It was almost ten when I woke, and I didn’t want to get up.

Once we’d returned to the cottage, Ollie – finally sober – had expressed deep remorse at disturbing the neighbours and had wanted to go and apologise, and offer to pay for a spa day for Annabel and Brian. By the time Craig and I talked him out of it (and explained that Brian was a dog, which elicited a shocked, ‘So, I basically accused her of bestiality’), it had been nearly four o’clock. Ollie eventually agreed to ‘sleep on it’ and Craig had dived into his sleeping bag with a fervently muttered, ‘Thank Christ.’ By the time I’d staggered upstairs, Ollie had washed his bloodied face in the bathroom and was fast asleep, his clothes tossed at the end of the bed, and I’d lain awake shivering for nearly an hour, cursing the day he’d arrived.

Now, I bunched deeper under my duvet and squeezed my eyes shut, but all I could see were the angry, scornful faces of my neighbours.

How was I ever going to win them round? And did I even want to? They had every reason to be annoyed with Ollie, but he hadn’t meant any harm. If anything, he’d given them a bit of excitement, and something to dine out on for years. It’s not like he deserved an ASBO and, anyway, he’d be gone in a couple of days.

The thought brought a little pang. I could barely remember what I’d been doing before Ollie and Craig arrived. Obviously, it would be nice to get back to writing, especially now I knew what I was doing, but it was going to be quiet without them. Perhaps I should invite my mum or Erin to stay the following weekend.

Poking my hand out, I plucked my phone from the bedside table.

Erin had texted the day before, asking how Ollie was ‘behaving’ and I hadn’t known how to reply, what with him zipping to London to direct Mum’s play (she would probably have found him and fired him) and had sent another an hour later, saying, 

that I hadn’t seen. I’d had my phone on silent since visiting the school and there were a few missed calls.

Her penultimate message read: 

 and her final one, sent a couple of hours ago, made me sit up. 

I tried her number, but it went to voicemail, so I texted: 

before slumping back on my pillow to stare at the ceiling. 

I had no one to blame but myself for things going wrong. If I hadn’t gone to that stupid meeting in the first place, and tried to ingratiate myself with my neighbours, I might have been watching the tree lights being switched on this afternoon, just like everyone else, and have seen either Barry or Mr Flannery receive the award for best display as a spectator. Perhaps I’d have joined in with the good-natured gossip about who should really have won, and whether Mr Flannery was related to the judge, and one of my neighbours might have invited me round for a mince pie. As it was, I’d be attending the event as Ollie’s escort, praying our angry neighbours didn’t turn up to pelt him with eggs, or start heckling, which the local reporter would have a field day with. The story would get picked up by the national news, and end up on social media, further ruining Ollie’s reputation, meaning he’d never work again, and I would be forever associated with his downfall, which meant Erin would hate me too…

My tumbling thoughts were cut off by a knock on the door, and I pushed back the duvet to see Craig’s head. ‘Cup of tea?’ he enquired.

‘Oh.’ I sat up, aware of my bed-hair and morning-breath, as he cautiously approached with a mug and set it down on the bedside table. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ He was dressed in jeans and a sweater and smelt like he’d showered, though I hadn’t heard a thing. He looked mysterious in the half-light, his hair flatter than usual, and it struck me that I’d had two strange men in my bedroom in less than a week and they couldn’t have been more different.

Craig was already backing out, his gaze cast down as if to preserve my modesty. Perversely, I wanted to detain him.

‘Is Ollie up?’

He paused in the doorway. ‘I thought it best to let him sleep off last night,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘He does better when he’s properly rested.’

It sounded as if we were discussing our hyperactive child.

‘Did you sleep OK in the end?’

‘Once I’d warmed up.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘I couldn’t feel my feet for about an hour.’

‘Me neither.’

The exchange felt oddly intimate and, as if he felt it too, he said, ‘I’ll make some toast,’ and left the room.

I sat for a moment, trying to remember whether Max had ever brought me a drink in bed. It had happened once; after we’d slept together for the first time and I’d developed a raging thirst. He brought me some lukewarm water in a coffee cup, because he couldn’t find a glass in his tiny, cluttered house.

I sipped my tea, which was just how I liked it, with only a splash of milk, and tried to locate my earlier panic and annoyance, but it had faded. It was impossible to stay mad with Ollie, however infuriating he was.

He didn’t emerge until after one, striding into the living room wearing his ‘dressed down’ outfit of jeans and hooded sweatshirt, and looking like he’d slept for twenty-four hours.

