All I Want for Christmas

Chapter One

Copenhagen, 25 November 2024

‘What exactly are you doing?’ Darcy asked as she watched her flatmate type into her phone. She had a growing suspicion that Freja wasn’t, in fact, searching for the weather forecast as she had claimed.

‘Helping you.’ Freja didn’t look up. ‘It’s been three weeks.’

‘Is that all?’ Darcy groaned, tipping her head back and staring up at the cafe ceiling. It was pitched pine, swagged with some bushy faux conifer branches and fairy lights threaded through.

‘You have to get back out there,’ Freja said, both aware of and oblivious to her foamy hot chocolate moustache. She was incapable of eating or drinking anything without somehow wearing it too.

‘Says who?’ Darcy asked, watching as her flatmate bit her lip in deep concentration.

‘Your mother, for one. You’re twenty-six. She wants grandbabies.’

‘She’s got Cara for that.’

‘Cara’s nineteen and white-water river rafting in Thailand.’

Darcy rolled her eyes. Her little sister’s gap year antics were distinctly more fun than anything she had going on in her own life. All she had on her horizon was a rent payment, a hygienist appointment and the next deadline for her thesis. If Lars hadn’t cheated on her, she’d have gone to Stockholm last weekend, she would have been sitting second row at The Weekend concert a week Friday from now, and she’d have had someone to pull a cracker with on Christmas morning. Instead, he’d kissed a girl he’d known for all of twenty-eight minutes in that bar three weeks ago and two months, five days’ worth of emotional investment had been washed away.

Darcy’s finger tapped the small square table. ‘Well, I’m on a hiatus too. I’m going to need another three weeks off.’

‘Permission denied. You might be perfectly fine with spending Christmas alone, but I am not. And if you won’t come back to my parents’ with me, then we’re going to have to find you some company.’

‘Frey, I have a thesis to write. I’m so behind it’s not even funny. If I had time to celebrate Christmas with you, I’d have time to join my own family on their holiday. Believe me, I’d love nothing more than to be lazing on a Thai beach instead of hitting two thousand words a day here.’

‘Which is why you need some downtime with a baddie when you hit those word counts.’ Freja looked across at her. ‘And besides, you’re not getting any younger.’

‘Or wiser, it appears.’

‘They’re not all like him.’

‘No?’ Darcy arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought he was one of the good guys. That was supposed to be his shtick – dull, but solid, dependable, decent job, good prospects.’

‘Well, perhaps that’s the issue. You’re setting the bar too low.’

‘Oh, because you’re the expert now?’

‘Yes, I am,’ Freja said with a smug smile. ‘I have been sleeping with the same man for a whole month and that means I’ve crossed to the other side. Suddenly I can see everything so clearly.’

Sarcasm tittered at the edges of her voice, but even though Darcy guffawed as she reached for her hot chocolate, she was struggling to adapt to this worryingly ‘in love’ model of her flatmate. Freja had never dated anyone for longer than a week – the child of a bitter divorce, she didn’t believe in things everlasting; she couldn’t even keep their houseplant, Miss Petals, alive, which was alarming for a microbiology PhD student specializing in genomics – and their friendship had been formed through bonding over dating disasters. They had met in the loos of a student bar in the summer, when Darcy – newly arrived in the city and hiding from a bad Tinder date – encountered Freja trying to jimmy the tampon machine with a collar-stiffener found in the bottom of her bag. Darcy had given her the change required and Freja had seen off her date in return, telling him she’d found Darcy in the toilets crying over a positive pregnancy test; the guy hadn’t even waited to finish his drink. They’d been partners in crime ever since – or at least, until the past few weeks, when Freja’s latest torrid affair had stubbornly failed to cool.

Darcy looked through the window and watched as the lunchtime skaters glided – or in some cases, wobbled – past on the Tivoli Gardens ice rink. Even though it was the last week in November the giant tree was already up, all the little cabins fully stocked with the soy candles, lavender sachets and wooden toys that would grace stockings this Christmas. The trees were threaded with lights, the park filled with dog walkers and staggering toddlers with gloves dangling on strings. Voices, young and old, carried above the whirr of the fairground rides and the sluice of skates on the ice. It was easy for the festive spirit to come early in a place that wore snow like a scarf and boasted the happiest citizens on the planet. A couple stopped on the far side of the rink and posed themselves for a well-practised selfie, his arm slung over her shoulder, her head angled in as he reached down for a long, lingering kiss.

‘Ugh, revolting.’ Darcy slumped back in her chair as she watched the shameless display of happiness.

Freja glanced up, following her eyeline. ‘See what I mean? All the good men are being snapped up. Right before your eyes.’

‘Then I’ll move to Paris. Or Barcelona. There’ll be plenty there too.’

‘Too late. I officially declare the mourning period over.’

