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First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Penguin Books an imprint of Transworld Publishers 001
Copyright © Holly Whitmore 2025
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MIA
‘This cannot be happening.’ Mia has been looking up at the departures board for the last seven minutes, as if looking for longer will somehow change the reality that’s staring her straight in the face. ‘They can’t all be cancelled, can they?’
A dreadlocked backpacker with cloudy blue eyes pushes his way through the crowd, and Mia creeps back to avoid being stepped on by his size thirteen feet. His colourful trousers billow vibrantly around him, the pinks and yellows in stark contrast with the more predictable grey or black wool coats of the other passengers pressing around them. The backpacker lets out an impressive groan filled with despair as he squints up at the board.
Leaning on the handle of her rolling suitcase, Mia peers hopefully at the bold yellow lettering once more. The board delivers the same unflinching result. CANCELLED. She tugs her phone out of her pocket, careful not to drop her mitten on the polished floor. Swiping through the
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unlock pattern, Mia’s hopes are further dashed. No new messages.
Phone and mitten safely returned to her pocket, she sighs, tilting her head even further to soak up the soaring ironwork above. Normally, Mia loves the Victorian architecture of Paddington station. Being in the station was a peaceful kind of chaos – with all those people coming and going around her – that helped her feel centred.
She’d become a regular – of sorts – over the years. The coffee-shop baristas knew her by name, and she’d even had a preferred stall in the massive ladies’ bathroom. (The one on the right at the end, thank you very much.) The station had truly been a refuge for Mia from her overstimulating and disorganized life.
But today, the mood is quite different. Even with the cheerful Christmas decorations strung up between the ironwork, the whole train station is immersed in pervasive depression. Travellers all around Mia are muttering, glaring at the boards full of cancelled trains, staring at their phones with equal amounts of frustration. A TV drones on to the right of the departures board, the weather channel briskly updating what Mia already knows. Due to heavy snow, all trains out of Paddington have been cancelled throughout the weekend.
‘Mum’s going to be so mad,’ she mutters, gripping her suitcase and working to navigate the press of the crowd. ‘I hope the buses are still running.’ It crosses her mind that she could probably rent a car, if the rental companies have any left. But that would cost a fortune, and her
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snow driving skills aren’t exactly top notch. So, bus ride it is.
The dreadlocked traveller groans beside her again. ‘Thought I’d treat myself to a train ride today, instead of the bus. These legs don’t take kindly to being pretzelled into those little seats.’
Mia’s not sure why this man is talking to her. And – oof. To each their own, of course, but the smell of weed and body odour wafting off him is . . . powerful. She gives him a polite but wan smile and moves past him, resisting the urge to pull out her phone once more. She just checked her messages. She is not desperate.
After a few minutes of navigating the overly crowded concourse, Mia reaches the ticket counter. She forces what she hopes is a friendly smile, because this is bound to be a rough day for the poor employee, and secures a ticket on the rail replacement service to Worcester, silently thanking the powers that be when the dreadlocked traveller secures his own ticket to Bath. Small miracles, she won’t have to hold her breath for the entire five-hour bus ride. Having to take a bus at all is injury enough today.
Speaking of injury, her obliques scream at her as she reaches back for her suitcase. Damn Lucy and her insistence that hot yoga is the answer to the world’s problems. This is what happens when you take life advice from your best friend. A buildup of lactic acid.
‘Happy travels,’ the backpacker chirps. Mia shakes her head, mildly annoyed by his good mood, no doubt the result of the marijuana. Sally Wadsworth, the most adventurous of her colleagues at the hospital gift shop,
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convinced her to try weed two years ago at a Friday night book club get-together. Though Mia had voiced her concerns about the after-effects, she was still a little disappointed to find out she was one of the unlucky ones who experienced neither the mind-numbing relaxation of marijuana, nor the gripping anxiety of others’ experiences. She simply felt . . . nothing. The next morning, upon recounting her experience in the book club’s group chat, Sally had declared Mia ‘too emotionally guarded’ to receive any benefit from the drug. Which . . . whatever. Having emotions was overrated.
