We Met in December

WE MET IN DECEMBER

Rosie Curtis

Copyright

Published by AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Rosie Curtis 2019

Emojis © Shutterstock.com

Rosie Curtis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008353551

Ebook Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008353544

Version: 2019-08-23

Dedication

To Archie, with all my love

(and thank you for all the cups of tea, darling).

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Jess

Chapter One: Jess

Chapter Two: Jess

Chapter Three: Jess

Chapter Four: Alex

Chapter Five: Jess

Chapter Six: Jess

Chapter Seven: Alex

Chapter Eight: Jess

Chapter Nine: Jess

Chapter Ten: Alex

Chapter Eleven: Jess

Chapter Twelve: Jess

Chapter Thirteen: Alex

Chapter Fourteen: Jess

Chapter Fifteen: Jess

Chapter Sixteen: Alex

Chapter Seventeen: Alex

Chapter Eighteen: Jess

Chapter Nineteen: Alex

Chapter Twenty: Jess

Chapter Twenty-One: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Two: Alex

Chapter Twenty-Three: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Four: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Five: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Six: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Alex

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Alex

Chapter Thirty: Jess

Chapter Thirty-One: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Two: Alex

Chapter Thirty-Three: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Four: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Five: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Six: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Alex

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Alex

Chapter Forty: Jess

Chapter Forty-One: Alex

Chapter Forty-Two: Alex

Epilogue: Jess

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Jess

22nd December

Christmas and London are a match made in heaven. There’s a man on the street corner selling hot chestnuts by the bag, filling the air with the smell of cinnamon and vanilla. The ornate wooden windows of Liberty are glittering with lights and decorations. I stop to look at a huge tree swathed in ribbons and hung with a million dancing fairy lights and—

‘Watch out!’

A woman crashes into me, giving me a furious look and weaving past, muttering loudly about bloody tourists.

I am not a tourist, I think. I am – or will be, in just a couple of hours – an official Londoner. I step out of the way of the thronging crowds, pasting myself against a carved wooden window frame, and watch as a sea of people scurry past.

I add ‘stop dead on the pavement’ to my mental list of Things London People Never Do. I know that already, really, but it’s easy to forget when everything is so sparkly and festive. I pause for a moment and take a photo to share on my Instagram stories, because it’s just so ridiculously perfect and my life has been so beige and boring for months – it’s lovely to have something interesting to put on there. And then I take another of the street scene, because it’s just so … London-y and Christmassy and perfect.

I look at the flowers in the doorway of Liberty, thinking that it would be a nice idea to take Becky some as a thank you (again) for offering me a room in a house that would otherwise be completely out of my reach. There doesn’t seem to be a price anywhere though, which I think is weird, then I hear my Nanna Beth’s voice saying, If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. But they’re only flowers, surely. How expensive can a bunch of flowers be?

‘Can I help you?’ The girl behind the faux-Victorian wooden flower stall looks at me. She’s tiny and has huge brown eyes that match the expensive-looking Liberty of London apron she’s wearing.

‘I was wondering how much these are?’ I lift up a ready-prepared bouquet – deep red roses mingled with silver-grey foliage and white lilies streaked with lime green, still not quite open. They’re wrapped in thick, luxurious waxed paper and sealed with a gold Liberty sticker. They’ll make the perfect thank you present for Becky.

The girl chews her gum for a moment and looks at me, taking in the fluffy pink coat I bought for my big move (if I’m going to be a London creative, I thought I should wear something that suits my new job), along with my denim pinafore, blue tights and my trusty silver Doc Marten boots. When I got off the train from Bournemouth earlier I felt quirky and artistic, but now under her supercilious stare I think perhaps I look like a kids’ TV presenter.

‘Forty-seven pounds,’ she says. ‘And five pounds extra if you want our gift-wrapping service.’

Ouch. That’s a week’s worth of my new food budget. I put the flowers back in the stylish metal bucket. I think Becky would understand.

‘I like your coat,’ she says, as I start to slink off. I turn, surprised, and smile a thank you.

‘It’s from eBay,’ I tell her, patting my fluffy arm.

‘Cool. It’s really nice.’ The girl lowers her voice, conspiratorially. ‘I couldn’t afford the flowers either, if it helps. There’s a stall a couple of minutes away on Noel Street – he always has decent flowers.’

She waves her hand briefly in the air, but then another customer appears and she turns to them, greeting them with a cheerful smile.

‘Thanks,’ I say, in her general direction, but she’s not listening.

