Page 8 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
We’re all standing on the village green, coats zipped up, hands wrapped around paper cups of something hot and questionably alcoholic. The bonfire crackles ahead, flames punching heat into the cold air, smoke drifting in soft clouds across the pitch.
Above us, fireworks burst into bloom. Red. Gold. Electric white. The kind that fizz before they fall. Someone near the front whistles. A small child squeals with delight.
Over the stadium speaker, the moderator reads in full theatre voice:
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November, Gunpowder, treason and plot...”
I’ve heard it every year of my life. This time, it feels oddly reassuring. The rhythm of it. The predictability. A poem about burning things down and carrying on.
Around me, my friends huddle close in pairs.
Ben and Amelia, arms linked, smiling quietly. Lizzie and Coop, sharing a drink and a scarf. Bri, tucked under Omar’s coat. Fi laughing at something George whispers in her ear.
It’s not jealousy. Not even longing. Just loneliness. A quiet awareness of being the only one without someone’s hand in mine. The only one with no one to lean into when the cold starts to creep in.
I’m not thinking about Sim-Sim.
It’s not him I’m missing… at all.
Just the warmth. Theus-ness. The thing I thought I had.
I sip the drink. It’s sweet, spiced, sharp at the back of the throat.
I breathe in smoke and fireworks and the comfort of standing close to people who still see me.
And that, for now, will have to be enough.
The last of the fireworks fizzles out in a crackle of white sparks, the kind that hang in the sky like someone forgot to turn the stars off.
People start to drift. Boots crunching on damp grass. Children herded. The smell of smoke clings to everything.
We begin the slow shuffle back toward Ben and Amelia’s. Fi is already plotting hot chocolate logistics. Omar’s explaining, very seriously, why he should never be trusted with pyrotechnics.
As we cross the edge of the green, someone jogs past us—tall, lean, with a little girl tucked on his hip. She’s about five, dark hair in two lopsided plaits, face half-buried in the collar of his jacket. She's holding onto a half-eaten toffee apple like it’s a state treasure.
“Jasper!” Coop calls, waving. “Alright, mate?”
The man lifts a hand in greeting but doesn’t break stride.
Lizzie watches them pass, then leans into Coop. “Who was that?”
“Jasper,” he says. “Plays on the team with us. You’ve met him, haven’t you?”
She shakes her head but doesn’t press.
Amelia suddenly huffs. “My toes are actual ice cubes. If we don’t speed up, I’m sawing them off in the hallway.”
That gets us moving. We pick up the pace, crunching over gravel and leaves, hands jammed in pockets, everyone a bit colder now the fireworks are done.
Ben unlocks the door, lets us all in, and immediately heads for the speakers in the corner of the living room. Within seconds, something upbeat and retro fills the house—the kind of playlist that promises both familiarity and at least two singalongs later.
The snacks come out in chaotic, communal waves—mini pizzas shoved in the oven, sausage rolls warming in a tray, a mountain of scotch eggs, at least two salads that no one will touch until guilt kicks in. Someone finds crisps. Someone else opens another bottle of wine.
I end up chopping cherry tomatoes with Bri while Fi wrestles with a clingfilm-covered quiche and yells at Ben for using the wrong knife for cheese.
“Where’s Robbie tonight?” I ask Fi. She and George already have two grown-up children, and just when Fi thought she was about to earn her freedom and start browsing holiday brochures, along came Robbie, the surprise baby-shaped plot twist.
“Claire and her boyfriend are down from uni,” Fi says. “She offered to take him to Lewes for the bonfire… playing big sister for the day, which means George and I get a sort-of date night.” She grins and plants a kiss on George’s lips. Honestly, they’re so happy together it’s like they’re trying for another surprise baby.