Mia plops down on to a hard metal chair, wishing the forty-five minutes until her bus’s departure would just magically dissipate. There’s a family seated nearby, and their two young kids are sharing a set of earbuds to watch a film. Curious, Mia shifts close enough to see what they’re watching, and chuckles to herself as she recognizes the opening scenes of A Christmas Carol. She and Charlie loved that film when they were little. Who doesn’t love a little ghosty goodness at Christmastime? Mia moves back to her spot and pulls out her phone (to check the time, nothing else, she insists to herself ) only to wince at how few minutes have passed. Shoving back up out of her seat, she heads to the public toilets. Might as well empty her bladder since there won’t be opportunity on the bus.
Standing in front of the sink, Mia scrutinizes her freshly shaped eyebrows, partially hidden under her fringe. Her complexion, although appearing slightly sallow under the fluorescent lights, is clear and fresh, thank God. None of those annoying stress-induced pimples she used to get.
An elderly woman in a plush turtleneck takes the sink beside her. ‘Love your lipstick, dearie.’
‘Thanks,’ Mia returns, with a genuine smile. ‘If I have to suffer the bus, at least I can console myself with the knowledge that my lips will look good for the whole trip.’
The woman smiles, laugh lines appearing in her cheeks. ‘That’s the spirit.’ She shrugs into her heavy overcoat with a sigh. ‘Looks like I’ll be missing my niece’s ballet performance tonight. She’ll be terribly disappointed. She is the sugar plum fairy, you know. The most important role in the whole production!’
‘How awful,’ Mia commiserates. ‘Is this storm going to ruin everyone’s plans?’
‘I imagine so.’ The woman dries her lined hands with a paper towel and tosses it into the bin. ‘What plans did you have?’
Mia double-checks her cat eye in the mirror and wipes away a teensy smudge. There; perfect. ‘My mum’s annual neighbourhood Christmas party, which is always a good time. Although I imagine she’ll be less disappointed than your niece about my lateness.’
The woman clucks her tongue in sympathy. ‘It really is a shame. Nothing can be done about it, though, I suppose!’
Mia adopts her best tragic expression, and says, ‘Think of the children! They shouldn’t have to suffer!’
The woman laughs and pats her on the arm. ‘You’re funny. Keep up the good spirits. I’m sure your mum will understand. And you’ll still have a lovely holiday together.’
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Mia sends the woman a genuine smile and gathers her things. They exit the toilets together and the woman gives her another friendly smile before heading to the opposite corner of the station. Mia makes her way outside, where the bus is waiting by the kerb, billowing exhaust into the cold air. She hunches against the swirling snow as she loads her suitcase into the luggage hold, cursing Lucy all over again for her sore muscles. Clambering aboard, she finds an empty row of seats and tucks in beside the window. There’s a smudge on the glass where a previous passenger’s oily head left a mark, and she wipes it off with her sleeve, tamping down her annoyance. Hopefully the bus won’t be too crowded and she’ll have both seats to herself.
While she waits for the other passengers to board, she fires off a text to Lucy.
All trains cancelled. Guess who gets to sit on a mouldering bus for untold hours?
Lucy, God bless her, is absolutely addicted to her phone. Which means she immediately texts back. You lucky duck. Try not to contract chlamydia.
Thanks to you every muscle in my body is sore. Why did I let you talk me into that class? By the time I get off this bus, I probably won’t be able to walk.
She can practically hear Lucy’s cackle. Guess you’ll just have to find a gentleman who will carry your bags for you. Shouldn’t be hard in Worcester. I hear they’re a wholesome bunch.
Mia rummages in her handbag for her headphones and straightens up, only to feel the telltale catch of her hair pulling on something. After the disgruntled few seconds
Ghosted at Christmas
it takes to disentangle herself, she notices the glob of chewing gum on the back of the seat in front of her.
‘Ew. So gross. So, so gross.’ She crosses her arms over her chest and calms her breathing. This isn’t so bad. She’ll enjoy the trip, she decides – mind over matter! It will be nice to see the snowy countryside slip by through the windows from the warmth of her seat. Some of the houses will have their Christmas lights up. It will all feel quite cosy, and she has a great playlist queued up.
And who knows, this might be her one chance to relax in the quiet for a few hours before all the hustle and bustle at her parents’ house.
The Robinson Christmas parties are legendary. The tradition pre-dates her parents, includes the entire neighbourhood, and often ends up in the local paper. Even after the Robinsons moved to London over a decade ago, they continued the festivities, travelling back year after year to the family home – dubbed Willowby Manor by some long-gone relative. Before they retired and moved back to the manor, Mia’s mum and dad would take an extra week off work to prepare for the party, and Aunt Gertie hadn’t missed one in fifty years. Even as an adult, Mia looked forward to the event all year.
