All I Want for Christmas is a Fake British Boyfriend

Chapter 1

Chapter One

EMILY KATHERINE DARLING

A woman determined to live out her

wildest “Love Actually/Bridget Jones/The Muppet Christmas Carol” fantasies with the

best Christmas in London EVER!

(If she doesn’t have a nervous breakdown first…)

The businessman in 12B is glaring at me like I’m the Grinch who Stole His Peaceful Transatlantic Flight, and I’ve been aboard the plane all of ten seconds.

To be fair, I did just smack him with my giant purse while wedging my emotional support binders into the overhead compartment. But it’s not my fault that Premium Economy has less than premium storage capacity.

“Sorry, so sorry,” I mutter as I Jenga a Louis Vuitton bag, a battered ukulele, and some kid’s stuffed panda to make room for my roller bag.

What part of “reserve the overhead bins for rolling luggage” didn’t these people understand?

Gah! If only people would follow the rules, life would be so much easier.

And I would be sweating soooo much less.

The plane is approximately eight thousand degrees, my wrinkle-resistant Nan Baylor blazer is already doing its best Shar-Pei impression, and the Valerian Root capsule I took in the airport bathroom to “relax me for the flight” has done nothing except make my tongue feel chalky.

Meanwhile, my phone is buzzing like a swarm of bees, and the businessman is clearly not pleased to see me laying hands on his ukulele.

Or maybe that’s his stuffed panda.

If so, he should keep it on his lap or tucked beneath the seat in front of him, where it belongs.

I finally wedge my rolling bag into place and collapse into my window seat, pulling out my phone to see a string of new texts from Maya.

Maya: Did you remember the emergency binders?

Maya: Remember, technology hates you and likes to explode when you touch it. Especially when you’re nervous. If your laptop dies again, and you don’t have the binders, we’re screwed, Em. Seriously screwed.

Maya: If you forgot them, tell me ASAP, and I can overnight them to your hotel. Yes, it will cost a small fortune, but better safe than sorry. We have to nail this one and stick the landing.

Maya: Don’t freak out, but I just found out that Willow and Stone is pitching Fletchers, too.

Apparently, they pulled in a favor from Willow’s godmother in Kent, who knows someone who knows the people who used to plan the Fletchers’ holiday gala in the 80s.

God, I hate them so much! Who do they think they are? Trying to take OUR gig!?

Maya: I mean, sure, they planned a Met Gala afterparty that went viral…

Maya: But that’s only because Beyoncé showed up!

Maya: BEYONCé, EMILY! HOW DO WE COMPETE WITH BEYONCé?

We’re going to go bankrupt, aren’t we? Why did Titan have to sell to an evil global conglomerate ten days after we signed the lease on a new office?

TEN DAYS! If we’d known we were losing our biggest client, I would not be sitting in this stupidly fancy office right now. I hate it here!!

Maya: Except that I love it because this view of the Brooklyn Bridge, welcoming the dawn while I sip espresso, is giving me life.

Maya: But I also hate it because I hate uncertainty and risk. But we’re still genius party planners and businesswomen, right? You’ll land the Fletchers’ gig, I’ll lock down the Rousseau wedding in the Hamptons, and we’ll be sitting pretty for another year. Right?

Maya: This will be fine.

Maya: So fine!

Maya: FOR THE LOVE OF MY HOLIDAY SPIRIT AND SANITY, JUST TELL ME THAT IT WILL BE FINE AND YOU DIDN’T FORGET THE BINDERS!

I type back: Hey, just finished boarding. The binders are tucked safely into the overhead bin, and I couldn’t be more prepared if I were triplets. Relax! We’re going to be fine.

I think…

The “fine” part remains to be seen—losing our biggest client to a soulless conglomerate that doesn’t believe that Instagram-perfect parties are good for their bottom line has been a serious blow—but I’ve been preparing for this meeting with one of London’s oldest, swankiest department stores for six weeks.

My PowerPoint has thirty-seven slides with embedded video montages from the viral Brighton wedding that landed me the interview in the first place.

I’ve memorized the names of every Fletchers’ executive, their assistants, and their assistants’ dogs.

I know that James Landford-Fletcher, the CEO of events, prefers Earl Grey to English Breakfast and that his wife collects Royal Doulton porcelain figurines.

I’ve studied British charity gala traditions in general (and the Fletchers’ holiday gala in particular) like I’m cramming for the citizenship test.

Which, considering how much I want to live in the U.K. someday, is pretty much a matter of life or death.

