Page 100 of Counting Down To You

Mum turns to squeeze one of my hands. “That’s lovely.”

“Pancake!” Graham declares, almost launching across the room to rescue the pancake that is starting to burn on one side.

I laugh and move aside to get three plates out of the cupboard.

“James is coming over this morning,” Mum says, a little carefully, from the stove. “With Steph. They’re going to drop their things off and I was going to cook us all a light lunch before they head out this evening. Maybe go on a walk too.”

She keeps her back to me and her tone is a mix of wary and hopeful. It makes me realize that, although I’ve found her gentle encouragement to talk to James hard over the last few years, I haven’t given enough thought to what it must be like for her. I’d been ready to stick firmly with Mum, the two of us behind a wall—but she’d never wanted to be behind that wall, had she? And all this time I’ve been focusing on how difficult it is to hear Mum pressuring me to talk to James again and not thinking about how difficult it must be trying to keep a relationship going with two children who refuse to speak to one another. So, even if I’m not ready to completely put the water under the bridge, here is something I can do for my mother.

I try to keep my voice equally as casual as I reply. “That sounds nice. I’ll dig out my trainers.”

Mum turns to me and beams. And that, I think, is enough to make anyone’s Christmas Eve.

—

The Ritz at Christmas delivers glitz and glam in spades. Two Christmas trees adorned in gold guard either side of the entrance, with lights twinkling down from the windows above. There is the hum of Piccadilly in the background, with carolers somewhere nearby. I hover outside the entrance, breathing it all in as drops of misty rain cling to my hair.

Beneath my black winter coat, I’ve gone all out on my outfit tonight—because why the hell not? I’d felt Robyn’s presence as I put on the dress I bought only yesterday, braving the crowds in Kent. As I’d listened to Spotify, applied makeup, picked out jewelry. Like how we used to get ready together, Robyn often sitting on my bed, chatting about nothing and everything, sipping cheap prosecco. So yes, I’m going for champagne alone, but I don’t feel alone. Not really.

I head through the foyer of the Ritz, another Christmas tree taking center stage, with bright red glass baubles and an enormous star glittering on top. Chandeliers scatter light across the marble floor as I walk to the Rivoli Bar, following the directions I was given at the entrance.

I tell myself that no one cares that I’m here alone. Everyone is always thinking about themselves, anyway.

And if they do, Robyn’s voice pipes up, fuck ’em.

It makes me smile. There she is.

I step onto rich wooden floors, which gleam under the amber light of Art Deco lamps. There are mirrors behind the bar, reflecting the fairy lights threaded through the garlands above the shelves. The smell of mulled wine and polished leather mingles with the scent of perfume—the type only people with money wear. Piano music drifts through from the foyer, a melody I don’t recognize, and above that, the swell of laugher and chatter rises and falls in its own kind of song.

My coat is taken and hung up, leaving my black sequined dress on show. Well, at least I don’t look out of place here. I march toward the bar with a determination that seems to alarm the bartender, who looks up as I take a seat on one of the stools.

He moves down to my end of the bar, smiles. “What will it be?” No mention of me being alone. Okay, so far, so good.

“A glass of champagne, please.” I decide best not to look at the menu and scare myself with the prices.

When the champagne arrives, I take a sip, allowing the bubbles to explode on my tongue. It is a lot better than the aforementioned cheap prosecco, I’ll give it that. I turn on my stool, watching the groups of people around the bar, the piano in the foyer still providing a pleasant background melody.

On impulse, I get out my phone, then snap a selfie with my glass of champagne. I send it to my university WhatsApp group.

At the Ritz! Robyn’s latest challenge.

I type another message. I miss you guys. I’m sorry I’ve not been around that much this year. But I’m back in London, and I’d love to see you all soon, after Christmas.

Because I know I’ve isolated myself a little this year. Because it was easier, because I needed to find my way through the grief. But talking to Leo about Robyn has made me realize that hiding from it doesn’t do any good. Robyn deserves to be talked about, deserves to be remembered, even if it’s sometimes hard to do that. And my friends miss Robyn too. I’m not alone in that.

I get several heart reactions to the photo, before the replies come flooding in.

I love this. I love you. And definitely yes to meeting up soon xxx

I miss you too. And I miss her. But I can totally imagine her next to you on that stool, chatting up the hot barman (please tell me he’s hot?)

Speaking of hot, what happened between you and the dreamboat? My life is so boring right now, I need to live vicariously through you.

Says the one who’s getting married next year.

Yes, and do you know how BORING weddings are to organize?

(They’re not really. But I still want to live vicariously).