What are you doing here, Elle? I ask myself as I gaze out over the River Thames. It’s not like you’re actually going to do anything, is it?
Sitting on one of the wooden benches that line this part of the Embankment, to my right I can see Cleopatra’s Needle and the London Eye. Behind me, not too far away, is Covent Garden and Trafalgar Square, and to my left is Waterloo Bridge.
So much history, I think, looking around me. So many people must have either stood or sat here over the years, the centuries, even, looking out over this river just like I am. Perhaps some of them felt even worse than I do right now.
I glance back at Waterloo Bridge again. There are so many bridges that span the length of the Thames, but I chose to sit next to this particular one today because I once read something about desperate people jumping off it when they could see no other solution to their problems. I also read about the brave passers-by that would stop and attempt to talk the distressed down when they were about to jump.
Don’t be daft, Elle. You’re not brave enough to be either of those people – the jumper or the saviour! If you were, you’d not be sitting here now wallowing in the miserable quagmire called your life.
My problems really weren’t so bad that I should ever be contemplating jumping from a bridge into the freezing cold Thames. You’ve just had a run of bad luck lately, that’s all, I tell myself sternly. You simply have to find a way out of this deep dark hole you’re currently trapped at the bottom of – and fast.
But right now, there was no one dangling a rope, or a ladder, or anything useful that was going to help me to escape from my deep, dark pit of despair.
‘May I sit here?’
I look up to see a smartly dressed city gent gesturing towards my bench with his folded black umbrella. He’s wearing an expensive suit that looks like it was probably tailored for him in Savile Row, and, very unusually these days, a black bowler hat, which he lifts politely while he awaits my answer.
‘Er … yes,’ I say in surprise, as I’m jolted from my self-imposed misery. ‘I don’t see why not?’
But, as he smiles and settles himself and his bowler hat on the bench next to me, I can think of several reasons why not.
Firstly, there are a number of unoccupied benches either side of us that he could have chosen to sit on and not disturb me. Secondly, the guy looks like he might be a bit of a weirdo. Along with his three-piece suit and bowler hat, he’s carrying a bright red leather briefcase, which he’s already making a lot of fuss about opening up so he can retrieve his copy of The Times newspaper, which he then very deliberately folds to a particular page. And the third and main reason – I really just want to be alone right now. But as usual I’m not brave enough to say anything.
‘Beautiful view,’ the man comments, sadly not lifting his newspaper to read in silence as I hoped he might. ‘The Thames never fails to delight.’
‘Yes,’ I agree quickly, hoping that’s the end of any polite chit-chat.
‘Are you local to this part of London?’ he asks now. ‘You don’t look like a tourist.’
Internally I sigh. But I can’t be rude and tell him to bugger off, can I? Even though I desperately want to.
‘Kind of,’ I answer as briefly as I can. ‘I wasn’t born here, but I live here now.’
Not for much longer, unless you sort something out fast.
‘Do you work in the city?’
I turn towards the man, hoping he’ll get the message from my annoyed expression and terse answer that I’m really in no mood to chat. Perhaps then he’ll leave me alone.
‘I did. But I’ve just lost my job and my home, and I’m currently trying to figure out what I’m going to do next. So, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to sit in silence.’
But the man just doesn’t take the hint.
‘Gosh, how awful for you, to lose both at the same time? That’s some bad luck.’
‘Add in my fiancé and best friend too and you’ve got more than a full set,’ I add, wishing immediately I hadn’t, as I turn to face the river again.
‘Your home, job, best friend and fiancé? I’m guessing they must all be linked in some way?’
I sigh again, this time out loud. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but if I tell you, will you please just go?’
The man folds his newspaper in half and lays it down between us on the bench. ‘Of course, if that’s what you want?’
‘Right, I’ll keep this as short as I can. I was recently forced to break up with my fiancé after I discovered he’d been cheating on me with my supposed best friend.’
‘It happens,’ the man says, nodding sympathetically. ‘You’ve done the right thing.’