So I take my phone out. My sense of direction is absolutely hopeless, and I still can’t work out how people find their way around London. I’ve worked out bits of it, but I can’t seem to join them up. It takes me three tries, but I make it to Noel Street in the end. There I find a round-faced man wearing a Santa hat, singing along to Christmas songs from a Bluetooth speaker. His stall is piled high with fruit and veg, and – phew – surrounding it is a rainbow array of flowers, which look to my uneducated eye just as nice as the ones from round the corner at Liberty. Well, almost as nice. A bit gaudy maybe, but I can’t afford to be fussy on my new London wages.

Five minutes later I’m back on Oxford Street looking at the Christmas lights with a bunch of (considerably cheaper) red roses, their cellophane wrapping crinkling in my arms. The lights – strung from one side of the street to the other – sparkle against the sky, which ten minutes ago had been the usual English winter grey, but now has shifted to an ominous bruised purple. I’m trying to figure out if it’s easier to jump on a bus or get the tube to Notting Hill to meet Becky and my new housemates. I’m standing on a street corner peering at Google Maps again when the first hailstones hit me on the head. And – ow – they really sting.

In seconds the packed streets empty, as everyone ducks into the nearest shop or doorway to shelter, clutching their shopping bags tightly. Only the smug umbrella holders and the hardy few carry on, marching down pavements now clear of tourists and Christmas shoppers. The tyres of the red buses and black taxis hiss on the tarmac and the hailstones hammer on the metal awning over our heads. I’m crammed with a handful of shoppers in the doorway of – I look up to see a shiny brass plaque on the wall – NMC Inc, and then I frown at the screen of my phone once again.

‘Are you lost?’ a man says. He has Scandinavian-looking blond hair and a dark blue scarf wrapped round his neck. He’s got a bit of an accent and now he’s indicating my phone with a finger. ‘Where are you trying to go?’

‘Notting Hill,’ I say, feeling like I’ve stepped into a film for a moment. Christmas is everywhere and there’s a tiny split second where the noticing-things part of my brain is looking at me from the outside. The thing about being addicted to a certain kind of romantic movie is that you’re always half-expecting that your life might just suddenly take a turn for the better. And handsome Scandinavian types who look a bit like Jaime Lannister are pretty much up there on my list of good things.

‘I’m not sure which bus to get,’ I say. ‘Because I usually get the tube, but my friend said it was easy from here. Easy if you’ve got a sense of direction, I think. Which I definitely have not.’

And then I find myself telling this complete stranger, who has opened the Citymapper app on his phone and is tapping rapidly: ‘I’m picking up the keys for my new house.’ I can hear the little note of pride in my voice.

‘Nice,’ he says, smiling. He points to the bus stop on the opposite side of the road. ‘If you get the 94, it’ll take you straight to Notting Hill Gate. It’ll take a bit longer than the tube, but on the other hand, it’s a lovely view if you’re new to the area.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. I’m not doing a great job at trying to look like a well-established local, then. A fresh torrent of hailstones batters the canopy above us. ‘Might just wait a moment.’

‘That’s very wise.’

Obviously if this was one of those movies with woolly hats and kissing in the snow and hard-bitten businesswomen remembering the true meaning of Christmas, at this point we’d start a conversation, and he’d follow me onto the bus, and – well, you know the score. But this is not a movie, I am one hundred per cent single, and despite being as much of a sucker for a Richard Curtis movie as the next hopeless romantic, I remind myself that I am one hundred per cent not looking for anyone else. Because this is my new start, and my new life, and I am doing it On My Own.

The hail stops, and I try my best to stride across the road in the manner of an independent London girl living her best life, aware that the handsome Scandinavian person is watching and (obviously) thinking that I am the one that got away and wondering if he’ll ever see me again. What actually happens is I almost get knocked flat by a bloke on a Deliveroo bike, fumble to find my card to swipe it when I get on the bus, and when I do climb the stairs and sit down on a seat, I look across the road to see the handsome Jaime Lannister lookalike beaming with delight as his boyfriend appears from behind the door of NMC Inc in an expensive-looking coat, kisses him on the mouth and runs an affectionate hand through his lovely blond hair. Ah well. It’s just as well I’m not looking.

I sit wedged in against the window of the bus, wiping away condensation with my fluffy pink sleeve so I can stare out of the window all the way to Notting Hill. I watch as we pass Hyde Park, the huge trees’ bare, branches reaching up to the grey sky. The bus stops, disgorging passengers, and I watch as a woman dressed in a red coat with a fur collar climbs out of a shiny black taxi, her arms full of expensive-looking paper shopping bags.

And then we pull away and I watch as the buildings get smaller and the grey sky gets bigger, and the bus takes me to my new house and my new life. I smile at a woman when she gets on and sits beside me, and I don’t even mind that she opens up an absolutely honking tuna sandwich from M&S and eats it. Nothing is going to get in the way of this moment, because I’ve got a job in London and a room in a house-share I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I squish my hands into fists of excitement when I see the words Notting Hill Gate flash up on the information board on the bus. I press the bell – my bell – and my heart gives a little skip of excitement as the bus pulls to a stop. This is London, I think. And now, London is home.

