By the time we reach the suburb where I’m meeting Belinda at a pub, I’m sweating despite the chill and have already stress-eaten half the Cadbury Dairy Milk I bought at the vending machine near the taxi station.
“First time in London, love?” the driver asks, probably because I haven’t stopped gasping every time he swings around a blind corner.
“No, I’ve been here before. Lots of times.” I sip in a breath, refusing to gasp again as he zips through an intersection, barely avoiding a man in a wool cap walking his dog.
“Aw, then you know how much fun we have at Christmas,” he says cheerfully, as if he hasn’t just narrowly avoided a vehicular manslaughter charge. “Grabbing a pint is a brilliant way to start your holiday.”
“I’m actually here on business,” I clarify, clinging to the door handle when his next right threatens to fling me across the seat. “Starting at the pub. I’m meeting a woman who’s already there. Also, on business. It’s an all-business night. No pints. I-I mean, probably not. Unless she wants to have one, I guess. But mostly business. Primarily.”
Nailed it.
Definitelyshould have forced myself to take a nap on the flight.
The driver nods slowly, the way you do when you suspect a stranger might not be all there. “Right. Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted. Here we are, then!”
He slows in front of a Tudor-style building draped in white lights. Its wavy glass windows glow warmly on the otherwise darkened street, and a massive wreath hangs beneath a sign that reads “The Crown and Thistle” in a gorgeous gold font. It looks like a place where Christmas miracles happen all the time.
I feel my spirits lift. Surely, this is where bad travel days go to die and beautiful new beginnings are practically guaranteed! Iswear, as I pay the driver and step out into the winter chill, I canfeelmy luck turning around.
My reflection in the darkened dress shop window next door assures me I still look like an electrocuted hedgehog in a wrinkled suit, but it’s late, and I just got off a long flight. Belinda will understand.
Heck, we might even share a laugh over it.
Already imagining how we’ll commiserate over a cup of tea as we plot floral domination, I wave the cabbie off with a smile and drag my roller bag toward the entrance. Still grinning, I push on the center of the door, right in the middle of the world’s prettiest wreath.
A jolt of discomfort hits almost instantly as the heavy wood refuses to budge. I push harder, then try pulling—then pushing and pulling again—feeling increasingly silly.
And increasingly frustrated…
“This has to be it,” I mutter, glancing up at the sign.
Yep, The Crown and Thistle. This is definitely the place. And I can hear muffled music—” Silent Night” in high, childlike voices—coming from inside.
I check my phone: 8:28. I’m over half an hour early for my meeting and, according to the small plaque by the pub door, it’s still several hours until closing time.
I yank on the door again, putting my full weight into it.
Still nothing.
The snow is coming down harder now, already coating my hair and sneaking into the collar of my coat.
Maybe I’m at the wrong entrance?
Dragging my wheelie bag through what’s becoming a proper snowdrift, I circle the side of the building, cold and damp seeping into my sensible heels. By the time I reach another door under a softly glowing lamp, my pantyhose are soaked.
This door doesn’t have a sign and looks much less like a main entrance than the other, but it gives slightly when I push. Beginning to suspect both doors are swollen from the weather or something, I lean my full weight against it, shoving hard.
One more good push, and I should?—
The door flies open, and I tumble inside, quickly realizing that, as I suspected, this isnotthe main entrance. I actually appear to be on a small stage at the back of the pub, where a nativity play is currently underway.
A play I amruiningwith my terrible timing…
I try to stop myself, dropping my roller bag and digging my heels into the floor, but it’s too late to halt my forward momentum. I barrel into the center of the manger scene, summoning shouts of surprise from the crowd below. My shouldered purse takes down a shepherd and clips Joseph before I trip over a stuffed animal, and my feet leave the floor. I hear one of the kids cry out in surprise seconds before I crash land in the middle of a baby Jesus made entirely of gorgeous white blooms.
I only catch a quick glimpse of the petalled Messiah as I fly through the air, but it’s enough to assure me he’s truly a work of art.
Or hewas, before I crushed him.
