Ambrose was in the middle of the classic ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’ stage of disapproval after realising that Haf had managed to wheedle her way out of a restful, sensible and thoughtful Christmas home alone by getting herself wrapped up in a virtual stranger’s personal life. Haf had really tried to explain it the best she could, but the thing about best friends is that they can see right through your bullshit. And Ambrose practically had X-ray vision for it.
They had talked about it after Christopher had left for his train and Haf had slunk upstairs, changed into day pyjamas and crawled into Ambrose’s bed alongside them.
‘Haf, if you think this is completely normal behaviour, then you’re either successfully kidding yourself, or you’ve finally officially lost it,’ Ambrose had said, rubbing their temples to ward off both the hangover and the inevitable stress headache from the conversation to follow.
‘I don’t think it’s normal, but like, what was I going to do? He needed my help. I wasn’t going to just leave him to his family.’
Ambrose had fixed her with a hard stare. ‘That’s exactly what you should have done, you massive plum.’
‘You were the one who told me to be my old self, let my hair down, or whatever. Make some impulsive decisions.’
‘I meant have some fun, eat a bunch of fancy nibbles. Maybe snog a stranger. Not befriend said stranger and construct an elaborate lie to fool your families into thinking that you’re both well-adjusted adults. Oh God, what have I done? This is my fault, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Do you fancy him? Is that what this is about? Going for the old fake-dating-to-actual-lovers trope?’
‘No, we’re just friends. There’s nothing romantic there. We just get each other, I think?’
‘So, it’s strictly platonic fake dating? Oh God, that’s somehowworse.’
Naturally, Haf disagrees. It’s much simpler this way.
And even when Christopher told her, repeatedly, she was welcome to back out, she said she wouldn’t. It would work out fine. Sure, they’d have to do the odd peck and cuddle to keep up the ruse, but it’s not like they’ll be asked to strip naked and procreate in the middle of Christmas dinner.
Admittedly, Haf hadn’t been the best friend to Ambrose. She hadn’t even asked about Ambrose’s date with Paco (which had been a very good time, and they were seeing him again in January) until a whole two days later, too caught up in herown drama. While Ambrose had been mostly ignoring her own presence, they’d been doing a lot of gooey-eyed giggling at their phone, which made Haf’s chest ache – she just wanted to talk with them about it.
Ambrose wasn’t actively freezing her out, she knew that. Their intense disapproval combined with a deep desire for Haf to sort herself out meant they truly just didn’t know what to say, and didn’t want to help in case it was a kind of encouragement. So instead, they kept the lebkuchen tin full. It was out of love, Haf knew. They’d come around eventually. Or she’d get herself into such a mess that even Ambrose couldn’t hold out any longer.
After a quick free wee, Haf wanders down the beautifully decorated concourse of St Pancras station. There’s a huge Christmas tree in the centre of the parade of shops, decorated with the same gold and red that hangs from the upper walkways. People swarm out from the Eurostar exit, and beneath the tree are dozens of little family reunions. Possible Christmas presents sparkle in shopfront windows – stationery, jumpers, cosy wellington boots and this season’s toys just waiting to be bought and wrapped up for someone. Everything feels bright and loud and overwhelming, but in a good way. A kind of Christmas-specific sensory overload. It might just be a train station, but this is the first time all December that Haf has felt like it’s Christmas.
Squeezed into one of the eaves, there’s a bookshop. She’s not a huge reader, and she absolutely hasn’t read anything in months thanks to work, but maybe now’s the time for a little treat. It would be nice to read something that isn’t a dry scientific paper or her scheduled tweets in the charity’s voice.
Plus, Christopher seems like the kind of guy who likes it when everyone hangs out quietly reading a book. Maybe all the Calloways do. She doesn’t know what to expect. A book might be a good talking point at least, or an excuse.
She wanders in, and the bespectacled bookseller, who is busy filling up the gift bookmark pot on the counter, gives her a little hello nod. The shop is deceptively large, going much further back than she expected.
Christmas music plays here, as it does everywhere else, but it’s a different album from outside. After a few seconds, she realises it’s the duet by Ariana Grande and Kelly Clarkson from the ‘make the yuletide gay’ playlist that Ambrose has been playing on repeat all month.
Haf:I’m in a bookshop and they’re playing Kelly & Ari. Miss you x
Ambrose replies only with a cowboy emoji, and after a few quiet moments:
Ambrose:Miss you too. A bit.
Even with a qualification, it’s definitely better than the meteor, at least.
Ambrose:also err, I might have done a snarky poll after a glass of prosecco last night
Ambrose:soz x
Haf opens Twitter, navigating to Ambrose’s page and barks with laughter.
@ambroseliewmy friend is fake dating a man she just met for Christmas. is this the worst idea you’ve ever heard?
Yes: 99%
No: 1%
