Driving Home for Christmas

by Joanna Bolouri

Genres: Romantic Comedy; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

THREE CHRISTMASES. TWO BROKEN HEARTS. ONE HELL OF A JOURNEY.

'Festive, feel-good and funny, a proper Christmas cracker of a read' LAURA KEMP

Driving home marks the start of the holidays for Kate and Ed, who have made this journey every Christmas of their ten-year long relationship. Normally the seasonal hits blare from the car stereo, and they are guaranteed to be wearing ridiculous jumpers in anticipation, but this year a frosty silence fills the car...

A massive argument leads to the immediate collapse of their relationship. But the show must go on, so they decide to brave their families together one last time.

With three Christmases to celebrate, an old flame waiting under the mistletoe and a shed load of expectation around their future together, this most wonderful time of year is anything but. There will be turkey, tiffs and tantrums galore, but it's sure to be a Christmas they'll never forget.

'Warm, witty and deeply moving . . . a real festive treat' CLODAGH MURPHY

A hilarious and heartfelt seasonal romance from the author of All I Want for Christmas. Perfect for fans of Sophie Cousens and Lucy Vine.

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HEAR WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT DRIVING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

'Had me laughing out loud . . . entertaining, full of heart and hope' 5* Reader Review

'Such a beautiful book' 5* Reader Review

'I loved everything about this book' 5* Reader Review

'I gobbled up this book in one sitting . . . funny and heartfelt' 5* Reader Review

Release date: October 1, 2022

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Ed

I’m sorry! Five more minutes, I promise! xx

Five more minutes. She said that ten minutes ago.

In fact, she first said it forty-­five minutes ago when I still had some feeling left in my fingers and couldn’t see my own breath every time I sighed with exasperation. She also told me she’d absolutely, definitely, one million per cent be ready to leave work at six-­thirty to make the drive to my parents’ house, and yet here I am at seven-­thirty – alone in my freezing car, with the engine turned off so I don’t drain the battery.

I glare up at the office block, towards Kate’s window on the fifth floor, hoping a stern look might somehow motivate her to leave sooner. God, this building is depressing. It looks like a Victorian workhouse with walls of intimidating, uninspiring brown brick and windows all separated into smaller glass sections, resembling prison bars, even with the tasteful Christmas decorations outlining each frame. The whole ghastly structure surrounds a private one-­hour-­a-­day-­of-­exercise-­like courtyard which is now a private car park for brand-­new-­Mercedes-­owning staff only and not their disgruntled boyfriends who drive 2012 Volkswagen Golfs. Unlike the contemporary, shiny, glass buildings popping up all over London, this one is considerably less modern . . . bleak, even. Kate doesn’t share my views. That’s not entirely unfamiliar these days.

I’m given a momentary burst of optimism as I see someone peer out of the window, and hope to glimpse a flash of her red hair, but although Kate’s been up there long enough to grow a beard, I’m guessing it’s not her. Come to think of it, I’m not even certain that is her window; she’s worked at Parish Scott Taylor for three years, but I’ve never actually set foot inside her office. Lately, I get the feeling Kate wishes she hadn’t either.

‘They’re just so bloody . . . agghh! These people! These rich, privileged arseholes trying to nit-­pick over every tiny detail of their divorce because god forbid their soon-­to-­be ex-­spouse gets custody of the integrated dishwasher or the silver corn-­on-­the-­cob forks. I mean, who the fuck even owns corn-­on-­the-­cob forks? Arseholes, that’s who.’

My attention turns from the bushy-­faced man towards the end of the road, where the streets are packed with people who keep normal working hours, heading to places which are undoubtedly warmer than this bloody car. We’re pretty close to Camden and right now I’d give anything to be sat in the Blues Kitchen with some St Louis ribs and a beer, instead of contemplating what pre-­packed sandwich meal deal I’ll get when we inevitably stop at motorway services because Kate will have been mainlining coffee all day.

A loud, sharp rap on the passenger window nearly gives me a heart attack.

‘Open up, it’s freezing out here!’

I lean across and unlock the door, as a flustered-­looking Kate climbs into the passenger seat.

