It was fair to say I’d been worried. Christmas was always when I missed Mum the most and the thought of getting through the festive season without the distraction of Stew and his family was enough for me to buy up all the two-for-one bottles of Baileys at Asda three times in a month. We had been in touch since I’d moved – a few texts, the odd awkward phone call – but he already felt like someone I used to know instead of my Stew. And not that it mattered, but rumours about him and Bryony were already circulating, ever since they sat together at the pub quiz the Wednesday before last. When Jess broke the news, I was surprised to discover I didn’t care nearly as much as I thought I might. I wanted him to be happy. Preferably with anyone else on earth, but if it had to be her, I could find it in myself to wish them luck. Luck and a painful, embarrassing but ultimately treatable sexually transmitted infection.

Overall, I was pretty proud of myself. I had a job I loved, a roof over my head, and even though my ex was almost certainly already banging someone else, I hadn’t burned down his house. I was doing so well. Mum would have been proud.

But there was still one thing that kept me awake at night.

Evan Carden.

It was an infatuation the likes of which I hadn’t experienced since the dawn of the Hemsworth era. I’d given myself all the logical pep talks but nothing changed; every night when I put myself to bed, I tossed and turned, remembering how it felt to be in his arms. I hadn’t lied to Jess when I said I wasn’t expecting a text, but I was hoping for one because late last night, when she was tucked up in bed watching A Muppet Christmas Carol, I was texting Evan.

Hope you’re having a perfect Christmas, Fran x

Hours went into the drafting of my message and that was the best I could come up with. I’d typed and deleted ‘love, Fran’ so many times I would need physiotherapy on my thumb come the New Year, but in the end, I came down on the side of no love and one kiss. Not too desperate, casual enough, but there was an opportunity to start a conversation if he wanted to.

Prising off my mittens, the bitter sting of the cold air burning my fingers, I checked my sent messages again. He’d had thirteen hours to respond. Even with the time difference of wherever he was, there was no way he hadn’t seen it now. The message was marked as sent, seen, and read. The only notification that wasn’t available on an iPhone was ‘rejected’ and surely that was in the works for the next operating system.