Chapter 25
The staff at the theatre were all in a tizzy when I arrived, and I had to put out a few fires about not enough programmes being printed, confirming which guests would need the red-carpet arrivals, and ensuring the box seat attendees each had their complimentary Pimm’s upon entry.
I left all Pim’s belongings in her dressing room, removed all the drooping red roses and loose leaves from the bouquets sent with well-wishes from admirers and friends, and then checked my watch. I had three hours until the show began. Just enough time to get ready and sort out one pressing issue.
Exiting Covent Garden Tube station on Christmas Eve was tantamount to completing a second obstacle course.
I ducked under and jumped over gift bags, nursing several bruises on my elbows and legs from the remaining bags I missed.
It was the retail version of a game of Sardines until I reached St Paul’s Church.
I looked around the buskers, who seemed to have multi-plied, given the day, but I couldn’t see Simon anywhere. He wasn’t skulking by the Christmas tree, enjoying a show, nor in the church, people watching.
Glancing at my watch and realising I needed to hurry, I found an off-duty busker packing up his knife-throwing props.
‘Hey! Excuse me!’ I said, approaching him. He looked up, his bobble hat jingling. ‘Great hat.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, giving his head an extra vigorous shake for effect.
‘Do you know Simon?’
‘Oh, aye,’ he said with a strong Scottish brogue.
‘Is he performing today?’
The busker looked suspicious. ‘How d’y’know Simon?’
I opened my mouth to reply but didn’t have a ready-made answer, so stuttered for a moment as the busker’s eyes narrowed.
‘I’m… uh… I’m – we ran the Pudding Race together!
’ Given that Ethan, Simon’s other busker friend, had built a crowd around the race to specifically watch Simon in full Grinch mode run while carrying a Christmas pudding, I made an educated guess that another busker who also knew Simon would be well aware of the anecdote.
‘I was dressed as Jovie, he was the Grinch.’
He immediately started to laugh, and my body relaxed slightly.
‘Ah, you’re the lass that persuaded him to give up his dignity.’
‘And he did me proud – but do you know where he is? I really need to speak to him.’
The busker shook his head. ‘Not today, love,’ he smiled, still laughing. ‘He never performs on Christmas Eve.’
‘Oh? Really?’
The busker’s bobble-hatted head jingled jauntily.
‘No, it’s the anniversary of his mum’s passing.
He must have told you.’ He clearly assumed I knew more about Simon than I actually did.
‘He works on Christmas Day, but not today. I think it’s the only day he takes off all Christmas. Glutton for punishment, our Simon.’
‘His mum?’
The busker nodded. ‘Aye, love.’
A chill that had nothing to do with the December air settled over me.
I knew Simon had lost his mum, but I had never realised how close to Christmas it had been.
He’d never said as much. And now, suddenly, it made sense why he threw himself into busking for charity in December and only December, why he worked relentlessly through the season, barely stopping to breathe.
Christmas wasn’t just Christmas for him. It was the time of year his world had changed forever.
Now it all felt glaringly obvious.
Throwing himself into the noise and chaos as if trying to drown something out. The way he had brushed off conversations about Christmas traditions with a joke or a change of subject.
The way, just last week, when we had been in Covent Garden watching the carols, he had turned to me and said, ‘You love Christmas, don’t you?’ in a voice that had been both wistful and something else, something I hadn’t recognised at the time.
Grief.
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. ‘Right.’
The busker must have noticed something shift in my expression because his voice softened. ‘He’ll be at the graveyard. Don’t know which one, mind. But he told me once that it’s the one day he and his dad get together to lay flowers on the grave. A kind of Christmas ceasefire.’
I shook out my shoulders, trying to get the feeling to return to them. So that was it. I had seen the strain on Simon’s face whenever he mentioned his father in passing, a quiet resentment, usually followed by a brief but sharp-edged silence.
‘Yeah,’ I murmured, my thoughts spinning. ‘He said they didn’t get on.’
The busker scoffed. ‘No one seems to get on with Michael Holland, though, do they?’
