Page 79 of Kiss Me at Christmas
Emma looked confused.
“Lyra!” Harriet muttered. “The woman who was messaging James.”
“It might not be the same Lyra. There must be loads of people called Lyra.”
“It’s not that common a name. What are the chances of coming across two people called Lyra in the same vicinity?”
“Cumbria’s a big place,” reasoned Emma, and then her mouth dropped open. “Shit.”
“What?”
Emma leaned into Harriet and whispered, “James is here,” into her ear.
“You’ve never met him; how do you know it’s James?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t google the man my best friend is having casual sex with? Trust me, it’s him.”
“Shiitake mushrooms! Where?”
Emma motioned with her head, and Harriet scanned the gallery in that direction. At first, she couldn’t see him, but then a cluster of people shifted and there he was, looking back at her with an expression which was both surprised and slightly sickly. He half smiled and raised a hesitant hand. She waved limply back. This was it. The moment when her fragile hopes were going to be crushed. She was going to meet his significant other, or at least his more-significant-than-her other.
She turned back to face Emma. “I need to go.”
Emma looked over her friend’s shoulder. “Too late. He’s coming over. And he’s not alone. I’m so sorry, Harriet, I had no idea.”
Oh god!
“It’s not your fault.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Do I look sweaty?”
“No, you’ve gone rather pale.”
She tried to gather herself. “Okay, okay. I’ll say hello like a grown-up and then I’ll slip out and get a drink somewhere and you can come and find me when you’ve finished getting your photos, okay?”
“He’s here.” Emma was speaking without moving hermouth, her lips held in a frozen smile, eyes wide. “Turn around, act cool, it looks weird that you’ve got your back to him.”
“Weirder than you imitating a ventriloquist’s dummy? Mothersmucker, this is a flocking nightmare.”
Slowly she turned around. He’d almost reached her. A very young, very slender woman with long black ringlets and bright red lips had her arm linked through his, and Harriet wanted to cry for being so foolish, so taken in by his “wanting to do better” act.
“Harriet.” He smiled, the smooth veneer of professional solicitor settling over his face. “I didn’t know you were invited. And you must be Emma.” He turned his attention to Emma. “Harriet has great things to say about you.” His gaze settled back on Harriet.
Say something. Say anything.
“I. Emma. Carbon footprint. Work. Wine. Plinth.” Why couldn’t she speak? The girl on his arm—because that was about how old she looked: twenty-three at a push to James’s almost fifty—was looking at her expectantly. She had a sweet, open face, heart-shaped with a smile a mile wide.
James frowned.
“Right. Well, Harriet, Emma, I’d like you both to meet Lyra. My daughter.”
Daughter! Daughter?
Lyra held out her hand and gushed, “It’s so lovely to meet you, Harriet!” She had a strong Scottish accent. “I’ve heard so much about you. Dad talks about you all the time.”
He talks about me all the time? Then why is this the first time I’m hearing about you?
“Does he?” she managed to squeak out.
Lyra shook Emma’s hand as well.