‘Where’s Craig?’ he demanded, dropping into the armchair.

‘Gone for a run and to do some filming,’ I said. He’d half jokingly asked me to join him for a run after breakfast, but I’d reluctantly declined on account of my legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. He’d advised me to have a long soak in a hot bath and I had, letting my mind drift with the steam, thinking about nothing in particular.

Now, I was welded to the sofa, my slippered feet propped on the coffee table, panic-buying last-minute Christmas gifts on Amazon.

‘I dreamt I was giving Barack Obama a lift to the airport,’ Ollie said, swinging one leg over the arm of the chair. ‘He was telling me that the best way to carve a turkey was to use a spoon and I wanted to tell him that was rubbish, but I couldn’t because… well, because he was Barack Obama.’

I looked at him over my laptop. ‘Right.’

‘He was wearing a really nice tie,’ Ollie went on, stroking his hair back. ‘Sort of stripy with little lambs on.’

‘Are you still talking about the ex-president of the United States?’

‘Yah.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘I think I owe you an apology for last night,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have got drunk in the cab.’

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘You shouldn’t have done a lot of things.’

He grimaced. ‘It wasn’t that bad. Was it?’

‘You caused quite the stir.’

‘Well, you did give me a nosebleed.’

‘I doubt I’ll be the last,’ I said.

He guffawed. ‘They’re a bit uptight around here, aren’t they?’

‘Probably not used to middle-of-the night disturbances,’ I said. ‘Some of them are quite elderly.’

He sat forward, eyebrows bunched. ‘Sounds crazy, but I don’t know many old people,’ he said. ‘My grandparents on both sides died when I was young, and… well, let’s just say there weren’t any octogenarians on Players or in any of the clubs I go to, and although Ma and Pa must be in their sixties, they’re not what you’d call old.’

‘What about when you’re doing your appearances?’

‘It’s mostly younger women and gay men that turn up,’ he said. ‘Though I must say, some of the mums can be keen, too.’

‘I get it,’ I said. ‘To you, old people are like a different species.’

‘I’m a bit scared of them.’ His slightly haunted expression made me want to giggle. ‘They just say what they think and it’s often not very nice, like that Doris Day woman.’

‘There are a few oldies at Mum’s theatre group,’ I said. ‘How was that?’

‘The older ladies seemed to like me, but the blokes were harder to win over.’

‘Ah, the curse of being a lovely, handsome charmer.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ he said with a grin, before turning serious again. ‘Actually, the charm helps a bit when I’m directing, but in a good way. I’m not just getting girls to like me, like on Players, I’m using it to bring people onside so we can work together. Well, mostly. You always get some swine – it’s usually a bloke – who doesn’t like being directed, and thinks his vision is better, but the secret is to engender loyalty in your cast and crew, and I really think I can do that.’ He formed a pyramid shape with his fingers and nodded sincerely. ‘I really do love it.’

I’d never heard him so engaged. ‘Then I think you’ve found your new career path,’ I said. ‘Congratulations. You’ll never have to work another day in your life.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘Just something Craig said.’

‘Ah, yes.’ His eyes lingered on mine a beat too long. ‘The wise words his teacher imparted to him when he was seven. Craig, I mean, not the teacher. You couldn’t have a seven-year-old teacher, that would be ridiculous.’

I was impressed that Ollie had retained this information. It was proof that he valued Craig’s friendship – not that I needed proof. In fact, it was nothing to do with me. I’d never see either of them again, after tomorrow.

‘Are you looking forward to the ceremony this afternoon?’ I said, breaking the little silence that had fallen.

‘I’m not sure, after last night.’ He sank back in the armchair, mouth pursed. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be very well remembered in Shipley.’

‘Most of the locals are friendly,’ I reminded him. ‘Just not the few you’ve woken up two nights running, but hopefully they won’t be there.’

‘I suppose it’s just a job,’ he said, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his hair and adopting a hard-man expression. ‘I’ll be my best professional self then leave them in peace.’

‘So, have you decided who is going to win the competition?’

He tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘You’ll have to wait and see, sweet Lily,’ he said. ‘But I promise I’ve been fair-minded and not let any of the shenanigans sway me.’

‘In that case, what could possibly go wrong?’ I said.

---

The square was buzzing when we arrived, which made it easier to go unnoticed. In the car, Craig had primed Ollie to keep his head down until it was time to switch on the lights, and to try not to attract too much attention.

