Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
O Come, All Ye Best Friends
Miranda
Dinner is noisy. Not the stressful kind, just the kind where cutlery clinks and the kids talk over each other and you realise, halfway through your meal, that your wine’s gone and you have no memory of drinking it.
SJ points an accusing fork at Jasper. “You know Arsenal beat Chelsea this year, right?”
Jasper gives him a long-suffering look. “One match doesn’t undo an entire legacy.”
“Oh, come on,” SJ says, clearly delighted. “Chelsea haven’t won anything properly in ages.”
“We won the Champions League in 2021.”
“Yeah,” SJ says with an exaggerated eye-roll, “before I could do long division. Doesn’t count.”
Across the table, Lucy’s nodding along like she’s following every word. She’s not.
“I like the blue shirts,” she offers helpfully. “And the shouting. Daddy always shouts at the telly when the blue ones are on.”
“Same,” Jasper mutters.
“There is very little shouting with Arsenal,” SJ adds, grinning. “Just saying.”
I snort because I know for sure that he and Sim-Sim have been shouting plenty this season because Arsenal is way behind. Then I turn to Lucy, seizing the lull. “What about you, Lucy? What do you like?”
“I like princesses,” Lucy declares. “And glitter. And cutting paper into crowns. And my gnome… the one Ivy made. And jelly.”
I give her a respectful nod. “Strong choices.”
“I’m going to be a princess vet,” she continues matter-of-factly. “I’ll live in a pink castle and look after unicorns. And sometimes hedgehogs if they’re poorly.”
“Obviously,” I say. “Very inclusive.”
“And Uncle Geoff is the queen,” she adds, like that’s a standard item on the royal staffing list.
I pause mid-sip. “Sorry. The queen?”
Lucy nods with great enthusiasm. “He wears the dress, crown, and the wings. He always does when we have afternoon tea.”
Across the table, Jasper lets out a short bark of laughter.
“Oh, he absolutely does,” he says, grinning. “It started with a tea towel and has escalated into full-blown theatre.”
Lucy nods. “And he’s not allowed to sit down ‘cause he ripped the last dress.”
Jasper shakes his head, still laughing. “She’s not even exaggerating. Imagine Bruce Banner transforming into the Hulk.”
Lucy grins. “But with a sparkly dress.”
“Exactly,” Jasper says. “You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a six-foot-five guy, who plays rugby every weekend, having tea whilst wearing a sparkly princess dress.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “He sounds like a great uncle.”
Lucy doesn’t even pause. “He is,” she says proudly, then turns to Jasper and pats his arm. “But you’re a great uncle too. Even if you don’t wear the dress.”
Jasper’s face softens. “Thanks, Lu.”
She shrugs like it’s just a fact. “You always bring snacks. And you didn’t get cross when I glittered your shoes.”
“I had to go to a meeting in those,” he chuckles.
“You sparkled,” she replies with a dreamy sigh.
Across the table, SJ snorts into his juice. “Were they expensive shoes?”
“Handmade,” Jasper says grimly. “Gold glitter. It did not come off.”
I glance at him, watching the corner of his mouth twitch, the way he doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by any of it.
And I don’t know what to make of that.
By the time dessert is finished—two yoghurts, one crushed custard cream and something SJ insisted was a “palate cleanser” involving jelly—the energy starts to dip.
Lucy’s eyelids are drooping between bites, and SJ’s gone quiet in that suspicious way that usually means he’s either tired or planning something involving string and an ambitious pulley system.
“I should get her home,” Jasper says, lightly brushing crumbs off his jumper. “Before she turns into a pumpkin. Or a glitter grenade.”
Lucy makes a soft protesting noise but doesn’t argue. She leans into him again, this time with a sigh that has bedtime written all over it.
Jasper gets to his feet, scooping her up like it’s nothing. She tucks her head into his shoulder, already halfway to sleep, and I can’t help but notice the ease of it. No fuss. No awkwardness. Just muscle memory.
I walk him to the door, arms crossed more for structure than warmth.
“Thanks for dinner,” he says, voice lower now that the house has quieted.
I nod. “Thanks for the plumbing rescue.”
“Any time,” he says with a smile. “Though next time I’d prefer slightly less water.”
“Noted,” I say. “Next crisis will be fire-based. Much tidier.”
He chuckles, then adjusts Lucy in his arms as she makes a soft snuffling noise against his shoulder.
I hold out their jackets to him and he wraps it loosely around Lucy to protect her from the cold, even if it is just a few steps.
“Night, Miranda.”
“Night.”
With SJ off in London for a birthday party-slash-sleepover extravaganza involving bowling, fizzy sweets, a round of Slush Puppies, and whatever sugar-fuelled chaos his dad’s signed up for, I’ve been left with an evening entirely to myself.