‘God, I’m so sorry, honey!’ she exclaims, throwing her work bag into the back seat. ‘I got stuck with a client that Baroness Botox decided would be more comfortable with me instead of Julian because we come from the same part of the world. But we don’t. Well, not unless Newcastle has suddenly become part of the Peak District, and no one’s told me.’

Her freckled face is flushed as she kicks off her shoes and throws them into the back to join her work bag. I can’t imagine what it’s like having to walk around in those all day. Like trying to balance on very small, pointy stilts.

She leans back into her seat and sighs as I turn on the engine. ‘It’s colder in here than it is outside,’ she remarks. ‘You should have kept the car running.’

‘For an hour?’ I reply frowning. ‘You know how temperamental Kiki is. She’d have lost the will to live before we hit the motorway.’

‘Well, I did suggest taking my Mini,’ she replies, her eyes darting upwards in disapproval. She finds car naming ridiculous. ‘I just had it serviced last week.’

‘Yes, but it also has the boot capacity of a pencil case,’ I respond, fiddling with the heater control. ‘You’d be lucky to get two overnight bags in there, never mind the mountains of gifts you’ve bought for—’

‘Let’s just go, shall we? We’re late as it is.’

I bite my tongue as I put on my seatbelt, indicate and move off. I know she’s stressed at work right now but honestly, sometimes she can be a complete pain in the—

‘Ed! Watch out!’

I slam on the brakes as a cyclist appears from nowhere, narrowly missing my car. Mouthing obscenities at me, he rides off, while I give him a commonly recognised one-­fingered gesture.

‘Didn’t you see him? Bloody hell, Ed, be more careful.’

‘Me?’ I reply, in astonishment. ‘That was his fault. It’s a one-­way street.’

I exhale loudly and pull away again, just as a fox decides to dart across the road in front of us, disappearing into the nearby public square garden.

‘For the love of god!’ I exclaim. ‘I’m going to have a heart attack before we even get to the end of the street.’

Kate laughs and puts her hand on my knee, which soothes me a little. ‘Third time lucky?’ she asks.

I nod and move off again, checking every blind spot twice. Part of me wants to get out and check the sky for rogue parachuters.

‘All good with directions?’ Kate asks, as we reach the end of the road in one piece. I nod, pointing to my iPhone in the storage compartment beside me. While Kate’s Mini has a touchscreen display with a built-­in satnav, and as much as she relies on it, I do not need a robotic voice directing me on a journey to the Peaks that I’ve done more times than I can count.

As we head down Euston Road, I hear Kate tut at her phone, her thumbs typing at warp speed.

‘You’re not still working, are you?’ I ask, as we pull up behind a line of traffic. ‘I thought we agreed to take Christmas off?’

‘We did,’ she replies, not lifting her gaze. ‘I just need to reply to a couple of emails and then I’ll be finished . . . and maybe one phone call, but I can do that at services when we stop.’

I sigh and turn on the radio, knowing that a couple of emails means we’re pretty much going to spend the journey in silence, while she batters through her inbox. At least the car is beginning to warm up again.

‘Remember you still have a chance to win ten thousand pounds for Christmas here at Heart FM where we play the biggest hits all day every day.’

‘God, remember this?’ I exclaim, as ‘Step into Christmas’ begins to play. In year 11, Hope Valley High School held a Christmas hoedown (for reasons no one fully understood) and Kate and I were thrown together as partners. For two weeks beforehand, instead of PE, the teachers made us learn several cringe-­inducing line dances and it was truly one of the most excruciating fortnights of my life. However, this song reminds me of more than just the awkwardness of youth (and the fact that I can still do a mean grapevine); it reminds me of the first time I asked Kate out. In the middle of the gym hall, me wearing a pair of second-­hand cowboy boots and ill-­fitting jeans, and she still said yes.

My mental lasso dancing is rudely interrupted when Kate sighs loudly and switches off the radio. ‘I can’t concentrate with that bloody song playing.’

‘Jeez, grumpy are we, Ebeneezer?’ I reply, somewhat hurt that she doesn’t remember the significance of this Christmas masterpiece. ‘Just trying to get us into the Christmas spirit.’

‘Sorry,’ she replies. ‘I’m just not in the mood for festive songs yet . . . and I swear, if you play that version of Slade’s “Merry Xmas Everybody” where that Scottish guy just repeats the “hanging up your stocking” line over and over for the entire song, I will kill you.’

