Christmas Cheer

Every Christmas Eve, she and I meet in the same place.

A tradition we never break. Not for travel plans, not for holidays and not even for heartbreaks. Noon, Christmas Eve, The Wolseley and the light slanting through tall arched windows with the chandeliers glittering like frost caught midair.

She arrived first, as she always does with her coat the colour of winter roses and her cheeks pink from the December cold. I slid into the seat across from her and we laughed without needing a reason. That’s what old friends do: we return to each other like memory.

Brunch was the usual affair:

Champagne, poured slowly.

Eggs we never quite finish.

Stories told in half-whispers, just loud enough to feel delicious.

And of course…. HE came up.

He always does.

The man who had circled our orbit for years.

Warm, charming and a touch too observant.

Someone who never asked for too much, but always… noticed.

He had tried, once or twice, to catch us together.

Timing was never kind.

But this year, he had found his excuse, wrapped apparently in Christmas cheer.

“I’m in Mayfair doing some last-minute shopping,” he had messaged.

“I’ll be at The Connaught. If the two of you happen to be nearby…”

We both knew it wasn’t last-minute shopping.

And we both knew we would go.

Snow had begun to fall when we stepped back outside, soft flakes settling into our hair. The city felt quieter than usual, the streets glowing in that gentle London winter way.

The Connaught was dressed for Christmas with garlands and ribbon and the scent of pine and wood polish. We took the lift to the top floor, exchanging that familiar look which was excitement wrapped in mischief.

He opened the door before we knocked.

He looked… nervous.

Which was endearing.

Men like him are rarely nervous.

The suite was softly lit, afternoon fading into early evening. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket, already beading with delicate droplets. The windows looked out over the city, the rooftops dusted in snow.

He didn’t rush toward us.

He didn’t need to.

Instead, he slowly smiled, a little disbelieving that we were really there together.

There is a kind of intimacy in familiarity. A closeness earned, not claimed.

We talked first, the three of us, standing close enough that our laughter overlapped. Stories flowed. Champagne was poured. The room grew warmer.

My friend Cath leaned back against the arm of the sofa, crossing her legs with that effortless grace only she has. He watched her. He watched me. And then he looked at both of us in a way that felt like the room itself held its breath.

No one said what was happening.

No one had to.

Some moments do not need naming.

Outside, the snow continued its slow descent, settling on the city like a promise.

Inside, the three of us shared something that had been years in the making.

Two women who already knew each other by heart.

A man who had waited long enough to earn the moment.

A Christmas Eve full of cheer that would not be forgotten.

And perhaps the sweetest part of all:

It felt inevitable.