Chapter 30 #2
Close up, I could see some more of what was behind the mottled plastic sheets that acted as windows.
There were sheepskin rugs across the floor, two electric heaters on at high levels so that the igloo was as warm as a fireplace.
A portable speaker sat on the floor, softly crooning ‘Last Christmas’ at a comfortable volume.
More blankets and rugs were thrown across the chairs, and our table was laid with some basic Christmas plates and cutlery from a supermarket, with a choice of mince pies, sausage rolls, cocktail sausages, the best cheeses, crackers, grapes, and a bottle of expensive red wine.
‘It may look a little Supermarket Sweep, but I promise it will taste delicious.’
Simon’s voice was light, teasing, but there was excite-ment there too, like he genuinely wanted me to love this, like it mattered to him.
‘This is the food of my childhood,’ I told him, practically salivating, as he pulled out my seat with an easy chivalry that made my stomach flutter. ‘Honestly, I can’t wait to dive in.’
And I did, popping a juicy grape into my mouth before Simon could take his own seat.
‘There’s a box of Celebrations outside as well,’ Simon added, gesturing towards the heaters. ‘Didn’t want to keep them in here in case they melted.’
‘Good thinking.’ I glanced around at the scene he’d set; the festive feast laid out between us, under the twinkling stars of the South Bank.
It all felt surreal, like something plucked from one of those Christmas movies where everything just works out with little to no effort, and a sprinkling of a Christmas miracle.
Simon lifted a blanket from the pile he’d moved off his chair, draping it around my shoulders before scooting in beside me. The warmth of it – of him – was instant, wrapping around me like a hug.
I snuggled in, shifting closer. ‘I think this may be the best dinner date I’ve ever had.’
He quirked an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips. ‘Oh, yeah?’
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance as I reached for a mini sausage roll. ‘Not that you need to know my dating history.’
Simon let out a low chuckle, eyes twinkling as he poured us both a drink. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll just assume I’m winning.’
‘Undeniably.’
A comfortable silence settled between us as we tucked into the food.
The air inside the igloo smelled of pastries and warm wine, mingling with the crisp scent of winter beyond the plastic walls.
It felt cosy, private, like we were in our own little snow globe while the rest of London hummed on around us.
I dived into the sausage rolls and grapes, cutting up large pieces of brie and wensleydale, so that each mouthful of cracker and cheese was more cheese and crumbs. Simon was a big fan of a cocktail sausage, and the obvious jokes that came with that.
As I sipped my drink, the conversation shifted, the way it sometimes did with Simon – effortless, natural.
‘I didn’t think I’d be doing this,’ I admitted after a moment.
‘Eating an entire tray of mini sausage rolls?’ he teased, nudging my knee against his under the table.
I huffed a small laugh. ‘No. Well, yes, but also… celebrating Christmas. Properly, I mean.’ I stared down at my glass, watching the liquid swirl. ‘I didn’t really do it last year. Or the year before.’
He chewed more slowly, leaving me space to open up if I wanted to. He really could read my mind, I thought. And if you can, I’m falling head over heels right now, I added to myself.
I sighed, leaning back against the fleece.
‘Christmas was always our holiday,’ I said, my voice filling with emotion.
‘Me and my mum. We didn’t have a lot, but she made it feel like we did.
She’d go all out: paper chains, John Lewis decorations, all the eighties bangers playing the moment we reached November.
She’d make this ridiculous Christmas dinner with whatever we could afford – only the trimmings we liked – and we’d sit in our pyjamas all day watching movies and eating chocolate for breakfast.’ I smiled at the memories, which I cherished but hid from others.
They felt like a delicate things, fragile, like cupping water in my hands.
What if I shared them and they disappeared.
Or if I made new memories and it covered them up.
‘She sounds amazing,’ Simon murmured, reaching for my hand under the blankets and running his fingers over my knuckles soothingly.
‘My mum was more traditional.’ He bit his cheek.
‘Midnight masses, Christmas carols, and volunteering. It’s probably why I’ve always thrown myself into that side of Christmas. ’
‘Was she religious?’ I asked and he shrugged in response.
‘Not really, but she was very aware it was a religious holiday. A time for giving at the very least.’
‘She sounds great too, very kind.’
He nodded and smirked as a sudden memory crept into his mind. ‘She used to make all the nativity outfits at school. No other mother seemed to bother, but every year she would stitch me a new jumper or make a new tea-towel headdress.’
‘Let me guess, you were Joseph.’ I rolled my eyes at the vision of him, looking so proud as the brand new ‘father’ of Jesus, but he shook his head.
