They sat by the firelight, glasses drained, listening to the Winter movement of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, huddled on cushions on the floor. Drew watched the flames flickering in her emerald eyes. He was in no hurry to shift himself to the grander party up the road. Their silence was oddly comforting, their friendship a strange hidden sort of affair, unknown to others.

He wished he didn’t drink so hard and fast and wondered what drove him to seek solace in a bottle. Now was not the time to ask such a deep question, when Netta was so grateful for company, so down at heart about her letter. They were leaning against each other, swaying with the rhythm of the music, letting the sound soothe away all the tension. So much so that they slid slowly down on to the flag stones and the peg rug and lay back, laughing.

‘This the true spirit of Christmas, Netta: a warm welcome on a cold night, the laughter of children, the heat of good wine in the belly, and above all to be side by side with a good friend – one who understands and doesn’t judge. Better than a load of stuffy wallahs in dinner jackets blethering about nothing.’

‘Thanks, Drew, you’ve made this evening bearable. At least someone wants me.’

He raised himself on to his elbow to admire the view again. ‘Netta you’re lovely, how many times have I told you that?’

‘Words, Drew, only words. That’s all I’ve ever had for years. I’m still young but I feel a hundred sometimes.’

‘Let me show you how lovely you are with those sea-green eyes and foxy hair.’ He reached over and ruffled her hair playfully. ‘And I like the way your nose tilts up like a ski jump.’ He fingered her cheek and put his lips to hers in a long and lingering kiss.

The power of his touch shot through Netta’s body, waking her from this half-dream. ‘No, Drew… don’t. It’s not fair. I can’t. There’s Ginnie…’

‘If I know my wife to be, she’ll be hard at it with someone under the mistletoe. No one knows… We could be good together, you and me.’

‘Call me old-fashioned but two wrongs don’t make a right. Please, get up. My arm’s gone to sleep. Don’t spoil what we have.’

‘What’ve we got that’s so different from anyone else? I think you’re special. I want to kiss you now. Where’s the harm?’

‘If you think me some silly damsel you can disarm like a knight of old when you’re sozzled and I’m squiffy then you don’t think of me as that special. You can go right now, Drew Stirling! I pity your poor bride if you take every drunken opportunity that falls your way.’

‘I’m not drunk, just merry. Don’t be such a spoilsport.’