Chapter 2
‘Megan! Don’t leave us!’ Josh implored childishly, as we tried to peel his grip from around Megan’s arm.
‘Act your age.’ Megan went straight into mum mode. ‘You’re not that drunk.’
‘No,’ Josh sighed, releasing her as he burped and rubbed his belly. ‘That McDonald’s hit the spot.’
‘Classy.’
I laughed. ‘I’ll look after him.’
‘Excuse me.’ Josh turned to me. ‘I’m the senior party here.’
‘By three months,’ I reminded him as Megan kissed me on the cheek. ‘Get home safe, and text us when you’re in.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ she replied playfully, though I knew she quite enjoyed being mothered for once rather than the other way round.
‘Send my love to Alex.’
She nodded curtly. ‘Don’t give her alcohol poisoning, Josh.’
Josh rolled his eyes and began walking away backwards. ‘It’s mulled wine, hardly neat whisky.’
‘Are you sure you can’t come?’ I asked quietly one last time.
Megan nodded. ‘Sorry, hon. Alex has been home with Alfie all week. I need to give him a break.’ What about her break?
Josh had told me this was the first time he’d seen Megan since October; it was hardly like she was painting the town red every evening.
‘I’ll miss my train. Go, have fun.’ She blew me a kiss again and walked away.
‘Come on, come on!’ Josh acted like a petulant child at Disneyland when he was drunk, even mildly so.
‘I’m coming!’
The Covent Garden piazza was packed; though it was early December, it was heaving with frustrated-looking shoppers and wide-eyed tourists.
The massive red Christmas tree sparkled in the open-air marketplace, looking much more festive than the barely decorated fir tree in Trafalgar Square, near my hotel.
Inside the covered market, giant glitter balls and mistletoe hung from the ceiling, casting rainbows across the crowds.
Stalls selling festive trinkets and tourist incentive gifts lined the market, while seasonal displays promoted a selection of West End musicals and children’s pantomimes.
The air buzzed with the hum of conversation, broken only by occasional sleigh-bell sound effects and endless renditions of ‘Let It Snow’ over the ancient sound system.
‘You’re so lucky you get to experience this every year,’ I said, watching Josh’s face light up as his endless Christmas energy began to rise.
‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing my hand. ‘Let’s get the mulled wine before the snow starts at eight.’
‘The snow?’
‘Yes!’ Josh grinned. ‘They pump out a load of artificial snow around the tree every hour.’
‘What time is it now?’ I asked, glancing around. I spotted the clock above St Paul’s Church. ‘Quarter to. Plenty of time.’
Before I could offer to stay with him, he darted into the growing queue, leaving me to search for a table.
I made a beeline for a pair of empty chairs, only to be beaten by a mother and her young son.
He was wearing a Santa hat and a sweater vest with nutcrackers on it.
I couldn’t begrudge them the seats. Who could?
Smiling awkwardly, I backed away, trying not to look as if I was sulking.
But then I walked into something. Actually, I walked into someone. A man, sending everything in his arms clattering to the ground.
‘Oh my gosh!’ I exclaimed, dropping to my knees to help. ‘I am so sorry! I didn’t see you!’
‘It’s fine,’ the man mumbled, scooping up his things: a large black box, a tangle of wires, a hard-shell suitcase, and a microphone.
‘Can I help you carry anything?’ I asked.
Then he looked up.
Hello, gorgeous man.
‘Hi,’ I said, painfully aware of the breathlessness of my voice.
‘Hi,’ he replied, narrowing his eyes at me before straightening up.
‘I’m so sorry, I—’
‘Yeah, I heard you…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, and I could tell it wasn’t exactly fine. His expression showed the internal struggle of someone trying not to be rude while undoubtedly thinking a few choice words.
‘Seriously, can I help?’
He sighed, his gaze flicking over me and pausing briefly when he noticed my red-and-white striped jeans. It was a look, I know. Finally, he gave in.
‘Yes, I’d appreciate that,’ he said, pulling over the black hard-shell suitcase.
Though I had offered, fairly insistently, I was still surprised when he accepted. Strangers rarely do, especially when another stranger has just barrelled into them.
‘You can carry this,’ he said, handing me the suitcase. It was much heavier than I expected. Without another word, he turned and began weaving through the crowd. I had to jog to keep up.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, suddenly remembering Josh was waiting for me, and that I was supposed to be finding us seats before the snow started.
‘Not far. Just by the church,’ he called over his shoulder, slipping through the throng with practised ease. He stopped under the arches of St Paul’s Church and began unloading his gear.
‘You can put that there,’ he said, gesturing to a neat pile of items at his feet.
I hesitated, glancing around. For a split second, I wondered if he was homeless, living under the arches with all his worldly possessions packed into tidy cases. But then I noticed the knife-thrower wrapping up his act nearby, thanking the crowd and collecting tips in an upturned hat.
The penny dropped. ‘Are you a busker?’
‘Might be,’ he quipped with a small smile. He began to plug the wires into the black case, which I suddenly realised was an amp, before he began building a mic-stand.
‘You’re a singer?’
‘Could be.’
‘You don’t talk much, do you?’ I said, crossing my arms, now determined to coax more than two words out of him.
‘Not with people that don’t look where they’re going.’ He fiddled with the amp’s dials, focusing on his set-up.
‘I was!’ I said indignantly, and then I remembered actually I wasn’t.
‘Okay, maybe not this time, but I usually do. I’m very responsible, I even check the streets before I cross on a green light.
