Belinda Missen - One Week ’Til Christmas

We pulled out phones and compared photos of places we’d both been, talked about Tom’s newfound love of all things Lygon Street and the three P’s found along the famous dining strip: pizza, pasta, and patisserie. He’d been to the Eureka Skydeck, comparable to The Shard for its sheer height and scale, and he’d loved that the trams reminded him of his hometown, Sheffield.

I’d been to Sheffield twice; both times different, but equally brilliant. The first time was a stopping point between London and Edinburgh, somewhere to park the hire car for the night and stretch my legs. I wandered around Sheaf Square, up through the middle of the city, and used the tram system to find my way back to my B&B booking by the River Loxley. The second time I’d been, I’d spent my time covering local industrial museums before heading to Chatsworth House for a Pride and Prejudice festival.

‘You know, you didn’t call me either when you were in Sheff,’ Tom played, patting his napkin against his eyes far too dramatically for anyone to believe. ‘If I die tonight, Isobel, it’s from heartbreak. It’s on your head.’

‘You poor love,’ I chortled. ‘Next time, you can be my personal guide.’

‘Football and beer at The Howard it is, then.’

I snorted, hand clapped over my mouth to stop food and laughter spilling across the table. I was delighted to see Tom’s eyes crinkle as he peered up at me from under thick eyelashes. Something in me fluttered.

‘Speaking of all things food and drink, that was ah-mazing.’ I blotted my mouth with my napkin. ‘Piggish me would totally go back and get another plate.’

‘Feel free.’ Tom nodded in the direction. ‘I’ll wait.’

‘But then there’d be no room for dessert, would there?’

‘Amateur. There’s always room for dessert.’

‘In that case, do I get to pick?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely not.’ Tom slapped the palms of his hands against the bench. ‘Of course you can, what did you have in mind?’

Shouldering my backpack, I gathered our rubbish and wedged myself between tables full of people and loud chatter. A quick check of my phone revealed we’d been sat under the oversized tent for hours, though it had felt like the blink of an eye. That explained why the last of my dinner was delicious, but cold. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I found Tom catching up, looking as though he’d been stopped in the crowd for a quick hello.

‘I saw this gorgeous little German bake stand, up towards the far end of the market,’ I said as we stepped back into the flow of people. ‘I thought we might check it out?’

He nodded. ‘Sounds great.’

The market was quieter than it had been earlier, but what I loved about these evening markets, even ones at home, was that they brought locals out in their droves. It added vibrancy to a city that may otherwise be sleeping, though I suspected London never did. The bakery stall was thriving as the perfect end of evening dessert stand.

‘Okay, what’s the order?’ Tom looked to me.

‘I’d love a bag of pfeffernüsse.’ I smiled.

‘Who’s a goose?’

‘You’re a goose.’ I pinched at his jacket, urging him forward in the queue.

‘All right, but if you’re going to get biscuits, you have to get some butter grog as well,’ he said, pointing to a mug that had just been handed over the counter.

‘Butter grog?’ I looked at him, confused. ‘That sounds like a Harry Potter character.’

‘I promise it’s not.’ Tom offered up a twenty-pound note. ‘I may die of a heart attack with the amount I’m about to consume, but it’ll be worth it. Make it two doubles, chuck them in milkshake cups if you have to. It’s amazing. Please and thank you.’

As I took my first uncertain sip, I watched him watch me and, for a moment, I decided that I enjoyed the way he looked at me. There was a certain softness I hadn’t seen in a long time. I would’ve taken more if I could.

‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Of the drink?’

The fruity undertones of cider, lashings of butter, the acid of lemon and orange, coupled with the back of the throat bite of ginger and rum. I might have found my favourite drinks night tipple. ‘Can we go back and get a vat of this?’

‘I’m going to have to learn to make it, I think,’ he said. ‘It can be my new party trick.’

Without even thinking, discussing, agreeing, or disagreeing, we’d found ourselves wandering out of the market. We walked along the Thames towards the London Eye, which was illuminated a deep red colour and rotating slowly.

Armed with my bag of biscuits and nothing more than the courage of too many mulled wines, I drew Tom into a quiet corner by the Thames, the lights of Westminster burning in the background. I gave him my phone and stood back against the river barrier.

‘Please, can you take a photo? I need to Instagram this.’

‘You do?’ he asked.

‘Travel writer?’ I jangled the bag about and posed, drink in one hand, bag of biscuits in the other – labels facing forward, thank you – as he took one, two, three photos.

‘Are they okay?’ He hovered while I checked the results. ‘Do you want me to take them again?’

‘They’re perfect, thank you.’ I flicked through the handful of shots. ‘Are you on social media?’

‘Me?’ Tom picked through the bag. ‘Why? You gonna follow me?’

‘Everywhere.’ I batted my eyelids. ‘I’m going to turn up on your doorstep and tie ribbons around your fence while offering up a dance to the fertility gods.’

‘Well, in that case, it’s Release the Bracken,’ he said dramatically. ‘Full stop between “release” and “the” and all one word—’

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