Mia’s phone vibrates, and her spirits soar. She can’t help it. This must be James, finally texting her back! She fumbles to pull the device from her pocket and hurriedly unlocks it.
Mum wants to know where you are. Party starts in 45 minutes.
Damn. It’s from Charlie. Her brother is eleven months
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older than her, a fact that their mother loves to tell anyone and everyone. ‘Irish twins those two! Got into so much trouble. I couldn’t sit down for more than a minute for years!’
Mia ignores the text and swipes back to the home screen. Tapping her finger against the side of the phone, she holds out for another ten seconds and then opens the thread with James. Her last message, sent five days ago, is still unread. The upbeat, no-pressure message taunts her.
Hey! Last night was so great. Want to get together sometime this weekend?
Lifting her chin, Mia draws in a deep breath and stows the phone back in her pocket. She will not check again until she reaches Worcester. She will not allow herself to obsess over unread messages. Second-guessing her decisions. Especially the most pertinent one that she has a sneaking suspicion has led to this sudden silence. Instead, she is determined to enjoy this trip. To relax. And when she gets off the bus in Worcester, James will surely have sent a text explaining his silence.
The bus is set to depart in five minutes. The seat next to Mia remains untaken, and she takes the liberty of scooting her handbag over into the empty space beside her. The driver fiddles with things in the front and the engine roars to life. Mia breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, they can be on their way.
One straggling passenger hauls herself up into the bus and makes her way down the aisle in search of a seat. Mia turns towards the window, hoping the woman will get the hint. There are still plenty of other places left.
But today is not going Mia’s way, a fact she silently
Ghosted at Christmas
laments as the woman sets herself down in the seat beside her, pointedly nudging Mia’s handbag back into its proper space.
‘Glory,’ the woman pants. ‘Thought I was ’bout to miss the bus. And wouldn’t that have been a shame?’
‘A crying shame,’ Mia agrees. She won’t cry. She’s not the crying sort. But if she were, she imagines it would be a sort of relief to simply crumple into tears at the way life has been treating her for the last week, especially when she is trying so very hard to stay positive and strong and—
‘I’m Trudy. What’s your name, love?’
‘Mia,’ she offers reluctantly, hoping these introductions aren’t the beginning of a five-hour-long conversation.
‘Mia! One of my kittens was Mia. Loved that little tabby. She’d sit on my lap at meals and eat real human food! Have you ever heard of a cat that liked carrots?’ She shakes her head and – are those tears sparking in her eyes? ‘She lived to be fourteen years old, if you can imagine that.’
‘Impressive,’ Mia murmurs, taking note of the copious amount of cat hairs sprinkling Trudy’s tweed coat.
‘’Course, her memory lives on.’ Trudy sniffs and dabs at her eye. ‘She birthed six different litters throughout her lifetime. My little black one, Mischief, is her grandson.’
‘How many cats do you have?’ Mia asks, almost afraid of the answer.
Trudy laughs as the driver eases the bus into the traffic. Finally, they are on their way. ‘Oh, not too many. Last I checked there were eight of them.’
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Mia hopes her expression is still pleasantly neutral. It would be rude to let her jaw drop. ‘That’s . . . a lot of cats.’
‘Do you think so?’ Trudy laughs again. The sound is a little bit like a wheeze. ‘I like them better than my children, really. And I live in a rambling old house that’s practically enormous. Plenty of room for all of us.’
‘Do you own the house, then?’ Mia says, looking out the window as if for an escape. The landscape is almost entirely obscured by falling snow. So much for getting lost in the view. Her nose is starting to tickle – maybe from the cat dander? Between the window and her chatty seatmate, she’s starting to feel decidedly trapped.
‘Yes, I bought the place in the early aughts. Been fixing it up to suit my tastes ever since. I don’t suppose you want to see some pics?’ She reaches a hand into her pocket, contorting so her body presses briefly against Mia, then pulls out a large phone in a faux fur case. ‘I’m quite proud of the before and afters.’
‘Why not,’ Mia says, with as much enthusiasm as she can muster. Which isn’t much. She leans towards Trudy, mindful of the cat hair covering her coat, and resigns herself to what lies in store for the next five hours.
