Page 107 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“And Sim-Sim’s collecting you?” Bri asks.
“I love Geraldine but she is not made to drive that far,” I mutter.
It’s easier to joke than to admit I haven’t slept properly since the decision was taken from me. That I’ve replayed the last thing I said to Jasper too many times to count. That I nearly knocked on his door last night with a tin of Quality Street and no plan whatsoever.
But I didn’t.
And now we’re leaving.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Amelia asks gently.
I pause, then zip the suitcase shut with a little too much force.
“I just need to get through the packing. And the trip. And the part where I smile at people who once gave me a tea towel withMrs Sim-Simembroidered on it.”
“Therapy,” Fi mutters.
“Wine,” Lizzie suggests.
“Or,” Bri adds, “a last-minute detour to a certain someone’s front door. A festive drop-in. Hot man, strong arms, unresolved feelings…”
“I don’t have time,” I say quickly, too quickly, reaching for my charger.
But it’s a lie. I do have time. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Just long enough to say Merry Christmas. Just long enough to see his face.
I glance at the phone. “You can say it, you know.”
“Say what?” Bri replies innocently.
“That you don’t think I should go with Sim-Sim.”
“Miranda,” Amelia says carefully, “we support you. Entirely. No matter what.”
“Absolutely,” Fi agrees. “Completely. Even if some of us… gently question your taste in Christmas transport arrangements.”
There’s a beat.
“I mean, you’re not marrying him,” Lizzie says finally. “It’s a trip. To Cornwall. With your son.”
“Exactly,” Amelia jumps in. “You’re doing this for SJ. And if nothing else, you’ll get some fresh air and overpriced fudge out of it.”
I shove a hoodie into the case. “I just wish I didn’t feel so—”
“Guilty?” Bri offers.
“Conflicted?” Fi adds.
“Both,” I say. “Plus chaotic. And mildly nauseous.”
“You’re a single mum packing for Christmas in Cornwall,” Lizzie says. “Mild nausea is standard.”
I collapse onto the edge of the bed, surrounded by half-zipped bags and emotional landmines.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit. “I don’t know what Iwant.”
“Then just go,” Amelia says gently. “Go. Be with SJ. See how it feels.”
“And if it doesn’t feel right,” Fi adds, “you come home early and we’ll all pretend we never even had this conversation.”