I’m as ready as someone who has never had a pop star show up at one of her parties can be.

Hopefully, that will be enough…

The plane lurches into motion, and I grip my armrest, already counting the hours until I can stress-eat my weight in Cadbury Dairy Milk. Not only is the U.K. a beautiful, majestic, historically significant place I adore, it’s also home to the Fruit and Nut bar, a sugary treat that heals all wounds.

When my ex-best-friend uninvited me to her wedding our senior year of college because her future husband had decided I didn’t “match the aesthetic”—aka was too pudgy to look good in a lineup with the other tall, scrawny bridesmaids from our sorority—the Fruit and Nut bar was there.

When my boyfriend dumped me via WhatsApp two days before the biggest wedding of my life last summer, Cadbury held me together.

And when our contact at Titan Media wrote to deliver the devastating news that they were cancelling their six-figure contract with Darling Events, my remaining UK chocolate stash gave me the strength to keep going against all odds.

All things considered, I’m actually holding up pretty well.

Still, when we reach altitude and the flight attendant crackles over the intercom, thanking us for flying Brit Air and wishing us a “Happy Christmas season,” my soul doesn’t soar the way it usually would.

That familiar flutter in my chest just isn’t there.

Even at twenty-eight, the word “Christmas” is usually enough to make me feel like a kid again.

Growing up, the Darling family did the holidays right.

Even when we were traveling for one of my little sister, Isabelle’s, figure skating competitions, my parents made the season magical.

December was a time for binging our favorite holiday movies, eating an obscene number of cookies, and dancing around the living room to Mariah Carey while we decorated the tree.

Once Isabelle and I were grown, the celebration had to be scaled down to a long weekend, but we still have an amazing time celebrating as a family.

This is actually our first Christmas apart…

Once I realized the Fletchers’ meeting would have me in London through the holidays, Isabelle made plans to celebrate with her fiancé’s family in Switzerland, skiing some large, scary mountains.

(Much to the dismay of her Olympic coach, who has threatened to throw himself off a bridge if she breaks one of her perfect figure-skater legs swishing down the slopes.)

Wondering how the “not breaking a leg” is going so far, I connect to the plane’s WIFI, smiling as I see the montage from @IsabelleTheIceQueen at the top of my social media feed.

My baby sister is the furthest thing from an “Ice Queen,” but it’s a great user name for a professional figure skater.

And if you don’t know her personally…

Well, she certainly looks ice queenly enough online.

At five nine, with naturally white-blonde hair, dazzling blue eyes, and bone structure a ballet dancer would kill for, she looks like she was born at a pricey European ski lodge.

In reality, we were both born at the same hospital in suburban New Jersey.

She just happened to inherit my maternal grandmother’s Swedish supermodel genes, while I got the “hardy stock who survived the potato famine” DNA from my father’s side.

I am the short, chubby, red-haired foil to her Nordic perfection, a fact that might have left psychological scars if Isabelle and I weren’t thick as thieves. But since the day Mom laid my baby sister in my three-year-old arms, I’ve been her fiercest protector, and she’s been my biggest fan.

It’s a fact she’s proven yet again by being the first to heart my “heading to London” post from earlier this morning.

I heart her post, too, even though her fiancé, Olin Nilsson the Third, is a rich, snobby dweeb who’s unworthy of my adorable baby sister. Still, she seems happy with her speed skating main squeeze, and the internet worships them.

Her post is only a few hours old, but the likes have already hit the high four figures, with my mother weighing in at the top of the comments—Have an amazing time, baby! Daddy and I miss you so much! Sending all our love and hoping we’ll be together for the holidays next year.

I blink faster, fighting a wave of guilt.

It’s my fault the Darlings aren’t together this year. Mom promised she understood, and that she and Dad were looking forward to their Caribbean Christmas cruise, but…

Well, I can’t help but notice that she hasn’t liked my airport post yet, let alone commented. The thought that I might have caused my favorite people pain—even teensy, tiny “first world problem” levels of pain—makes my stomach hurt.

Am I the Heartless Career Girl who Ruined Christmas, in addition to The Grinch who Wrecked 12B’s flight?

Should I write my parents a conciliatory email? Send apologetic gifs to the group chat? Arrange to overnight some Cadbury to the house before they leave for their cruise, even though Dad’s trying not to overdo it with the sweets this year?

Stop being crazy and focus. The only thing worse than missing family Christmas for work would be missing family Christmas for work and not landing the gig.