Beth Reekles - It Won’t be Christmas Without You

If she didn’t get the promotion, nobody could say it was because she didn’t work hard enough. Besides, she loved her job. It didn’t feel so awful working this much when she enjoyed what she was doing.

Dave shook his head, laughing softly. “Alright, but seriously – get yourself home.” He nodded at the screen. “That’ll still be there in the morning. And hey – make sure you turn your phone off at the Christmas party next week. We can’t have you working all night. This place won’t fall apart if you take a break, you know.”

She laughed. “Roger that, boss.”

It was eight o’clock before she walked through the door at home. It was pitch dark outside, but the house was warm (for a change) and smelled like enchiladas.

With all of her housemates working such different jobs (a bar manager, someone in digital marketing for a chain of clubs, one girl in HR for a high-street fashion brand, and another guy working as a journalist), they didn’t always get to spend a lot of time together. And some people (not that she was naming names, but it was totally Henry) never replaced the toilet roll when they used the last of it.

But times like this – when they made more than enough food and told her there were leftovers in the fridge – she loved them dearly.

Cara dumped her backpack near the door and tossed her coat onto the peg in the hallway.

“There’s food in the fridge!” shouted one of her housemates, Jamilla, from the living room. “Elliot made enchiladas.”

“Thanks!” Cara called back, heading straight for the kitchen now and digging the leftovers out of the fridge. Ooh, and they’d left some salad too. Absolute angels.

The idea of living with four total strangers had been terrifying at first, for Cara. A new city and a new job? Sure, that was exciting. But sharing a house with four totally random people?

A couple of people she knew from uni had done it too, and she’d heard a few horror stories of nightmare housemates or awful landlords, so she had to count her blessings: her housemates were so easy to get on with. And they did things like cook enough food for everyone and keep the house clean, which was a huge step up from some people she’d lived with at university.

Enchiladas reheated, Cara headed into the living room, where she could hear some of her housemates talking over the TV.

“Alright, Cara?” Elliot said, glancing up from his own plate of food. Jamilla was there too, stretched across the other sofa flicking through a magazine. While Cara ate, the three of them swapped stories about their days until Cara’s phone buzzed.

She’d not checked her phone since she’d left work and noticed she had a few notifications. A text from Eloise. A photo from her mum in their family group WhatsApp, of the matching #Elfie T-shirts she and Cara’s dad had bought to take on holiday. A missed call and now a text from George.

Her face lit up: it must’ve done, because Jamilla promptly said, “Oo-ooh, let me guess. A text from the famous George.”

“Maybe.”

“He’s a keeper, C, I swear to God,” Elliot pitched in. “How many guys do you think spend their lunch break coming to your office just to bring you your favourite Starbucks?”

“That was one time.” But it had been a really nice surprise yesterday: he’d had to cancel their date the night before at short notice and wanted to make up for it, even though she’d understood.

“Go on, abandon your friends; call lover boy back,” Jamilla told her, grinning. “If you don’t, I will.”

Cara stuck her tongue out, collecting the empty mugs, cereal bowl and her own plate to take to the kitchen. She called George back, sticking the phone on speaker as she loaded the things into the half-full dishwasher.

George answered almost straight away. “Hey! How are you? Are you back from work now?”

“Yeah. Sorry I missed your call; it must’ve been when I was on the Tube. I’ve only just had tea.”

“I’m visiting a mate about two stops from you – is it alright if I pop in tonight? If you’re not too tired? I’d love to see you.”

“Oh! Um, sure. Yeah, absolutely!” She cringed, gritting her teeth. Did she sound too keen? Too late now. “Text me when you’re here; I’ll come down and let you in.”

She’d been looking forward to cuddling up under the duvet with one of the Hallmark Christmas movies on Netflix. Eloise had been messaging her recommendations and out-of-five-stars reviews all week. But she could pass that up to see her (sort-of) boyfriend.

She hoped he was her boyfriend.

God, she hated this whole label thing. Talking to each other, seeing each other, dating – why were there so many labels for it now? Why was it so bloody intimidating to just ask him if they were a couple?

She hadn’t even wondered about it too much until she’d gone to buy him a Christmas card the other day – and realised maybe he’d be freaked out if she got him a boyfriend card. Or disappointed to get one that didn’t say ‘boyfriend’.

“I have to ask you something.”

“Sounds serious.” Cara twisted towards him. They were lying side by side on her bed under about three blankets, her laptop propped on George’s knees with the credits of Jingle All The Way rolling.

“Is it too weird if I get you a present? For Christmas? I mean, I know I said the other week about you meeting my parents, but you can back out of that easy with some excuse about work and I wouldn’t even know if you made it up or not.”

Cara wondered who’d made him so cynical about relationships.

She’d also never been so relieved to find a guy who didn’t mind tackling head-on the kind of questions she worried about herself.

“I’ll outdo you on the weird serious question front,” she said, propping herself up on one elbow. “Do I get to call you my boyfriend yet, or do we have to go through some weird phase of casual-yet-exclusive dating for a few more weeks before that?”

George laughed so warmly that she felt she already knew the answer. It gave her the same warm, fuzzy feeling in her stomach as she got whenever she watched Love Actually .

“I think we can skip that phase, don’t you?”

“Skip it all,” she deadpanned, waving a hand. “I’ll expect a Tiffany ring for Christmas. June wedding. Kids by October.”

“Steady on. It’ll have to be a winter wedding. My step-mum will murder me if she’s stuffed up with hay fever in all the wedding photos. You think your parents would mind a child out of wedlock?”

“Hmm, not sure. Or we could just elope.”

“Las Vegas at New Year? Elvis can officiate.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

“Well, thank you very much, little lady, thank you very much,” he said, in possibly the worst impression of Elvis she’d ever heard.

Cara broke into peals of laughter and George set the laptop safely to one side before rolling on top of her, propped up on his elbows and kissing her softly. Cara sighed, leaning up into it, smiling against his lips.

“I can’t stay too late,” he murmured, breaking away with a groan and pushing his forehead against her cheek. “Early start.”

“Or you could just … stay here.” Cara felt herself blushing furiously. Even though they’d had sex (after date number six) they hadn’t actually spent the night with each other. “I’ve got a spare toothbrush in a drawer.”

George laughed. “Well, that was the deal breaker.”

Clearly she’d done something right to get on Santa’s Good List this year, because George was utterly perfect.