‘But I like mourning,’ Darcy mumbled sullenly, still watching the happy couple. ‘Black’s my colour.’ Her hands rose to her long, light brown hair; the blonde highlights framing her face – which she’d had put in in the summer – were still just bright enough to give her some lift, but the long layers had grown out and her olive skin had no trace of Ibiza tan left.

‘Here’s what we’re gonna do.’ Freja handed the phone back with a triumphant look. ‘Check your homescreen.’

‘What did you do?’ Darcy frowned suspiciously.

‘Open it.’

‘Hm. What am I looking for?’

‘Raya.’

‘Ray–?’ Darcy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘As in, the celebrity dating app?’

‘That’s overblown,’ Freja dismissed. ‘There’s really not that many celebs on there. I mean, there’s a few...but what there are , are plenty of professional, successful, high net worth individuals, just like you.’

‘I am not a high net worth individual! I have to split bunches of bananas because I can’t afford the wastage!’

‘But you are beautiful and brainy, and these men all want a woman just like you.’

Darcy frowned. In her experience, men didn’t like a woman being cleverer than them. ‘Isn’t Raya invitation only?’

‘Yes. Tristan referred you. He did it last night.’

‘...Tristan’s on Raya?’ She knew Freja’s current squeeze was successful but she hadn’t known he was that successful. She had yet to meet the guy, but Freja – who was doing a work placement as part of her PhD – had told her they’d hooked up after a conference trip. It was supposed to have been a one-time thing but so far, it had been a thirty-one-time thing. To Darcy’s shame, yes, she was counting.

‘He was,’ Freja replied, before quickly catching herself. ‘I mean, he is! He is! He’s just got it on hibernation mode for the moment. He’ll be back out there before you can say...’ Words appeared to fail her.

Darcy watched, appalled that there was seemingly not yet an end in sight for her friend’s giddy happiness. ‘Flibbertigibbet?’

‘Flibb...?’ Freja winced, the word too arcane for a non-native British speaker.

‘Hm.’ Point made. Was Freja – whisper it – falling for this guy?

Darcy didn’t have time to consider it. Freja reached over and tapped on the app for her. For someone who hadn’t even known she had it on her phone, it was something of a surprise to find she was already logged in and...‘I’ve got an account?’

‘Well, I knew you’d never do it if left to your own devices,’ Freja shrugged. ‘You’re becoming far too cynical in your second quarter.’

Darcy didn’t appreciate the reminder that she had entered the second of the twenty-five-year life stages by which Freja had mapped out their lives.

‘Go on, have a look – they’re a cut above, right? All solid eights for the main part but...if you see a four or a five, just know that means he’s rich as fuck.’

Darcy blinked. ‘Rich as fuck isn’t really my thing.’

‘But it can’t hurt, right?’

‘It can if he’s a moose!’

‘So you’re saying you only want looks?’ Freja gasped in mock horror. ‘That’s pretty shallow, don’t you think?’

Darcy laughed at her friend’s teasing as Freja reached across and placed a hand over the screen. ‘Now, before you start going trigger-happy, there are rules.’

‘Rules?’

‘Yes. I want you to choose three and only three.’

‘Reverse psychology? Really?’ Darcy knew her friend too well. Give her a sea of men and then restrict her catch...when moments earlier Darcy had been saying she didn’t want any?

It worked. Naturally.

‘Fine. Let’s have a look and see if we can choose only three.’

Freja shuffled her chair in closer, her cheek pressed against Darcy’s arm as she began to swipe on the carousel of handsome faces. All of them appeared to have been caught laughing mid-joke or else staring off moodily into the distance with clenched jaws, seemingly unaware of the cameraphone directed straight at them. Some were playing football or Frisbee in a park, shirts untucked to reveal a snatch of hard stomach; one – seemingly a mountaineer – was grinning from a cliff face; another guy was playing a banjo around a campfire with a soulful expression as the firelight threw a golden glow over his cheekbones.

At first glance they all looked like perfect 10s: happy-go-lucky, fit, accomplished – but Darcy wasn’t falling for it. Somehow, she had to read commitment issues, mother complex or narcissist from a photo. She had to tell the cheat from the liar from the good guys they all professed to be. She flicked through with – yes – a cynical eye: the guy cuddling a dog? She bet it wasn’t his own. Swipe left. The one at a wedding? The dinner suit looked rented. Swipe left. The guy in a Ferrari – who wanted a guy in a Ferrari? Swipe left.

Darcy stopped on a profile. Aksel. Vet. 29. Rubik’s Cube PB 13 seconds . She smiled slightly at the boast. It was ridiculous and silly, and hopefully intentionally self-deprecating.

‘Oooh,’ Freja said in an approving tone. ‘He’s cute.’