CHAPTER ONE

Jess

22nd December, 15 Albany Road, Notting Hill

I pause for a minute outside the house and look up, still not quite believing that this terraced mansion is home. It’s huge, slightly shabby, and has an air of faded grandeur. Six wide stone steps lead to a broad wooden front door, painted a jaunty red that is faded in places and chipped away to a pale, dusky pink. Each window on the road is topped with ornate stuccoed decorations – the ones on our house are a bit chipped and scruffy-looking, but somehow it just makes the place look more welcoming, as if it’s full of history.

Next door on one side is freshly decorated, the black paint of the windowsills gleaming. They’ve got window boxes at every window, crammed full of pansies and evergreen plants. I can see a huge Christmas tree tastefully decorated with millions of starry lights, topped with a huge metal star. There’s a little red bicycle chained to the railings and a pair of wellies just inside the porch. This must be the investment banker neighbours Becky talked about. The mansion on the other side has been turned into flats, and there’s a row of doorbells beside a blue front door.

I rush up the steps and lift the heavy brass door-knocker.

‘You don’t have to knock,’ Becky says, beaming as she opens the door. ‘This is home!’

‘I do, because you haven’t given me a key yet.’ I love Becky.

‘Ah.’ Becky takes my bag and hangs it on a huge wooden coat hook just inside the door, which looks like it’s been there forever. There’s a massive black umbrella with a carved wooden handle hanging beside my bag.

‘Used to be my grandpa’s,’ she says, absent-mindedly running a hand down it. ‘This place is like a bloody museum.’

‘I can’t believe it’s yours.’

‘Me neither.’ Becky shakes her head and beckons me through to the kitchen. ‘Now wait here two seconds, and I’ll give you the tour.’

I stand where I’ve been put, at the edge of a huge kitchen-slash-dining-room space, which has been here so long that it’s come back into fashion. It’s all cork tiles and dangling spider plants and a huge white sink, which is full of ice and bottles of beer.

I think Nanna Beth would be impressed with this. With all of it. I’ve taken the leap.

‘Life is for living, Jessica, and this place is all very well, but it’s like God’s waiting room,’ she’d once said, giving a cackle of laughter and inclining her head towards the window, where a flotilla of mobility scooters had passed by, ridden by grey-haired elderly people covered over with zipped-up waterproof covers. The seaside town I’d grown up in wasn’t actually as bad as all that, but it was true: things had changed. Grandpa had passed away, and Nanna Beth had sold the house and invested her money in a little flat in a new sheltered housing development where there was no room for me, not because she was throwing me out, but because – as she’d said, looking at me shrewdly – it was time to go. I’d been living in a sort of stasis since things had ended with my ex-boyfriend Neil.

Weirdly, the catalyst for all this change had been being offered a promotion in the marketing company where I worked. If I’d taken it, it would have been a job for life. I could have afforded to buy a little house by the sea and upgraded my car for something nice, and I’d have carried on living the life I’d been living since I graduated from university and somehow gravitated back home when all my friends spread their wings and headed for the bright lights of London, or New York, or – well, Sarah ended up in Inverness, so I suppose we didn’t quite all end up somewhere exotic.

But Nanna Beth had derailed me and challenged me with the task of getting out and grabbing life with both hands, which is pretty tricky for someone like me. I tend to take the approach that you should hold life with one hand, and keep the other one spare just in case of emergencies. And yet here I am, an hour early (very me) for a housewarming party for the gang of people that Becky has gathered together to share this rambling, dilapidated old house in Notting Hill that her grandparents left her when they passed away.

‘I still can’t believe this place is yours,’ I repeat, as I balance on the edge of the pale pink velvet sofa. It’s hidden under a flotilla of cushions. The arm of the sofa creaks alarmingly, and I stand up, just in case it’s about to give way underneath my weight.

Becky shakes her head. ‘You can’t? Imagine how I feel.’

‘And your mum really didn’t object to your grandparents leaving you their house in their will?’

She shakes her head and pops open the two bottles of beer she’s holding, handing me one. ‘She’s quite happy where she is. And you know she’s all property is theft and that sort of thing.’

‘True.’ I take a swig of beer and look at the framed photographs on the wall. A little girl in Mary-Jane shoes with a serious face looks out at us, disapprovingly. ‘She’s keeping her eye on you: look.’

Becky shudders. ‘Don’t. She wanted me to come to Islay for a Christmas of meditation and chanting, but I managed to persuade her that I’d be better off coming when the weather was a bit nicer.’

