‘Actually, ‘said Dolly, rubbing my arm before ticking the third set of sparkly angel wings off her checklist, ‘it might turn out to matter a great deal.’

*

Luckily for me, Jonathan messaged to say he was inundated with work and wouldn’t be able to call until later in the week. It was a huge relief because I didn’t think I would be able to stop myself from telling him what had happened. Following his staunch work ethic, I threw myself into helping at school and did what I could to ensure that the performance on Wednesday, in which every child had a part, (even if they were only a sheep present at the birth of baby Jesus), ran like clockwork.

There was no job I couldn’t turn my hand to. Whether I was reattaching elastic on masks, adding sequins to hemlines or painting scenery, I was up for it. Anything to stop me imagining that card and letter winging its way across the country, but I was hard pushed to eradicate it completely from my thoughts.

Sometimes my head was filled with an Indiana Jones style map, complete with theme tune. You know the ones they use in the films to plot his progress across continents in a hot air balloon or something. I pictured a robin, just like the one on the card, with the envelope clasped tightly in its little beak, battling blizzards to make sure it reached its destination and was delivered right on time.

‘You’re still thinking about that card, aren’t you?’ Beamish asked as he took in my faraway expression. ‘I really am sorry about it, you know.’

It was the night before the play and, having got my crush for him (helped in no small part by his cock-up with the card) under control, I had agreed to stay late to help him with some last-minute tweaking to the new stage lighting. The money for it had been raised by the PTA and, as this was to be its debut performance, it had to be impressive.

‘If it’s any consolation, it won’t have arrived yet,’ he said, climbing the ladder to position the spotlights above the recently repaired stage. ‘Not at this time of year.’

‘Don’t you think?’ I asked, squinting up at him and momentarily blinding myself.

‘Don’t look at the lights, you idiot,’ he laughed as I grimaced and rubbed my eyes. ‘Just stand there so I can see where to angle them.’

‘It might be there tomorrow though, mightn’t it?’ I said, unable to let it drop. ‘I can’t imagine it will take longer than three days.’

Beamish didn’t answer and I tried not to think about Mum and Dad reading what I had written.

‘Oh, blast,’ I said, rushing across the stage and out of his pool of light.

‘What?’