’ This was such an overshare, but I wasn’t going to have him think I was a clueless tourist with no manners or sense of direction.
But he said nothing, he just kept preparing his amp.
I crossed my arms. ‘I’m sorry.’ He continued to say nothing, and I rolled my lips, trying not to laugh with frustration. He kept on with his set-up, but he wouldn’t quit staring at me. It was unnerving, in a strangely enjoyable way. ‘What? Are you saving your voice for the show?’
That made him smile – a proper smile – it lit up his face, making it impossible not to notice how handsome he was.
‘No, I just don’t usually talk to people before my shows. I’m not used to it.’
‘No friends around to cheer you on?’ I immediately regretted how that sounded. ‘I mean… are they at work, or maybe they don’t live nearby, or—’
‘I don’t have many,’ he said, unfazed by my awkwardness. ‘Not many who understand busking, at least.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s kind of cool, isn’t it?’
His brow furrowed. ‘Are you asking me?’
‘No, I mean it is cool. I always thought busking was like begging. But then I learned how much work goes into it. In the city, I mean. You have to audition, right? Get a licence and everything for it.’
‘Oh, really?’ he replied sarcastically.
I was rambling. ‘And Covent Garden is, like, extra-exclusive. Special licence, strict time slots…’
‘That’s true.’ His tone was neutral but his expression became amused as I gave him a run-down of the procedure he had clearly already been through. It was full-on word vomit. I couldn’t stop.
‘… and you can only perform at specific times, like…’
‘Like now,’ he interrupted, nodding towards the knife-thrower, who was clearing the performance space.
‘Oh, crap!’ I stammered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You say that a lot.’ He was already picking up his amp and moving towards the centre of the space. ‘Sorry. You say “sorry” a lot.’
‘I’m British.’ I shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like; it’s a reflex. Especially abroad.’
‘You’re not from London?’
‘Yes and no,’ I replied, following him like a stray dog.
The crowd from the knife-thrower had started to disperse, though it wouldn’t take long for a new one to gather, I expected, there were so many people in the piazza.
With the Christmas tree sparkling nearby and the first flurries of fake snow scheduled to start any minute, it was a prime slot, I imagined.
‘I should leave you to your show.’ I began awkwardly stepping back. ‘Break a leg, I guess.’
‘You say that to actors, not buskers.’ He smiled faintly as he adjusted his mic.
‘What do you say to buskers then?’
‘Good luck.’
Funny, that.
‘Good luck!’ I added, before retreating into the crowd, hoping my face wasn’t turning the same shade of red as one of Josh’s Santa suits.
‘Evie!’ I heard Josh call. I turned to look for him, spotting him weaving through the crowd, holding two steaming cups of mulled wine. ‘Hey, I thought you were getting seats?’ He handed me a cup.
‘Sorry. I lost them, and then…’ I trailed off, glancing back towards the busker. ‘Let’s just say I’m feeling a little embarrassed right now.’
Josh raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, what did you do?’
‘I, uh… kind of told that guy over there that buskers were beggars and explained how hard it is to get a licence.’
Josh’s eyes furrowed a little as he wondered why that was an issue, and then he realised I meant the busker currently preparing to perform and his eyes went wide. ‘You didn’t!’
‘Not on purpose!’
‘He probably knew you didn’t mean it.’
‘I hope so.’ I could feel my cheeks warming to the temperature of the wine.
Josh led me to the steps near the tree. ‘Come on, the snow’s starting soon. We’ll watch his show – you should really, after your terrible comments.’
I grumbled, but Josh dragged me along, and we sat as the crowd began to form around the busker.
‘One minute until the snow,’ Josh added, looking at his watch as the busker began to talk to his audience. I didn’t hear his introduction, so I missed his name. But what would I have done with it, had I heard? Stalk him on TikTok? Tag him in a video?
I got my phone out and began to record.
‘Get your content, girlie!’ Josh slurped his mulled wine as we listened to the singer.
‘He’s got a good voice,’ Josh commented, after the busker made a joke that caused a wave of laughter to trickle through the crowd.
As ever, Josh’s assessment was right: the busker’s voice was rich and tuneful.
He had a slightly Matthew Macfadyen-esque accent that put visions of Mr Darcy into my head, which I quickly shook away as I spun the camera around for a full view of the crowd.
The singer continued to speak to his audience: ‘I know what you’re all thinking, ‘Oh no, here comes another Covent Garden beggar. I mean, busker.’
Josh nearly did a spit take. I stopped recording and put my phone away as the busker’s gaze found mine, his smile full of mischief.
I smiled back, mouthing a silent sorry.
He winked before continuing, as he pulled the leather guitar strap over his shoulder. ‘But whatever money you do choose today will be donated to Crisis, a charity for the homeless.’
Josh’s second attempt to drink some mulled wine went as well as the first, and he burned his tongue.
‘Thank you for your kind thoughts, and Merry Christmas!’
Then, as the snow began to fall, the busker strummed the opening chords of ‘Last Christmas’ on his electric guitar and the song filled the square.
The magic of the moment unfolded; phones went up, voices joined in, and the singer’s soulful voice turned the bustling piazza into something extraordinary.
‘George Michael, eat your heart out,’ Josh whispered, as the busker’s voice rang out, his tone a mixture of Tom Odell and Lewis Capaldi. ‘He’s brilliant.’
‘He is,’ I agreed. But I wasn’t paying attention to the snow or the song. I was too busy watching him.