So naturally, I spent twenty minutes pacing the living room trying to decide if I wanted to spend it in silence, in pyjamas, or at the bottom of a bottle of red, before settling on a fourth option.
Mulled wine. With backup.
I texted the group chat fully expecting at least two noes, one maybe, and Lizzie pretending she hadn’t seen it until the next day. Instead, I got four yeses, one all-caps, and a gif of a woman lifting a giant glass.
So now we’re here: five women, layered in coats, scarves, and opinions, strolling past twinkling lights and overpriced handmade baubles while the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and scorched bratwurst clings to the air.
“Why does everything smell like sugar and regret?” Fi mutters, wrinkling her nose at a churro stall.
“It’s tradition,” Amelia says, politely declining the mulled wine Lizzie offers her. “This whole month’s basically a countdown to poor decisions.”
“I think I’ve inhaled actual glitter,” Bri says, inspecting her cup suspiciously. “I’m either festive or slowly choking.”
“It’s lovely,” Lizzie says, sounding almost surprised. “Cosy. Like if Etsy exploded.”
A brass band somewhere near the bandstand is attempting All I want for Christmas and failing heroically. There’s a snow machine belching out something suspiciously like foam, and two kids are already fighting over the last light-up snowman hat at a nearby stall.
I take a sip of wine and let the noise wash over me. It’s busy, ridiculous, and slightly sticky. But it beats pacing my living room, imagining text messages I absolutely shouldn’t send.
Lizzie leans in, smug. “So... was the purchase worth it?”
I don’t even pretend not to know what she means.
“I’m not reviewing it in a Christmas market.”
“Oh, come on,” Fi says, eyes gleaming. “We all chipped in. This is technically a product debrief.”
“She’s right,” Bri adds. “We funded that orgasm. The least you could do is give us a star rating.”
“I’m not rating it like it’s a hotel stay,” I mutter.
But I can already feel the heat creeping up my neck.
“Oh my God,” Lizzie breathes. “You’re blushing.”
“No I’m not.”
“Is this just about the vibrator?” Fi asks, eyes gleaming. “What happened? Did it malfunction? Did you imprint on it like a duckling?”
“I’m not discussing it here,” I hiss. “There are children. That reindeer might be sentient.”
“Spill,” Bri says, sipping her wine with deeply unearned patience. “We paid for that thing. We deserve updates.”
Amelia leans in. “You’re being suspiciously quiet. Something went wrong, didn’t it?”
I sigh. Loudly. The kind of sigh that’s 70% regret and 30% residual shame. “Fine. It didn’t work.”
Four gasps. One horrified, one intrigued, one already laughing, and one more sounding like a snort.
“Didn’t work?” Lizzie echoes. “It had like... twelve settings.”
“Fourteen,” I say darkly. “And yes. I tried them all. My entire downstairs was vibrating like a spin cycle and still—nothing.”
“That’s tragic,” Bri says. “I mean... mechanically, that’s a success. Spiritually, it’s a failure.”
“Trust me, I know.”
Fi tilts her head. “So, what happened? You just gave up?”
I take a large sip of wine. “I was trying to get there. Had the towel, the mood lighting, everything. Even put something on for ambience.”
“Music?” Amelia asks, hopefully.
“No.” I wince. “Porn.”
There’s a pause. Then Lizzie cackles. “Oh no. What kind?”
I stare into my mulled wine like it might save me. “Bear and twink.”
Fi squeals. “No!”
“I panicked! It was just the voices I needed, not the visuals—”
“Bear and twink?” Bri interrupts, delighted. “Is that like a wildlife documentary or—?”
“No! Gay porn. Hairy men. Squeaky bottoms. One of them growls. It's... hot.”
Everyone dissolves into laughter. Except me. I am vibrating with humiliation—and not in the fun way.
“But the worst part?” I mutter, because I’ve officially lost the will to self-censor. “Jasper walked in.”
Silence.
“No.” Lizzie stares at me. “No.”
“He what?” Amelia chokes.
“Doorbell went mid-lawnmower. I panicked. Hid the vibrator under a cushion. Paused the video. Opened the door. There he was—toolbox, tight T-shirt, he looked like a model…”
“Oh no,” Bri gasps. “The porn was still up, wasn’t it?”
“Well, not at first. I had paused it and strategically positioned myself in front of the screen.”
“But?” Amelia grins.
“Unpaused by Thor. Bloody cat walked across the laptop.” I still want to die at the thought of it.
Fi is crying. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I nearly died. There was dialogue. Graphic dialogue. And Jasper just... stood there. Holding Twinklesocks. Looking like he was trying to shield her eyes.”
Lizzie wipes her face. “I’d give anything to have seen that.”
