It Won’t be Christmas Without You. Beth Reekles

actually done it. She’d gone for the blackmail card. Guilting her twin with her own broken heart.

      (Although, judging by the myriad of catastrophic Tinder conversations Eloise was always forwarding her screenshots of, Cara was willing to bet Eloise’s heart was well on the mend.)

      Cara arched an eyebrow at her sister. “Really? You want to play dirty? Fine. How about this: I can’t afford to come home. I’m a poor graduate –”

      “Content editorial assistant,” Eloise interjected.

      “– with a space heater to keep my shitty London loft room warm because the landlord won’t fix the heating, and bugger all savings –”

      “I did tell you I don’t need a Christmas present this year. Especially one from Selfridges.”

      “Don’t be stupid – you love that Bumble and bumble stuff. Anyway, that’s not the point. I have to work. I need this promotion. People twice my age would kill for it. I’m lucky they’re such a new company and they’re willing to give me a chance like this. I’d have to work twenty years somewhere else for this kind of opportunity. If it means missing out on Dad’s bacon sarnies and stockings on Christmas morning, well, that’s fine by me.”

      Eloise gawped at her. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

      She was going to miss Christmas morning at home, she knew, but she wasn’t about to show Eloise any sign of weakness. The second her twin found a chink in her armour, she’d wear her down. And Eloise just didn’t get it. She never had. Everything was always so easy for her.

      Cara sighed, tapped her screen again to check the time. “Look, love, I’ve got to go. I need to freshen up before I go out.”

      “Is this another date with the dashing George?” Eloise’s face finally brightened up, the sullen look disappearing in an instant at the inkling of gossip. “This will be – what, your fifth date now? Where’s he taking you? Can it possibly top the couple’s cooking class he took you to? Or, no, I take that back. Date number two was my favourite. Ice skating.”

      “Ice skating was a disaster. He sprained his wrist!”

      “And you spent all night together in A&E laughing about it and getting to know each other. He said he only picked it because you said how much you like it. Although I’m still convinced he knew how bad he was going to be and only chose it as an excuse to hold your hand.”

      Cara grinned. She’d thought exactly the same thing from the second George had wobbled out onto the ice, grasping at the side and looking at her pleadingly until she’d taken his arm.

      “They’re playing White Christmas at some little cinema. We’re getting dinner – probably just a Pizza Express or something, I reckon; he’s not mentioned anything special – and then going to see the film.”

      A little of the sullen look returned, Eloise’s brow furrowing. “Sure that’s not too holly jolly for you?”

      “Right. Thank you. I’m going now.”

      “Text me and let me know how the date goes!” Eloise shouted, leaning into the camera, as if she could force herself through it and be heard even if Cara hit the red hang-up button. Cara couldn’t help but laugh at the beyond unflattering angle, giving her a great view of three chins and right up her sister’s nostrils. “And use protection!”

      “We’re not sleeping together!” Cara protested, shouting just as loud, and then blushing quickly, having forgotten her housemates for a moment. At least two of them were home: she’d heard their footsteps clattering around the house.

      “Well, excuse me. I thought you had a five-date rule.”

      Cara watched her ears turn red on the screen. “That’s a personal guideline. Not a guarantee. And it’s not like he’s one of those guys who pushes for it. It’s all totally PG right now. Which is just fine with me.”

      Eloise ignored her squirming, instead singing, “You lurve him, you want to kiss him, you want to –”

      “I’ll text you later.”

      London was pretty at Christmas, in its own way. There were no rolling hills that might get a dusting of snow, no roads lined with thick rows of trees that would droop heavy with frost. And the Tube – God, the Tube was a nightmare at the worst of times. And Oxford Street, for that matter.

      But there was something uplifting about the solidarity of the commuters and the tourists when Christmas tunes carried out of almost every pair of headphones and out of every shop front.

      She’d been giddy with it last year. Eloise had come to visit for two days before they’d got the train back home together, and they’d spent an evening doing late-night Christmas shopping, taking dozens of photos and selfies for Instagram amidst all the lights and window displays on Oxford Street.

      And it was still pretty, but this year it seemed to have lost a little of the magic.

      Maybe it was because she wasn’t going home for Christmas. Maybe it was because she and her housemates had all been too busy to sort out decorating the house. Maybe it was because she’d not even watched Love Actually yet.

      Or maybe Eloise was right. Maybe she was turning into Scrooge.

      Although she was sure Scrooge wouldn’t have minded a free glass of prosecco on a Christmas voucher offer at Prezzo. She grinned at George as they clinked glasses over their pizzas.

      (And damn if he didn’t have the cutest smile. Those dimples would make anybody swoon.)

      He worked in finance, for some big firm she’d seen at all the career fairs at uni. He was two years older than her, and she’d met him through one of her housemates. (So old school, Eloise had joked, promptly regaling her sister with another story of a disastrous date with some guy she’d met through Facebook.)

      They’d been seeing each other, for want of a better term, for the past month. They both worked a lot, totally threw themselves into their jobs and loved it, and they both understood when the other wanted to postpone a date to just catch up on some sleep. Or stay late at the office.

      Maybe they were a perfect match.

      She never really thought of herself as a hopeless romantic, but Cara really wanted that to be the case. She’d never met anyone who made her believe in the concept of Mr Right until she’d met George.

      There was that guy she’d dated briefly for three months in the spring. She’d known him from school and seen online he was working in the city, and they’d chatted online for a while before agreeing to meet. He hadn’t been able to handle her working so much, and Cara had shrugged him off like a cold. She didn’t need that kind of negativity around her.

      But George – George was sweet. George used online voucher codes to nab them discounted pizza and free prosecco, a bargain-hunter after her own heart. George was clean-shaven with sweeping, always-immaculate blond hair, and she’d yet to see him without his Barbour jacket. He was the kind of guy she’d like to take home to her parents. (At some point. Maybe after date number eleven. If she ever had a weekend where she wasn’t so exhausted or busy she could go back home to visit.)

      And he was beyond easy to talk to. There was always something to talk about with him. And he was funny.

      It was almost a shame she wasn’t going home for Christmas. Maybe she’d have asked him to come visit, so she could introduce him to her parents.

      Calm down, idiot, she told herself, getting carried away with her daydreams as George told her about his office’s upcoming Christmas party, reliving anecdotes from last year’s. You’ve gone on five dates with the guy, counting this one. And texting him every day doesn’t really count. You don’t even know if he sees you as his girlfriend yet.

      Eloise would’ve called her a cotton-headed ninny-muggins.

      But then,