Chapter Three
The Discovery
Eva’s first thought upon arriving in London was that nobody had properly explained English rain.
It wasn’t the dramatic downpours of Nashville thunderstorms or the gentle mist of movie-theatre London.
It was persistent, determined and somehow horizontal.
It had a quiet confidence, as if it had been perfecting its technique for centuries.
Because, of course, it had.
“You’ll want a proper umbrella,” the taxi driver had told her on the way from Heathrow, eyeing her flimsy travel-sized version with something between pity and amusement. “That thing’s just going to cave in after an hour.”
Regrettably, he was right. Eva’s umbrella surrendered somewhere between Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus—its metal spines twisting inside out with a sickening crack as a passing double-decker bus splashed gutter water onto her jeans.
Three days in London, three umbrellas down.
The rain here didn’t fall so much as it hung suspended in the air, waiting for the perfect moment to slip down your collar or find that tiny gap between sleeve and glove.
She ducked beneath an awning, wiping droplets from her phone screen as she checked her map.
The bright red buses and black cabs roared past, sending up sheets of water.
Across the street, the billboard for The Phantom of the Opera glowed electric-white against the grey sky, while street performers dressed as gold-painted statues broke character long enough to shake the shower from their hats.
A saxophonist in the Underground entrance played Last Christmas as commuters streamed past, somehow managing to never break stride or make eye contact.
The smell of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor mingled with diesel fumes and the warm, yeasty scent of a nearby pub.
This wasn’t the London of period dramas and royal weddings. This was louder, brighter, a sensory collision of old and new, where glass skyscrapers reflected in the windows of Tudor-era pubs.
Eva decided to walk towards Regent Street, where she’d heard the Christmas lights were spectacular. As she turned the corner, she saw them—enormous, illuminated angels suspended across the street. Their golden wings stretched from building to building and cast a warm glow over the shoppers below.
They were beautiful. Magical, even. She felt a warmth deep in her chest at the sight of them.
Until she spotted the couple and the frost quickly returned.
They stood directly beneath the largest angel, locked in an embrace that suggested they might be auditioning for a romance novel cover.
The woman—blonde, gorgeous, wearing a coat that probably cost more than Eva’s monthly rent—had one leg popped up behind her like she was in a 1950s movie.
The man—tall, with the kind of jawline that seemed computer-generated—held her face so delicately between his gloved hands as if she were made of porcelain.
A photographer circled them with a professional camera, directing: “More passion! Pretend you’re in Love Actually!”
Eva felt her lunch curdle. Three days post-breakup was apparently not enough time to witness this level of performative romance without her gag reflex kicking in.
“Just gorgeous!” the photographer squealed. “This is going to get so many likes!”
Eva pressed her lips together, willing her nausea to subside.
The couple was now doing the thing where they touched foreheads and gazed into each other’s eyes, laughing as if they’d just shared the most delightful secret.
Eva briefly considered whether anyone would notice if she vomited directly into her now useless inside-out umbrella.
“Perfect! Now kiss under the angel wings!” the photographer directed.
“Oh God,” Eva muttered, averting her eyes as the couple went in for what could only be described as a cinematic kiss—complete with the man actually lifting the woman slightly off her feet.
A passing businessman caught Eva’s pained expression and followed her gaze to the romantic scene. “Been there,” he said with a sympathetic grimace. “My advice? Pubs are that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction.
Eva nodded gratefully and turned away from ‘Love Actually: Regent Street Edition’, feeling both vindicated by the stranger’s understanding and pathetic for being so transparent in her misery.
“Mind the gap,” blared from the station entrance, as if offering life advice rather than a transit warning.
Her phone buzzed.
Courtney: How’s London? Is it magical?
Eva paused, looking up at the kaleidoscope of humanity rushing past. A woman in full Victorian dress complete with parasol passed a teenager with green hair clutching a vape pen.
A man in a bespoke suit stepped carefully around a puddle while talking rapidly into his AirPods, cycling through at least three languages.
Eva: It’s amazing. But different than I expected.
Courtney: Different good?
