last person she’d have imagined talking to about this, Eloise spilled it all, totally embarrassed when she even teared up a little, telling him how miserable and lonely she got sometimes, how homesick she was, how Cara didn’t even seem to notice she’d abandoned her for her fabulous, flashy London lifestyle. Her wobbly voice made him look away at the TV awkwardly, not sure whether to acknowledge it or not.
“That sucks,” he said eventually. “I can’t imagine not spending Christmas with the family. Or going abroad for Christmas. Who wants sun, anyway? You want to go out for a walk after dinner with your breath fogging up, everyone moaning about how cold it is, and kind of wishing it’ll snow but also glad it doesn’t, because snow’s a pain in the arse.”
“Oh, my God, no! I love the snow. Everything’s so pretty. Especially when it’s early and nobody’s been out in it yet.”
Jamie pulled a face. “Nope. It’s awful. Everything just comes to a standstill, and then it turns to slush and ice and that’s even worse.”
“Oh, humbug,” she snapped, laughing. It was easier to laugh over snow than go back to talking about what a loser she was. She realised then how late it was. It had been dark since four o’clock and was raining heavily against the windows of the flat – but she realised with a start it was already past ten. She was usually fast asleep by now.
“I’ll sort you out a pillow and some blankets,” she said, standing and tidying some of the empty cups around, and pushing the pizza boxes out of the way. Jamie tried to help her, offered to wash up, but she waved him off. She’d sort it all tomorrow, after work. Right now, she should get to bed.
She took the couple of blankets she had off the top shelf of the wardrobe and put fresh pillowcases on two of her pillows, carrying the lot back in to Jamie. “I’ve got a T-shirt that should fit you, if you want something else to sleep in.”
He cast a disbelieving glance over her, eyebrow arched. “Why, did you lose twelve inches? Go on a spin cycle when you’re not tumble dryer-safe?”
“Funny. No, it’s just a T-shirt I got from some night out at uni. I don’t know why I’ve still got it, really.”
She did know, but she wasn’t about to share. She knew how pathetic it’d make her sound. Eloise disappeared back to her room for the T-shirt, a black one that had a club’s logo on the left side of the chest and giant white lettering on the back saying ‘Don’t be #whiskeysour’ and ‘£1 shots all night’.
It wasn’t even something she should have felt sentimental about, and she knew it was stupid that she did. But Josh had been with her that night. He’d played beer pong and won the shirt, which he’d given to her. She’d worn it over her dress all night.
It was just a stupid T-shirt, but that had been the last time she’d been with Josh before everything had gone wrong.
Over five years together, and he’d ended it out of the blue to go travelling with some girl he knew from his uni course.
As if it was Eloise’s fault she’d been on her teacher training and then starting a job in a primary school. As if it was her decision to be sensible about her career when it was just starting out that had been the last straw in their relationship. Not his decision to pass up a really good grad scheme and go gallivanting around Europe and Asia for months on end instead.
A holiday to Thailand – sure, she’d have loved it. But months backpacking around, and sacrificing a job she really wanted to do it? He’d always known that wasn’t her thing.
(It hadn’t been his thing either, until Alyssa had convinced him to go along with her.)
It didn’t stop her from checking Josh’s Instagram before she went to bed, though, bitterly realising how happy he was without her. He’d been updating all his social media with photos of him and his new girlfriend all over the world, rubbing salt in the wound.
It stung, when she’d worked so hard to keep their relationship together while they had been studying at different universities.
It stung even more when she thought about how she was the one who’d always had to put in that effort: he always had some excuse why he couldn’t visit her, but she could come to him, or why he hadn’t been able to text her back (but had no problem uploading Snapchat stories with his mates).
“’Night, Eloise,” Jamie called from the living room.
She almost dropped her phone on her face, but composed herself quickly, the wine already wearing off.
“’Night.”
It was nice to have someone to say goodnight to, for a change.
Twelve days till Christmas
Friday nights were the one time Cara let herself go home at five, on the dot. Like so many of the others did every other day of the week.
But this Friday it was two in the afternoon, and she and Jen had cracked open a bottle of prosecco in the loos while they did their make-up. Most of the others had gone home to get ready. Their boss, founder and CEO of Klikit, Marcus, had declared the office shut as of half eleven that morning, saying they should all go home and get ready for the Christmas party. Cara had still had a few things to finish up for the weekend, and Jen knew what she was like.
So Jen, Christmas angel that she was, and always Cara’s saviour when she was in desperate need of some caffeine or a pick-me-up, had gone home, gathered her shit and brought it back into the office to get ready.
Jen knew Cara well enough that she didn’t have to ask what Cara would do about her outfit. The sequinned spaghetti-strap dress was folded neatly inside her backpack, along with a clutch. She’d planned to leave her things in the office over the weekend: her keys, money and phone would fit in the clutch.
“I love you, have I mentioned that lately? You’re literally the best friend ever. Like, an actual hero. The kind of hero who needs her own TV show.”
“Only about three times in the last minute.” Jen laughed, leaning into the mirror to fix on a fake eyelash. She grinned at Cara in the mirror. “But keep going, please. It fuels my ego.”
Cara reached for the bottle of prosecco, taking a swig. Why pour it into mugs when you could just drink from the bottle? They were a classy pair: getting ready in the bathroom at work, glugging down cheap prosecco from the Tesco Express down the road at two in the afternoon, with a Spotify Christmas playlist blaring out of Jen’s phone as loud as it could go.
The party wouldn’t start until five-thirty, but it’d take the best part of an hour to get there in traffic.
Which gave them a solid two and a half hours to get through three bottles of prosecco (they’d been on offer, they couldn’t just buy one) and a box of Quality Street.
Cara would’ve been happy to save money on a taxi and get the Tube, but Jen had been horrified at the idea, moaning about what it would do to her hair, and had Cara seen the size of her heels?
“But it’ll be so expensive.”
“Don’t be so bloody miserable. I’ll pay. I’m not getting the Tube. I’m not putting this much effort into my make-up just to sweat it off on there.”
And of course Cara wouldn’t just let her pay, but she’d need a good drink before forking out that much cash on a bloody taxi. She was trying to tot up how much tonight was going to cost her before realising maybe Eloise was right. Maybe she was a bit of a Scrooge.
Cara shook it off, and took another gulp of fizz before hopping up on the counter and plucking cheap, glittery red nail varnish out of her make-up bag. No Christmas party outfit was complete without a little glitter.
There was shiny foil confetti all over the tables. White tablecloths.