‘Listen, sweetie, why don’t you go home?’
She felt Annie’s hand on her knee and looked up, attempting a smile. ‘I’m not sure the contents of my purse will stretch to a cab,’ she said, taking a last sip of her cocktail. ‘Do you mind if I pull out the sofa bed?’
‘Of course not, dimbo. But I don’t mean tonight, I mean for Christmas. I mean why don’t you go back to New York?’
Amy looked up at her friend.
‘To my mom and dad’s?’
‘Why not? It’s the holiday season, isn’t it? The perfect time to be around your family and friends and remember what’s important.’
‘Yes, and for that reason, I’m not going to get an air fare for less than a thousand bucks at this late notice.’
‘Well, I can lend it to you.’
Amy squeezed Annie’s hand.
‘That’s so sweet of you, but I’m a big girl. I’ll deal with it. I can go home in January when the flights are cheaper.’
‘In that case, you’re coming to my mum and dad’s,’ beamed Annie. ‘Can’t have you moping around on your ownsome over the festive season, can we?’
Amy was touched by the sentiment, but she had stayed at Annie’s parents’ house before. They were, if it was possible, even more eccentric than their daughter. Thomas, her father, was a children’s illustrator, but spent all his spare time working on various ‘inventions’, none of which ever saw the light of day, while her mother was a sculptor who made ends meet by running a pottery class at the local college. Their house was a large and rambling affair stranded in an unfashionable north London suburb. It was warm and welcoming, but Amy could only remember the scuttling noises in the roof and the smell of dog hair in every room, generously shed by Brunel, their ageing red setter.
‘Yes, I know it’s a madhouse, but it’ll be fun!’ said Annie, almost telepathically acknowledging her misgivings. ‘And if not, it’s certainly guaranteed to take your mind off things.’
She was right, of course, but the thought of her friend’s close-knit family made Amy long for her own, and suddenly she was overwhelmed with loneliness and the tears began to roll down her cheeks again.
‘Oh honey, what is it?’ said Annie, gathering her up against her ample bosom.
‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need to go home. But how? I can’t take your money and I’m totally broke.’
Annie thought for a moment.
‘What about those courier flights?’ she said. ‘You take a package on your knee – like some business documents or a donor kidney or something – and you get half-price air fare.’
‘I’ve never heard of that.’
‘They exist, I’m sure of it,’ said Annie decisively. ‘We’ll get on the internet tomorrow. But right now, I’m putting you to bed.’
Clearing away the plates and shooing Amy into the bathroom with a pair of fleecy pyjamas, Annie set about transforming the living room into a plush boudoir, complete with a fur rug thrown over the pull-out bed.
‘Ta-da!’ she said dramatically when it was done. ‘Now you just snuggle down and I guarantee you’ll feel better in the morning.’
Nodding gratefully, Amy crawled into the bed and clicked off the light. The too-big pyjamas were soft against her skin and the brandy cocktail had done the trick of making her sleepy, but still she couldn’t help going over everything in her mind.
‘I can hear you,’ called Annie in a sing-song voice from her bedroom next door.
‘You can hear me doing what?’ frowned Amy.
‘I can hear your little brain going over every last conversation. Stop it. You’ll drive yourself mad.’
Amy laughed out loud. Annie wasn’t known as a world-class agony aunt for nothing.
‘All right, all right, I’ll think about something else.’
‘Think about New York,’ called Annie. ‘Think about snow on the Empire State Building and sexy blokes skating around the Central Park ice rink in lederhosen.’
Sinking back into the pillows, Amy tried to imagine the little house on Carmichael Street, the tree trimmed with lights and baubles, the turkey on the table, her parents drinking egg nog and bickering over the bread sauce. She’d even invited Daniel to go home with her that Christmas, but there had been the usual excuses about work and family obligations, and looking back, that should have been a sign. Yes, there had been moments in their relationship that had been pure magic. A summer week in the Kefalonian village of Fiskardo, walking through the pastel-coloured harbour and drinking ouzo in the quayside bars, had been one of the best holidays of her life. She’d loved their autumn walks through Hyde Park, kicking leaves and kissing on benches, or cosying u