Page 7 of Make You Mine This Christmas

Shrieking with glee, Haf peppers their arm with gentle excited punches. Ambrose has been low-key in love with Paco, the beautiful Brazilian postdoc from the education department, for months. Haf had clocked it was serious because Ambrose had mentioned his name in entirely positive contexts on three separate occasions, which for them was like gushing with praise.

‘Is that who invited us?’

‘Perhaps,’ they say, raising their eyebrows.

‘Aww, you brought me for emotional backup, didn’t you?’

‘No, I didn’t. Shut up, I hate you,’ they say, pouting.

Haf pulls them into a hug.

‘Are you going to be all right here alone?’

‘Of course. I’ve got my new tall friend, and if I get bored, I’ll grab a taxi home.’

Ambrose thinks this over for a second and seems to decide they’ve been contrite for just long enough. Instead, they reach past Haf to a tote bag hanging from the back of a chair and bring out a nice bottle of Prosecco, a good two or three price levels up from what Haf usually drinks. They hold it out to her, an offering.

‘Wow, thanks. Don’t you want this?’

‘No, it’s to make up for being sneaky.’

‘I’ll allow it. Go have fun. Be safe. Text me,’ Haf says, kissing them on the cheek. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you too.’ Ambrose slinks off.

Armed with the bottle of Prosecco and G&T tinnies stuffed into every pocket, Haf decides to take the glasses Ambrose washed up with her, just in case they decide to be fancy enough to not swig it straight from the bottle.

As she heads out the back door, she spies the tote bag still slung over the back of the chair. It has a university logo on it, and she realises two things at once: one, Ambrose would not be caught dead using university promotional merchandise so this is definitely not theirs, and two, that means they forfeited a bottle they had obviously earmarked to steal for themselves. She’s touched.

The cold air is refreshing after the thick heat of the tiny house, though Haf hopes the combined power of the lamps and her jacket are enough to prevent her boobs from icing over. It smells like snow, she thinks, and then questions whether a Christmas alone with more mid-noughties television is actually good for her.

Her new friend stands by the firepit warming his hands. The plate of food sits on a garden table between two chairs.

‘Sorry about that. Was just saying goodbye to my friend,’ she says, handing over his coat.

‘Bloody hell,’ he says at the sudden weight of it. ‘It appears my jacket is full of cans.’

‘That it is,’ she says. ‘Also got something a bit nicer for after, if we can stand the cold.’

She sets down the glasses and Prosecco on the floor, just out of accidental-kick range.

They each take a seat, basking in the heat from the fire.

He takes a couple of gin and tonics out from his pockets and hands her one. The drinks fizz as they pop them open, and he takes a sip.

‘You get first dibs by the way,’ she says, motioning the plate of food. ‘Seeing as you did all the hard work.’

‘Don’t undersell your contribution. The curation was very important, especially the ad hoc artwork built into it. Very nice,’ he says and pops a whole mini Scotch egg into his mouth.

Haf takes a slice of bread and dips it into the big scoop of melted Camembert. A whole roasted garlic clove peeks out from the top, which she scrapes up onto the bread with a finger. It’s sweet and so strong on her tongue.

‘So, my mystery friend, what brings you here?’ says Haf, licking a trail of melted cheese off her thumb.

‘To York, or this garden specifically?’

‘Both.’

‘I went to school with Sally.’