They sit in comfortable silence, sipping their tins and watching the fire dance. The food dwindles and the cans empty, and Haf feels the gin softening the edges.
‘There’s so much sky here,’ he says after a while. ‘It’s the thing I miss about home in the countryside. In London, it’s all purply murk. No stars.’
She leans her head back to look up. It’s a cold, clear night, and the sky is pitch black and glittered. ‘I don’t think I could hack that,’ she says truthfully. ‘I have been known to navigate myself home while drunk using the North Star.’
‘Luckily we have a thing called the Night Tube that makes that less necessary.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she says.
Above her, something tied to one of the heat lamps catches her eye. Tied to the post with string is a small, sad-looking bunch of mistletoe. The sprigs don’t so much hang as sag, and the berries are a little singed from being too close to the heat.
‘Oh man,’ laughs Haf, getting to her feet so she can inspect it closer. ‘Look at this! It looks a little miserable, doesn’t it?’
He joins her, wobbling slightly to his feet.
‘Steady on, Bambi,’ she laughs, taking his arm.
‘Oh dear. It appears to be on the verge of death.’
‘That’s sad! It’s so alone,’ she says. ‘Imagine being burned to death slowly on a fancy outdoor light. I hope it made someone kiss, at least. Imagine burning on a pyre for your job and youdidn’t even do it well,’ Haf says, which turns into a nervous laugh as she realises she’s not kissed anyone in months. Wait, was Freddie the last person she kissed? Because that would be incredibly depressing.
‘I can imagine,’ he mutters, ‘unfortunately!’
It must be the booze, but both of them burst into slightly hysterical laughter.
‘How much gin is in these?’ he says, reading the side of the can. Or rather, he tries to, but mostly he just blinks really hard while looking at it.
‘Look, I’ve got an idea,’ Haf says, grasping his arm because suddenly she’s closer to him than she realised, but that’s fine because there’s an arm here she can hold on to. ‘You and I appear to be job disasters. The mistletoe’ – she points up at it – ‘might also be bad at its job. So we should send it off, make sure at least one of us has a good work day.’
‘Are you suggesting that we grant it peace, by allowing it to fulfil its duty before it shuffles off this mortal coil... by kissing?’ he asks with a soft laugh. The pink flush of his cheeks from the alcohol and fire seems to spread up to his ears, and she can see the edges of his confidence peeling away.
‘Yes,’ she half laughs, half shouts. ‘I am!’
A dog barks in the distance and they fall apart into giggles and shushes again.
‘So, we’re in agreement then?’ Haf asks once they’re recovered.
‘About what? Us being intoxicated?’
‘I didn’t say I was.’
‘But you absolutely are. It’s irrefutable.’
He’s the kind of man who gets more verbose the tipsier he is. It’s very endearing.
‘I meant snogging to cheer up the mistletoe. Its final rites!’
They both giggle again at the silly idea, but fuck it, she thinks.Ambrose told me to have fun, after all. I can make good choices for myself, probably.
And before they can say anything else, she leans up to kiss him.
If the mistletoe needed a romantic kiss to thrive, well, it was going to be sorely disappointed.
They meet in a clash of teeth, noses bashing together. Haf laughs into his mouth, and they break into a fit of giggles, clutching against each other in the firelight. It is a truly, categorically shit kiss.
‘Wow, I’m so sorry, that was probably the worst kiss I’ve ever done in my life,’ she laughs, still clutching on to him lest she wobble into the firepit.
‘The worst,’ he says. He looks down at her face, and very gently touches her bottom lip with his thumb. ‘Did I bite you? I’m a bit worried I bit you.’