‘I was a shepherd, the innkeeper, and once, ready for this, the door.’
‘The door?’
‘The door,’ he repeated proudly. ‘It was my finest role.’
‘I can see the reviews now: Simon Holland was effortlessly wooden.’
We laughed. ‘Go on then, were you Mary?’
I looked at him as if he had just insulted me greatly. Mary, of all characters. ‘I was a sheep three years in a row.’
‘You were typecast.’ He patted my shoulder, falsely apologetic, and I pushed it off.
‘At least I was always warm when we left. My mum used to spend hours hot-gluing cotton balls on old jumpers. Though, by the end of the shows, you would probably have thought I was a snow cloud, by the way they’d just fall off. I used to throw them at Megan – she was Mary.’
He nodded and smirked. ‘Makes sense.’
‘It really does, doesn’t it?’
‘Do you think your mum would have liked me?’ he asked, cutting the last mince pie in half for us to share. It was a personal question; one I hadn’t expected – to the point I almost let him have my side of the mince pie. Almost. ‘Would she have found me charming?’
‘At the rate I’ve dated,’ I began, taking a moment to really consider what my mum would think about him, and chuckling as I realised the answer. ‘She’d probably be pleased as Punch that you’ve got a pulse and you’re breathing.’
‘Wow, low bar.’
I bit into my mince pie with a smirk. ‘Seriously though, she would have loved you. You’re good-looking, musical, kind, and…’
‘Really good-looking?’
I slapped his shoulder. ‘Fish much?’
He pulled me forward suddenly by my chair, my knee between his legs as he rubbed some crumbs from my cheek.
‘My mum would have grilled you,’ he said. ‘And you’d have sworn she hated you, when, in actual fact, she’d be planning our wedding and telling everyone behind our backs that she thinks you’re the one.’
‘Really?’ He had a very clear-cut vision of his mum’s opinion. But he had been older than I had been when I’d lost mine. My mum was fun and happy-go-lucky, seemingly all the time, keeping a brave face on her diagnosis for my sake. ‘I do feel intimidated.’
‘She’d have loved you. I imagine my dad likes you as well.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Really? I think he hates me. Because of me and my boss, he went viral for all the wrong reasons.’
Simon shook his head and moved a piece of hair from my face. ‘Nah, he’ll have liked the attention. Besides, he’s just guarded. Iron on the outside, gold on the inside.’
I pushed his hair back now, realising just how close I was to his face, more specifically his lips.
‘You seem to have a high opinion of the man who earlier you said you couldn’t stand.’
He clicked his teeth. ‘Son’s privilege. The less I see of him, the more I like him.’
‘You only see him at Christmas, right?’
‘On my mum’s anniversary. It’s so close to Christmas it feels like the right time to exchange gifts and pleasantries, in the name of her memory.’
‘But not Christmas Day?’
He shook his head again. ‘He’s always working or away. And I volunteer. It’s just the way it’s become.’
I didn’t say anything, giving him the space to carry on if he wanted to. But suddenly he laughed.
‘Well, aren’t we just the picture of festive cheer?’ We nearly butted heads. ‘Nothing says Christmas spirit like bonding over our dead mums.’
‘It’s probably not the most romantic conversation I’ve ever had on a date.’
‘No?’ His lips quirked. ‘Damn. And here I thought I was really setting the mood.’
I smiled, warmth bubbling up despite the topic, and the ache in both our stories. Because it wasn’t just grief. It was understanding. Connection.
Simon squeezed my hand one more time before letting go and reducing the space between us, turning quickly back to the last of the food. We soon had devoured the rest, swapping Christmas playlists and opinions on the latest John Lewis ad.
‘How did you even see the ads abroad?’
‘Megan was very good at keeping me up to date. Plus, with apps like TikTok, all the Christmas content is curated just for me. I never miss a thing,’ I explained, pulling out my phone and opening the app just to prove my point.
Immediately there was a video of a woman decorating her decadent home, using the age-old ‘throw a bauble like it’s a grenade effect’.
‘One day I’ll have a home big enough to do that video. ’
‘Give it ’ere,’ he said, opening my profile with some difficulty, having limited experience with the platform. ‘You’ve got over two hundred and fifty thousand followers!’
‘I thought you saw my profile before, at the pub?’ I reminded him, but his eyes were bulging.
‘Your videos maybe, but not your followers. Bloody hell!’
‘It’s not that much,’ I said, reaching for the phone, but he pulled it away.
‘Not much? It’s more than the population of Saint Lucia.’