‘I thought the whole point of me being here was to attract attention but, yah, whatever.’ He’d changed into a crisp lemon shirt and navy wool coat over dark blue jeans, and his boots were slightly more workmanlike than his usual footwear. When I’d queried how he could possibly have fitted all these clothes into his holdall, he confessed to having a couple of suitcases stashed in the back of Craig’s car. ‘I change outfits a lot at home,’ he’d said. ‘I like to keep things fresh.’

I’d stuck with my jeans and sweatshirt combo, under my parka and woolly scarf, hoping to blend in, while Craig was back in his running gear, which seemed to be his uniform of choice. He looked fresh-faced and alert, his camera at half-mast, and I wondered if he was relieved he’d soon be returning to his normal life – hopefully with a new TV series to look forward to.

Disappointingly, the snow had gone as if it had never happened, but the square exuded festive cheer in the dark, late afternoon. Apart from strings of illuminated stars and baubles spanning the shops on Main Street, a market had sprung up in the square, selling everything from roast chestnuts to wooden toys to mulled wine, each stall decorated with tiny fairy lights, like fireflies. People were milling about, wrapped in a colourful array of hats, gloves and scarves, their faces bright and smiling as they browsed the goods on offer.

Next to Ruby’s Blooms was a twinkling Santa’s grotto, where a tall girl dressed as an elf was entertaining a queue of children by telling Christmas jokes.

‘What do you get if you cross Santa with a duck?’

‘Christmas Quackers!’

‘Who’s Santa’s favourite helper?’

‘His wife?’ offered a girl with plaits, to the obvious mortification of her blushing mother.

‘I’m actually a feminist!’ she trilled, but everyone was too busy laughing.

‘It’s Elf-is Presley!’ sang the Christmas elf, which provoked a chorus of groans from the parents and baffled looks from the children.

‘I thought that was rather funny,’ said Ollie, giving the elf a round of applause. A few people cast him sidelong looks but no one seemed too interested in his presence. ‘How about a glass of mulled wine to get the party started?’

‘How about we go and find Barry,’ I said, worried Ollie might get drunk, or start singing, or break out his trumpet to attract attention. He was already scanning the crowd for a receptive face. ‘Not long to go now.’

‘Spoilsport,’ he grumbled good-naturedly, burrowing his hands in his coat pockets.

Craig, who’d been looking around with interest, slid me a glance and smiled.

Luckily, Barry was already in the Christmas tree area, where a small stage had been erected. ‘Councillor Gerald Finch, this is Oliver Matheson,’ he said, gruffly.

Mr Finch was short and broad, with squat legs like a bulldog. In a seasonal nod, a pair of flashing antlers had been clamped over his thinning, metal-grey hair. ‘Good to meet you, Oliver. Never seen the show, but my wife loves it.’

‘Actually, it’s Ollie. Only my aunt ever calls me Oliver, and only when I’ve been terribly badly behaved.’ Ollie was actually flirting with the councillor, as if he couldn’t help himself. Craig shook his head in mock despair.

‘It says Oliver on the board,’ said Mr Finch, and sure enough someone had chalked:

They’d also spelt his surname wrong.

Ollie looked about to protest, but I gave him a warning look and he subsided, making a strangling gesture when Mr Finch turned to speak to Barry.

‘When you get the signal, you need to pull this handle, OK?’ Barry said to Ollie, a few strands of hair drifting from his ponytail as he vigorously mimed the gesture. ‘It’s a dummy switch, the power comes from a street lamp so the lights will be triggered remotely.’

‘Sounds straightforward.’ Ollie rubbed his hands together.

‘Local paper’s here, and News South-West will probably turn up too, so when you’ve done the lights and presented the competition prize to Barry here’ – the councillor sniggered – ‘just kidding. Obviously.’ He cleared his throat and adjusted his antlers, which were listing to one side. ‘When you’ve finished, give a shout out to the people of Shipley, thank everyone for the warm welcome’ – he didn’t appear to notice Ollie’s snort – ‘and then you can plug your show if you like.’ Ollie made a pah sound that also went unnoticed. ‘Oh, and the tradition is to meet for a drink in The Anchor afterwards, so we’ll see you there.’

He patted Ollie’s arm and stepped aside.

‘You ready?’ Ollie said to Craig, presumably meaning filming for the ‘show’, and Craig raised his camera as Ollie stepped on to the little stage and continued trying to charm Mr Finch, while Barry backed away, holding his phone as though about to take a call.

