The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

by Joanna Bolouri

Genres: General Fiction; Holiday books; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

The bestselling laugh-out-loud romantic comedy to warm your heart over the holidays! Emily has a satisfying job, great friends and, most importantly, a wonderful flat, exactly 411 miles away from the judgemental, interfering family she reluctantly sees once a year. In fact, the only minor stress in her life is her twenty-something neighbour Evan and his penchant for flirting, loud music and even louder sex . . . but he's nothing she can't handle. Emily also has a boyfriend called Robert and it's going really well. So well, in fact, that Emily is hoping to take him home to meet her family. Finally no more pitying looks from her younger, married siblings. But when the relationship suddenly falls apart, Emily is heartbroken. How on earth is she going to face her family now? Enlisting the help of party-boy Evan, Emily is determined for Robert to meet the parents no matter what, even if it isn't the real Robert . . .

Release date: July 15, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter One

‘Tell me, have you met anyone nice?’

For the past two years, my mum asks me this question every time I call her.

Every. Single. Time.

Since I broke up with my last long-term boyfriend, Tomas Segura, the railway engineer (a half-Spanish, half-boorish man-child whom I now affectionately refer to as Tomas the Wank Engine), she’s been crippled by the fear that I, Emily Carson, may be the only one of her three idiot children never to get married. To her, marriage is everything. Family is everything. Being alone is not an option, especially not for a thirty-eight-year-old childless English teacher, who should really consider freezing her eggs before they shrivel up and die – her words, not mine, and she’ll continue to repeat them just in case I missed it the first few thousand times.

‘I mean, really, Emily. Don’t you think that two years of being single is long enough? One day, you’ll wake up and you’ll be my age and you’ll wish you hadn’t been quite so picky. You’re running out of time. When I was your age, you were eighteen and I had twin eight-year-olds.’

‘Do we need to have the “I’m not you, I am a completely different person” conversation again, Mum?’ I sigh, wondering why I put up with this, and the answer is, because it’s Sunday.

Sunday at six p.m. is the time when I allow her judgemental voice to travel the 411 miles by phone from the Scottish Borders to my flat in London and directly into my ear; well, unless I forget to call her, in which case she’ll hound me until I answer her call and then ask me if I’m dead. Am I dead and am I still single? In her eyes, both are equally catastrophic.

Normally, my standard response of ‘No Mum, I haven’t met anyone nice’ is met with a sinister sigh of disappointment or a rant on how my brother, Patrick, succeeded in finding himself a delightful girl, despite the fact he’s lacking in any kind of social skills.

‘Christ, he can’t even eat with his mouth closed and he got married. And your sister can barely write her own name, but she managed it!’

This woman drives me to distraction, so much so that, despite having started this conversation with her in my bedroom, I now appear to be standing in my bathroom, staring at my own exasperated reflection in the mirror. I spot a grey hair in my brown pigtail and pluck it quickly before her bony hand reaches through the phone and does it for me.

‘Jesus, Mum,’ I gasp, moving the phone to my other ear while I inspect the rest of my hair, ‘do you like any of your children? Iona is dyslexic, not brain-dead – of course she can write her own name, she’s a bloody solicitor . . . I know what you mean about Patrick, though; it’s like sitting across from a llama. You’d never believe those two were twins, they’re so different. Anyway, to answer your question, I have some news and—’

‘All I’m saying is there’s someone for everyone and –’

Oh good, she’s going to tell me what I need to do now.

‘– what you need to do is—’

‘Mum,’ I quickly interrupt, ‘I know what you’re going to say, but I’m trying to tell you that—’

‘– consider men you wouldn’t normally consider. That’s what I did with your father and—’

‘I MET SOMEONE ALREADY! Christ, let a girl get a word in. Did you get that? I. MET. SOME. ONE.’

There’s a short-lived silence while she processes this information and I smugly think, That’s shut you up, hasn’t it, Mother dear? I’ve snagged myself a new man and he’s impressive as fuck, before she finally blurts out, ‘Met who? A MAN?!’

‘No, Mum, a badger.’

‘What? How? When did this happen?’

