Font Size:

I did, and without effort. Tim Allen’s swollen stomach inThe Santa Clause, Arthur Christmas’s musical slippers, Kevin’s uneaten plate of macaroni cheese fromHome Alone(surely he could’ve squeezed in at leastonemouthful?), an aghast Alan Rickman as he toppled from the tower inDie Hard– they were all there. Disappointingly, none of the made-for-TV classics had made it onto the sheet, but all those images would’ve looked the same anyway.

The rest of the quiz passed by in a bit of a booze-fuelled blur. Dare I say it: I had fun. I had vague memories of sports, TV and literature categories – all of which Tom aced – and the obligatory Christmas number one music round. And, at some point, someone invented a drink called a Prosecco blitzer, which involved adding a shot of vodka to each glass of fizz.

Our team ended up winning, much to the displeasure of the other tables, who claimed that nepotism was at play given that Ryan was married to one of the managers.

Becky came over with our winnings, which came to £11.50 each. For some reason, my inner drunken calculator was trying to work out how many packets of Space Invaders that would’ve paid for from the leisure centre vending machine where I used to watch Josh’s swimming galas. It therefore took me way longer than it should have to notice that Becky looked fed up.

‘What’s the matter, Becks?’ Amy asked.

‘Oh, someone’s just messaged me to cancel his volunteer shift for tomorrow and we’ve got a big party booked in for their work do.’

A blurry image of my Christmas movie bingo sheets flashed before my eyes. I’d been mentally ticking off the tropes throughout the evening, and here was another opportunity that had landed right in my lap – because this ‘failing family business’ needed help! I spoke quickly and squeakily before I could chicken out.

‘Umm, maybe I could lend a hand?’

Becky smirked and raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure you’re going to be doing anything other than recovering tomorrow, if I’m honest.’

‘Ah, go on, Becky, let me help.’ Why was I speaking in an Irish accent?!

‘I mean, if you’re being serious it would besoamazing if you could?’

‘I’m being serious. Look at this serioush face.’ I pointed at my face until I was poking it. ‘I’ve got nothing better to do.’

‘Amazing, thank you, thank you, thank you! It’s going to be one of our busiest nights of the year, mind.’

‘All good, all good. What time shall I come?’

‘Would five o’clock work? The table’s booked for six so you could give me a hand setting up the private dining room. And I’ll feed you as recompense.’

‘Free food! Even better.’

I stood up to give Becky what I intended to be a casual fist bump to seal the deal, but as I rose, my alcohol-infused blood plummeted to my feet and I began to topple. A tattooed arm grabbed me around the waist and yanked me back into my seat before I hit the ground. It was Darren. He pressed the side of his head against mine as he took a selfie. The entire incident probably took fewer than four seconds, but in that time Tom had stood up with chair-scraping urgency, grabbed our coats and pulled me out of Darren’s strong grasp.

‘Not cool, mate. What the fuck was that about?’

‘Chill out,mate. Just wanted a quick photo with Josh Allister’s sister, that’s all.’

Tom rolled his eyes and turned to me, proffering my coat. I went to grab it but missed.

‘Do you want to get going?’

I managed a nod.

‘I’ll walk you back.’

Chapter 14

?Relatable klutz

The rain was coming down heavily again. I still didn’t have a bloodybrolly, but I did have a beer jacket. Or should that be a Proseccoponcho?

Tom rummaged in his boot for a few seconds and emerged with a giant golf umbrella. He pressed a button and a canopy for two silently unfurled.

Our feet crunched in unison on the disintegrated tarmac lane that ran directly between the pub and the cul-de-sac. The same lane that I now remembered used to lead up to the allotments.

A vein in Tom’s forehead was making itself known as I stole a look at him out of the corner of my eye, his mouth set in a tight line. He was quite obviously furious about what had just happened with Darren. But I didn’t want to dwell on it. I took a few deep breaths, my mind automatically flicking through its archive of random conversation starters to disperse the tension. My drunkenness made the available files more abstract than usual.

‘So, Thomas. Riddle me this: do you reckon that if aliens landed on earth on a rainy day, they’d think that our umbrellas were part of our exoskeleton?’