Come to think of it, the memory probably wasn’t helping the overheating any more than the overcrowded tube was. She had to put Jake Sommers completely out of her head, and focus on her journey home.
She stood all the way to Euston, crammed up against the door and clutching the handle of her suitcase for dear life, then struggled up the escalator into the overground station. Dragging her case behind her, she wove through the holiday season crush, past at least ten people in Santa hats and avoiding a group of guys in suits warbling Silent Night, all the way to platform five.
The queue to get onto the train stretched right back to the main concourse, and Molly mentally thanked her mother for insisting she book ahead to make sure she got a seat. Sure, she thought as she handed her ticket to the inspector, there would probably be someone sitting in it by the time she got there, but hopefully the festive spirit would prevail and they’d give it up once she waved her ticket in their face.
The only problem was, once she was settled into her window seat, with the businessman beside her tapping away on his laptop, there wasn’t much to do but watch the snowflakes drifting down outside and think about Jake.
Not just Jake, though. That line in her diary, the one she always started keeping daily on the first of January and slipped to monthly updates around mid February. The last line under the heading Goals For The Year.
The first two goals she’d actually knocked off by the summer. New job? Check. Move to London? Check.
But goal number three, which should have been the easiest of them all if that December 31st kiss had been anything to go by, had remained elusive.
Sleep with Jake Sommers.
A little hard to achieve when she hadn’t actually been in the same room as him all year, and not even in the same city most of the time.
Why had she even added that to the list anyway? Without it, she was two for two on the real, important things she wanted to achieve that year. Getting away from Liverpool and starting her own, grown up life in London had been a goal for so long that she’d started to doubt she’d ever make it. But she had. On her own terms, without any help from anyone.
Sure, maybe her tiny shared flat wasn’t a New York penthouse with weekends on a charmingly rustic farm with a fabulously gorgeous rich American, like Dory had somehow landed, but it was hers and she’d made it there herself. And that counted for a hell of a lot, especially to Molly.
But still, the last goal at the front of her journal nagged at her. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t set it; that wasn’t how things worked. Every New Year’s Eve when they were kids, Molly, Dory and Tim had huddled together in the girls’ room to make their resolutions. Sometimes they were joke ones – like the year Tim resolved to convince their mum to believe in aliens. Sometimes they were things that mattered, like exams and friendships. And sometimes they’d forced them on each other, like the year she and Dory ganged up to make Tim give up smoking when he was fifteen.
They’d stopped some years ago, and Molly wasn’t even really sure why. Probably it had something to do with them all being in different places for New Year – different friends, different jobs, different parties, even different cities. But Molly always set her goals for the year – even though her track record for meeting them wasn’t great. This year was the first year she stood a chance at a clean sweep. But not with the memory of Jake Sommers’s kiss and the unfulfilled resolution hanging over her head.
Outside the window, the snow that had been light and magical in London was growing heavier and more threatening. Beside her, Mr Businessman stopped clicking keys long enough to look up and say, “Well, it looks like getting a taxi will be fun tonight.”
Molly wasn’t worried about taxis. Her dad drove one of those, for heaven’s sake. But if he was out on a job and the trains stopped running then she might be in trouble. Well, not trouble, exactly. Dad would drive into the city to pick her up from Lime Street station if the local line shut down, but it wouldn’t be fun for either of them. Liverpool city centre two days before Christmas was not a place anyone wanted to drive around if they didn’t have to. Especially since she knew her dad had taken Christmas week off to spend with the family.
“I’m practically retired now, Moll,” he’d said, last time she called. “What’s the point of getting to my age if you can’t sit back and enjoy it, eh?”
Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t do a few jobs, when it suited him, Molly knew. Especially on the days when it was to his benefit to be out from under her mother’s feet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to report that due to the inclement weather, there will be no local or national trains departing from our final stop, Liverpool Lime Street. There will be staff on hand to advise you on local hotels and taxi firms, and we hope to have all services running again tomorrow morning.” The crackly announcement sent waves of muttering through the carriage.
“Damn it,” Molly murmured, reaching for her phone. She’d known she should have booked an earlier train, but Jenna had been adamant that she couldn’t miss the work drinks that evening.
She tried the home phone first, but there was no reply. Firing off a text to her mum, she called Tim next.
“What’s up sis?” The sound of a fruit machine paying out in the background put pay to any hopes of her brother picking her up.
“You’re in the pub?” Maybe he’d be somewhere in the city centre and they could travel home together. That could work. He could carry her damn suitcase for one thing. Brothers had to have some uses, right?
“Yeah.” He said it as if anyone with half a brain would be. “It’s Christmas Eve Eve. Why aren’t you?”
“You know Christmas Eve Eve isn’t really a thing, right? Never mind. Look, I’m on the train into Lime Street now, but the trains to Crosby aren’t running. Which pub are you in?”
“The George and Dragon. Wanted to be within staggering distance. Hey! Guess who’s here tonight!”
“Someone sober enough to pick me up from Lime Street?” Molly asked, without much hope.
“God, no. You’re shit out of luck there, sorry. No, Lara’s here! Wanna talk to her?” He passed the phone over before he could reply.
“Tell me you’re nearly home!” Lara yelled down the phone. “I need my best friend back!”
“Almost,” Molly promised. “Or I would be if I could get someone to pick me up from Lime Street. Are you going to come round tomorrow?”
“Have I ever missed mulled wine and mince pies at your parents’ house on Christmas Eve?” Lara asked, making it clear through her tone that Molly was an idiot for asking.
“Not willingly,” Molly admitted. “Good. I can tell you all about London.”
“Yeah. Great. Here’s Tim.” The phone line went muffled, then crackly, then Tim was back.
“Is she okay?” Molly asked, frowning at her reflection in the window. “She sounded… off.”
“That’ll be the cinnamon flavoured vodka,” Tim guessed. “They’ve got this special offer on tonight. I have to tell you about it—”
“Tim,” Molly interrupted. “I kind of had a reason for calling. The about to be stuck in Lime Street thing? Do you know where Dad is? No one’s answering at home.”
“He’s gone to pick up Dory and whatshisname from Manchester airport. Guess he might be a while if the weather’s bad.”
“Lucas. You know his name is Lucas.” A while, in this case, could mean anything up to a couple of days. Damn it.
“Yeah, whatever. And Mum’s over at Auntie Susan’s at some sort of girls’ party thing. Ann Summers or what have you.”
“It’s a cooking party,” Molly said, finally remembering. “And God, thanks for that image.” She sighed. “Okay, well, if you speak to either of them, tell them I’ll try and get a taxi home, if I can find one in this weather.” She dreaded to think how much it would cost, but she just wanted to get home. It was Christmas, after all.
“No, hang on Moll.” Tim sounded suddenly sober, the big brother swooping in to take
care of things again. She should be grateful, Molly knew. After all, hadn’t she called hoping for his help? But the assumption that she couldn’t even be trusted to get a taxi on her own grated.
“It’s fine, Tim. You’ve been drinking, and so has Mum probably.” It was Christmas, after all. Half of Britain was probably plastered. “Dad’s miles away. I can just grab a taxi. It’ll be fine.”
“Just wait a min. I’ll call you back in five.” The phone went dead in her hand. Apparently it was Super Tim to the rescue again.
Fingers still wrapped around her phone, she stared back out of the window. The flakes were bigger, heavier now, like the granddaddies of the little flurries they’d had in London. These snowflakes meant business.
“Well, at least it will be a white Christmas,” she whispered to herself. Dad would be pleased. He always complained that it wasn’t really Christmas without a snowman in the back garden.
She jumped as her phone buzzed, but it was a text, not a call.