If it were anyone else, I’d tell them that, eight months ago, I met Robert at a wine bar in Soho. A vision in Armani, he’d sent over cocktails to our table, along with his ‘I’m a fancy marketing director’ business card, with his private mobile number scrawled on the back, and then he left with a smile before I even had the chance to size him up properly. All I knew was that he was tall, handsome and apparently mysterious, so of course I googled him to make sure he wasn’t in the Interpol database before texting him to say thanks for the drinks. He replied almost immediately and from there it took less than two weeks to discover he was forty-five, very well spoken, worked weekends, wore Tom Ford eau de parfum and had a salary almost as huge as his penis, and less than a month to fall head over heels in love with him. If this were anyone else, I’d tell them that I’m successfully managing to hide my craziness on the outside, but internally I’ve already decided to double-barrel my surname when we marry and would prefer to get hitched in Scotland, though I’m open to an extravagant ceremony at Kew Gardens followed by a honeymoon in Barbados, where it’ll be so romantic he’ll feel compelled to propose all over again.

Yes, if I were having this conversation with anyone else, I’d tell them that, for the first time ever, I’m in a proper, grown-up relationship with a responsible, serious man who might help me become a responsible, serious woman – not the current version of myself, who still thinks it’s appropriate to wear her hair in pigtails at the age of thirty-eight. I’d tell them that I’m completely smitten. And then I might mention his penis again. But this is my mum and, as it does with most mothers, information always leads to interrogation, so instead I say, ‘His name is Robert Shaw and—’

‘Like the actor? I don’t believe you.’

‘You don’t believe what? That Robert Shaw is his name or that I’m seeing someone? Shall I take him into the woods, cut out his heart and send it to you?’

‘Don’t be silly. Tell me everything! Is he wonderful? What does he do for a living?’

Ugh, I’m going to have to share something, but her words make me grin. ‘Yes, he is rather wonderful. He works in mark—’

‘EEK! I’m so happy for you, darling.’ She’s not even listening. That sentence could have finished ‘Marks and Spencer’s Prisoner Reform Programme’ and she wouldn’t have heard a thing over the sound of her own relief.

‘Hang on a sec, your dad’s just come in from the garden . . . William! . . . WILLIAM!’

She muffles the mouthpiece with her hand because she still believes that doing this will undo the creation of both sound waves and ears, despite the fact that she’s yelling at 12,000 decibels.

‘WILLIAM! Emily met someone. Yes, a man. I know . . . What? I don’t know . . . I’ll ask . . . Your dad wants to know when we can meet him.’

My expression in the mirror has changed from one of frustration to one of unbridled horror. As much as I love my parents, they’re completely deranged. On paper, they seem relatively ordinary: my accountant dad comes from a long line of Conservative-supporting, wealthy public schoolboys, inheriting a rather large farmhouse – a place I undoubtedly wouldn’t have grown up in had his own father known he was a closeted left-winger who despised the Tories. He met my mother, Jennifer (an only child and former beauty queen, crowned ‘Miss Beltane’ in 1974), when she was seventeen. According to them, it was love at first sight, and they married two years later, shagging their way into parenthood as they went. However, off paper, they are very different. They are, in fact, cocktail-guzzling, boundary-lacking, politically incorrect monsters who live to pry and feed off the screams and mortification of their own offspring. They are the only couple I’ve ever known who I can honestly say are perfectly matched.

She’s breathing excitedly down the phone like some sort of pervert and I know she’s waiting for an answer, but all I can think is, Meet him? Bloody hell, first she doesn’t believe me and now she wants proof of life? No way. No chance. I try to remain calm.

‘But we’ve only been going out a few months! It’s a bit soon, no?’

‘Months? And you’re only telling me now?’ she replies, sternly. ‘Exactly how long have you been seeing each other?’

‘Since April . . .’

I hear her gasp. ‘You’ve let me worry about you all this time! Thinking you’re hundreds of miles away and lonely. How could you keep this hidden from me?’

‘Jesus, you don’t need to know everything the minute it happens!’

‘Of course I do, I’m your mother, and, after eight months, it’s appalling that we haven’t met him. Is there a reason you don’t want us to meet him?’

‘You’re seriously asking me that?’

