Make You Mine This Christmas

by Lizzie Huxley-Jones

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Holiday Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

'Joyous, funny and full of warm, relatable characters, this is the queer Christmas rom-com I've been waiting for' LAURA KAY


It's the golden rule of pretending to be someone's girlfriend: don't fall for their sister.

After a year from hell, Haf is ready to blow off steam at a Christmas party: a kind stranger, a few too many drinks and suddenly she's kissing Christopher under the mistletoe - in front of his ex-girlfriend.

The next day the news is out that they're apparently a couple, madly in love and coming to Oxlea to spend the festive season with Christopher's family. But Haf doesn't have better holiday plans and to save her new friend from embarrassment, she agrees to pretend to be Christopher's girlfriend for Christmas.

It has the makings of a hilarious anecdote they'll be telling for years. Until Haf meets Christopher's sister: the mysterious, magnetic and utterly irresistible Kit. Maybe love was waiting for Haf in this quiet little town all along . . .

Perfect for fans of Sarah Morgan, Laura Kay and Carol - this is sheer festive joy as you've always wanted to see it.

'The perfect cosy Christmas read - sexy, sweet and smart' KIRAN MILWOOD HARGRAVE

'A thoroughly modern love story filled with joy, inappropriate Christmas jumpers and a daring reindeer rescue. I adored it' TANYA BYRNE

'An adorable Christmas novel filled with terrible schemes, a grand ball and one very terrible goose' KAT DUNN

(P)2022 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: October 13, 2022

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter One

To Haf Hughes, the best things about Christmas, in ascending order, are: all-you-can-eat mince pies, novelty jumpers, the fact you have a licence to be permanently too full and slightly pissed for the duration, and, most importantly, that there’s no need to be a functioning person.

Which is why, while on the phone to her parents, she stumbles over the words, ‘What do you mean you’re going on holiday for Christmas?’

She hadn’t even meant to ring them. The last few days at work had been so hectic that she barely felt awake. She’d finally crawled out of bed sometime around lunch, which had been happening more and more, and flopped down on the couch to watch Gilmore Girls for the tenth time. The only sense of time passing had been Netflix kindly asking if she was still watching. Twice. It was only as the season was nearing its regular Christmas episode that Haf had thought she could do the tiniest bit of life admin and ask her parents what train she should book home next week.

But in her half-asleep state, she’d hit the button to start a video call, and her mum had answered in record timing. Which had been, of course, completely typical because Haf was not looking the best version of herself. She’s pretty sure that her mum recoiled when Haf appeared on screen, deep dark bags under her eyes, sallow skin and a hoodie barely hiding her dirty hair.

‘Don’t you remember, darling? I’m sure I told you.’

God, a functioning memory. Haf can’t remember ever having one of those.

‘I don’t know,’ she mumbles.

Her mum basks in the golden light of the nook – a room that was once Haf’s bedroom but now has an admittedly very comfortable sofa bed, a small TV and lots of knitting supplies. In contrast, Haf’s basically in the dark with the living-room curtains half-heartedly slung open, and only the wintry glow of Gilmore Girls providing any light.

‘We just thought it would be a nice change. The travel agent in the village – you remember Emma? – she found a really nice hotel in Madeira, and we’re going to spend Christmas Day on the beach. Flying out on Christmas Eve. All-inclusive, two weeks, just us two and the sun. We’re so excited!’

‘Just . . . you two?’

‘Yes, just the two of us, darling. We’ve not had a Christmas just the two of us since before you were born. You do remember us talking about this, don’t you?’

Haf mentally runs through the last few months – a blur of slogging away at work and staying late with the occasional half-paid-attention-to conversation with her parents, usually done while she was seeing to other essential life processes like eating or paying bills or – just that one time – while on the loo.

She comes up completely blank.

‘Not really, Mum,’ she admits. ‘Things have been a little hectic.’

‘Well, yes, I expect so with all your hard work and everything, but that’s why we didn’t think you’d be coming home. You’ve been so busy, and obviously we’re very proud. We did tell you though. Didn’t we, David?’

Half of her dad’s face appears on screen. No matter how many tech demonstrations she’s done in the past, her parents have never quite managed to position the camera so she can see both of them.

‘We did, Mari. It was when we called you in October, when you wanted to know what a pension was.’