Five hours turned into six, what with the traffic and the weather. Mia has never been so ready to disembark, and she gathers her things, mildly impressed that Trudy still has anecdotes about her cats to share. Mia thought she’d surely run out around the three-hour mark as Trudy had fallen silent for, by Mia’s count, thirty-seven seconds. Until she’d visibly brightened and said, ‘Ah! But I haven’t
Ghosted at Christmas
told you about the twins’ antics from last year!’ and carried on for another three hours.
‘Nice chatting with you,’ Mia tells Trudy as they make their way down the aisle. And, to her surprise, she means it. The constant conversation has held her anxiety at bay, and she hasn’t thought of James or checked her phone once.
‘Oh, you too! Don’t forget to look me up next time you’re in Westminster!’ Trudy hauls a dilapidated suitcase out of the bowels of the bus, and waves a jolly goodbye as she crosses the car park. Mia follows suit, locating her suitcase and pulling it free from the melee with a hearty yank. She staunchly ignores the answering twinge in her abs.
As her patent leather boots sink into the slush that’s built up in the car park, she winces against the cold, pausing to wrap her scarf more tightly so that she can tuck her chin into its warm folds. Finding a somewhat sheltered corner, she pulls out her phone and dials her parents’ landline.
It rings and rings. ‘Come on . . .’ Mia mutters. But there’s no answer.
A call to Charlie produces the same result. Of course, the Christmas festivities are in full swing by now, and it’s likely that everyone is too busy partaking in holiday cheer to answer their phones. Well, good for them. Mia imagines them all merrily ensconced out of the cold, drinking hot toddies and wearing their thick Christmas jumpers. The thought makes her inexplicably angry.
She wades over to an alarmingly scarce line of taxis, struggling to drag her rolling suitcase behind her. The
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taxi driver cracks his window and Mia gasps out her parents’ address.
‘That’ll be a hundred and twenty pounds, luv.’ He glances her over. ‘A fair price for how bad the roads are tonight.’
A hundred and twenty pounds! That’s highway robbery. She should have rented that car in London – although they probably would have gouged her even more. And chances are she would currently be stuck in a ditch, freezing to death. Mia sucks in yet another calming breath. It’s not lost on her that she’s been doing a lot of those today. Of course she’d prefer it if her family picked her up and she didn’t have to shell out, but what choice does she have? ‘Can I put my suitcase in the boot?’
The cabbie nods a yes and presses a button, and as it pops open he mentions, with just a touch of glee, ‘It’ll be another five pounds for the boot, luv.’
‘Of course it will,’ Mia mutters, dragging the suitcase around the back and hefting it into the boot. ‘For five pounds you could at least help load it.’ But he seems more than content to wait within the comforting warmth of his car. She trudges around to the rear door and lets herself in, batting the snow from her head and shoulders. ‘All right, let’s get on with it then.’
The interior of the taxi is stiflingly hot. Mia opens her jacket, fingers brushing over the knitted design of her favourite Christmas jumper, which she proudly whips out on 1 December and wears all month long. Her dedication to the jumper is arguably a testament to how much she usually loves the festive season.
But this year, with her phone still proclaiming its
demoralizing lack of notifications, the trek up here as miserable as it could be and the sinking realization that things have gone very, very south with James? There’s nothing happy about this Christmas. The festivities she would normally take pleasure in now seem like they’re rubbing these miseries in her face. As if the world is saying, Everyone else’s lives are happily working out. What about yours?
‘What about mine,’ Mia grumbles. Indeed.
After a harrowing forty-minute ride over ice and snow, the cabbie dumps her at the bottom of the steep drive up to her family home. ‘Drive’s too slick to make it up, luv.’ Mia bites her tongue, hard, and pays him his fee. She’s tempted – very tempted – to skip the tip, since this chap has already made more than his fair share off her, but forces herself to pull out another five pounds. It is Christmas, after all. She can’t avoid a tiny bit of snark, though, in her over-the-top cheery, ‘Thanks for a lovely ride.’ She receives a mere grunt in response. Not even a thanks for the tip. Just pops the boot and inclines his head as if to say ‘off with you then’.
Tramping out into the snow once again, Mia drags her suitcase behind her as she starts up the drive. Her boots slip on the gravel over and over. At least the cabbie wasn’t exaggerating. She grumbles and pants, wrestling her suitcase – why did she pack so many clothes? – handbag sliding down her arm, toes frozen solid. The hundred metres or so up to the house seem like an eternity, and Mia realizes three things as she struggles.