‘But it’s really funny . . .’ I begin, letting my words trail off when I realise she’s not even listening, her thumbs continuing to tap at speed. I stare straight ahead in silence, determined to get her to unwind, even if she does indeed kill me. Never mind, I think. In a few hours we’ll be at my parents’ house, drinking mulled wine and—

‘Wait, why are you going this way?’ she asks, momentarily looking away from her phone.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, confused by the deep frown lines which have now taken over her forehead. ‘This is the way we always go.’

She points to the road ahead. ‘It’s completely gridlocked, Ed. Which GPS are you using? We should be able to get around this, surely. I mean, is it even switched on? I haven’t heard any voice commands.’

‘Um, I must have it on mute or something. I’ll sort it when we stop.’

Bugger. I was hoping to avoid this. Before I can say anything else, Kate grabs my phone and turns on the screen.

‘Are you kidding me, Ed?’ she says, scrolling through my open tabs. ‘You have three map apps on this phone, and you haven’t even opened one of them!’

‘I don’t need to,’ I inform her. ‘I know this journey like the back of my hand.’

‘Does the back of your hand also give you real-­time traffic updates?’ she replies, tossing my phone into the cupholder. ‘We could have avoided all this if you’d just used Waze . . . or Google Maps. Christ, even Apple maps is better than nothing!’

‘It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway,’ I insist, driving approximately three feet forwards. ‘No GPS is going to magically part the fucking traffic like Moses.’

‘It’s two days before Christmas. Everyone’s heading out of London. You should have gone via the M40. You don’t need a satnav to tell you that.’

‘I don’t need a satnav to tell me anything, Kate!’ I exclaim, my festive glow beginning to dampen. ‘I could do this journey with my eyes closed.’

‘Of course, you could – we’re not bloody moving!’

‘Look, I’m sorry you’ve had a shitty day, but don’t take it out on me. If you’d actually been on time we might have—’

She drops her phone on her lap. ‘Well, excuse me for taking my job seriously, Ed,’ she snipes. ‘Heaven forbid someone in this relationship has some ambition.’

‘Well, that was uncalled for,’ I say, continuing to creep forwards a whole two inches. ‘And what the hell do you even mean by that? I’m a teacher – that’s hardly unambitious. I don’t understand you sometimes.’

‘Exactly. How can you possibly understand my situation if you’ve never cared about being successful?’

‘Our definitions of success are obviously very different,’ I reply coldly. ‘And, for the record, I find it bizarre that you would keep yourself in a job you hate, surrounded by people you dislike, just to earn a bit extra.’

‘A bit extra? You mean the bit that pays for most of the rent? That bit?’

‘Fucking hell, not everything is about money, Kate!’ I exclaim, tempted to stop the virtually stationary car and get out. ‘Yes, you earn more than me but at least I’m happy. You used to be happy, remember?’

‘Barely,’ she mumbles.

‘And once upon a time you had your heart set on Human Rights Law so you could make a difference. All that humanity suddenly vanished when they added an extra zero to your salary, didn’t it?’

‘Well, I remember when you wanted to perform music, not teach it. You have so much talent in composing, songwriting, singing. But noooo, as usual, anything that requires you to take yourself out of your little bubble isn’t worth the effort.’

We sit and seethe in silence. What a fucking start to Christmas this is. I turn on my Apple music and click on the playlist I’ve spent ages compiling for the journey – Merry Bopmas. As the harmonium kicks in and the bassline descends, I instantly regret making the first track that version of Slade’s ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ where that Scottish guy just repeats the ‘hanging-­up-­your-­stocking’ line over and over.

‘Fucking hell, Ed are you just trying to piss me off?’

I quickly skip it. ‘No, I’m not, Kate. I put it on there before I knew you’d be homicidal for the entire journey. I don’t get it. You laughed at that song the first time you heard it. What the hell happened?’

She throws her hands in the air. ‘I laughed at SpongeBob SquarePants as a kid. Does that mean I still have to laugh at it now? People change, Ed.’

‘Well, I haven’t changed,’ I reply, omitting the fact that I still laugh at SpongeBob. ‘I’m still the same person you met fifteen years ago.’