Me, alone with my family, is one thing, but when an outsider manages to infiltrate their lair, it’s utter carnage. For example, when Tomas and I visited one Easter, we’d only been together for twelve weeks. Dad got pissed on champagne cocktails, then hid the rest of the booze and made us all dance to ‘Gangnam Style’ to get it back. Patrick refused, but later caved in and had to do the routine all on his own to earn his beer. This was followed by the game ‘Who am I?’, where we all wrote a famous person’s name on a sticky note and stuck it to the head of the person on our right. Iona chose Inigo Montoya for Tomas (just so she could make him say the whole Princess Bride speech in a Spanish accent) and Dad chose porn star Ron Jeremy for me, complete with a drawing of a cock and balls, added by Patrick. Tomas stared at the badly drawn comedy knob on my forehead for ten minutes before I gave up and then died a little inside when I saw the answer. Finally, they made us sleep in my old room, which Pacino (their 120-pound Great Dane) now calls his own, and Pacino made it clear he had no plans to sleep anywhere else except in bed with us. When we left the next day, tired and emotional, Tomas announced that he’d never met such an awful bunch of ‘inadaptados’ in his life, which of course led to a massive, heated argument, as, while they might be misfits, no one is allowed to slag off my family except me. We broke up two years later when he left me for a redhead called Kristen, who works behind the Chanel counter in Selfridges, but I’m totally convinced my unhinged family were the catalyst for his infidelity.

But Robert is completely different to Tomas. Robert is considered. Robert is cultured. Robert has an important job which requires him to fly business-class all over the world. Robert enjoys the more refined things in life, like Grey Goose in quiet cocktail bars, single malts and bespoke suits. If I took him to meet my family, they’d spend five minutes with him before writing London Twat on a sticky note and letting the dog dry-hump him while they all danced to ‘Blurred Lines’.

‘When can you meet him? Oh, I don’t know, Mum; let me think . . . How about never? Oh, wait, I’m busy on never, how about NOT IN A MILLION YEARS?! That work for you?’

‘We were thinking more of Christmas. You’ll be staying for four days, anyway, and the whole family will be here.’

‘I know they will, that’s why the answer is—’

‘We’re not taking no for an answer. I’m so excited. Does your sister know? I must call her. Bye, darling!’

She hangs up and I’m left staring at myself in the mirror, the realisation of what’s just happened slowly dawning on me.

CHRISTMAS? That’s only two weeks away! Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking fuck.

Chapter Two

When I decided to leave the rent-free comfort of my parents’ home at twenty-four, they were horrified. Not only that I’d want to move away, but that I wanted to live in London, of all places, which, according to them, is a city where people hate each other for fun and profit, and where the poor are forced to shack up with bearded strangers in tiny, overpriced flats.

‘I’m sharing with two other teachers. It’ll be fine,’ I say in my best reassuring voice. ‘I have a good job offer and I’m not stupid. I’m twenty-four, for God’s sake. I need to stand on my own two feet.’

‘You mean you need to get away from us,’ Mum snarls, hands on hips. ‘I don’t understand it. Your brother and sister are perfectly happy here.’

I look across at the twins, both engrossed in their mobile phones, ignoring each other and everyone else. ‘They’re fourteen, Mum. Their lives revolve around Family Guy and wishing they had bigger body parts. Don’t take it so personally. This is what children are supposed to do. We grow up, move out and we start our own lives.’

‘But London?’ Dad chimes in. ‘It’s the other end of the country. Couldn’t you have chosen Edinburgh or Glasgow?’

I could have, I thought. But that’s within ‘popping in’ distance. I need enough mileage to avoid unexpected family ambushes at ten a.m. on a Sunday. I plan to have a lot of sex in London.

Dad starts pacing. He does that when he’s in fixer mode. ‘At least let us rent you somewhere in a better area,’ he says. ‘I have a friend who—’

‘No offence, Dad, but it’s hard to stand on my own two feet when you’re renting them a flat and deciding where they should live.’

He stops pacing and sits down, defeated.

My mum’s hands haven’t left her hips, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so dejected. ‘The twins will miss you,’ she says quietly. ‘We all will.’

I walk over and hug her. My parents may not understand my need to leave, but they don’t have to; they just have to accept it. She hugs me back so tightly, softening my resolve and causing a lump in my throat. ‘I promise I’ll visit on school holidays,’ I whisper. ‘There’s Easter, Christmas, summer . . . I’m a teacher – we get loads of time off.’

