If the local weathergirl was to believed (and I had it on good authority that she knew her stuff), there would be no trains running today. I wondered whether once I navigated the drive, I’d find the roads outside the forest were clear. My weather apps confirmed that the snow fizzled out at the southern border of Nottinghamshire. So, all I needed to do was persuade someone to lend me their car, and get it the short distance to the main road.

This could be doable after all. Hope began to accelerate through my bloodstream.

When I checked the exact address so I could estimate the time it would take, it screeched to a stop.

While the job would be in London, the interview was at Baxter Bigwood’s country retreat.

In Scotland.

With a reluctant finger I typed the address into my maps app.

Six hours, in normal traffic.

I checked the time. Five past ten. So, if I allowed an optimistic hour to get down the drive and all the way to the main road, that gave me thirty minutes to pack, convince someone to lend me their car and listen to everything Mum had to say on the matter, plus a quick stop halfway there for a wee and a coffee.

It would take a serious dose of Christmas magic for me to stand a chance of making it on time, but compared to the alternatives, it was a chance worth taking.

Right: the first thing to do was pack.

It should have been a relatively simple task, given that most of my things had never left the suitcase. However, as I stuffed my pyjamas and other bits and bobs back in I realised that, partly due to the haste with which I’d packed the night before thanks to the surprise drinks party, I hadn’t brought the kind of outfit suitable for a job interview. Especially when interviewing for a job where appearance mattered.

I was sitting on the floor, back against the bed, eyes squeezed shut in the hope that a solution might somehow appear by the time I opened them again, when there was a knock at my bedroom door.

‘Oh, great.’ My first reaction was to pretend I was asleep, or somewhere else. But then I remembered that I needed a car. And also to let my family know that I was abandoning them for a couple of days.

‘Come in.’

I expected Dad bearing tea and a sneaky mince pie. At a close second, Mia or one of her girls. Last on my list (besides Nana Joy, who couldn’t manage the steep climb any more) was Henry.

‘Um, hi. Hello.’ He’d pushed open the door tentatively, as if half expecting to find a wild animal on the other side. He had a mug in each hand. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Has Mum allowed you a break?’