Page 11 of The Christmas Catch
“Meet back by the cash machine in 30 minutes?”
“Should we exchange numbers in case we get stuck or lost?”
“Good plan.” Morgan recited her number.
Ali’s fingers shook as she entered Morgan’s number. She’d either had too much coffee today, or she needed food. Probably both.
Morgan walked over to a spare metal seat in the airport foyer, deciding that whoever invented metal seating was clearly a sadist. The seat was next to a sad-looking Christmas tree with a severe lack of baubles. Ho bloody ho. She stroked the new screen on her phone, then flicked to the National Rail app to see if they could get on a train. However, the trains had something in common with the planes: most were cancelled. Maybe they’d have to get a bus all the way to Devon. They might just about make it by Christmas Eve, if they were lucky.
What had she done to deserve this? She’d worked her arse off this quarter, and satisfied all her clients. All she wanted was a festive break with her family.
A sob from nearby pulled her from her thoughts.
Morgan turned to find Mrs Claus crying on the end of the metal seating. Had Santa had an affair? Was Rudolph bed-bound with shingles?
Morgan fished in her bag and brought out a tissue. Maybe her problems weren’t so bad.
She moved up the seating and sat next to the lady in red. “Excuse me,” she said. “Would this help?”
Mrs Claus—who couldn’t be over 25—brought her gaze up to meet Morgan’s. She spotted the tissue, took it, then burst into tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered, blowing her nose.
“It’s been a rough day all round.”
Mrs Claus nodded, then let out a hiccup. “You have no idea.”
“Try me.” Morgan had just about exhausted all transport avenues. She was very much up for some distraction. Mrs Claus was just that.
“My arsehole girlfriend stood me up, and then broke up with me by text.”
Ouch. That had to hurt. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We were meant to do a festive flash mob at the airport for a project we’re doing at university. Hence the costume. Me, her and ten others. Only, the rest of them couldn’t get here because of the snow, and then she messaged me saying she was having second thoughts and that we should break up. She’s already got on a bus to go back to Manchester. I just can’t believe it.” She leaned forward, then put her head in her hands.
Mrs Claus was a lesbian. Or at least, a woman who liked women. That put a smile on Morgan’s face. This was something she could help with. She was good at relationships. She was a queer communications professional.
“Mrs Claus,” Morgan started.
“Call me Imogen,” Mrs Claus mumbled into her hands. Then she unfurled herself and sat up with a sigh.
“Imogen Claus, I like it.”
A smile ghosted across Imogen’s face.
“Are you at university in Manchester?” It seemed an awfully long way to come if so.
“No. We go to Glasgow. I’m from here, but she was going home to Manchester for Christmas later today. She moved her bus time.”
“How come you’re here if all your friends couldn’t make it because of the snow?”
“I’ve got a car, and they haven’t. Plus, I’m more reliable. I turn up for shit, you know? That was one of my girlfriend’s gripes about me. She said I was too rigid. Not spontaneous. But I think being organised and reliable are good qualities.”
Morgan sat up. Damn it, this girl sounded like a young her. She wanted to help.
Plus, Imogen had a car.
“Being reliable is an exceptional quality, and one your ex will see in time is something to celebrate.” She waved a hand up and down Imogen’s outfit. “I bet this didn’t happen last minute, did it?”