She nods, sniffing back tears and snot, while my dad grips my hand and smiles. ‘You need anything, you call. Anything.’

Three weeks later, I was waving them off at Waverley station, ready to start my new life, feeling confident that going it alone was absolutely the right thing to do.

*

‘Is my topknot too high? I feel like a pineapple.’

‘You look like one. And stop using my fucking Body Shop shower gel, pretty boy. If I wanted us to smell the same, I’d just stop washing completely.’

Meet Toby and Alice – my flatmates. They hate each other. In fact, they despise each other with a passion that erupts the minute they wake up in the morning and continues all day long, but frequently changes from hatred to lust when they get drunk and furiously shag each other in the living room when they think I’m asleep.

‘Morning, children,’ I say sleepily, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table. ‘Toby, your hair is fine.’

‘Good morning, Miss Carson,’ they chime in unison.

I grin and pour myself some coffee before yawning with such force my jaw cramps. ‘Jesus, I’m fucking exhausted. Our thoughtless, idiot neighbour was shagging someone who made the weirdest noises last night. They were at it for hours – I’ve hardly slept a wink. I swear, between this, his Xbox and the never-ending parties, I’m going to end up doing time for assault.’

‘That’s the price you pay for having the big bedroom,’ Alice replies. ‘We can swap, if you like – I’ll take hot-­neighbour sex-sounds over Toby’s snoring any day.’

‘I have allergies,’ Toby protests meekly in his soft Northern accent. ‘I can’t help it. I’ll also offer to swap rooms, though, while we’re at it.’

‘No chance,’ I say, opening the bread bin. ‘I earned that room and I’m the oldest. I honestly don’t know how his roomies put up with it – unless they’re also having group sex on the other side of my wall . . . Anyone want toast?’

Alice nods, despite the fact she’s already cramming an excessively scorched toast triangle into her mouth.

‘No, ta,’ replies Toby. ‘I have quinoa and granola flakes here. I’m good.’

I glance over at Alice, who is glaring at Toby, desperately attempting to wolf down the remains of her toast so she can call him a pretentious wanker, but the moment passes.

Placing four slices of bread into our temperamental toaster, I hover around beside it, ready to press the eject button before it burns to death and I’m forced to eat Toby’s cereal. I grab the jam from the fridge, noticing that Alice has stuck three new sparkly Christmas cards to the door and tied tinsel around the handle. Last night’s conversation with Mum suddenly bounds back into my brain and I hear her say, We won’t take no for an answer. Robert’s already told me he visits his parents at Christmas; it might be too short notice to change his plans. But if I don’t bring him, they’ll think he’s a dick for not coming . . . and if he doesn’t want to come, they’ll still think he’s a dick and then I’ll be thrown pity looks the whole time I’m home because I’m the woman with the dick boyfriend, instead of the plain old woman with no boyfriend. I don’t know which is worse. I’m just going to have to fake my own death. Or murder them all.

Luckily, Alice interrupts my increasingly destructive train of thought.

‘I have to go in early this morning, Em. John Bowman’s wife had the baby,’ she says to me, sticking her knife into a tiny pot of marmalade. ‘I’m covering his art classes this week. If Pauline fucking Leeland gives me any shit, I’m going to shove an easel up her arse.’

‘For a teacher, you’re very intolerant of children, you know,’ Toby sniffs. ‘They all have potential.’

‘What the hell would you know about being a teacher?’ She laughs, waving her sticky knife in the air. ‘You work in a pet shop. You talk to hamsters and goldfish all day.’

‘The pet boutique is part-time,’ he replies defensively, spooning more cereal into his mouth. ‘Once I get my modelling portfolio up to scratch, you’ll be eating your words.’

‘I’d rather eat my words than eat that nonsense cereal, mate.’

I pop up my toast and drop the hot slices on to a plate. ‘A baby! Just in time for Christmas – that’s lovely! What did she have?’ I reply, trying to diffuse the argument, but Alice is still taunting Toby.

‘Aww, Toby, did someone once tell you you had potential?’ she cackles, completely ignoring me. ‘Never mind, eh?’

‘Oh, piss off, Alice.’

