Page 37 of Christmas Is All Around
Charlotte: No re: not having plans
Charlotte: Why
Graham: I was wondering if you’d been to Borough Market yet—the food market? By London Bridge.
Charlotte: No!
Charlotte: I’ve heard it’s delicious
Graham: I thought we could go for lunch tomorrow?
Charlotte paused, staring down at her screen. She’d assumed some sort of invitation was forthcoming—why else would he be asking her about her plans?—and yet she still wavered for a moment. She hadwondered, upon waking up this morning and remembering that she’d more or less propositioned him the night before, how he would respond—if things would be weird between them. If they’d try to ignore it, chalk it up to too many cocktails, and pretend it hadn’t happened.
Clearly, Graham wasn’t interested in doing so. But was she?
She sat still for a moment, staring unseeingly down at the screen of her phone, her mind racing—and then, without allowing time to second-guess herself, she simply replied,Noon?and hit send.
And couldn’t help smiling when the reply came back:
Perfect.
Borough Market was a madhouse.
“How are there this many people here?” she asked Graham over her shoulder as they bumped and jostled their way through the crowds.
He leaned forward so that she could hear him, his mouth tilted over her shoulder toward her ear. “It’s central London in December. It’s always horrific.”
This was uttered with such distaste that she nearly laughed. “This wasyour idea,” she reminded him as they joined the line at some sort of Middle Eastern food stall. “If you hate crowds so much, why on earth did you insist that we come here on a weekend?”
She turned around to face him, just in time to see something unreadable flicker across his face. “You mentioned that the food was one of the things you liked. About Christmas,” he clarified unnecessarily. “So I thought you might enjoy a food market.”
She stared at him for a long moment. He’d brought her here because of an offhand comment she made over a week ago?
A bit of pink crept into his cheeks. “If you’d rather go elsewhere—”
“No,” she said quickly. And then, more softly, “This is perfect.” She turned to order a falafel salad before he could reply.
Once they’d claimed their food, they staked out seats, turfing out a couple who were lingering over empty plates, staring adoringly at each other at a table in the shadow of Southwark Cathedral.
“Do you reckon that was a bit rude?” Graham asked as they sat, the couple finally having quailed under Charlotte’s unrelenting stare.
“Probably.” She shrugged. “But fortune favors the bold—or those not afraid to make it clear that they don’t want to eat standing up.”
“Yes. I do believe I recall studying that exact quote in my history books at school.”
“Where did you go to school?” she asked him curiously.
“LSE for uni. What about you?” he asked, taking a bite of his wrap. “You went to art school, right?”
She nodded. “RISD—the Rhode Island School of Design. I think that’s when my mom started despairing—I think she thought that she’d still be able to convince me to stick with acting, but that was a pretty clear signal that it wasn’t going to happen.” She shrugged. “The good news is, my parents moved to LA a few years ago, so I don’t see them nearly as often anymore, which I think is best for all of us. And, of course, they spend a lot more time thinking about themselves than they ever have about me, and the distance keeps them off my back.”
He frowned. “Doesn’t that bother you, though? They’re your parents.”
She sighed. It was hard to explain her parents to someone who had never met them. “I think Ava and I have both got used to it over the years.” She speared a piece of falafel with her fork. “The problem is, my parents love us, and even love each other—in their weird, extremely dramatic way—but they love themselves the most. They love their own careers, their own reputations, and I think they view everyone around them through that lens. Which probably explains why they’ve spent most of my life having dramatic arguments and fleeing to remote, glamorous corners of the globe to nurse their wounds, and then coming back together again.”
“I can’t imagine growing up with parents with a relationship like that,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “My parents got married quite young, and they were always sickeningly in love, right up until—”
He broke off sharply, his gaze dropping to the paper plate on the table before him.
