Page 31 of Merry & Bright

He still felt lonely.

It was ironic, really. When he’d worked in the City, he used to complain about how ruthless it was, but now he sort of missed it, or at least the familiarity of it. He couldn’t adapt to his new environment at all. Oh, he smiled and chatted and gave every sign of fitting in, but the truth was that he didn’t know how to react when his colleagues offered to help him out with his workload or even fetch him a coffee from the kitchen. And whenever Nick Foster turned up at the office and started quizzing him about his cases, Sam felt on edge. He was sure Nick was reporting back to Mike about their conversations...

...Aaaand there he went again, just when he’d vowed not to follow that toxic, insidious train of thought any more.

Sam determinedly turned his attention back to his wardrobe and pulled out the crazy collge shirt. In his heart of hearts, he knew it was too fancy for tonight, but in a fit of defiance he pulled it on.

Having made that momentous decision, he warmed a dab of his favourite, absurdly expensive hair wax between his palms—it cost a small fortune for the tiniest tub but was worth it for the gorgeous smell—and worked it through his dark blond hair to create a slightly more extreme version of the artfully mussed style he wore to the office.

When he was finished, he assessed his appearance with a critical eye. He looked good. He had a decent body and a nice face. Sometimes he worried that his undoubted prettiness lacked character; that it would fade into something bland and indistinct later in life, but for now, tonight, he was pleased. And the hair definitely looked good.

For a moment, he felt almost happy. Till he was struck by a sudden memory of getting ready for the Hendrick Blackstone party last year. With Gareth. They’d been seeing each other for a while at that point—were even talking about moving in together since they’d both be working in the City. Everything had been so rosy, so promising. He remembered looking in the mirror that night too, Gareth standing behind him, fixing his bow tie while Sam grinned at him. Gareth’s big, warm body pressed against the whole length of Sam’s as his nimble hands worked.

God, that tux. It had cost Sam a fortune. Gareth had encouraged him to buy one of his own instead of renting, and it hadn’t sounded like a bad idea—after all, in their line of work, black-tie events came up all the time. And wasn’t that hilarious now? That tux was zipped up in its garment bag at the back of his wardrobe, and if Sam had cause to wear it again in the next five years, he’d be doing well.

Swallowing hard, Sam turned away from the mirror and reached for his jacket. He yanked it on, shoving keys and wallet in the pockets, and crossed the room to look out the window. The sky was clear, the moon very bright, the stars needlepoint sharp. It looked cold, cold enough to snow in fact, so he turned back to his wardrobe to unearth a scarf and a beanie hat. No sense freezing. He couldn’t quite bring himself to don the hat though, not with his hair looking so fabulous. Instead, he tucked it into his pocket for later and headed out.

He was locking up the flat when he realised he’d forgotten his Secret Santa gift and had to head back inside to fetch it.

“Secret bloody Santa,” he grumbled under his breath as he stalked back into the kitchen.

No one at Hendrick Blackstone ever did anything so tacky as Secret Santa. Rupert, his old boss, used to give everyone on the team a generous gift voucher for Harvey Nichols, and all the fee-earners were expected to buy their secretaries something half-decent. Christmas was expensive, rewarding, and very hierarchical at Hendrick Blackstone.

Not so at M&H. Apparently Secret Santa was a long-standing tradition here. When Sam had got the email last week outlining the rules—that everyone was to buy a gift for no more than a tenner, and they’d be handed out at the party—he’d been struck by the stark contrast with his old life.

Sam had pulled Paul the Cashier’s name out of the box Monica had shaken under his nose, and since Paul didn’t appear to have any hobbies or interests, he’d struggled to come up with anything decent. In the end, he’d blown his tenner budget, spending sixteen quid on a bottle of basic-looking champagne and another three quid on a gift bag to hold it. Oh well, at least he wouldn’t have to feel like a cheap bastard when it was handed out. In fact, Sam thought, he wouldn’t mind getting a present like that himself. At least he could drown his sorrows in front of the telly when the party was over.

With that thought, he grabbed the champagne in its tasteful gold gift bag from his kitchen table and set off once again.

***

THE NIGHT WAS STARTINGoff in the Beehive pub. “Anytime from four” the email had said, which meant, Sam realised as he drew close, that by the time he arrived, some of his colleagues would have been drinking for several hours already.

Oh joy.

As he turned the corner onto Newbridge Lane, the raucous sounds of a pub full of Christmas partygoers assaulted his ears, yells and laughter and terrible singing leaking out the windows to bounce off the lane’s rain-slick cobbles.

The nearer Sam got, the more he wished he’d had a drink back at the flat to loosen up. The bored-looking security guy lounging in the doorway watched him approach with an impassive expression, ignoring Sam’s greeting as he opened the door to let him enter.

Sam stepped inside and began making his way through the dense crowd in search of a familiar face, squeezing past tipsy groups of office workers and a pack of fortysomethings chorusing along to “Last Christmas” with feeling.

“Hey, Sammy!”

He turned his head at the sound of his name. Penny, his secretary, was standing with some other M&H admin staff. Penny was divorced—a fact that worked its way into every conversation—a bit too tanned and very blond. She wore a lot of make-up, very short skirts, and had an inexhaustible supply of double entendres. Sam found her vaguely alarming, and never more so than now, as she wove her way towards him, waving a sprig of plastic mistletoe at him, a floppy Santa hat drooping over one heavily made-up eye.

“Hey, Penny,” he said, when she reached him. “Um, Merry Christmas. Can I get you a—”

He didn’t manage to complete the sentence. Penny tossed the mistletoe aside, threw both arms round his neck and plastered her mouth against his. Sam staggered, bringing his arms up to steady her. Her lips were sticky with lip gloss, and she managed to slip him a little tongue before he finally extricated himself in a way that didn’t result in her falling over.

“Merry Chrishmas, Sammy,” she slurred happily, patting his cheek. “You are one gorgeous fella, you know. So well-groomed and nice. You’re my favourite fee-earner. I wish I could listen to your lovely voice in my earphones all day.”

Sam gave a strained laugh and steered her back to the rest of her group, most of whom were in fits by now, though motherly Trish gave him a sympathetic look and told them all to stop embarrassing him. Sam decided to take refuge in generosity, offering to buy a round. A couple of the women took him up on the offer, and he gratefully headed for the bustling bar.

On his way over, he ran into Monica, the frighteningly efficient office manager. He wasn’t surprised to note that her outfit was exactly the same sort of thing she’d wear in the office—a long dowdy skirt with flat sensible shoes and a cardigan that stretched to midthigh. She even wore her salt-and-pepper hair in the same slightly messy bun, though she’d added some dangly earrings, presumably in recognition that it was a party.

If it wasn’t for the huge sack of gifts at her feet, she could’ve been at work, a clipboard in her hand, a frown on her face.

“Samuel!” she barked when she saw him. “Do you have your gift?”