‘Exactly!’ she yells. ‘Maybe that’s the problem. People are supposed to change. We are supposed to evolve.’

‘So I’m the problem?’ I say, laughing in disbelief. ‘Wow. OK. Nothing to do with your unwillingness to actually put some effort into this relationship.’

‘What, because I don’t want to be married with five kids by the time I’m thirty?’ she asks. ‘I know you were an only child, Ed, but that doesn’t mean my womb is going to give you a basketball team to make up for it.’

‘Oh, silly me,’ I reply. ‘How stupid of me to assume that we were planning for the future like a normal couple. You know, building a life together and—’

‘You’re building a life that I don’t want!’

My blood finally boils. ‘Oh, fuck you.’

I see her lip tremble, but she stares straight ahead. ‘I think we should take a break. This isn’t working anymore.’

I nod. ‘At last, something we agree on.’

As she turns to face me, the traffic finally starts to move.

Kate

In 2014, singer Tara Mitchell left the hugely successful girl group Hype to start a family with her famous premiership footballer husband, Andrew Brown. Two children, a TV panel chat show, countless magazine deals and a very public affair later, Tara Mitchell-­Brown opted to divorce Andrew and take advantage of our firm’s notoriously ruthless reputation in order to, and I quote, ‘take the cheating, lying wazzock for everything he’s got’.

While managing partner, Harriet Parish, was delighted to have Tara (and her forthcoming settlement) as a client, she was less delighted to be dealing directly with someone with a strong Geordie accent who openly supports the Labour Party.

‘She’s from your neck of the woods, Kate – I’m sure you’ll be able to offer her excellent representation. I think Julian is perhaps a little too public school for this one. They wouldn’t click. You’ve made quite a name for yourself, dealing with these reality-­TV-­personality types – keep it up.’

About a year after I joined the family law department at Parish Scott Taylor, I began to realise that I wasn’t hired solely on merit. A department which normally represented high-­ranking politicians, bankers and CEOs quickly understood that the rise in popularity of influencers, WAGS, content creators and social media stars, was a highly lucrative market to tap into. Even five minutes of fame could be turned into a brand, making millions from deals, endorsements, merchandise and public appearances. They were young, rich and (fortunately for our firm) tended to get married rather impulsively. But, unlike the majority of our clients, they were, well . . . normal people. Normal people who didn’t own Fortune 500 companies, or sit on the front benches in parliament, or continue to give themselves fat bonuses at the end of a poor financial year. They were relatable. Likeable. They had regional accents and a state-­school education and were smart enough not to squander an opportunity, working their backsides off to have a better life. Which is why I was hired. These people were me.

I still get drafted in to work on the occasional mega-­bucks marriage dissolution, where the list of assets reads like a Harrods brochure, but over the past six months, I’ve dealt with a YouTube creator with over 26 million followers, a reality-­TV star with a fitness empire and (my favourite) a MasterChef contestant with a lucrative TV and book deal, who divorced a property tycoon, then anonymously donated her settlement to a children’s hospital because she was determined that something good should come out of this shitshow.

Ed just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand why I work so hard in a job which makes me unhappy. Why I chose this over human rights – undoubtedly, a far more noble pursuit. I tell him that I took this job in family law because my mother was left with nothing after my father divorced her. Not that he had much, but nothing was in her name. Not even her car which he loaded up with her things and took. I tell him I work hard to make sure everyone is treated fairly, especially the children, and while this is true, it isn’t the whole story. I do have another motive but it’s one which I’m ashamed to admit, even though I feel it in my bones. I choose to work in this environment because I’m surrounded by people who haven’t settled for a mediocre life, and I’m scared to death that I might wake up one day and realise that’s exactly what I have.

When we pull up at Welcome Break motorway services, Ed and I haven’t spoken for forty minutes. He breaks this silence momentarily to ask if I want anything to eat but I shake my head, the lump in my throat preventing me from saying anything at all.

‘See you back here, then,’ he mumbles, taking the keys out of the ignition.

I grab my bag and make my way to the bathrooms, desperately trying to get into a cubicle before I begin to cry.

I use the toilet, wash my hands, then take a moment to compose myself, hoping my face isn’t actually as red as the fluorescent lighting in here suggests. Christ, I look a mess. Nothing li. . .