‘Jesus, guys, it’s only seven a.m. Can you both give it a rest?’ I sigh and pick up my plate, trudging off back to my room. It would be nice to have a living room to chill out in, but our landlord thought it would be much more profitable to turn it into a third bedroom (now my bedroom), so we’re all forced to endure each other in the kitchen at mealtimes. Before I’ve even reached the end of the hall, I can hear kissy noises and what sounds like Toby’s bowl hitting the kitchen floor. Monsters.

I’ve been in this flat for fourteen years and, despite their weirdness, they’re still my favourite flatmates. The first two strangers I shared with in my twenties were Joseph and Darren, both history teachers, who farted continuously for three years and were the messiest pair of piss heads I’ve ever met. After them were Sharon and Edith, who shared a passion for Botox and Coronation Street, and selfishly left me to live with their significant others. Luckily for me, Alice, my Australian colleague, was looking for a place last August and snapped up Sharon’s room, shortly followed by Toby, who, to be fair, was mainly welcomed into the fold because of his rather beautiful face.

Once I’m back in my room, away from the humping housemates, I sit on my beautiful red velvet snuggle chair, my most prized and comfortable possession, and continue to eat my breakfast. I don’t have to leave for another forty minutes, so I have time to reflect on how splendid my rented flat-share life is. Sure, it would be nice to walk around naked in places other than my bedroom, but it’s large and bright with its very own en suite, which was professionally fumigated after Joseph moved out. The walls are annoyingly thin, however, and I’m often forced to endure the nocturnal sounds of my thoughtless neighbour, Evan bloody Grant, the twenty-something, music-blasting, loudly shagging, party-throwing ball-bag who shares a bedroom wall with me and whose headboard must be one thrust away from complete obliteration. Regardless, I’m reasonably happy here, especially as the landlord throws in free Wi-Fi and I’m close to the Tube – a must in London. It’s pointless having a car here, as there’s no parking, but back home, my beautiful, blue BMW convertible is tucked up in my parents’ garage, awaiting my return.

I know that, at thirty-eight, I should be living alone by now, but unless I get a £40,000 pay rise, there’s no way I could afford to fly solo in London. Before I met Robert, I must admit, London had been losing the appeal it once had when I was in my twenties and had no need to plan any further ahead than the weekend. I got offered the head of English position in a high school in Newton Mearns, near Glasgow; the current headmaster is my old school friend, Gordon, who Facebooks me occasionally when he’s sozzled. For a while, I considered it; I could afford an actual whole house, live quietly near the countryside, see farm animals for free and drive my much missed car on a daily basis, instead of standing next to exceedingly sweaty commuters every morning. But now that Robert’s in the picture, my plans to drive with the top down past some sheep have been put on the back burner. He’s a city man through and through. Christ, I’m hesitant to ask him to my parents’ house for Christmas, never mind broach the subject of moving to Scotland with me.

Just as I’m getting ready to embark on the eight-minute walk to the Tube station, my phone starts to ring in my pocket.

‘Morning, darling. Am I forgiven?’

It’s Robert, back from his weekend business trip – a trip which he refused to let me accompany him on, despite my assurances that it was the best idea I’d ever had.

‘Let me think . . .’ I reply, pulling on my jacket. ‘No.’

‘You wouldn’t have enjoyed it,’ he insists. ‘I hardly got a moment to myself.’

‘I would have amused myself during the day!’ I reply. ‘We could have had dinner in the evening, maybe taken—’

‘Emily, when we do go to Rome, I intend to spend every minute with you, not be holed up in the office while you hop on an open-top bus tour,’ he replies. ‘I want to stroll with you through the Piazza Navona, kiss you at the top of the Spanish Steps, watch you make a wish at the Trevi Fountain: all the things I can’t do when I’m working.’

God, that’s romantic. I’m practically swooning. ‘Well, you could have said that, instead of just refusing point-blank!’ I reply. ‘I just wanted to spend a bit of time with you. That’s all.’

‘What can I say? I’m an idiot,’ he responds, softly. ‘But I promise I’ll take you to Rome, and we’ll stay at the Waldorf Astoria and make love all night on Egyptian-cotton sheets, not in some stuffy business hotel my company pays for. You’re worth more than that.’

‘Robert, I’d be happy in a cheap little B & B—’

‘Nonsense,’ he interrupts. ‘Nothing but the best for my girl. So, if I’m forgiven, let me take you to dinner tonight. There’s a little French place just opened near Angel.’