Shit. Haf must have forgotten, or not listened properly to start with. You think you’d remember something as important as Christmas plans, but Haf has forgotten all sorts of things over the last few months.

Both her parents, or the parts of their faces she can see, look a bit worried, so she picks the best option in front of her.

‘Oh, yeah! Of course you did,’ she says, her voice light with fake laughter. ‘Silly old me. Brain’s not plugged in today.’

‘It’s tired from all that thinking you’ve been doing.’ Mum beams.

‘We’re really proud of you for working so hard the last few months.’

They didn’t know the half of it.

‘Thanks, guys.’

‘I hope you’re doing something nice too?’ asks Dad.

Nothing as nice as a two-week all-inclusive, she thinks, trying and failing to not be bitter as orange pith.

‘York is so lovely at Christmas, isn’t it?’ Mum says, though it’s more a statement than an actual question.

‘Well, yeah. Snowy. Lots of people doing their big Christmas-pressie shops. All the pubs have mulled wine on the go . . .’

A swirl of panic flickers in her stomach, but Haf ignores it and tries to focus on the pretence that she’s not a total fuck-up.

But this panic has become a semi-regular feature, which she knows is likely not normal or healthy, but also seems to be part-and-parcel of being a certified adult . . . from what she can tell, anyway.

‘Aren’t you doing Christmas up there with Ambrose?’

‘Oh, no. Ambrose’s going home to their family. They’re not staying here over Christmas,’ she says, still trying to sound casual and slightly upbeat, as though she was actually really pleased for Ambrose to be celebrating with their family and not here.

Haf catches herself. Obviously, she’s happy Ambrose has plans. She just wishes there was a backup, a plan B, a spare Christmas arrangement available to her right now.

But it’s a whole desert of nothing.

And it’s the 13th of December already, so there’s basically zero time left; everyone who isn’t a complete disaster will have sorted their plans weeks ago.

The chasm of a solo Christmas opens up before her.

‘Are you upset? Oh dear, David, she’s upset.’

Haf curses herself. Her parents have internal radars for negative emotions and are like bloodhounds specifically trained for lies. And it doesn’t help that her face betrays every thought and feeling she ever has at the exact moment she has it.

‘I said we should have double-checked with her, Mari,’ mutters Dad, whose cheeks have gone bright pink under his beard.

‘We did!’ she hisses, turning the phone so that all Haf can see is the ceiling while Mum clearly berates him. After a moment, it flips back to showing her Mum’s entire face bellowing, ‘Are you upset, darling?’ Haf’s pretty sure this is supposed to be consoling rather than sounding like the voice of God as it echoes around the room.

‘I’m—’

‘Are you dating anyone? Maybe you can do something nice with them?’

‘I—’ she stammers, horrified that somehow this conversation is getting worse.

Haf decides the best thing she can do right now, which is admittedly not the most grown-up option, is to hang up. They’ll just worry if they think she has nothing better to do. She’ll ring them back later when she’s decided what the hell she is doing, or at least come up with a better cover story.

After all, she might be desperate but she’s not quite ready to beg her parents to take her on their romantic Christmas holiday.

‘No! No, I’m absolutely fine!’ she says, plastering on the biggest fake smile. ‘I have a lot of plans, yes. Just working out which one to pick, ha ha. In fact, Ambrose and I are just off to a party thing, so I’ve gotta go! Oh, in fact, there they are! Gotta go! Call you soon! Love you, bye.’

As she hangs up, she cuts off her mum shouting goodbye.

Haf puts the phone face down on the coffee table just so she can’t see any well-meaning follow-up messages, and unpauses Gilmore Girls.

‘Bad news?’

Haf leaps out of her seat as Ambrose materialises in the living room, a sheet mask stuck on their face. ‘Christ, warn a girl before you walk in with those on. I thought you were a ghost.’

‘A sexy ghost, though, right? The kind you would want to be haunted by.’ Ambrose glides down onto the couch, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised, wrinkling the sheet. ‘Didn’t you just say to your mum I was here?’

‘Oh, well. Yes. But that was a lie.’

‘You don’t usually lie to them. You’re shit at it,’ they say, taking the remote and pausing Gilmore Girls.

‘They’re going on holiday for Christmas,’ Haf moans.

‘Oh nice . . . or, not nice? Did they not tell you?’