“I gave him a lecture on the sociology of porn,” I say miserably. “And waved the vibrator at him. Like a wand of shame.”
“Please tell me he ran,” Amelia says, weakly.
I hesitate.
Bri narrows her eyes. “Oh my God. He stayed?”
“Even asked why it wasn’t working,” I mutter. “And then I told him I haven’t had sex since… well, too long.”
Fi fans herself. “Did he judge you?”
“No.”
“Did he smirk?”
“No.”
“Did he adjust himself on the way out?” Lizzie asks casually.
I go very still.
“...maybe.”
Fi loses it. “You turned him on with bear porn and a trauma dump?! Miranda, that’s a superpower.”
I cover my face again. “I am never opening the door again. Ever.”
Amelia grins. “Was the bear at least hot?”
“Amelia!”
Fi wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Honestly, you’ve outdone yourself. This is Oscar-worthy.”
“I haven’t even told you the worst bit,” I mutter.
Bri turns, brows high. “There’s more?”
I stare at my wine. “He offered to help.”
“Help how?” Amelia asks warily.
“To relax me,” I say, and instantly regret the phrasing.
Fi nearly chokes. “He offered to shag you?”
“No! No. Not like that.” I wave a hand, nearly sloshing my wine. “He said he’s trained. Massage therapy. From a summer in Bali. Pressure points and all that stuff—not the dodgy kind.”
The group goes silent for half a beat.
Then Lizzie squints. “Wait... is that true? Is he actually trained, or is that just what hot men say before your knickers disappear?”
“I don’t know!” I say, exasperated. “He was so... calm about it. Like offering a cup of tea. But for... trauma.”
Bri nods sagely. “I mean, if someone offered me a trauma massage, I’d say yes and see what got released first—the knot in my shoulder or my orgasm.”
Amelia frowns. “But why would he do that? Just out of the goodness of his… suspiciously toned arms?”
“He said I seemed tense,” I say flatly.
Fi snorts. “What gave it away? The constant frown or the shoulders up around your ears?”
I bury my face in my scarf. “This was a mistake. I should’ve stayed home and joined a convent.”
“Too late,” Lizzie says, grinning. “You’ve got us—and possibly a tantric handyman slash landlord with a saviour complex.”
Bri nudges me with an elbow. “But are you… actually considering it?”
I choke on my mulled wine. “Of course not.”
“Really?” Fi raises a brow. “I would.”
“If I need a massage, I’ll pay someone,” I say primly. “Someone whose qualifications are framed on a wall, not wedged into the waistband of their cargo trousers.”
Lizzie hums. “But would they be as… motivated?”
I shoot her a look. “He wasn’t trying to sleep with me. He was being… annoyingly sincere.”
“Exactly,” Amelia says. “Which, weirdly, is kind of worse. Like, if he’d been sleazy about it, you could’ve just rolled your eyes and kicked him out.”
“But instead,” Bri says, eyes glittering, “he looked at you, saw a slightly panicked yoga ball and thought, ‘I know what this woman needs—platonic tension relief.’”
Fi stifles a giggle. “Honestly? Sounds like a gift.”
“Oh, come on,” I mutter. “You really think letting Jasper Corbin manhandle me is a good idea?”
They all exchange looks.
Then, in eerie unison: “Yes.”
“Right. That’s enough about me.” I glare into my wine like it personally betrayed me. “Someone please change the subject before I fling myself into the nearest snow machine.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Amelia clears her throat. “Well… if we’re doing big revelations tonight…”
We all turn.
She bites her lip, cheeks pink from either the cold or nerves and places a protective hand over her coat zip. “I’m pregnant.”
The silence stretches for a second.
Then Lizzie gasps. Fi squeals. Bri shrieks and almost spills her drink on a foam-smeared child walking past.
“You’re what?!” I say, laughing as the others descend on her. “You’re pregnant?!”
Amelia grins sheepishly as we all pile in, arms around her, awkward in coats and gloves. “It was a bit of a surprise. Not exactly on our to do list. But… yeah. Me and Ben are happy. Shocked. But happy.”
“Oh my God! I’m finally going to be an aunt.” Fi’s practically vibrating. “Do you know how far?”
“Just over ten weeks. We were going to wait a bit longer before telling everyone, but—” she shrugs, misty-eyed, “this felt like a good night.”
Bri clutches her arm. “You’ve just made the Christmas market iconic.”
We all cheer. There’s more hugging. A lot of exclaiming. I wipe my eyes, half-blaming the cold. And when someone suggests another round of mulled wine, we all agree (except for Amelia, of course) without even pretending to hesitate.
And just like that, the air changes, from teasing to tender. Because whatever else is happening, whatever vibrating chaos or awkward tension we’ve got going on, we’re still here. Together.
And that counts for something.