Eva: Different … still searching for something? If that makes sense
Courtney: Don’t fall in love with any British men.
Eva: That’s for Italy. No chance here. I’m neither eating, praying or loving.
Courtney: GOOD IDEA. NO SCRAP THAT ON THE LAST TWO. A GIRL’S GOTTA EAT.
Another notification dinged on the screen. Her bank. Funds were critically low and payment was due on her credit card.
But that was a problem for Nashville Eva. Not England Eva.
Now, on day three, she stood alone in the middle of Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park, sipping an ￡8 cup of mulled wine that tasted a little more like a melted down Yankee candle than ‘Christmas in a cup’ that she’d been sold on.
Spices she couldn’t identify swirled with sweetness that bordered on medicinal—not unpleasant, just unexpected.
The Christmas market sprawled across the park like a glitter explosion, every tree strung with enough lights to be visible from space.
Eva wandered past rows of wooden chalets, where mass-produced ornaments dangled under hand-painted signs that still smelled faintly of fresh varnish.
A nearby carnival ride screeched as it hurled teenagers skyward, tinny Christmas song audio competed with the metallic clang of arcade games.
In the middle stood a neon green, plastic, Christmas tree.
The hard steel in the middle was visible and the branches looked like lasagne noodles stacked in a cone.
These seemed to be a theme at London Christmas markets.
All of them identical. With the same red and silver ornaments, topped with a gingerbread star.
It was Christmas capitalism personified.
Eva took a sip from her paper cup of mulled wine. The cinnamon scent was cloying, too sweet, like Christmas had been boiled down, concentrated and bottled.
And why on Earth were there so many damn churro stands?!
Eva stood next to a carnival ride blasting Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas for what felt like the fortieth time that hour.
It was time to go for a walk; she was here for the plot.
She wanted something to happen in her life, no, she needed it to.
And she wasn’t going to have the transformative experience she’d been craving by staring through a neon ride that plummeted to the ground.
There had been enough plummeting in her life recently.
England was not supposed to remind her of the recent fall from grace.
Her phone buzzed again. A notification from Instagram—Richard had liked one of her London stories. The selfie of her at Tower Bridge from yesterday.
Eva stared at the alert, anger bubbling up.
The audacity. He dumps her and then creeps on her social media?
She swiped to Instagram, found his profile, and blocked him without hesitation.
Then did the same on every other platform she could think of.
He had no right looking into her business right now.
Another buzz. This time, her mother.
Mom: Eva, I’ve been very patient, but this is getting ridiculous. When are you coming home? Your father thinks I should give you space, but I know what’s best for you. Call me immediately.
Eva typed back:
Eva: I’m staying a bit longer. I’m fine. I’ll call when I’m ready.
She turned off read receipts preparing for the onslaught of messages to come. She didn’t need her mother seeing that she’d read the messages. Then, feeling bold, she muted the conversation entirely.
Eva: Court, I don’t know what I’m doing do you think I made a mistake? Maybe Mom’s right …
Courtney: Hell no! You’re just having a wobble, it’s totally understandable but don’t listen to those negative thoughts. If you don’t like where you are just go find somewhere new, remember you can do that there!
The rain had settled into a mist fine enough to be almost invisible until you realised your hair was completely soaked. Eva’s carefully straightened auburn waves had expanded into something that would have made an ‘80s rock band proud.
Courtney was right, Eva was searching for something but unfortunately, she hadn’t found it here.
With a deflated sigh, she walked away from Hyde Park, away from the crowds and the churros and the carnival music.
Ahead, streets narrowed as if the city itself was inhaling.
Buses couldn’t squeeze down these lanes, and tourists thinned out with each block she walked.
The buildings grew older, their stone facades darkened with centuries of London soot.
Gas lamps—converted to electric but maintaining their vintage charm—cast warm pools of light onto slick cobblestones.
Here, Christmas looked different: simple wreaths hung on ancient wooden doors, sprigs of holly tucked into window frames, strings of white lights reflecting in leaded glass windows.
No inflatable Santas, no animated reindeer—just quiet tradition that had survived hundreds of December twenty-fifths.