EMMA
After that, there were kisses on the cheeks, an uncle giving me a glass of wine before I could protest, and a small cousin tugging at my sleeve and asking if it really snowed all the time in Toronto.
“It does snow,” I said, crouching down so she could hear me over the noise, “but not quite as much as you might expect. I haven’t been buried yet.”
Dinner was just as brilliant as it always was when Mum had her way with a table: crispy roast potatoes, a colourful spread of different kinds of vegetables, and a nut roast that was so delicious even my meat-loving uncle went back for seconds.
Someone joked that Mum was wasted on the family and she swatted it away, her cheeks pink from the heat of the oven but also from happiness.
By the time the sticky pudding arrived, I was completely immersed in the usual Christmas tradition of silly stories and discussions about which uncle was the worst driver in the family.
“So,” Aunt Stella said after a while, tilting her glass at me. “Tell us about life in Toronto, because all I ever hear about Canada is moose and maple syrup.”
I nodded, while putting my fork down. “Well, there is maple syrup. More kinds than you might think. But Toronto isn’t wilderness, it’s a proper city.
It’s busy but in a way that makes you feel alive, not like you’re being suffocated.
Every neighbourhood has its own style. Kensington Market, for instance, is very colourful.
You can have a spicery next to a vintage record shop playing Bowie.
And the waterfront looks different every time I see it.
Sometimes it’s steel grey, sometimes sparkling.
I’ve started walking there when I need to clear my head. ”
“Sounds marvellous,” said Uncle Peter, who had never left Surrey but liked to pretend he’d been everywhere.
“Do they really eat poutine?” one cousin asked.
“They do. And it’s every bit as messy and disgusting as it looks.”
That made everyone laugh, and the conversation quickly turned to food – what makes good gravy, whether cheese curds sound appetising – before it inevitably swerved into politics.
Dad leaned in. He had mostly been quiet while helping himself to thirds of pudding. “Did you know Toronto has one of the biggest book festivals in Canada? Did you visit it?”
“I did,” I said, pleased. “It was in September and it was massive. There were writers from all over Canada queued side by side for coffee. I went to a panel about speculative fiction and nearly filled a whole notebook just listening.”
That led us of course to books: my father’s wide-ranging interest in anything that had a cover, my aunt’s love for crime thrillers, my cousin’s insistence that he only read when he absolutely had to for school (which got him scolded from all sides of the table).
I let it wash over me, warm and familiar.
Then Mum, who’d been watching me with a patient look, asked me the same question she always did. “Have you met anyone, darling?”
“I–” I sighed, finding it difficult to admit that there was indeed someone I was thinking about more often. “There is someone. A hockey player, of all things. He’s… he’s told me he’s interested.”
Mum’s eyebrows went up, delighted. “And is it mutual?”
I blushed. “It could be. He’s– Well, he’s kind. And funny. But, Mum, I don’t know how long I’ll be in Toronto.”
She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Emma, you always figure it out, whether you’re trying to or not. Trust your instincts.”
Before I could stop myself, I thought of Max: his grin, his ridiculous sense of humour, and the way he had looked at me across the salsa floor as if the rest of the room had disappeared. He had asked me out again after that night, but I had refused again. What’s the point if I’m leaving?
Dad caught only the end of Mum’s words, thinking we were talking about my writing. So of course he asked me how the new book was going.
“It’s going well,” I said, relieved at the subject change. “I’m adding a little more romance this time.”
“Just like Napoleon. Remember that I told you about his romance novel?”
I laughed. “Yes, but not quite the same. I’ve also decided to go ahead with my idea to add some hockey to it.”
“Hockey!” a cousin yelled. “Like ice hockey?”
“Exactly. Not so much the game itself, but the rhythm of it – the speed, the collisions and the pauses. I’m turning it into a kind of metaphor. We’ll see if it works. Denise, my editor, at least thinks it does. She’s been brilliant – honest but encouraging.”
Dad grinned, raising his glass. “And that’s why you write books and I just read them.”
I laughed and clinked my glass against his.
The conversation continued, with another aunt complaining how she never saw the appeal of any sport.
And deep down, I felt enveloped by the warmth of my family, the shared love for books, and the laughter that filled the room.
And amongst all the chatter, the thought of Max, steady in the back of my mind.
When the night wound down, I went upstairs for a moment and stood at the landing window. I heard people fetching their coats and leftovers being handed out. The garden below was covered in frost and fairy lights twinkled along the fence.
And for the first time since I got back to London, I let myself admit it: I was looking forward to Toronto again.