I glance at him. I have no idea why I’m telling him all this, but for some reason it feels good to share it with a total stranger. Someone who has no vested interest in either the outcome, or my feelings. The couple of friends I’ve shared this sorry tale with tried to say all the right things, but, since they were also friends with my ex too, none of what they said or suggested felt very genuine.
‘You’d think that, wouldn’t you? There’s a bit more to it, I’m afraid. The slight twist to my tale is my ex-best friend and my ex-fiancé both happen to be men.’
I wait for his reaction. But it’s surprisingly mild. ‘Again, that happens too.’
‘If only that were where my sorry tale ended,’ I continue, surprisingly irritated I’ve not got what I consider an appropriate reaction from him. ‘My ex-best friend was also until very recently my editor and therefore technically my boss on the magazine I wrote for. So now I not only find myself about to become homeless as a result of breaking up with my fiancé, I also find myself jobless too. Apparently, my services are no longer required on the magazine. No guesses needed as to why.’
‘Freelance?’ the man asks, still calm.
I nod, still a tad irked he hasn’t reacted more. ‘Sadly, yes. So even though I was writing for them practically full-time, I have no rights of employment.’
‘No wonder you were thinking about jumping. That’s a lot of hurt, anger and change to take on in one hit.’
‘Yes … ’ I say, glancing back at the bridge again. ‘It is … Wait, how did you know I was thinking about jumping? I mean, I wouldn’t, obviously, but I can’t deny it did cross my mind briefly.’
‘I’ve a few more centuries on this earth than you.’
‘Decades, you mean? Not that many, looking at you.’
‘You’re very kind, but over those many … years I’ve witnessed a few jumpers. Very few actually want to end their life, you know? Most can’t see any other way out of their problems. What they don’t understand, though, is the ripple-like effect their actions have on others – both good and bad. A bit like our friend, the Thames, there.’ He nods towards the river. ‘It’s tidal, so it often has tiny waves on the surface – ripples that start small and then build all along its vast length. The Thames is London’s one constant – it’s always there winding its way through the capital. Sometimes people notice it, sometimes they don’t, but it still remains, ebbing and flowing, just like the city does either side of it. Usually it’s calm on the surface, occasionally there might be rough patches, but if you trust in the river and allow it to guide you, you’ll never be truly lost.’
I stare at the man. ‘That’s very profound, you know?’
He shrugs. ‘I try. You see those boats out there?’ He gestures out to the river again, and my gaze follows the line of his hand out towards several passenger boats and barges on the water. ‘They trust the river to guide them safely to their destination every day. If you have the courage to trust and follow your own path, Elle, instead of fighting it, you’ll never be truly lost in life.’
I watch the boats for a few seconds while I absorb the man’s words.
‘Wait, how do you know my … ’ I begin, turning back to the man. But to my astonishment he’s vanished. ‘Name,’ I finish to the empty bench.
I turn and look all around me along the Embankment, but I can’t see anyone in either direction who looks anything like my dapperly dressed acquaintance. Only a few tourists taking photos, and a group of boisterous office workers who look like they might have come from their Christmas party.
That’s odd, I think, turning back towards the river. Where did he go?
While I look out across the Thames and think about what just happened, I watch some of the boats drifting past. Among the motorboats and passenger ferries, an old-fashioned schooner passes, its sails billowing in the chilly December wind.
Painted in old-fashioned script on the side of its hull are the words: The Spirit of Christmas.
Christmas. I roll my eyes. Bah humbug, more like! What sort of a Christmas am I going to have this year – lonely, jobless and, most importantly right now, homeless?
I look down at the bench where my eccentric companion had been sitting a few moments ago, and I notice that although he’s remembered to take his bowler hat, he’s left behind his newspaper.
You might have been wearing fancy clothes and spoken with a fancy accent, but you’re a litter bug in disguise! I think, smiling to myself as I lift the newspaper ready to toss it into the nearest bin. But something on the folded page catches my eye. Circled in green ink is a large advert printed in an elaborate font:
WANTED:
Experienced Writer
An experienced and published wordsmith is required to write the story and history of one house and its family.
Live-in is essential. Accommodation and all meals will be provided free of charge.