One: the sight of Willowby Manor has never felt more
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comforting. The house has been in her family for generations and feels as timeless as the landscape it resides in, with its many gables and peaks outlined in warm white lights, the ancient stone reassuringly solid against the falling snow, the golden blocks of window light spilling out on to the pristine landscape. The sprawling estate holds so many lovely memories for Mia, including sledging down this steeply pitched drive as children. Tonight, despite the challenging travel, the weather and the way the world at large seems to be fighting her personally, she’s never been happier to be home.
Two: never let Lucy talk her into joining a hot yoga class again. She knows that a single girl of her age has to make some effort to stay in shape, sure. But with her calves screaming at her as she lugs her suitcase up the drive, Mia decides that the world doles out torture enough on its own. There’s no need to go seeking it out by subjecting her abdominals to the horrors of yoga again.
Hunching against the howling wind, Mia finishes up her mental checklist as she takes the last few steps towards the house. Sadly, her final realization is the one responsible for the tears lurking under the surface all day. As she plods around to the back door, not yet ready to face the masses of revellers inside, Mia accepts that James is never going to respond. She slept with him last Friday, and apparently that’s all he wanted. A week has gone by, and his silence is crystal clear.
Three: Mia’s been ghosted. At Christmas.
2 MIA
Muttering all kinds of grumpy threats towards James, the snow, the English railway system and humanity in general, Mia fumbles with the door handle. This one always sticks, and no matter how many times Mia’s mum has nagged him about it, her dad’s never quite got around to addressing it. In fairness, her mum’s to-do lists for her dad while they’re at the manor are always a mile long, and the back door is rarely used. Its location allows for a quick route to the gardener’s cottage, but that’s the only outbuilding on this side. Everything else is off to the south, and more readily accessed from the side patio. This little entrance is sheltered and protected, but mostly forgotten about. Which is exactly why Mia has chosen it.
She thumps her weight against the door, but it still doesn’t budge. Fiddling with the latch, she tries again. It’s not locked, but the weather has probably made it stick again. Pounding on the door with a mittened fist, Mia
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slams her weight into it once more, yelling out a disgruntled, ‘Come on!’
Mercifully, the door swings open, but between the sudden give of the door and the weight of the suitcase pushing her off balance, Mia half stumbles, half falls into the house. She’s not yet able to find her bearings before someone has caught her by the upper arms, steadying her so she doesn’t wipe out on the slate floor.
‘Easy there!’
Her hair has fallen forward, filling her mouth, which keeps her from vocalizing the plethora of swear words that have rushed to the forefront of her mind. She’s immensely grateful to whoever has kept her from sprawling across the hall floor, and she fumbles to push her hair back to thank her rescuer.
While her vision clears, she is momentarily distracted by the fact that the house smells incredible, a combination of gingerbread, cinnamon and citrus that’s utterly mouthwatering. There’s also a shocking amount of noisy conversation resounding throughout the house. Mum must have upped the guest list this year. But after a few moments taking in the sounds and smells, Mia finally realizes who her rescuer is.
Samuel Williams.
The last person she ever expected to see here.
‘Mia?’
She’s too stunned to answer. What is he doing here? Why is he here? Mia has the almost uncontrollable urge to look around for hidden cameras. This has to be a prank. In fact, this whole day has to have been a setup.
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‘Charlie said we were expecting you hours ago. Frankly, I was getting a little worried, but you know how your brother is. He said you probably just took a later train or something, and not to stress about it. But the storm looked so bad and—’
‘Trains were all cancelled,’ Mia mumbles, still trying to orient herself. She pulls her suitcase all the way into the house, and Sam closes the door, shutting out the howling wind.
‘Cancelled? So, what did you do? Rent a car?’ Sam’s peering down at her as she shrugs out of her soaked coat and sheds her mittens. Mia lets them all fall to the ground in a heap. She’ll deal with them later.
Squaring her shoulders, she looks up at Sam. His face is just like she remembers, only, he’s grown even more attractive. How disgusting. He’s maybe an inch or two taller than the last time she saw him, and she resents the fact that she has to look up to see his face, even in her heeled boots. His haircut is more stylish now, showing off the shining head of thick brown hair she used to fawn over. Brown eyes accentuated by clear-framed glasses, giving him a vibe that can only be described as ‘hot academic’. Not that Mia is into that look. But Sam’s eyes have always been so expressive, and right now they’re brimming with concern. For . . . her? This does not affect her in any way, whatsoever.
