It was going to be a quiet festive season for me, just the way I liked it (I told myself).
I’d gone back to spend Christmas with my parents in our small home town.
This year, however, Mum and Dad were finally embarking on that cruise they’d been talking about since retirement. They were sailing off on 23 December, leaving me on my tod.
I’d enjoy a solo Christmas and New Year, put away the festive decs and tidy the place up for when they got back in the first week of January, returning to work in London later that week.
‘Sure you don’t mind, Emma?’ Mum asked anxiously. ‘Don’t like to think of you kicking your heels and brooding about, er…’ She trailed off as she finally noticed Dad miming a frantic ‘quit while you’re ahead’ gesture.
‘I won’t be kicking my heels,’ I reminded them stiffly. ‘I’ll be taking down the tree, wrapping up the baubles, finishing off the mince pies, all without giving Brendan a second thought. You can say his name, you know.’
Brendan, my