Becky’s mum had been a mythical figure to all of us at university. She’d been a model in her youth, and then eschewed all material things and moved to an ethical living commune on the island of Islay when Becky was sixteen. Becky had stayed behind to finish her exams with a family friend, and horrified her mother by going into not just law, but corporate law of all things. Relations had been slightly strained for quite a while, but she’d spent some time in meditative silence, apparently, and now they got on really well – as long as they had a few hundred miles between them.

I look at the photograph of Becky’s mum – she must only be about seven. She looks back at me with an intense stare, and I think that if anyone can save the planet, it’s very possibly her. Anyway, I raise my bottle to her in a silent thank you. If she’d contested the will, Becky might not have inherited this place, and she wouldn’t have offered me a room at £400 a month, which wouldn’t have got me space in a broom closet anywhere else in commutable distance of King’s Cross, where my new job was situated.

‘Just going to get out of this jacket,’ Becky says, looking down at her work clothes; then she disappears for a moment and I’m left looking around. The house is old-fashioned, stuffed full of the sort of mid-century furniture that would sell for vast amounts of money on eBay – there’s an Ercol dresser in the sitting room and dining chairs that look like they’ve come straight out of Heal’s. I take a photo of the huge potted plant that looms in the corner like a triffid, and then I wander into the hall. It’s huge and airy, with a polished wooden banister that twirls round and up to the third floor where there’s a skylight – dark just now, because it’s midwinter, but I bet it fills this space with light in the middle of summer. There’s a huge wooden coat stand with a mirror by the interior door, and a porch with ceramic tiles worn through years of footsteps passing over them. The place must be 150 years old, at least. And – I push the sitting room door open – there’s enough space for everyone to collapse on the sofas in a Sunday-ish sort of way. The paintings on the walls are draped with brightly coloured tinsel and fairy lights, and there’s a Christmas tree on the side table, decked with multi-coloured lights and hung with a selection of baubles, which look—

‘Hideous, aren’t they?’ Becky’s voice sounds over my shoulder. ‘I couldn’t resist. They’re from the pound shop so I just went to town a bit. If you can’t be tacky at Christmas, when can you?’

‘I love it,’ I say, and I do. Becky disappears back into the kitchen and I can hear the sound of her warbling out of tune to Mariah Carey and the clattering of plates and saucepans. I stand in the hallway and look at this amazing house that I couldn’t afford in a million years, and I think back to about two months ago when I saw an advert for my dream job in publishing come up and wondered if I should take the chance and apply. And how Nanna Beth had said, ‘Nothing ventured, lovey – you never know what’s around the corner …’

An hour later and we’re in the kitchen and everything’s been laid out so it looks perfect for the housewarming party.

‘Stop!’ I put a hand up in the air.

Becky stops dead and I leap between her and the massive old oak table in the kitchen. Her face registers alarm as I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and then she rolls her eyes as she realises what I’m doing.

With my free hand, I reach across, straightening a plate and moving a piece of tinsel so it sits jauntily beside the jewel-bright heaps of salsa and guacamole. ‘There.’

Leaning over, I take a photo from above and step back, letting her put the tray of tequila shots down on the table.

‘Since when were you the Instagram queen?’ Becky tucks back a strand of hair that’s escaped from behind her ear. She’s had it cut into a sleek graduated bob, which makes her look like a proper grown-up, especially as she’s still dressed in her work clothes of grey slim-fitting trousers and a pale blouse made of silky stuff, which I would definitely have spilled coffee on within an hour. But she’s here at 6.30 p.m. looking as if she’s just got out of the shower, instead of having battled her way home through London traffic after a long day doing corporate law stuff. I’ve taken off my pink fluffy coat because it was making me feel like a dislodged tree bauble, or a pom-pom, in comparison to Becky’s minimalist chic.

‘Hardly,’ I say, fiddling with a filter and making the photo look nice before hashtagging it and hitting share. ‘I just thought it’d be nice to show everyone back home what it’s like living in London.’

‘And make a point of what a lovely time you’re having even though they all think you’re insane to give up a promotion in Bournemouth for a pay cut up here?’ she says.

I nod, and pick up a tortilla chip, breaking it in half. ‘That too,’ I admit, making a face. ‘And Nanna Beth is on there too – she’s got herself an iPhone contract. I’m her only Instagram follower so far.’

‘She’s going to be sharing selfies with all the hot doctors in the nursing home, isn’t she?’ Becky snorts with laughter.

I turn the phone so she can see it. @nanna_beth1939 has posted a string of photos of her new ground-floor flat in the sheltered accommodation unit she’s moved into.