Claire, I can’t stay here. I won’t. I plan to be back in my own house, surrounded by my own things, in my White Company pyjamas and drowning myself in Baileys until the whole thing is over!’

‘Well, here’s to your Christmas wish!’ Claire raised her glass, and we clinked them together. ‘May it come true!’

‘Can I buy you two ladies a drink?’

The voice came from behind me. I turned around and nearly choked.

The brightest blue eyes, and the blondest, fluffiest hair. Shit. It was Joe Ferguson. My first ever crush. Well, if you didn’t count Mark from Westlife; I’ve always had a shit gaydar.

‘Erm . . . No thank—’

‘Yes!’ Claire cut in, elbowing me hard. ‘Free drink!’ she mouthed. I cringed internally, feeling like an out-of-work sex worker prowling the bar for a glass of Pinot Grigio.

‘Same again for the ladies, Rab!’ Joe shouted.

Across the pub, I saw Jamie do a double-take when he noticed me. Brilliant.

‘I feel like I recognise you,’ Joe said, leaning in far too close.

I looked at Claire for help. ‘She’s my cousin, Ha—’

‘Hermione,’ I blurted, too quickly. ‘I’m her cousin, Hermione. I live in London, so you probably don’t.’

Joe took a sip of his pint as if it were buying him time, then chuckled. ‘Hermione?’ he said eventually.

I shrugged. ‘My mum always says JK copied her unusual choice of name.’

‘As long as you’re not a wee witch to me, darlin’,’ he said with a wink.

Jesus. If you’d told my fourteen-year-old self that Joseph Ferguson would one day be chatting me up in a pub, I’d have combusted on the spot. Yet right now, all I could think about was how much I missed my home. Lounging in my comfies, not having the arse ripped off me by Mum’s Primark thong, and definitely not dressed up like a teenager sneaking out to the dancing.

Joe slid onto the stool beside us as if he’d always belonged there. For a split second, I panicked that he really would recognise me, or know about my channel, but then I remembered how invisible I was back then. With my greasy hair, spotty skin, bad clothes and shyness to almost everyone. ‘So, how long are you visiting Glesga?’ he asked casually. My stomach did a weird little flip at the sound of his familiar voice. I remember doing laps around him in the dinner line just to hear him speak.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, attempting to flick my hair back, then realised its new, shortened length and began brushing my shoulder instead. Seriously, Harri. Play it cool. ‘Depends if there’s anything worth sticking around for, I guess.’

I caught Claire’s eye. She raised her eyebrows in impressed approval, like I’d just delivered the best pick-up line she’d ever heard. Clearly, she had missed the hair flick fail.

We kept chatting for another couple of rounds, mostly about the upcoming Old Firm Christmas clash. I nodded along like I had the faintest clue what anyone was talking about. It began to feel oddly nice, being out, getting tipsy, being around people, pretending my life wasn’t a flaming bin fire. By the time I’d finished my third glass of wine and second shot, my bladder was making urgent threats.

‘I’ll be back,’ I muttered, sliding off my stool.

‘Aye, nae bother, Arnie,’ Joe cackled, and he and Claire erupted into laughter.

The bathroom was exactly what you’d expect from a pub toilet that had witnessed several decades of questionable decisions. I hovered over the sticky seat like a gymnast, careful not to let anything touch me, then washed my hands thoroughly when I’d finished. I paused, noticing my reflection in the cracked mirror, my rosy cheeks blaring, maybe from the alcohol or lack of moisturiser and decent cleansing routine, or maybe from being in Joe Ferguson’s presence years after he’d originally been part of my life. I remembered walking past him when I was young, watching the giggling groups of prettier, more confident girls who surrounded him, wishing I could be one of them. But he’d never crossed my mind since moving to London. Yet, here we were, and maybe it was finally my turn. My stomach churned again. I took a breath and pushed the door open.

Jamie was standing there, as if he’d been waiting for me.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I gasped.

‘Fuck, you sound almost Scottish!’ he said. ‘So this was your big plan?’ He raised a brow. ‘The local old man’s pub?’

I wasn’t remotely in the mood for a lecture from the man who’d apparently appointed himself my personal bodyguard.

I attempted to march past him, but a gentle tug on my arm stopped me.