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picking dried green needles out of the bottom of your feet in March, but that was just me. ‘Haven’t you overdone the “spare” presents this year?’
    My sister always bought extra Christmas presents. She said it was because it made the tree look festive, but I knew her idea of a terrible Christmas would be for someone to turn up and her not have a gift for them. She was very generous—it was all linked with her fairy-tale view of the world. Not that she was idealistic, but she believed you could make your own fairy tale if you worked hard enough at it. Who needed a prince when you had a credit card and online shopping? When we were little she was the one who danced around the room in pink tights with a tiara on her head, pretending to be a princess. Then our parents split up and she decided she’d rather be the Karate Kid.
    My sister’s most important self-created fairy tale was Christmas. Because we’d never had a proper family Christmas, she overcompensated madly. Hence the tree, the stockings and her determination that no one we knew would spend the day alone.
    ‘I’m going to pick up the turkey.’ She spun and executed another kick and her blonde hair flew around her face. There were times when I thought she should have auditioned to play Bond (and I do mean Bond, not the dopey girl planted in the film so he can have sex). She trained for hours every day, but it had paid off and she’d landed a great job coaching martial arts at Fit and Physical in the City. She was also building a list of clients for personal training. Her results were startling, but I guessed that was because they were all terrified of my sweet-faced sister. If you didn’t put in effort she kicked your butt. Literally.
    Another ten emails pinged into my inbox. We were in the middle of this huge project at work and it wasn’t going away just because most of London had shut down for the holidays.
    Half of me was hoping one of those emails was from Nico. I didn’t need to tell you which half but let’s put it this way—I was wondering if it was too late to ask Santa for a new vibrator. Was there one called The Niccolò? That was the one I wanted.
    Idly I typed ‘vibrator—the Niccolò’ into the search engine. ‘I have to send the jacket back.’
    ‘You can’t do it today—he won’t be in the office. It’s Christmas Eve and it’s snowing.’ Rosie grabbed her coat. ‘Come with me. Better than moping.’
    ‘I’m not moping.’
    ‘You’re moping. And dreaming in Italian.’
    I closed the lid of my laptop so she couldn’t see what I’d just typed. I had some secrets. ‘If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have had to dream. I would have had reality. I would have put my New Year’s resolution of emotionless sex into practice.’
    ‘It would have been a waste to rush something so good with a man that hot.’
    ‘So instead I didn’t get to do it at all? How is that better?’ I ducked as she threw me my coat. ‘I’m not going out. I still haven’t recovered from being naked in church. Someone might recognize me.’
    ‘The advantage of being naked from the waist up is that no one was looking at your face.’ Rosie threw my scarf. ‘Unless what you’re working on is an emergency, you’re coming.’
    I wished she hadn’t used those exact words.
    I wasn’t coming. That was the point. And yes, it was close to an emergency. At this rate I’d need resuscitation. Mouth-to-mouth. And mouth to— Well, you get the point. All I could think of was sex, which wasn’t good when there was no immediate hope for a satisfactory resolution.
    Maybe freezing cold and snow would reduce the need for a vibrator.
    It didn’t, but I had to admit there was something uplifting about walking through Notting Hill on Christmas Eve. Shop windows sparkled with lights and decorations and everyone was smiling, which didn’t make sense when you thought about the number of people who found this a miserable time of year or didn’t celebrate, but