He returned to packing up his bag, unaware he had just dropped a weight in my stomach; I suddenly felt as if I had just missed the bottom step and was about to fall flat on my face.
My pulse drummed in my ears. ‘Wait! Michael Holland?’
‘Yeah, the documentary guy. I was surprised too when Simon mentioned it.’
‘Michael Holland is his dad?’
The busker nodded, though I didn’t see it, I just heard it.
‘Nothing like Christmas to reunite family, aye,’ he said, zipping up the last of his goods, unaware I’d stopped listening.
Michael Holland was Simon’s dad?
The arse of a man who had ripped into that poor runner for bringing him the wrong shirt. The pretentious, sneering man who Pim Hardcastle had torn to shreds in the viral video for something he wrote twenty-odd years ago.
How was he Simon’s father?
I thought back to when I had first met Simon in Covent Garden, busking with that easy smile and his blue guitar, doing crowd work between songs with ease and charm. A man who wrote jingles for a living. Who gave every spare coin he earned from music to charity – well, mostly. Who was good.
How had this man come from that man?
Holland was a common enough name. It had never occurred to me that Simon, with his easy laugh and warm brown eyes, could be related to a man who seemed incapable of joy.
But Michael Holland had a son. I had read it online. A wife who had died of cancer several years prior. And one son.
And Simon had said he’d been raised by a dad who worked in media and cut him off. That sounded like Michael Holland.
I felt light-headed.
‘You all right, love?’ the busker asked. Apparently, he’d just asked me a question, and I had missed it.
‘Oh sorry,’ I said. ‘Away with the fairies.’
He chuckled. ‘Happens to the best of us.’
I nodded, but my thoughts were already elsewhere.
Michael Holland. Simon’s dad.
I had so many questions.
‘I was just saying Simon’ll be back on Boxing Day. He’s doing an early show for the bargain-hunters – he’d normally have a break between Christmas and New Year, but I heard he gave up his New Year slot for some reason. But you probably know more about that than me.’
He winked and I flushed, because I did know the reason. But it wasn’t the reason he was thinking. Mostly.
‘I’ve got to get to Kent this evening,’ I said after a moment, thinking about how I had promised Denise and Bob, and I needed to get Josh down there too. And make up things with Megan, if she was even talking to me, that was. I reached into my pocket hurriedly. ‘Do you have his number?’
The busker shook his head, this time disappointed. ‘I don’t.’
I growled. ‘What about Ethan? Is he here?’
‘Ethan’ll be round later. He’s on not long after me this afternoon.’
My stomach did a somersault of nerves as I prayed this would work.
‘Could you give this to Ethan and tell him to give it to Simon?’ I asked, feeling like this was the most ridiculous plan I’d ever come up with, as I handed over a receipt from one of Pim’s Starbucks runs.
I’d scribbled my number on the back. Sure, I couldn’t expense it any more, but who knew when Simon would be performing again after Christmas?
And who knew if I’d even catch him before I had to jet off to Canada.
I only had a few days between Christmas and New Year, and I was intending on spending the majority with Megan, Denise, and Bob, and even with Pim post-show craziness.
But I wanted to see him. And this mad plan might be my only chance to let him know.
Why had we not exchanged numbers before! God, I felt like an idiot.
There had been something thrilling about the mystery between us, but now it just felt dumb.
‘Sure, I can ask Ethan later,’ the busker said. ‘If I see him. We might miss each other, but I’ll try.’
‘If you can, I’d be really grateful,’ I said, starting to back away and thinking that I needed to get ready soon, otherwise I was going to be late for the show. ‘Just tell Ethan that Evie was here and really needs to get a message to Simon.’
‘Aye,’ the busker repeated, a little shell-shocked by how serious I was, swinging his bag over his shoulder. ‘Evie was here and needs to get a message to Simon,’ he repeated.
‘Thank you!’ I shouted, turning on the spot and running as quickly as I could through the crowds. ‘And merry Christmas!’