‘Are you really filming?’ I asked Craig.

‘Not much point, if the local news is covering it,’ he said, and I noticed a small camera crew, sporting Christmas jumpers with penguins on the front, chatting to bystanders, while Chris Weatherby from The Shipley Examiner – a piece of gold tinsel wrapped around his man-bun – snapped photographs of the stalls. ‘He’ll get his coverage.’

‘Let’s hope it’s enough.’

‘Listen, you didn’t have to say that last night, about wiping the recording,’ he said. ‘But thanks.’

‘He was surprisingly OK about it.’

‘That’s because it was you and he can’t resist a pretty girl saying sorry.’ Craig gave a wry smile, while I tried not to react to him calling me pretty. ‘I’ll tell him the truth when we leave, so you don’t need to deal with the fallout.’

‘If he’s serious about moving into directing, he probably won’t mind,’ I said, stamping my feet, which were starting to numb with cold. ‘And, anyway, it’ll be too late by then.’

‘Unless he suggests doing another one-off show. A shorter one, to wean himself off being in front of the camera.’ Although Craig spoke lightly, his face had tensed and I guessed he was feeling guilty for deceiving his friend.

‘You’ll have to be firm and say no,’ I said. ‘Take your teacher’s advice and start doing what you love, instead.’

He gave me a considering look. ‘Maybe.’

Flustered, I looked at my watch. ‘Nearly time for the big moment.’

Craig nodded, hoisting his camera over his shoulder by its strap. ‘Nice atmosphere,’ he said, glancing around so that the fairy lights reflected in his eyes, giving them an extra sparkle. ‘I could see myself settling somewhere like this, one day.’

My heart bumped. ‘Well, I can highly recommend Shipley,’ I said, dismissing my earlier notion of having to leave. When I’d looked for somewhere to run to, Shipley had been the first place that had sprung to mind. Grumpy neighbours notwithstanding, I had happy memories of being here and I planned to stay around and make some more. ‘Maybe you could come back and visit some time.’ I felt my face go red as I said it, and hoped he hadn’t noticed.

‘If my show gets the go-ahead, I’ll have a permanent link to the place.’ He reached for my hand and pulled me aside as a family in matching reindeer hats jostled past, carrying cones of chestnuts, and the warmth of his touch ran through me like an infusion.

For a moment, it felt as if all the air had left my lungs, and when he looked at me his eyes were shocked, as if he’d felt something too.

‘There you are!’ said a familiar voice. ‘I thought I’d never find you in this bloody crowd.’

I turned to meet a pair of wide blue eyes and a full-lipped smile. ‘Erin!’ I pulled her into a hug, thrilled to see her in spite of everything. ‘I texted you this morning to say everything was fine.’

‘I wanted to see for myself,’ she said, drawing away and surveying my face, as if checking it was really me. ‘You look great,’ she said, with an air of surprise. ‘Living in a tight-knit, small-minded community obviously suits you.’

I laughed. ‘You look great too,’ I said. She was wearing her cow-print coat with high, red boots, her blonde hair sweeping over her shoulders beneath a black beret that was, thankfully, more Marlene Dietrich than Frank Spencer – another of my grandfather’s favourites.

‘I don’t know how,’ she said with a grimace. ‘Traffic on the way over was awful, I’ve been mainlining coffee, and I’m dying for a wee.’

‘Well, you’ll have to hold on,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ I thrust my arm through hers and gave it a squeeze. ‘He’s over there, by the way, where he’s supposed to be.’ I pointed to where Ollie was tapping a microphone that had been placed in front of him. ‘Testing, testing,’ he said through a screech of feedback, and sang a couple of lines from ‘Silent Night’.

‘Oh god,’ groaned Erin, but there was a bright little smile on her face.

I thought about her kissing Ollie and wondered whether he even remembered, and turned to Craig, who’d been watching our exchange with a politely interested smile.

‘Hi, Erin,’ he said, raising a hand. ‘Long time no see, though Ollie mentions you a lot.’

‘He does?’ Her eyes briefly widened in surprise, then her expression cooled. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Craig Daniels.’

His face grew wary. ‘Oh?’

‘Tattie Granger came to see me.’

He went very still and gave her a prickly stare.

‘Erin, what’s going on?’ I said, just as a loud countdown began behind us.

‘Ten… nine…’

‘Apparently, it wasn’t someone on the show that Tattie slept with.’ Erin had to shout above the din.

‘Eight… seven…’

‘It was Craig.’