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‘We’re the carol singers,’ says Horse. ‘She asked us to come by and sing.’

‘Oh, how lovely, you should have said. Come in.’ He opens the door.

We step into their office party and look around for the young solicitor.

‘This is a bad idea,’ I murmur to Horse.

‘Let’s have a song, then?’ says an older man.

‘Oh, erm . . .’ I launch into a hurried rendition of ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’, very soon realizing I should have chosen something shorter. Eventually I skip a few verses and wrap it up quickly as the solicitors look on, bemused.

‘That was very . . . experimental,’ says someone.

‘Would you like another?’ asks Horse, playing for time while I scan the room for Ms Harding. Perhaps she’s left already?

‘No, no, thank you. One was quite enough. Do have a drink and a mince pie.’

‘Would you mind if I used the toilet?’ I say. ‘Lots of mulled wine!’

He points me upstairs.

On the way, I look into all the empty offices I pass, but the computers are all closed off for the night; maybe for the holidays. Maybe the documents have already gone.

I hurry up into the eaves of the building, panicked. All the lights up here seem to be off . . . and then I see it. A single light suspended over a desk, by the little kitchen area.

‘Ms Harding?’

She looks up from her screen.

‘Oh, er . . .’ She looks around. ‘The offices are closed, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s Gwen, from Christmas Tree Farm – we met last Tuesday? I came in to sign the documents for the sale of my property, to exchange and complete tomorrow.’

‘Oh yes, of course, our Christmas Eve contracts. It’s all fine. I’m just working on it now, before we close for the holidays. In fact, I’m just about to . . .’ She scans the page. ‘Send them,’ she says, lifting her finger. ‘It’s okay, it’ll all happen.’

‘No!’ I say, stepping forward. She looks up at me, startled.

‘Sorry. I mean, please don’t do that,’ I say, watching her poised finger.

‘Everything all right up there? Ms Harding, the carol singers are here! Glued to her desk, that one,’ we hear the older solicitor say. ‘Does a very thorough job, but she needs to learn a bit of work–life balance. Let her hair down.’

She frowns and then looks at me. ‘Carol singers?’

‘Sorry. We couldn’t think how else to get in,’ I wince. ‘But, please – don’t send the documents.’

‘Don’t send them?’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I’ve changed my mind. You see, I love the farm, but it was all too much for me on my own. And once my partner died, I thought that in order to move on, I needed to leave it behind. But I’ve realized now that I don’t need to leave; I can stay and still have a new life. And it’s all down to this one little boy, a wonderful little boy who’s come to live with me. I’ve promised him that I won’t sell the farm, and that it will be his forever home . . . the place he puts down roots . . .’ As I stop for air, I realize that the young woman has tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘That’s lovely,’ she says.

‘Ms Harding?’ comes the call from downstairs. ‘Have you finished sending those documents? Do you need a hand?’

‘No, no,’ she calls out. ‘It’s all fine.’

‘I wasn’t sure if I could look after him, on my own, at my age . . . never been a parent before. But now, well, I’m still not sure, but I know we’ll muddle our way through it together. We’ll find a way.’

‘We do. We find a way,’ Ms Harding says. ‘And maybe, as I’ve just been reminded, it’s okay to take the foot off the gas and actually spend time enjoying ourselves, instead of worrying about being the responsible one . . . earning the money on our own, running a home. Making sure we don’t drop a ball.’