The successful applicant must be available between
1755 and 1984 daily, and essentially
MUST LIKE CHRISTMAS.
Immediate start.
To apply, please visit: ‘Christmas House’, 5 Mistletoe Square, Bloomsbury, London WC1 and ask for Estelle.
Closing Date:
18th December.
I read the advert twice through to try to find a catch somewhere. But other than the slightly strange sounding hours, which I assume must be a typo, it sounds absolutely perfect – the answer to all my current problems.
Don’t get carried away, Elle, I think as I stare at the advert. It sounds a little bit too perfect! Estelle is probably the cover for some freak who collects empty baked-bean tins and used teabags. He likely never leaves the house, and I’ll probably find myself running away as quickly as I arrive.
I toss the newspaper back down onto the bench and gaze at the river again.
And who puts Must like Christmas in an advert, what’s that all about? That’s weird in itself. I know I’m pretty unusual in not liking Christmas, and I have my reasons for that. But most people do, don’t they? So why would you need to write it?
Have the courage to trust and follow your own path, Elle … The stranger’s words still ring annoyingly in my ears while I try and forget all about the curious advert.
My path is leading to a house in Bloomsbury, is it? To a rent-free, live-in writing job in the millionaires’ mansions of WC1 … ? I roll my eyes. Yeah right. Miracles like that never happen. Even if it is nearly Christmas.
Another boat passes under the bridge, then continues on its merry way along the Thames. But this time the words painted on its side make me catch my breath …
The Courage of St Nicholas.
St Nicholas – he’s the Patron Saint of Christmas, isn’t he? I try and remember. Or is it St Nicholas that’s supposed to be Santa Claus?
I shake my head.
Whichever it is, what are the chances that that boat should be passing me right at this very moment, especially after what that man just told me and what it says in the newspaper advert?
I think a bit more.
‘Come on, Elle,’ I say sharply, surprising a couple of pigeons happily pecking away on the remains of a mince pie. ‘What does it matter whether it means something or if it’s simply a coincidence? If this ad is genuine, this is a job you can do standing on your head, and more importantly, it will be a roof over that same head until you can find something better. Have some courage for once in your life. You can do this!’
Suitably buoyed up I check the date on the newspaper, and I’m pleased to see it’s today’s issue. Wait, wasn’t that also the closing date for applications?
I quickly read the advert again and look for a telephone number, but there’s only an address.
I pull a compact from my bag and try to look at as much of myself as I can in the tiny mirror. I’ve looked better. Under my long winter coat I’m wearing a baggy wool jumper and tight black jeans. There are dark circles under my eyes caused by too many sleepless nights, and my face looks pale and drawn from worry. But it will have to do. A bit of make-up will help, and luckily my coat will cover most of my clothes. I don’t have time to go home and change into something smarter.
Home. It won’t be for much longer.
I simply can’t continue living there – even though Owen wants me to. I shake my head. The nerve of him, asking me to stay after what he’s done. He even tried to make out in some way it was my fault! I have to get away from this toxic relationship once and for all, and I have to do it now. I just hope the job hasn’t been taken already – they must have been advertising it a while if the closing date is today.
While the pigeons keep a beady eye on me, I quickly brush my long dark hair and tie it into a loose ponytail. Then I brush on some mascara and a smudge of lip gloss, adding a little to my cheeks as well to give them some colour. ‘Right, I guess you’ll do,’ I say as I check myself again in the mirror. But as I snap the compact shut, a thought suddenly occurs to me. When did I start disliking the way I looked so much? Not long after I met Owen, I now realise. God, that man has a lot to answer for.
After a few minutes of attempting to hail a taxi, I almost give up. Maybe it’s just not meant to be, I think, almost allowing myself to slide slowly down the same easy path I’ve been on for far too long. No, you’re not taking the easy option this time, Elle! Have courage. I remember the man’s words. You’re going to find this Mistletoe Square and you’re going to get this job!
I consider taking the Tube, but decide by the time I’ve got down into the station and waited for a train, it will probably be just as fast to walk. Plus, it will save me money. If this job doesn’t happen, I don’t know how long I might be out of work. I need to save pennies where I can.
