(Actually, maybe they are.)
“Well, thanks,” I say stiltedly, at last. “You’re a good woman. God bless you,” I add for good measure. “God bless us, every one.”
I walk swiftly away and, as soon as I’ve turned the corner, approach a Salvation Army officer holding out a tin. And full disclosure: I do feel a slight wrench as I put the money in. I mean, fifty quid is fifty quid. But I couldn’t do anything else, could I?
The Salvation Army officer’s eyes light up—but as he starts exclaiming at my apparent generosity, I turn away and start walking even faster. What a bloody fiasco. What a bloody day.
And now, before I can stop it, my mind miserably fills with a vision of Alex. Alex and Demeter in their hotel room, lying entwined on some Danish designer rug, toasting each other for being so successful and hot and über…
No. Enough. There’s no point thinking about it. I just need to avoid him at the Christmas party. And then it’ll be Christmas and a whole new year and everything will be different. Exactly. It’s going to be fine.
Shit. There he is, standing by the bar. Shit.
I hastily duck away and reach for a balloon to hide behind. Maybe I can disguise myself with Christmas decorations. Or maybe I should just leave.
The Christmas party has been going for about two hours. We’re all in an upstairs room at the Corkscrew, and it’s the coolest Christmas party I’ve ever been to. Which figures.
From the office chat last week, I learned that no one at Cooper Clemmow, at least in our department, does bog-standard Christmas dinner, or “norm-Christmas,” as Rosa jokily put it. Demeter and Flora and Rosa are all having goose rather than turkey. (Organic, of course.) Mark is having nut roast because his partner is vegan. Liz is doing an Ottolenghi quail recipe. Sarah’s doing lobster and is styling her table with a centerpiece made from driftwood that she collected in the summer. (I have no idea what that has to do with Christmas.)
Then someone said, “What about you, Cat?” and I had an instant vision of my dad, at our ancient kitchen table, wearing a paper hat from the Cash & Carry, slathering a turkey with some cut-price margarine he got in bulk. You couldn’t get more “norm-Christmas.” So I just smiled and said, “Not sure yet,” and the conversation moved on.
This party is also very much not “norm-Christmas.” There’s a photo booth in the corner, and black and white balloons reading Naughty and Nice float everywhere. The snacks are themed after the brands on our client list, and the DJ is firmly un-Christmassy—Slade hasn’t been played once. And there’d been no sign of Alex all evening. I thought I’d got away with it. I was actually quite enjoying myself.
But now, suddenly, here he is, looking gorgeous in a black-and-white geometric-print shirt. There’s a little grin playing at his mouth as he looks around, a glass in his hand. Before he can spot me, I turn around and head to the dance floor. Not that I’m planning to dance, but it’s a safe place to hide.
After Portobello, the rest of the weekend passed in a dispiriting nothingness. I watched telly, went on Instagram. Then I came into the office this morning, finally finished my surveys, answered Flora’s concerned questions about my sudden bug, and wondered whether to pull out of the Christmas party.
But no. That would be pathetic. Anyway, it’s a free evening out, and I have been having a good time. I keep remembering Flora’s invitation to join the pub gang and feeling a glow of warmth. These guys are my friends. At least…they will be my friends. Maybe I’ll work here for five years, ten years, rise up through the ranks….
My eyes have swiveled back to the bar. I can see Alex talking intently to Demeter and feel a fresh pang at my own stupidity. Look at the pair of them. Their eyes are about five inches apart. They’re unaware of anyone else. Of course they’re sleeping together.
“Hey, Cat!” Flora comes dancing up to me, all glittery in her sequins. “I’m going to go and fess up to my Secret Santa.” Her words are slurred and I realize she’s got quite pissed. Actually, I think everyone’s quite pissed. Free drink will do that to you.
“You can’t!” I say. “It’s Secret Santa. That’s the point.”
“But I want to get credit for it!” She pouts. “I found such a cool present. I spent much more than the limit,” she adds in loud, drunken, confidential tones. “I spent fifty quid.”
“Flora!” I laugh in shock. “You’re not supposed to do that. And you’re not supposed to tell the person who you are either.”
“Don’t care. Come on!” She grabs my arm, tottering on her heels. “Shit. I should not have had those mojitos….” She drags me across the room, and before I can blink, or think, or escape, we’re standing in front of Alex Astalis.
My face floods with color and I glance at Demeter, who has briefly turned away to talk to Adrian.
“Hi, Katie-Cat,” says Alex easily, and my face gets even hotter. But thankfully Flora doesn’t seem to have noticed. She really is very drunk.
“I’m your Secret Santa!” she says in blurred tones. “Did you like it?”
“The Paul Smith hat.” He looks a bit taken aback. “That was you?”
“Cool, huh?” Flora sways a little, and I grab her.
“Very cool.” He shakes his head with mock disapproval. “But was it under a tenner?”
“A tenner? Are you kidding?” Flora lurches again, and this time Alex grabs her.