‘Why wouldn’t I be able to tell you?’ I asked, picking up on the one statement that didn’t feel like swallowing a rock. ‘What, like I’m a spy or something?’
He shrugged. ‘Witness protection. Or you’re running from the law, accused of a terrible crime you didn’t commit. Or did commit.’ He dropped his head, expression turning serious. ‘Escaping a situation that wasn’t safe.’
‘None of the above,’ I said, able to sort of smile because he wasn’t even close to the truth. ‘Anyway, you don’t strike me as someone who’s got all their presents bought and gift-wrapped by Bonfire Night. It’s hardly shocking that I’m not in the Christmas zone yet. It’s still November.’
Beckett grimaced. ‘Gramps always insisted we waited until the twenty-first before putting a tree up. And I’d love to know who all those presents I’m supposedly buying are for. You know full well it’s just me and Gramps.’
‘Um, hello?’ I gave him a shocked glance, covering up Bob’s ears despite them being tucked underneath a Christmas pudding bobble hat bought from one of the stalls. ‘You don’t think Bob deserves a present? Sonali, or the person manning the phones at Sherwood Taxis? Bill has spent three hours keeping an eye on Gramps. Never mind the Christmas Day Twins.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s not just me and Gramps. I’m not allowed to get Sonali anything, but meeting you and Bob has tripled the number of presents I’ll be buying.’
‘If only we’d met after Christmas, dang it.’
He pretended to consider this. ‘Yes, but this way, I might actually get a present that isn’t the Lynx toiletry set Tanya arranged for Gramps to give me the past two years.’
‘Lynx?’ I smothered a smile. ‘Does she think you’re fourteen?’
‘Hey, it’s better than the plastic keyring stamped with “Becker” I got one year.’
I stopped hiding my smile. ‘Oh, now I’m going to have to go gift shopping with Gramps and see if we can top that.’
‘So, do you like Christmas, when you remember?’
‘As a kid, Christmas was mostly an opportunity for my parents to feel superior and self-righteous. The run-up to it was packaging toiletries for the refuge Mum supported, or Dad dragging us along to light switch-ons and endless community events where I had to behave impeccably and avoid the weirdos wanting me to pass on their gripes about the government. On the day itself, we would be out doing yet more good deeds for local poor unfortunates, enduring Mum’s annual lecture about how domestic violence, sexual assault and countless other terrible things all increase over Christmas, ho ho ho. For a few years, we gifted a Christmas food hamper to someone and then ate cold sandwiches, supposedly to allow a deprived family the chance for a proper Christmas dinner, as if we couldn’t afford two turkeys. Everything was a home-made, recycled point to prove. One year our tree was a branch dragged from the local park, stuck in a bucket and decorated with paper baubles depicting the faces of murdered women.’
‘I’m guessing you did something different once you got older?’ Beckett did an impressive job at not looking horrified.
I rested my head against the back of the seat, a warm, slow smile breaking across my face. ‘I left home at eighteen. Now, that was when Christmas really became something worth celebrating.’
The year I turned eighteen, when most of our peers from school were spending their minimum-wage pay cheques on WKD-fuelled weekend blowouts, the founders of ShayKi moved into our first terraced house. Kieran had the ground-floor bedroom complete with his own tiny en suite bathroom, while Shay and I had a room each on the first floor. There was also a galley kitchen and a living room large enough for one sofa, a beanbag, flatscreen television and a sound system that cost more than the company car we all shared.
Most importantly, there was a whole attic floor with large dormer windows that became our new workspace. We added two huge tables, a desk for me and rows of shelving to house all our materials. Cork boards and easels were covered in fabric samples, images torn out of magazines and other random things to spark our creativity.
The bathroom was mouldy, the carpets smelled like stale cigarettes and we were constantly battling mice invasions.
We thought it was paradise.
I wondered if most entrepreneurs considered those early days the golden years of their business. Fuelled by the passion of youth, alongside the arrogance that came from pleasing no one but ourselves, we lived, breathed, argued about and celebrated nothing but ShayKi.
We stuck to the market stall for longer than others might have done, but, because we were ahead of the curve with online shopping, we continued to build a steady brand. It was around the same time that YouTubers and bloggers were first becoming popular, and when a couple of the bigger names showcased one of our bags and a belt, things started to get exciting.
That first year, we spent most of December working eighteen-hour days to meet the surge in festive orders, even with Shay’s aunt and two cousins helping us produce and package them all. It took everything we’d got to reach the magic day, 20 December, the last postal date before Christmas.
Shay arrived back from the post office that afternoon with an armful of champagne, and once we’d toasted the temporary staff, asked the new employees if they wanted to come back in the new year, and devoured a feast from the local Indian takeaway before sending them all home, we lolled in a heap on the floor of the workshop and vowed to make this the Best Christmas Ever.
We just needed about a full twenty-four hours of sleep, first.
By Christmas Eve, we’d covered the tiny house from top to bottom in tacky decorations. Shay considered it a waste to pay for any, given our natural talents, but I reminded her of the depressing home-made tat I’d been forced to grow up with, so she conceded that this was a form of therapy for me. We’d spent a morning buying gifts at Meadowhall, Sheffield’s giant shopping centre, driven out to Chatsworth House in the Peak District for the garden light trail and giggled our way through Shay’s sister’s school nativity. We’d gorged on mince pies, chocolate, and pigs in blankets, had ourselves a ShayKi directors’ Christmas brunch, as well as a fancy-dress party, with karaoke and a proper buffet. Kieran had almost ruined that by inviting his new girlfriend, one in a steady stream of shallow, short-term relationships he miraculously squeezed in between the incessant work hours. Thankfully, this latest ‘try-too-hard’, as Shay had deemed her, only stayed for an hour when we refused to let her smoke weed.
Personally, I’d always secretly presumed Kieran was hopelessly in love with Shay, but she only had eyes for the business, and when I’d dropped the tiniest of hints after a second glass of vodka and lemonade one night, she’d made gagging noises and accused me of accusing Kieran of incest, seeing as they were practically brother and sister.
Now, on Christmas Eve, we were hosting the highlight of our Best Christmas Ever – a family party. By family, we meant Kieran’s mum and sister, and a bunch of Shay’s relatives. The ShayKi family, as we’d started to call it.
Our house was far too small to squeeze everyone in, so we built a bonfire in the tiny back garden and prayed for good weather. Everyone brought their own drinks, which we supplemented with bottles of prosecco because we were fancy these days, and served steaming bowls of Auntie Ada’s lamb curry followed by toffee trifle. We drank, ate, bickered and bantered and danced like wild men and women in the glow of the bonfire. When the neighbours came around to complain about the noise, we offered them a glass of mulled cider and they proceeded to teach us how to do a traditional polka.
The children lit sparklers, hunted for chocolate coins and fell asleep in a heap of blankets on the living-room floor.
At one minute past midnight, we linked arms and sang ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ at the top of our voices, before Shay promptly kicked everyone out.