‘Apparently they did, and I completely forgot,’ she says sulkily, pulling the blanket up to her face.

‘Uh-oh.’

‘Uh-oh, exactly. Of course this shitty year would end with me being alone for Christmas. Baby Jesus has it out for me, I swear.’

‘Given you’re a heathen, I don’t think he’d care,’ they say, wrapping an arm over the back of the couch and stroking the top of Haf’s hoodie-covered head.

It hasn’t been her year.

First, there was the break-up. She and Freddie had been together since university in Liverpool and had moved into a little house in the leafy suburbs where the proper adults lived, away from the streets lined with big five-bedroom houses full of undergraduates. Together they made a home, and it was, for a time. But then she moved, chasing a job that matched her degree, and Freddie had decided that actually he’d much rather be with someone who had their life together, like, for example, Jennifer, the woman he started dating the second Haf set foot on the train.

Second, the job that seemed great on paper was not actually the cushy, fun little role she’d hoped it would be. A communications position at a wildlife charity with fixed hours and a salary and no work on Christmas was a nice change from working in shops, even though she had liked the routine of retail a lot. Despite everyone and their mother wanting to ‘go green’, there were virtually no jobs and when she’d spotted the opening advertised online, she had no choice but to go for it. She’d pretty much got the job on the strength of her knowledge of Twitter and ability to write plausible copy. The thing she’d learned though was that while charities might be good, they’re still a workplace, and bad jobs and bad managers who insist on micromanaging can happen anywhere. Her own nightmare micromanager insisted she account for every minute of her time without learning what she actually did, meaning her responsibilities piled up and up and up as the charity CEO insisted they needed to be present on every platform. The latest request had been for her to set up ‘one of those ClickClocks’.

And now, because bad things happen in threes, she’s facing a Christmas entirely alone.

‘The one good thing that’s happened this year has been you,’ Haf whimpers to Ambrose.

‘Obviously,’ they say with a wolfish grin. ‘I’m excellent.’

Through absolute sheer luck, a Twitter mutual had introduced them when Haf announced her impending move to York, as Ambrose was looking for someone to share their lovely two-bedroom terraced house. It’s one of those perfect cottages that people envy – just near enough to the river to be aesthetically pleasing but not get flooded, and just a few streets from the good brunch places. It had only taken an evening of DMing about their favourite foods and wish lists of restaurants to visit for Ambrose to say Haf could move in. Haf is fairly sure her friendship with Ambrose is the most successful stable relationship she’s ever had. They had even re-signed the lease for another year. Thank God for very online queer people.

Haf pulls uselessly at the toggles on her hoodie.

‘Did you book your train home already?’ Ambrose asks ‘Do you need me to ring the customer service people and frighten them into giving you a refund? I love doing that.’

‘No, luckily not.’ The train tickets home to North Wales were always eye-wateringly expensive, no matter how far in advance she booked them.

‘Well, now you can spend that on some posh Christmas food. We’ve got all the decorations up already at least.’

They decorated on the first day of December. Ambrose is strictly anti-tinsel, and Haf insists on fairy lights everywhere, but they’d managed to find a pleasant if slightly eclectic middle ground. The tiny yet convincingly fake tree was hung with Ambrose’s beautiful gold and silver baubles in between Haf’s assortment of weird ornaments that she had picked up over the years, the latest acquisition being a very shiny pink prawn holding a candy cane. They had filled the decorative fireplace with all their unused warmly scented candles, but quickly learned lighting them all at once in the hope it might look like a real fire was actually a hazard and the mixed scents made them both feel distinctly weird. Now they only light one at a time. Today’s choice was cinnamon apple.

‘I know, but also, I don’t want that. I just want to be fed and not have to think about anything . . . I guess that’s what my parents wanted too.’

Ambrose smiles gently, as though they’d been holding back pointing this out. ‘It’ll be okay.’

‘Easy to say when you know your plans aren’t going to change last minute.’

‘You never know, Mum could surprise me and announce she’s going on a cruise. In fact, I kind of wish she would.’

Haf fixes them with a dark look because that’s the last thing in the world Ambrose’s mother would ever do, and they both know it. Liew family Christmases are a big family affair, with aunties, uncles, cousins and all the grandparents piling into the family home. Ambrose has promised to take Haf home for their Lunar New Year celebrations, and as much as she wants to ask them to see if they can fit her in, she feels embarrassed. It’s not the same when you haven’t been specifically invited, and also Ambrose puts up with her all the rest of the year; they probably need a break.