‘Here, let me grab that for you.’ Sam’s words come out all in a jumble, and he reaches for the handle of her rolling suitcase. ‘I imagine you’re in the usual room upstairs?’
He turns away, presumably headed for the back
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staircase. Mia toes off her soaked boots and follows him numbly, noting how broad his back is and how his waist tapers so perfectly – probably all taut muscle under that shirt. Ugh. Her mind is spinning, careening between noting every attractive detail of the man walking in front of her, and cataloguing the unfairness of the situation.
Why is Sam here? Why hasn’t he become even a little bit ugly over the last six years? Like not even a misplaced mole or a crooked tooth or anything. Did Charlie bring him? He knows how she feels about Sam. He was there, for crying out loud.
Rage bubbles up in Mia’s chest. On top of all the other shit she’s had to put up with today, is she supposed to just roll with the fact that Sam Williams is here, in her family home, for their Christmas party? Will everything she was looking forward to be ruined?
‘You know what? No.’ Mia reaches out and grabs Sam by the elbow, yanking him into the kitchen. Surprised, Sam releases the suitcase and lets her drag him along. He’s wearing some fantastic cologne that tickles her nose. It’s woodsy with a bit of spice, and is frankly swoonworthy, but Mia is determined not to swoon. She pulls Sam over to the expansive island, also ignoring the feel of his muscled arm beneath her grip. Does he still play tennis? Can you even be this in shape from playing tennis? Leaving Sam standing on one side of the island, she crosses over to the other, and immediately feels better with the space between them. This distance is safer. She will remain in control of all her faculties this way.
‘So, this is clearly a prank, correct?’
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Sam’s face fills with confusion. ‘Sorry?’
Mia didn’t remember him being hard of hearing, but a lot can happen to a person in six years. She speaks slower this time, enunciating every word. ‘Why-are-you-at-myhouse. At. Christmas?’
‘Ah. Charlie invited me.’
Mia folds her arms, giving him her best glare. ‘And he did this at gunpoint? While you were tied up in a chair? Tilted over boiling lava? So, you had no choice but to say yes?’
Sam grins. ‘I’ve always loved your sense of humour.’
‘No.’ Mia shakes her head. ‘Don’t do that.’
Sam leans on the counter, shoulders bunching attractively beneath his thin cardigan. He doesn’t seem fazed at all by her barrage of questions. ‘You look amazing, Mia. The last few years have been good to you.’
She nearly lets the smile produced by his compliment sneak out, but snatches it back at the last second. Schooling her expression, she stabs the counter with her finger. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
The corner of Sam’s mouth hitches up in that little smirk that she had swooned over for years. ‘I needed to get out of the city for a bit. Work’s been terribly stressful lately. I was talking to Charlie, and he invited me to join in for your mum’s party. You know, change of pace, get into the festive spirit, shed some stress. So . . . I did.’ He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck.
‘And you didn’t think for a second that I might not want you here?’
‘I, erm . . .’ He gives a foolish little smile. ‘I mean, so
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much time has gone by, Mia, I . . . I figured it was time to let bygones be bygones?’
‘Bygones?’ She lets out an exasperated breath. ‘Who talks like that? This isn’t a Regency novel, Sam. This is my life. I thought I was pretty clear the last time we spoke.’
Sorrow clouds Sam’s expression. ‘It was an honest mistake, Mia.’
She shakes her head again. ‘An honest mistake is when you accidentally let yourself into someone else’s car, because it’s the same make and model. What happened between you and me? That was life-altering.’
Sam opens his mouth, and then closes it. He takes a step, as if he’s going to move around the island, and Mia scrambles backwards, not bothering to look over her shoulder.
‘Ow! Darling, you simply have to watch where you’re going.’
‘Mum!’ Mia spins around to see her mum walking through the kitchen door and pulls her into a hug, heaving a sigh of relief. ‘So, so sorry. I’m all clumsy from being so absolutely exhausted. Getting here was a complete nightmare!’
‘Yes, what took you so long? We expected you hours ago. Aunt Gertie had to make the shepherd’s pie, and her palate isn’t what it used to be. And then poor Sam has been so worried about you, even though Charlie kept assuring him you were fine. Why didn’t you take the earlier train like I told you?’
Poor Sam?
