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I turned out of the lobby, with every intention of sprinting all the way to my Soup Kitchen Christmas, and shoved myself straight out the doors.

The cold hit me. ‘Fuck!’ It stole the air right out of my lungs, wrapped itself around my throat and squeezed. And the snow was fucking everywhere. It somehow lost its appeal when I wasn’t staring at it from the penthouse window. This was glorified, icy slush. I felt my smile perish in a matter of seconds. Half-covered pavements, footprints leading nowhere. Shit, I hadn’t brought a coat. Yes, well, that’s because I hadn’t planned on leaving my husband on Christmas Day like some sort of unhinged lunatic, had I?

‘Brilliant, Harri,’ I muttered, folding my arms tightly across my chest. ‘Fuck it, I can do this.’ I started walking. My beautiful shoes were soaked within seconds. All I wanted right now were Mum’s Hugg boots. Within a minute, I couldn’t feel my toes, but I kept on trudging. ‘I can do this!’ I told myself. Within a few minutes, my hands were numb, my face stinging, breath coming out in these sharp white bursts that felt like they were cutting me from the inside. ‘Just keep going,’ I told myself. ‘You’ve got this.’ I felt like I was in a David Attenborough documentary, a penguin escaping a leopard seal in fucking Antarctica, but however fast I tried to move, the hotel was literally still in sight. Suddenly, my foot slipped. Like properly slipped. One second, I was storming forward, purposeful, upright, and the next, I was gone.

*

I hit the ground hard, the impact jolting right through me, palms scraping against ice. ‘Shit!’

For a second, I lay there completely flat on my back. The snow fell straight onto my face, melting against my skin, soaking into my shirt, my hair, everything. A laugh came out first, then it twisted, and suddenly I was lying in the middle of Blythswood Street, crying and gasping for breath.

‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I choked, staring up at the sky. ‘Are you actually joking? I’m trying to do the right thing here!’ My chest hurt. My arse throbbed. ‘I can’t do this,’ I whispered, my voice cracking. The Gorbals was a forty-minute walk away on a good day, and with all this snow and ice and Glasgow’s stupid hills, it felt impossibly far. ‘I actually can’t—’

But instead of living out my days on this disgusting pavement as a pathetic snow angel, I dragged my freezing hands to my pocket and fumbled my phone out, nearly dropping it because I couldn’t feel my fingers properly. ‘Come on,’ I muttered and managed to unlock it on the third try. There was only one person I could call. I pressed his name and felt relief as it rang.

‘Harri?’ my dad answered. ‘Harri! Is that you?’

‘Can you come get me?’ I blurted. ‘I know it’s Christmas, and you’ll be busy, and I’m sorry to disturb you, but I really think I want to come home now.’

There was silence for a split second. Then, instant rustling, like he was looking for his keys.

‘Where are you, hen?’ he said, the concern strong in his voice.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, a hysterical little laugh breaking out of me. ‘Near the hotel. I just—walked out and there’s no taxis, and I fell on my arse and fucking skinned my hands, and I’m—’ My voice completely gave up on me. ‘I’m on my own again, and I’m fucking freezing, Dad.’

‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘I’m coming.’

I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘OK.’

‘And Harri?’ he added.

‘Yeah?’

‘You’re not on your own. Right? Ever. You can always phone your dad, and I’ll always be there for you. Doesn’t matter if you’re in Glasgow, London or fuckin’ Timbuktu. Ye understand me?’

Fresh tears spilled over my cheeks. ‘Uh-huh,’ I mumbled. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

The line went dead.

I lay there for another second, phone clutched to my chest, snow settling into my hair, my clothes, everything. Then, slowly, shakily, I pushed myself up.

I stood exactly where I was until I finally saw my dad’s headlights coming towards me. I instantly felt my shoulders relax. I got in the car and smiled through a soaking wet face of snotters, snow and sweat.

‘Merry Christmas, hen,’ he said as I sat down.

I couldn’t speak, but I wrapped my arms around him. Everything in the past, all that anger I had built against him melted, and he felt like my old dad, the one I loved and admired. The one I wanted to spend time with. The who could fix anything.

‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.’ I spoke so quickly, wanting it all off my chest. ‘I’m sorry I held a grudge for all these years, Dad. I know that you had an illness and you were struggling. I shouldn’t have . . .’ I had tears streaming down my face, and I grabbed onto him even tighter.

‘Harri . . .’ My dad pulled my shoulders away from him to look at me closely. ‘You never need to be sorry, OK? You held a grudge because of my actions. That was a consequence of what I did. And I’ve regretted it every day since. All I’ve ever hoped for since then is that I can make it up to you and your mother.’

I nodded. ‘You have,’ I said. ‘Of course you have.’

‘All I want is to be in your life, Harri, and the past few weeks with you at home have been the best I’ve ever had.’

My face was skelping with tears of regret. I’d spent those weeks wishing I was back in London, praying for an escape plan, not appreciating the time I had with him. Guilt washed through me.

‘So where’s Rupert the bear?’ His brow lifted in a bid to make me laugh. ‘Dipping his nuts in someone else’s honey again?’