‘You’re being a stroppy baby.’

‘Well, you’re not being nice enough in my hour of need,’ Haf says, trying to ignore the whine in her voice.

Ambrose gets up, and a few minutes later returns with a mug of tea and the biscuit tin, and motions for Haf to drink some of the sickly sweet, strong tea. After a big sip, she says, ‘All right, maybe I am being a bit of a stroppy baby.’

‘The thing you’re missing here – because you’re too busy being an aforementioned stroppy baby – is that you now have the opportunity to have a perfect Christmas. You can do what you want, drink what you want, watch all the good films. You could make it your own perfect day – a nice hot bath, easy-cook Christmas food and all your favourite horrible pink wines. Heaven.’

This is a perfect example of where Ambrose and Haf differ. Ambrose isn’t antisocial per se, but Haf is the only person they’ve successfully cohabited with for more than a few months. In a way, Ambrose is a cat. They like to be admired and see people on their terms, but also love their own company.

Haf, meanwhile, is a puppy. A very needy puppy that needs people, attention and lots of praise.

‘A solo Christmas isn’t really my thing,’ she murmurs.

‘Look, I’m leaving on Christmas Eve. I’ll only be gone for a few days, and then we can do our own thing up here for Betwixtmas.’

‘That’s true . . .’

‘Maybe this is a good thing? You’ve been rushing through the last year, just trying to keep going at your horrible little job with your dickhead boss, to the point that you literally forgot that your parents were going away for Christmas. Maybe having some quiet time in that lovely brain of yours would be a good thing for you.’

‘That sounds like the exact opposite of what I want to do.’

‘Need and want aren’t always the same things. Anyway, let’s forget about this. I think you need a distraction and some fun, and I want to go to a party tonight, so we are both going.’

Haf buries herself further into her blanket nest. ‘I don’t know if I want to go out after this, Ambrose,’ she whines.

‘We’ve not gone out and done anything fun or silly in months. I’ve watched you go from fun, excitable, spontaneous Haf, to . . . whoever this is. You’ve been worn down by spreadsheets and admin, and it’s time to go to a party, have a good time and let the old Haf out to make a few silly decisions. Take an evening to stop worrying about all the big stuff, like your job or having your shit together.’

‘How do you know I don’t have plans already?’ Haf puffs up her cheeks.

Ambrose says nothing, but silently points at Gilmore Girls, Haf’s admittedly grubby hoodie and finishes by popping the air from her cheeks.

‘And you know the best part?’ they continue, ignoring her protests. ‘It’s a grown-up person party, which means that there’ll be good snacks.’

‘Snacks . . .’ Haf says, glancing at Ambrose from the corner of her eye.

‘Snacks. Good snacks. Middle-class, grown-up-people snacks. M&S party snacks.’

‘I hate that you know me this well.’

‘No, you don’t, because then you wouldn’t be invited to crash strangers’ parties on the promise of a good buffet.’

Haf has always loved food, and thanks to learning from the brilliant and clever fat-positive babes online, she’s now comfortable enough within her own body where she doesn’t feel she ever has to hide that. There’s no calling food naughty or talking about walking it off in her world. Ambrose is thin but has never made her feel like she needs to acknowledge the difference in their bodies when they talk about their shared love of food.

‘Whose party is it?’

Ambrose waves their hand. ‘I don’t know. Someone from the psychology department, I think? I got invited by someone else who’s going.’

‘So we’re, like, third-hand crashing?’

They shrug.

Haf wasn’t sure she wanted to admit it, but maybe Ambrose was right. The last few months had been royally shit. Letting her hair down and trying out one of the many new lipsticks that are both too bright and too fun for work that she’d bought online on many a depressed Wednesday afternoon at the office but hadn’t had the chance to wear could be good for her. If not, she can just fill up her purse with pork pies and get a cab home. At this juncture, she’s not above this as a plan B.

‘Fine. I’ll go.’

‘Excellent. It’s a Christmas miracle.’

