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‘That sounds expensive.’ He laughed.

‘Oh, it will be,’ I said. ‘Maybe I could go to the bank and lift money to help. I mean, I don’t have my bank cards or that, but I know my details. Or maybe we could ask for donations for toys or . . .’

‘Whoa! Slow down. I thought you hated Christmas?’ He crossed his arms, his stance a little confrontational.

‘I do, yes, but there is no need for anyone else to.’ I paused, knowing the reason I’d always hated it so much was because of the struggle; if I could change that for some families, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Immediately, I was thinking of what else we could add. ‘So we’re talking decorations, yes. Cheesy music. I’m not serving shitty soup in a depressing room.’

‘Shitty soup!’ he repeated. ‘Catchy. We should add that to the menu.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘You’re going to love this.’ I gulped. ‘I’ll plan it all out tonight. You know, I can make menus. I’m great at calligraphy! Oh, I can sort the seating plan!’

He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘All right, Posh Spice,’ he said eventually. ‘Come on, then, grab your stuff!’

I laughed. ‘What? Where are we going?’

‘I’m taking you for a kebab,’ he said. ‘We need a solid plan, and if you’re taking over, we’re gonnae need supplies. Christmas is only a week away!’

I grabbed my coat, pausing just long enough to glance at the closed laptop. Then I turned away from it.

‘A kebab?’ I questioned, deadpan. ‘Did you not eat enough of that last night?’

His face dropped in shock, just as I let out an enormous eruption of laughter.

‘Harri, I don’t think anyone has ever made me turn more beetroot!’ He snorted and I smirked at just how red he’d turned. ‘Come on!’

Chapter Twenty-Two

For the next week, I finally had a purpose. I threw myself into organising, decorating and planning for the community centre Christmas Day dinner like my life depended on it. Mum and Dad got roped in too, and we spent night after night up far too late, arguing over where to get the supplies and how many roast potatoes constituted ‘enough’ (clearly, at Christmas, there is no such thing).

I didn’t want any part of the day to feel sad or like a charity case. I wanted it to feel alive. This wasn’t going to be just a dinner – it would be an event. A proper, over-the-top, slightly chaotic Christmas extravaganza that the kids would always remember. The adults, too. Long tables, ridiculous portions of delicious, properly presented food, everyone packed in together. And for once, we weren’t simply the ones serving – we would be part of it. Sitting down. Eating together. Actually enjoying ourselves like normal people instead of festive staff members on the verge of collapse. We would be more like a massive, unconventional family, with everyone mucking in.

Jamie was there constantly. In and out of Mum’s house like he was paying council tax. We spent most of our days flirting and laughing. And he distracted me at wildly inappropriate moments. Pretending to help while somehow making everything take twice as long. We hadn’t slept together again since the sofa incident – but there had been quick, sloppy kisses in the office when no one was about. The kind that start as nothing and then suddenly you’re gripping onto the other person’s clothes as if your life depends on it. I went round to Claire’s and borrowed every low-cut top she owned, and even roped her and Sharon into helping out on Christmas Day, too.

Everything felt nice. Dangerously nice at times. I could breathe without everything feeling so heavy all the time. Rupert and the mess he’d left behind didn’t take up quite so much space in my head when I was this busy. I had only checked his social media on one or two occasions throughout the entire week and I was resolutely ignoring the growing social media drama over my disappearance.

Finally, it was Christmas Eve, and I stood in the middle of the hall, hands on my hips, surveying the room. It was immaculate. Not just nice. Not just ‘that’ll do’. Immaculate. Dad and Jamie had hung so many fairy lights about the place that the space had a warm glow. The tables were perfect, the place settings festive and inviting with crackers, bowls of sweets and gold chocolate coins, with mismatched plates and cutlery from the volunteers giving everything the feel of a real family Christmas. We all had that slightly manic energy of people who knew this was either going to be brilliant or an absolute disaster.

‘Right,’ I said, clapping once. ‘Quick run-through, then I’ll let you stop for a cuppa.’ A couple of laughs filled the room.

Mags muttered, ‘Generous of you!’ While Ina chuckled back, wiping the sweat from her forehead, looking almost proud.

‘Wait till your dad comes back, hen,’ Mum added, hoping for a breather.

I shook my head, knowing that he’d run to the shop for more supplies and would no doubt stop for five fags on the way home, ‘No time. I’ll fill him in tonight.’

I pointed at the tables. ‘Starters are staggered, mains go out together, so we can eat them with everyone else, puddings – that’s going to be tricky with the kids who will be running around and playing at that point probably. I think we should do a dessert station and everyone can choose for themselves as that will feel like a treat but—’

The doors slammed open so hard that it felt like the polis had swung by for an unexpected raid. Shit, were the decorations dodgy? We did get them down the Barras. But the guy had promised they hadn’t fallen off the back of a lorry. Every nerve in my body snapped tight.

Then a deep warning voice called out, ‘And we’re live.’

My stomach dropped.

No.

No.

Absolutely not.