I set off towards Bloomsbury. I’m desperate to hurry, but I don’t want to arrive at the house all hot and sweaty in my big winter coat and fur-lined boots, so I try and walk at a brisk but steady pace. As I walk along the busy London streets, many of them decorated for the festive season with twinkly lights and the odd Christmas tree, I pass theatres advertising the latest West End shows, brand-name coffee shops offering their latest festive drinks in the obligatory Christmassy cup, and well-known chain stores and independent shops, with their windows full of shiny baubles, colourful lights and the perfect gifts for friends and family.
The traffic, as always, is congested, and I often find myself moving faster on foot than the many red buses, black cabs, delivery vans and motorbikes all queued up at junctions and traffic lights.
Now, where is this square? I look again at my phone and the route Google Maps has plotted for me. I’m not sure I’ve heard of a Mistletoe Square before.
And not for the first time since I left Waterloo Bridge, I begin to doubt the validity of the advert. That guy with the briefcase had been very odd. Perhaps I should be a little more wary about this …
My phone rings in my hand, and I’m surprised to see it’s Kate, one of my ex-colleagues from the magazine.
‘Elle!’ Kate says brightly. ‘Can’t chat long, I’m afraid, have a really tight deadline. But I’ve just seen an ad in the Telegraph and it sounds perfect for you.’
She then reads the exact same advert as the one I’ve torn from the copy of The Times the man had left on the bench.
‘What do you think?’ she asks eagerly. ‘Sounds a bit odd, but it might be something?’
‘I’m actually on my way there at this very moment,’ I tell her. ‘I saw the advert a little while ago.’
‘Are you? Wow, amazing! Let me know how you go? And … listen, it was bloody awful what happened. Everyone here is still in a state of shock about Liam and Owen.’
‘Yes, well … ’
‘About time you saw that ex of yours for what he really is, though. We’ve all been saying you need to stand up to Owen for ages. You go, girl – that’s what I say. Girl power and all that!’
‘Thanks.’
‘And Liam … well I never saw that coming. But he’s kept a low profile here since you left, I can tell you. I don’t think he dare show his face!’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Anyway, got to go. Chin up, lovely! Wishing you lots of luck with that job! Speak soon, yah?’
‘Yes,’ I reply as Kate ends the call.
I think about the office for a moment. I dread to think what all the gossips will be saying right now. My situation will be the most exciting thing to happen there in ages. But for once I decide that I don’t care. Let them gossip. I won’t be going back there again. However, I’m glad Kate called; she had always been one of my more trusted colleagues and knowing she too saw the advert makes me feel a little happier about its validity.
I’m about to pop my phone back in my bag when notifications for two emails and a text arrive on the screen. They all inform me of exactly the same thing, that the sender has just seen an advert that sounds ‘perfect for me’.
‘Okay, I get it, I get it!’ I call, looking up, and an old lady pulling a tartan shopping trolley gives me a strange look as she passes me on the pavement.
So, which way now? I think, silently this time, as I hurriedly consult my map again.
I follow the route on my phone until I reach the end of the street. As I turn a corner, the road suddenly opens out into the most beautiful Georgian square.
‘Wow,’ I say, looking around me. ‘This is beautiful.’
The square is much like many of the others I’ve occasionally passed through in this part of London. A small area of grass and trees – like a tiny park – is surrounded by black wrought-iron railings. It’s then protected from the outside world even further by terraces of elegant Georgian houses that line its four sides.
These attractive little squares usually come as a welcome respite from the stark, grey, modern buildings that have taken over much of central London, but this one I find myself in now is particularly lovely.
I see where you got your name, I think as I look up at the tall trees dotted through the park, most of them now almost bare for winter. Each one has at least one bunch of mistletoe clinging to its high branches.
Now, which way is number five?
I follow the pavement, and the distinctive Victorian gas lamps, around the edge of the square, trying not to get too distracted by the stylish houses, all with shiny black front doors and pristine cream-coloured steps leading up to them. Some have cheerful window boxes planted with berry-rich winter plants or winter-flowering pansies, and all of them have freshly painted black railings and bright white lattice windows.