Chapter Two

The best thing about crashing parties in midsize university towns is that there’s a good chance you won’t know many, if any, of the people there. This means that if you have no intention of behaving yourself or generally pretending to be a wholesome person, you don’t have to. Most of the other partygoers won’t remember you as more than the weird girl in the black fluffy coat, anyway. Or at least, that’s what Haf hopes will happen.

Ambrose had rooted through Haf’s wardrobe of, to their taste, questionable fashion and insisted she wore a dress they found in a sale as, according to them, Haf’s tits would look very good in it. The dress was black velvet with structured shoulders and a deep V down the front. It was one of those rare, near-mythical finds in plus-size fashion – not floral, and no frills – and so Ambrose had insisted Haf buy it ‘just in case’.

Complete with a brick-red lipstick and a bit of gold glitter across the apples of her cheeks, Haf not only feels a bit festive, but she feels hot. Especially so once she rubs the lipstick off her teeth.

Yes, she’s facing a Christmas alone, which feels like her worst nightmare, but for now, she looks fit and is going to, hopefully, consume a considerable amount of booze and food.

Ambrose looks fantastic as always. Their blazer is scarlet red and embroidered with clouds, green butterflies, suns and dragon scales. They’ve paired it with a simple but secretly luxurious white silk shirt, high-waisted tailored black trousers and pointed boots. Haf thinks that they always look like a pop star – a compliment Ambrose likes to pretend they don’t enjoy.

When they arrive just after eight thirty, half the guests are already on their way to being very drunk, sprawled around the living room, already deep into YouTube karaoke. Ambrose seems to recognise a few people and waves a polite hello but no one looks particularly familiar to Haf. She met a few of their co-workers and friends over the last year – all people from the university, usually a mix of admin staff like them, plus a few academics, and a couple of feral-looking PhD students that haven’t seen sunlight or a full meal for weeks. Most people here seem to be nourished, probably have a babysitter with the kids at home, know how to properly drink whisky and have fun but still be an in-bed-by-eleven type of person. Real grown-ups.

Two guys in matching reindeer jumpers bellow along to a song that Haf swears is a very funky ode to Mrs Claus.

‘Someone’s getting some tonight,’ Ambrose says archly, as a couple of women leap up from the couch to join them for the chorus.

Weirdly, no one comes to greet Ambrose or rushes over to say hello.

‘Who invited you to this party, anyway?’ Haf asks as they weave through groups of people in vaguely festive clothing.

Ambrose either doesn’t hear or ignores her, probably the latter, but Haf chooses to allow it because it appears they’ve led her straight through the party to the kitchen, which is absolutely laden with food. An enormous buffet is spread across a long kitchen table, spilling over onto most of the counters.

‘You’re welcome,’ they say.

‘It’s . . . it’s beautiful.’ Haf pretends to wipe a tear away, but is overcome enough that she almost does cry.

Whoever was throwing this party was not only an adult, but an adult willing to spend a not insignificant portion of their likely meagre academia salary on feeding a crowd. A true Christmas angel.

There’s a whole tray of roasted gnocchi threaded onto cocktail sticks, bookended with a sun-dried tomato, a little bit of spinach and a tiny ball of mozzarella. Little ramekins of sauces to dip them into dot the table. Freshly baked (or at least warmed-up) fancy breads steam slightly, next to an artfully laid-out charcuterie board, like the ones she’s seen on Pinterest, plus pickles – both the condiment and the vegetables – and more kinds of cheese than Haf has ever seen outside of a supermarket counter. There’s not one, but two baked Camemberts studded with garlic and rosemary, shining with sea-salt crystals. Little hot sausages rolled in grainy mustard and honey. Piles of mince pies – not just the standard ones with normal pastry but someone’s added a batch of ones with puff pastry that are practically Eccles cakes.

Ambrose takes a reindeer-patterned paper plate from the stack, licking their lips as they look over the food, but then, as though they just remembered something important, drops it back onto the table.

‘Erm, I’ve just got to go find someone,’ they say, disappearing back into the crowd before Haf can object.

When in Rome, she thinks. She rescues the plate Ambrose abandoned. The plate is made of thin material and warps in her small hands. She respects the hosts’ priorities of spending lots on expensive food but saving on cheap paper plates, right up until one of the gnocchi detaches itself from its cocktail stick, rolls off the side of the plate and lands with a plop on someone’s very nice shiny shoe.

