Page 100 of On Circus Lane

I clamber up and lean out the window again. He’s pacing in the glow of the streetlamp.

“I’msosorry,” he shouts, seemingly unable to regulate his voice. I gesture frantically for him to talk quieter, and he nods. “I’m so sorry.” He attempts a whisper, but it isn’t much lower in volume.

I cast a look at the next-door window. Mr Jenkins will be out in a second complaining about the noise. “You just twatted me with a snowball. What are you doing here?” I hiss. My heart is pounding with excitement and pure joy at seeing him.

“I had to see you,” he shouts up. “I couldn’t let you go.”

“Oh mygod,” I breathe, putting a hand to my chest. “What is going on?”

“I had to come.”

“You’re covered in snow.”

“I walked here.” He stops. “No, Iran,” he proclaims loudly. “There aren’t any buses at this time.”

“You ran all the way here?” I sound as breathless as I feel.

He nods. “I missed you as soon as I left you.”

“Oh mygod,” I say again.

“The thing is—you’re like a gingerbread man.”

I blink. “Sweet and spicy?”

“No. If anyone gets too close, you run, run as fast as you can, and nobody can catch you.”

“It must be the only time I actually do run.”

He ignores that. “But I wouldverymuch like to catch you.”

The next-door balcony door is flung open and Mr Jenkins steps out. “What is this noise?” he snaps. “Decent folk are trying to spend Christmas in here. Are you bothdrunk?”

“Sorry,” Tom calls, his handsome face creased in concern.

I glare at my neighbour. “No, we’re not,” I snap. “Go back inside.”

Mr Jenkins stares at me. “Ibegyour pardon?”

“If we’re distracting you, go inside.”

“Erm, Bee,” Tom starts.

I ignore him and focus on the idiot who just interrupted us. “Do you know what is happening now?” I proclaim.

Mr Jenkins edges back a bit. “No?”

“That man is proclaiming hisfeelingsto me.” I pause. “That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?” I call down.

Tom nods enthusiastically. “I certainly am.Allthe feelings.”

I look back in time to see Mr Jenkins’s lip twitch and I point a finger at him. “This is my moment,” I say, sounding a little too much like Martine McCutcheon for my liking. “And you are not going to spoil it.”

“Understood,” he says quickly. His eyes are twinkling, so Christmas miracles do come true because the only time I’ve ever seen him look like this was when he successfully sued the bin company. “Merry Christmas,” he says and vanishes indoors, locking his balcony doors with a decisive click.

Silence falls and I turn to lean over my balcony. “Do you want to come up?” I ask.

Tom nods. “I do,” he says.

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