Chapter Nine
Mates and Mince Pies
A bomb had not, in fact, gone off in Eva’s room at The Riddle & Quill, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Her suitcase lay defeated and empty on the floor, having vomited its entire contents across every available surface.
Sweaters draped from lampshades, jeans hung from the wardrobe door like surrendered flags, and a particularly optimistic sundress—what had she been thinking?
—lay crumpled in the corner like a tropical casualty of Yorkshire winter.
Eva stood in the centre of the chaos, wearing only her underwear and an expression of pure desperation, her phone propped against the mirror with the selfie camera on.
The ancient mirror only showed her from the shoulders up, but her phone’s screen revealed the full catastrophe of her seventeenth outfit attempt.
“This is hopeless,” she muttered, pulling off yet another sweater—too formal? Too casual? Too American? She tossed it onto the bed, where it joined its rejected brethren in a soft mountain of knitwear. “Why do I own so many beige things?”
She reached for a deep green cashmere sweater, pulling it on and studying her phone screen critically.
Dark jeans—safe choice. The green sweater—nice but not trying too hard.
She did a slow turn, checking every angle like she was preparing for a red carpet instead of a pub dinner with people she’d never met.
“Ridiculous,” she told her reflection, both in the mirror and on the phone screen. “It’s just dinner. With strangers. Who happen to be Charlie’s friends. Who will definitely judge the American who destroyed his Christmas market stall with mulled wine.”
But something about the evening felt important—like a door opening to a part of Charlie’s life he kept carefully guarded. And Eva, much to her own surprise, very much wanted to step through that door without looking like she had got dressed in the dark. Or in a bomb site.
She grabbed a scarf—no, too much. Earrings—too fancy.
Simple studs—better. One final check on the phone camera, then she surveyed the destruction around her.
The room looked like a discount clothing store had got into a fight with her suitcase, and both had lost. This was a problem for late evening Eva.
The sound of muted mumbling voices from the floor below caught her attention and she froze.
With one last mirror-twirl Eva was spiralling into panic mode.
Charlie was right on time, of course. She grabbed her coat and started frantically shoving clothes under the bed, into drawers, anywhere they wouldn’t be immediately visible if Florence happened to walk by her open door.
“On my way down now!” she called, jamming the sundress into her suitcase and kicking it under the bed.
One last glance at the room—still a disaster, but a somewhat contained disaster— she hurried downstairs, where Florence had already let Charlie in out of the cold, Tilly wagging her tail beside him and seeming to give Eva an approving eyebrow.
“Don’t you both look nice,” Florence observed, looking to each of them with a barely concealed smile. “The Crown and Anchor tonight, is it?”
Eva couldn’t help herself. “From The Horse and Hound to The Crown and Anchor. Are all British pubs just random noun combinations? What’s next, The Sceptre and Spaniel? The Throne and Terrier?”
Charlie’s mouth twitched. “The Duke and Dachshund is actually quite nice. Great Sunday roast.”
Eva couldn’t tell if he was joking until Florence chimed in, “Oh, you mean The Viscount and Vizsla on Micklegate? They changed the name last year.”
Now Eva was completely lost, and both Charlie and Florence were clearly enjoying it.
“Yes, the Crown and Anchor,” Charlie replied. “They’ve reserved the back room.”
“Tell them I said hello,” Florence said, shooing them towards the door. “And don’t let Eva drink whatever concoction Ben’s calling his ‘Christmas Special’ this year. Last time someone ordered it, they woke up feeling like one of Santa’s reindeer after the Christmas Eve shift.”
They walked through York’s narrow streets, the Christmas lights creating a canopy of stars overhead. Charlie seemed tenser than usual, his shoulders rigid beneath his coat.
Tilly trotted alongside them, her tail high and confident.
“Wait, we’re bringing Tilly into the pub?” Eva asked as they approached The Crown and Anchor.
Charlie looked at her like she’d suggested leaving a child in the car. “Of course we’re bringing her. Where else would she go?”
“But … it’s a restaurant. Won’t they—”
“It’s a pub,” Charlie corrected. “This is England. Dogs have been welcome in pubs since before America was even a thought. Half the regulars probably come for the dogs more than the beer.”
“In America, that would be a health code violation.”
“In England, NOT allowing dogs would be a violation of basic decency,” Charlie replied. “Tilly knows the drill— she’ll find her spot by the fire and hold court like the queen she is.”