‘Ohhh,’ Haf groans, both for mucking up someone’s shoe and the loss of a delicious potato treat.

‘How very sad,’ says the shoe’s owner, who bends down to pick up the lost gnocchi.

Normally a five-second-rule kind of girl, Haf is about to retrieve the gnocchi from its rescuer but is struck by his bright eyes. They are the kind of blue you see in photos of Instagram influencers by the sea, almost too blue to be real. Startlingly so.

The colour distracts her so much she only notices he’s popped it into the bin after the fact.

‘May he rest in peace,’ she says, worried that she’s been gawking at this stranger, as though his blue eyes had hypnotised her like the snake from Jungle Book.

‘We honour his sacrifice,’ the man says, with a smile.

He’s objectively, classically handsome. The kind that stops you in your tracks, even though – now she can look past his eyes – he’s not Haf’s type at all. Ambrose says that Haf’s taste in men can be summarised as guys who might live like raccoons and are a bit grubby-hot, like Robert Pattinson now, or anyone from the Italian band that won Eurovision a few years ago. The women she found attractive couldn’t be more different, though – suited, secretly dorky and possibly about to organise a heist. This guy is neither and instead has the clean-cut looks of the lead in a period drama.

‘Nothing worse than a wasted potato,’ says Haf.

‘Really? I suppose I could think of a few things.’

‘Oh sure, but at a jolly Christmas party?’

‘I once saw someone try to serve raw chicken.’

‘Raw chicken? Are you serious?’

‘They said it was “rare”. Sliced it up like sashimi.’

‘Wow. I was thinking like mildly horrifying Christmas jumpers knitted by someone’s granny, you know, like a snowman with a murderous edge to him. But that trumps everything. Who was hosting the party? A wild pack of dogs?’

‘Close. My flatmate at uni.’

‘Christ.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘I hope you threw it out.’

‘The chicken or the flatmate?’

‘Both.’

‘That probably would have been the best idea. He also used to leave dirty pans under the sink.’

‘How’s there always one weirdo who does that in every flat? It’s truly amazing.’

‘Do you need help loading up?’ he says, nodding towards her plate.

‘Oh, would you mind?’

He turns his hands palms up and together, and Haf places the plate gently on them with reverence. His fingers are long and slender, almost girlish. Probably what you’d call pianist fingers if you were the type of person who could even think that phrase without thinking ‘penis fingers’.

‘Normally I wouldn’t suggest such heresy as sharing a plate, but seeing as you’re doing all the lifting work here, shall I put a few bits on for you?’

‘Please,’ he says with a soft lopsided smile.

Concerned about structural integrity and maximising snacks, Haf adds a little bit of everything good. She fashions a few olives and a cocktail sausage into a suggestible vignette, and the plate wobbles as he tries to stifle a giggle.

Good, thinks Haf. Someone who is game for saying funeral rites over carbs and will laugh at her terrible humour is exactly the sort of person she needs to be hanging out with in the absence of Ambrose, who has still not returned.

‘Careful now,’ she says. ‘You’re supposed to be the stable one.’

He goes completely rigid, like a Queen’s Guard, as she adds the last few bits. It’s a little overfilled.

As she finishes, a group of people swarm into the kitchen. Half of them head straight for the table, while the others cover every surface in cocktail supplies, following a YouTube video they keep pausing and rewinding. There’s nowhere for them to comfortably stand and chat, and she kind of wants to talk to this nice tall man.

Two people come in through the back door, squeezing past Haf, and letting in a blast of icy Yorkshire night with them. In the tiny sweaty kitchen, it’s a literal breath of fresh air. Haf peeks out the door and spies some chairs, a little firepit and some lights that might be fancy outdoor heaters like you get at nice pubs.

He joins her at the door. ‘You want to go sit outside?’

‘Yeah, it’s boiling in here. We can bask under the lamps like big lizards.’

‘I’ll bring the food if you grab my coat.’

He tilts his head towards the coat hook, and they have a brief miming back and forth as Haf tries to guess which coat is his. It turns out to be a black long coat, with sharp lines and fine details. There’s something vaguely architectural about it.

She slings his coat over her shoulder and grabs a few M&S gin-and-tonic tinnies that have been set out on one of the counters, stuffing them in the deep pockets of his coat. But be. . .