‘Yeah. And he looks surprisingly normal. Like I might actually be able to talk to him.’ He had shaggy dark brown hair and rich brown eyes, a seemingly shy grin. She flicked through his other pictures: on a park bench with two friends, seemingly post-run (good legs); at a bar drinking something suspiciously pink; on a sofa with a Bernese Mountain dog twice his size (might be his dog; he was a vet, after all). He seemed genuine enough, but she made herself focus only on what she knew to be true: he was attractive and 1.2 miles away. She swiped right.

‘You want to talk to them?’ Freja teased.

Milas, 30, graphic designer; 6' 2'', it said – but he was standing in a door-frame and clearly not that tall. She swiped left – not because he was short, but because he was a liar.

Calvin, 27, broker: he was playing to type, holding up a couple of magnums of Cristal in a club. She swiped left.

Darcy stopped at the profile of a guy staring straight to camera, not quite smiling but not not smiling either. He looked mildly bemused, as if suspicious of the intentions of the person taking the photograph. Max, 32; Copenhagen. Lawyer. Likes skiing, wine, winning. No time for dating .

To the point, she thought, turned off by the intimation of what he only had time for. It wasn’t exactly the charming, witty bio of the other profiles, but her attention snagged on ‘winning’, and she looked back at his photo again and that direct stare. She could see now there was an arrogance there, bordering almost on contempt. His hair was dirty blond, blue eyes, a chiselled bone structure that suggested his poor mother had had to carve him. He was handsome, but in a cold way, and there was only that one photograph of him – a tight headshot, no backdrop, no narrative, no other moods or angles. Nothing by which to assess him other than that gaze.

‘Hm. No, definitely not,’ Freja frowned. ‘Too hot for his own good.’

‘But I thought talking was overrated?’ Light sarcasm frilled Darcy’s words this time.

‘It is – but he looks like he needs to be humbled.’

‘True,’ Darcy agreed. He had the aura of someone to whom no one had ever said no. She wondered if he regarded every swipe right as one of his precious wins, and she was tempted to swipe left just on principle. She wanted to do it on principle, but her finger hovered, unable to commit to the rejection...He really was very sexy. Did she need to like him? She certainly didn’t need to talk to him. He was good-looking and at least he was honest, which was more than could be said for almost every other guy on here. He wasn’t pretending to be nicer than he was and he wasn’t offering fairy tales or happy endings. No woman in her right mind would ever trust a man like him, but at least they’d know what they were getting.

She stared into those cold blue eyes, then against her better judgement, swiped right.

Freja gasped at her recklessness. ‘Why did you waste a go on him?’

‘Because he’s a ten and I really am that shallow,’ Darcy winked. ‘What I see is what I’ll get, I know that.’

Liam, 28, professional polo player . In Copenhagen? A marine city? No.

Ben, 27, architect . The second picture was of him playing the piano with a little girl. She had to hope it was his niece and not his daughter, but she wasn’t prepared to take the risk. She wanted no complications. None at all. She swiped left.

Erik, 29, property developer . Deep tan, whitened teeth, swept-back hair, no socks in the summer. He looked like he spent his summers in Mykonos and winters in Courchevel. His other photographs showed him jet-skiing on water, kite surfing, standing on the grid at an F1 track somewhere...Wait – was that Lando Norris?

What the hell. She swiped right.

‘But you hate the Eurotrash vibe,’ Freja said in confusion.

‘Yeah, but I have a crush on Charles Leclerc and he might be one degree removed from him,’ Darcy said, tapping the screen.

‘Or he might not be! You’re really wasting another of your goes for that vain hope?’

Darcy dropped her phone to the table with a smile and a sigh. ‘They’re all a waste of goes, Frey.’

‘Wow, Lars really knocked the stuffing out of you, didn’t he?’

‘No, he just pulled out the last remaining bit of stuffing. I can already tell you exactly how these guys are going to pan out, assuming they match with me: the vet will be soulful and cute, but not looking for commitment, the arrogant lawyer will be a fuckboy, and Mr Eurotrash will spend longer doing his hair than he spends doing me.’

Freja sat back with a loud laugh, pulling her frizzy blonde hair up into a chaotic bun, before letting it fall free again in a wild mane.

‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ Darcy grinned.

‘Oh God, I wish I could,’ Freja chuckled. ‘I wish I could.’

‘Yeah,’ Darcy sighed, watching a figure skater spin in a pirouette. ‘We’ve seen this one before. We already know the ending.’

‘Maybe – but remember, the fun’s in how you get there. And with Christmas coming, you can’t stay holed up in the apartment on your own.’

‘I wouldn’t be on my own if you ever came home!’

‘All in good time. The sex is too good, babe.’

Darcy groaned again.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll go down in flames soon enough. But in the meantime, you need to be out in the world and this is the way to do it. These guys will match with you if they’ve got eyes in their head and a pulse, and you’ll have three hot new guys to date before Christmas. You never know, they may even surprise you.’

Darcy picked up her mug and plucked out another marshmallow. ‘The only thing that would surprise me, Frey, is if they surprise me. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t bother holding my breath.’