‘Three … four … ah, number five.’
The brass plaque at the side of the door not only has the number five etched into it in black, but the words Christmas House too. I stand a little way back from the house to see if it looks any different from all the others in the square. But there appears to be nothing unusual about this particular house except that it has a bright red door instead of a black one. It’s five storeys high – a basement, three floors with tall windows, then what I assume is a little attic room at the top of the house. It has the same black railings as the others, and the same fanlight window over the top of the door. Except in the middle of this particular house’s fanlight, etched into the glass in gold, are the words St Nicholas.
How interesting can one house’s history be? I stare up at the tall building in front of me. Yes, I’m sure it’s had many owners over the years, but they can’t all have a story to tell, can they? I can’t see how there will be enough content for me to write about for any length of time. However, beggars can’t be choosers, I remind myself. I need this job, otherwise I’ll have no choice but to go back to Owen.
Besides, it might be quite nice to live in a large house in an affluent central London neighbourhood for a while, instead of Owen’s poky little flat in North London.
‘Right, then,’ I say, bracing myself for immediate disappointment when I tap the house’s brass door-knocker. ‘Let’s find out what lies behind this red door.’
I move towards the house and climb the four shallow steps. Then I reach out to grab the knocker, but before I get to it the door suddenly opens and I stumble forwards.
‘Oops, sorry!’ A well-dressed man with neat chestnut-coloured hair has to put his hands out to stop me from falling into him. ‘Didn’t see you there.’
‘H-hi,’ I manage to say as I recover my balance and my composure. ‘I-I’m here about the advertisement.’
The man looks blankly back at me.
‘Sorry, I don’t actually live here,’ he says awkwardly. ‘I’ve just been helping them get their tree in. Estelle always insists on a real tree every Christmas apparently, and this year’s one is a monster.’ He gestures to the window to his right, and I see a lush, green, undecorated Christmas tree filling it. ‘I’m just the next-door neighbour.’ He gestures to the other side of him. ‘That’s me on the name plate,’ he says proudly, pointing to a brass nameplate on the house next door. ‘Ben Harris. I’m a solicitor. My office is next door here at Holly House, and my flat is upstairs. I’ve just moved in.’
‘Oh … that’s nice.’ I don’t really know what to say. ‘I … I might be moving in here too. I believe there’s some sort of job available. I just hope I’m not too late. Do you know if they’ve had many applicants?’
Ben shrugs. ‘Sorry, like I said I just moved in a couple of days ago. All a bit weird actually – the office and house suddenly came up for rent and I just happened to see the advert. They wanted a tenant to move in quickly, so I was able to get it at a great price. Well, a great price for around here.’ He grins, and his kind, dark eyes twinkle.
I can’t help but smile coyly back at him. Ben is a bit too good-looking, a bit too confident, and, if he can afford to rent in this square, a bit too rich as well. A deadly combination in my experience and one usually to be avoided.
‘Angela, is there someone at the door?’ a commanding female voice calls from inside the house. ‘That barrister chappie seems to be talking to someone on our steps!’
Ben grins. ‘I’m a lawyer, Estelle,’ he calls back over his shoulder. ‘A solicitor if you prefer, now I’m back in the UK again. Not actually a barrister. And don’t worry, I’m just going.’
A cheerful-looking older woman appears behind Ben. She has red curly hair pinned wildly to the top of her head and she’s wearing a brightly patterned apron over her blue denim dungarees. She looks a little flustered as she wipes her floury hands on her apron.
‘Sorry about that,’ she says as Ben moves aside. ‘I was in the kitchen. Are you here about the job by any chance?’ she asks me hopefully.
‘See you around,’ Ben says, lifting his hand as he makes his way past me down the steps to the pavement. ‘Good luck with the job. Bye, Angela!’
Angela waves hurriedly at him and turns her attention back to me.
‘I am here about the job,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sorry to call unannounced, but there was only an address on the advert. I’m not too late, am I?’
‘No, my dear, you’ll never be to. . .
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