‘How super!’ I reply, like some sort of jolly fucking hockey sticks schoolgirl, which, despite growing up with posh parents, I’m anything but. However, Robert is soooo well spoken, and every word that falls out of his mouth screams I WENT TO PUBLIC SCHOOL, that my Scottish east-coast accent seems coarse in comparison. I bet Robert’s parents take brandy in the drawing room and discuss important world events, unlike mine, who make screwdrivers in the living room while they dance to old repeats of Top of the Pops.

‘Excellent,’ he replies. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven. Love you.’

‘Love you too. See you tonight.’

I throw my mobile into my bag and immediately start planning my outfit as I head towards the front door. I’ll wear the blue maxi . . . No, the black Karen Millen dress I got last week. Yes, I’ll put my hair up, wear my red heels and then dazzle him with my sophisticated charm and wit. Then, after he’s had his third whisky, I’ll drop the C bomb and hope it doesn’t explode in my face.

There are two notoriously slow lifts in our building, the one to the right being the better-smelling of the two, as Mr and Mrs Holborn, who live on the fourth floor (along with their incontinent Yorkshire terrier), tend to use the left one several times a day. I press the button and wait, scrambling around in my bag to make sure I have my Oyster card. We live on the seventeenth floor, which Alice describes as ‘the penthouse’ when she sneakily rents out her room on Airbnb on weekends she’s not there. It’s an old ex-council high-rise block, now mainly owned by private landlords, excluding Mr and Mrs Holborn, who’ve been there since time began. I press the lift button again and glance at my watch, tutting quietly. Behind me, I hear the sound of my neighbour’s door loudly slam closed and my tuts become noticeably louder.

‘Good morning, Emily.’

‘Morning, Evan,’ I reply coolly. Jesus, that boy can’t even close a door quietly.

‘Busy day ahead?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Yeah, I hate Mondays too. I can barely string a sentence together until I get my morning Starbucks . . .’

‘You seem to be managing just fine.’

Either I’m not very proficient in hostility or he just doesn’t care, because he’s still blabbering on.

‘Like the jacket. Red suits you.’

Why is he still talking? Why does he think that complimenting my tailored long-line coat (which, admittedly, is worth complimenting) will make me want to converse with him? It’s his fault I only got four hours’ sleep last night.

‘Good weekend?’

I can feel him staring at me as I ignore him.

‘Oh, bad weekend? What happened?’

My reluctance to engage with him doesn’t seem to faze him. He’s enjoying this.

‘I know. You forgot to record the Antiques Roadshow, didn’t you? No, don’t tell me, I’ll get it . . . You lost a bed sock, right? Oh, no, did someone rip your knitting?!’

Knitting? How fucking old does he think I am? I throw him a piss right off look.

‘You’re mad at me, aren’t you?’

I cave. ‘Yes, as it happens, I am. You’re aware of how thin our bedroom walls are. I had to suffer the sounds of you and whoever the hell it was unfortunate enough to agree to come home with you last night.’

He grins. ‘That was Cassie. In my defence, I’ve never heard anyone squeal like that before either.’

I scowl and continue looking at the lift doors, praying for them to open. ‘Just have a bit of bloody consideration, that’s all I ask. Like your flatmates – those girls seem to manage it.’ I pointlessly press the lift button again. Twice.

‘They work nights at the Royal Infirmary and sleep during the day; sometimes it’s like living with vampires, instead of nurses. Between you and me, I thought they’d be much more fun.’

‘Oh, you poor thing. How dare they not live up to their stereotype. How awful for you.’

He hangs his head. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m a dreadful human being, one who should be . . . Hang on – if our walls are so thin, how come I never hear you?’

‘Because, unlike you, I don’t—’

‘Get any?’ He laughs.

‘What? That’s none of your business!’ This boy is unreal. Doesn’t he have anyone else to annoy?

‘Maybe uptight Scottish women don’t have sex?’

My head quickly spins around. ‘I am NOT uptight! I just happen to have respect for my neighbours,’ I reply, omitting the fact that Robert has never spent the night in my flat. We always have sex at his place.

The doors open and, although I’m tempted to wait for the next lift, I’m aware I’ll miss my train. We walk in and stand side. . .