“I’m not sure how popular that’ll be as a fundraiser,” I say, getting to my feet.

“Well, it’s easier than a marathon,” says Alex.

“You say that—” I break off and peer out of the glass doors as a flash of red catches my eye. “Wait a minute. What on earth is that?”

The flash of red has turned into a streak. It’s red and white. A cluster of red and white…I stare disbelievingly. Are those Santa hats?

“What the hell—” Alex has followed my gaze and breaks into amazed laughter. “What is that?”

We give each other a brief look, then simultaneously make for the door. Alex swipes us out with his card and we both hurry into the crisp evening, gasping like kids at the sight before us.

About two hundred Santas on bikes are filling the street. Some are flashing red and white lights, some are tooting horns, and from somewhere is blasting Mariah Carey. It’s like a great big traveling Santa party.

“This is insane,” says Alex, still laughing.

“Join in!” calls a guy in a Santa hat, seeing us gawping. “Collect a bike and a hat! Join in!” He beckons invitingly. “Don’t be scared, be a Santa!” Alex and I stare at him, then at each other again.

“Come on,” says Alex, and we dash across the road to where people are collecting bikes from the hire point opposite.

“Twenty pounds to ride, Santa hat included,” a girl is shouting, waving a bucket at all the onlookers. “Join in! All for Great Ormond Street Hospital!”

“We have to do this,” says Alex. “Why would we not put on Santa hats and ride bikes round London? Are you free?” He meets my eyes, and again I feel a little fillip in my stomach.

“Yes, I’m free. Let’s do it!” I can’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of it. All around us, people are joining the Santa throng and singing along to Mariah. I see a pair of Santas riding a tandem, and one guy has pitched up on a penny-farthing.

This is why I moved to London, I find myself thinking, with a swell of glee. This is it.

“I’m paying for both of us,” adds Alex firmly. “I haven’t done enough for charity recently, and your altruism shames me.” He puts a fifty-pound note into the bucket before I can stop him and collects a bike, which he passes to me.

“Here’s your Santa hat.” The girl with the bucket holds out a hat with a light-up bobble and pops it on my head. I wheel my bike into place and look over at Alex, who’s wearing a light-up hat too. Stars are flashing all around the white rim of his, making him look endearingly angelic.

“Thanks,” I say, nodding my head at the bucket. “You shouldn’t have, but thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.” He smiles disarmingly.

I want to say something else—something witty—but there’s no time, because we’re moving. It’s ages since I’ve ridden a bike, but my feet find the rhythm instantly, and we’re off, down the road, a mass of pedaling Santas, with music and laughter fueling us along our way.

—

It’s one of the most magical nights of my life. We cycle from Chiswick to Hammersmith, then Kensington High Street, still full of shoppers, and past the Albert Hall. Then Knightsbridge, where Harrods is all lit up like fairyland and the shops are full of Christmas displays. We go along Piccadilly and up and down Regent Street, and I crane my neck to look at the dazzling festive lights overhead.

The evening air is rushing against my cheeks as I pedal. There are red-and-white Santa hats everywhere in my vision. I can hear the jingle of bike bells and tooting of car horns acknowledging us and the Santa cyclists roaring familiar Christmas songs over the sound system. I’ve never felt so invigorated. They’re playing that song about it being “Christmas every day”—well, I wish it could be this moment every day. Cycling through Piccadilly Circus. Waving at passersby. Feeling like a Londoner. And looking over, every so often, to smile at Alex. There hasn’t really been much chance to chat, but he’s always within ten yards of me, and I know when I look back I won’t remember, “I cycled with the Santas,” I’ll remember, “We cycled with the Santas.”

At Leicester Square we stop for hot chocolate provided by a coffee-shop chain. As I’m collecting two cups, Alex comes over, wheeling his bike, a broad grin on his face.

“Hi!” I say, and hand him one. “Isn’t it great?”

“Best way to travel,” he says emphatically, and takes a sip. “This is the end of the official route, apparently. We all split up and go our different ways; drop our bikes off wherever we like. I’m meeting someone for a drink now, anyway.” He glances at his watch. “In fact, I’m late.”

“Oh, right,” I say, trying not to feel crestfallen. I’d kind of thought…hoped we might go on….

But that was stupid. Of course he’s meeting someone for a drink. He’s a successful guy in London with a social life.

“I just need to text…them,” he says absently, tapping at his phone. “Now, what about you? Where are you headed?”

“I’m going home to Catford. There’s a drop-off point at Waterloo.” I force myself back into practicality. “I’ll head there, then I can catch the train.”

“You’ll be OK?”

“Fine!” I say brightly. “And thanks again. That was fantastic.” I put my hot chocolate down on the stand. (It’s lukewarm and not very nice, in fact.) “I’ll be off, then. See you in the office.”

“Sure.” A thought seems to hit Alex. “Oh no. You won’t. I’m going to Copenhagen first thing.”

“Copenhagen.” I wrinkle my brow. “Demeter’s going there too. A design conference, isn’t it?”

“Exactly.” He nods. “But I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”

“It was amazing, wasn’t it?” I can’t help saying in a rush.

“Amazing.” He nods again, smiling, and we meet eyes. And the appropriate level of eye contact right now seems to be: full.

For an instant, neither of us speaks. I’m not even sure I can breathe. Then Alex lifts his hand in a kind of salute and I turn my bike to go. I could probably prolong the conversation a little longer, chitchat about the bikes or whatever…but I want to leave while the evening is still perfect.

And then rewind and play it in my head, all the way home.


Life has a dreamy quality at the moment. Good-dreamy and bad-dreamy. The cycling Santas…Alex smiling at me as we pedaled along…going to Portobello with Flora later today—that’s all good-dreamy. The office Christmas party is on Monday night and I keep imagining bumping into Alex in my little black dress. Chatting…laughing…he puts a careless hand on my arm when no one’s looking…we go on for a drink…back to his place…