‘Lucy did a hot yoga class . . .’ Mia begins, as Sam
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straightens up and runs a hand through his hair. He glances towards the doorway, like he’s not sure whether to stay or to leave. Mia is very tempted to make that decision for him – he can leave now, in fact, with his cardigan and his hot muscled academic nonsense—
‘And I needed your help with the cutout biscuits – something about them didn’t turn out quite right. You know you have the magic touch, dear.’
‘Mum, I’m here now. And I can help with whatever you need.’
‘Well, now’s not the time to be stuck in the kitchen. I just came in myself to refill the mulled wine. Sam, be a dear and refill this, would you?’
‘Of course, Penny.’ Sam crosses over to take the empty glass pitcher from her hands, giving her a wink. ‘Anything for the beautiful hostess.’ Penny giggles, patting her coiffed bob, held in place by a pearlescent headband. It coordinates perfectly with her sparkly black cardigan layered over a cream silk top with embroidered Christmas trees all over it. Her slacks are neatly pressed as well – Mum finds wrinkles offensive. Both the facial and the clothing varieties. She claims her smooth forehead is the result of her ‘facial yoga’, but Mia knows it’s her supersecret Botox appointments. She hasn’t dared to admit to her mother that she’s been on to her for years.
‘Oh, you’re incorrigible. Mia, how lovely is it that Sam could be here? Charlie called me up last weekend and asked if he could come, and of course I said yes! The more the merrier, I always say! Oh, don’t fill the jug too high, dear. Mr Thrumble has a touch of Parkinson’s,
Holly Whitmore
although he swears he’s as steady as ever, but I can’t have my lovely Christmas linens paying the price, now, can I?’
Penny darts over to where Sam is ladling mulled wine from a saucepan into the jug, giving him second by second directions. Mia should really offer to cut up more oranges, but Penny is commandeering all of Sam’s attention, and they seem to have forgotten her presence. Seeing her chance, Mia slips back towards the stairwell, hefting up her suitcase and lugging it upstairs. The case bumps along behind her on the corridor runner as she passes the first few gleaming wooden doors until she reaches her bedroom.
After manoeuvring the suitcase inside, she closes the door and leans against it. The room is comforting, hardly changed since her childhood days. Her mum had swapped out the curtains a few years ago, but the rug and the blanket on her bed are still the same. As are the shelves lined with tiny glass figurines that Mia collected over the years. Setting her toiletry case on the wooden dresser, she moves to stand in front of the shelves, tracing a tiny glass dolphin she received on her tenth birthday. Mum must do the dusting regularly – there isn’t a speck to be found. Turning to face the room again, Mia tries to collect herself. She needs a fresh change of clothes, a quick brush through of her hair, something warm for her damp feet. And it wouldn’t hurt to locate her missing Christmas spirit while she’s at it.
Rummaging through her suitcase, she pulls out a shimmery red jumpsuit. She’d been excited to see James’s reaction to this outfit – the fabric practically begs to be
Ghosted at Christmas
touched. Mia pushes away the sharp pang of disappointment that comes with the thought of James and continues hunting through her bag until she finds the pair of Christmas socks that she purchased on impulse last week. They are sprinkled with reindeer, all of which have tiny red pom-pom noses. They’ll be hidden by the legs of her jumpsuit, but work perfectly as the private pick-me-up she needs. She’ll change, freshen up and enjoy the rest of the party. She can just pretend Sam’s not there! There are plenty of other people to talk to, neighbourhood gossip to catch up on – ignoring him won’t be that hard. And once her stomach stops grumbling and she’s downed a cocktail or two, everything will feel better. Christmassy. Mia shuts her bedroom door behind her and moves towards the front staircase. Her hands are free – it was a conscious decision to leave her phone and her disappointments in her room. The landing is still devoid of Christmas cheer as the second tree hasn’t made its way up yet. But when Mia rounds the corner, she soaks in the familiar festive sight. Mum has the banister decked out like always, the intricately carved wooden staircase dripping with a thick garland that’s studded with warm white lights, taffeta bows and shining Christmas ornaments. The grandfather clock at the base of the stairs is also draped in ribbon, poinsettias and ornament baubles, and the hall tree has been outfitted with a tartan tote stuffed full of fresh evergreens. But the tree in the front room, situated directly in front of the large bay window and flanked by dramatic silk drapes, is the real showstopper. Mia winds her way