“So,” Eva ventured, still processing this cultural revelation, “anything I should know about your friends before we get there?”
Charlie glanced at her sideways. “They’re … enthusiastic. And they haven’t seen me at one of these dinners in years, so they might be a bit—”
“Charlie!”
They’d just entered The Crown and Anchor when a woman with short dark hair and an infectious grin spotted them from across the pub. She weaved through the crowd, dragging a tall man with kind eyes behind her.
“I told Tom you’d bail!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around Charlie in a hug that he tolerated with surprising grace. “But here you are, and you must be Eva!”
“Charlotte,” the woman introduced herself, pumping Eva’s hand enthusiastically. “This is Tom, my long-suffering boyfriend. Come on, everyone’s in the back room going through their third round already.”
The back room of The Crown and Anchor was in full swing with decorations that looked like they’d been accumulated over decades rather than carefully curated.
A long wooden table dominated the space, already laden with drinks and dishes of nuts and crisps.
Buttery yellow walls softly turned orange from the firelight.
“Look who actually showed!” Charlotte announced to the room.
Three faces turned towards them, and Eva saw the moment Charlie’s expression shuttered completely.
“Charlie.” A stunning woman with long blonde hair rose from her seat, a smile playing at her lips. “I thought you’d be hiding away with your maps.”
“Sophie.” Charlie’s voice was carefully neutral. “I thought you were in Manhattan.”
“I was. I am.” Sophie’s smile widened, and Eva recognised the look of someone who knew the exact effect they had on their ex. “Home for the holidays. Couldn’t miss the annual Crown and Anchor Christmas ‘do, could I?”
An uncomfortable silence stretched until a man with intricate tattoos covering both arms cleared his throat. “Well, this is sufficiently awkward. I’m Marcus, by the way,” he said to Eva. “The one who has to open up his home and live with Miss Manhattan over here when she’s in town.”
“Shut up, Marcus,” Sophie said without heat, finally breaking eye contact with Charlie to look at Eva. “You must be the American everyone’s talking about. How … interesting.”
“Right then!” Charlotte intervened with aggressive cheer. “Drinks! Eva, what’s your poison?”
The next hour was a masterclass in British social dynamics. Eva found herself seated between Charlotte and a friendly woman named Priya who worked at the university, while Charlie ended up at the opposite end of the table—though whether by design or accident, Eva couldn’t tell.
Eva noticed the intricate ritual of buying rounds— everyone mentally tracking whose turn it was with the precision of accountants, the subtle shame that fell on anyone who tried to skip their round, and the way Marcus loudly announced “This one’s on me!
” as if he were bestowing a great gift rather than fulfilling a sacred obligation.
When Eva tried to buy a round out of turn, Tom actually looked offended.
“You bought the last one,” he said firmly, as if she’d violated some ancient law.
“It’s the system,” Priya explained quietly. “You can’t mess with the system. We’ve fought wars over less.”
Sophie held court from the middle, regaling the group with stories of New York that seemed specifically chosen to highlight how provincial York was by comparison.
It was almost ironic that she never bothered to try and involve Eva in the conversation, the only attendee who could authentically vouch for Sophie’s claims if she actually wanted to.
“The energy there is just incomparable,” Sophie was saying, gesturing with her wine glass. “Everything happens so fast. Not like here, where the biggest news is whether they’ll approve the new Costa on Goodramgate.”
“Some of us like that the biggest news is about coffee shops,” Tom said mildly. “Not everyone needs to live at Manhattan pace.”
“No,” Sophie agreed, her eyes finding Charlie. “Some people are perfectly content never changing, never growing, never taking risks.”
Charlie, who had been quietly nursing his pint, set it down with a deliberate thunk. “And some people think living their life by what will get them more Instagram likes is the same as growth.”
“Children, children,” Marcus interjected. “It’s Christmas. Save the philosophical debates for Boxing Day when we’re all too full of turkey to argue properly.”
“Speaking of Christmas,” Charlotte said, producing a box of Christmas crackers with a flourish. “Tradition time!”
Eva watched in bewilderment as everyone crossed arms and reached for the brightly wrapped tubes. A clearly well-practiced tradition.
“You pull them,” Charlotte explained, offering one end to Eva. “Like this—one, two, three!”
The crack was satisfying, and Eva found herself holding the larger piece along with a paper crown, a plastic puzzle, and a slip of paper.