Page 21 of The Whole Package

‘Me.’ He shrugged, as if to say – and what?

What an absolute gimp, I thought immediately. Unfortunately, he was an annoyingly good-looking gimp. He turned on his heels, picked up the box of decorations, scooped up those he’d already taken out and headed to the hall.

The noise carried on around me. Occasional laughter. Instructions. The scrape of knives on boards. No one filmed anything. No one posed. A larger woman, Mags, cracked the most inappropriate jokes. No one cared what they looked like in their blue hairnets and slightly grubby winter clothes. I caught occasional glimpses of my sweaty face in the single-glazed, mouldy window, and a shiver went through me. I felt like Ant and Dec could jump out at any moment and tell me this whole thing was a hilarious setup for their show and that I could return home afterwards. But no one jumped out, no camera crew were in sight, and I realised this wasn’t going to get easier.

For the first time in a long while, no one cared who I was and, disturbingly, that hurt far more than being recognised ever had. I continued peeling and chopping for another two hours, wondering how the fuck I was going to get my life back in order, wondering what the fuck was happening at home. Rupert was probably away playing golf or sipping on his morning matcha.

By late afternoon, I was standing back, watching enormous pots of soup bubble away. The smell of ham hock and lentils clung to me like I’d been baptised in the froth.

‘What now?’ I asked Mum, staring down at my wrinkled orange-tinted fingers, which had been soaked for hours.

‘Now comes the best bit.’ She smiled. ‘Everyone comes in to be fed. But if you don’t fancy staying, I’ll get your dad to pick you up.’

I watched as everyone else rearranged the dining hall – stacking paper cups, unravelling hard plastic chairs, pushing small toys to one side of the room.

‘I’m tired, Mum. I’ve had enough. I just want to go home,’ I said, already edging towards the exit. The fewer eyes on me, the better.

She sighed, sounding disappointed but unsurprised. ‘Fine. Head out the front, and I’ll send your dad round.’

I shrugged into my coat and stepped into the foyer, hovering by the big windows as I waited. Cold air leaked through the cracks in the glass. It was only a four-hour train journey from London, yet Glasgow felt more like the Arctic Circle. I genuinely couldn’t feel at least three toes.

I pictured what I should have been doing – sinking into a scalding, scented bath, watching The Real Housewives, after getting a manicure and filming something for my followers. My kind of hard work. Christmas was around the corner, the busiest season for my channel, and I was stuck peeling carrots in a soup kitchen. None of this seemed remotely fair.

I’d been offline barely a day, and my fingers were already twitching, itching to know what people were saying. I wondered if there would be a search party. People turning up to my home looking for me, or if it had all settled down, had instantly become yesterday’s news.

‘Right, what the fuck are you doing here, Posh Spice?’ a voice said behind me. ‘If you wanted to meet up again, you could have asked for my number; you didn’t have to follow me.’

I closed my eyes briefly.

Then turned to find Jamie leaning casually against the wall, tinsel looped round his neck. He was smiling, the kind of smile that suggested he’d already decided this interaction was going to be entertaining.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, please,’ I said flatly. ‘But yeah, I’m the girl you almost drowned.’

‘Almost,’ he agreed. ‘But crucially, didn’t.’ He paused. ‘You’re welcome for that, by the way.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Such a local hero. Feeding the poor, saving women on the train . . . Have you been knighted yet?’

He laughed – properly laughed, like I’d passed some kind of test. ‘Naw, waiting on the letter in the post.’ He bit his lip and stepped forward. ‘So you’re Marge’s daughter, then?’

I nodded, already scanning the road for my dad’s headlights.

‘Thought so,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the same look.’

‘What look?’ I asked, hoping my Botox wasn’t wearing off already. What else could go fucking wrong?

‘The dress sense and that.’ His eyes dropped to Mum’s bobbly leggings. Great. ‘So, you in town long?’ he asked.

‘Hopefully not.’

‘For Christmas?’

A laugh fell out of me. ‘God, no.’

That made him smile wider. ‘Strong reaction.’

‘Yeah, well. I haven’t been back here in years,’ I said. ‘Everything’s different, but it all looks the same. Grey. Dark. Smelly.’ I exhaled. ‘I just want to go home. I shouldn’t have come here.’

He tilted his head, considering me. ‘Or maybe,’ he said quieter this time, ‘you’ve changed so much you don’t really know where you fit anymore.’