Her Uber arrived after seven minutes, and they drove back toward Mayfair. Feeling happier than she had all day, Jules looked at the snow that had just started falling. It was starting to gather on the ledges and eaves of the great stone buildings. On the northern side of Piccadilly Circus, a large video display on a building corner advertised performances of The Nutcracker at the London Coliseum. The bags of food felt warm in her lap, and her stomach growled as she smelled the turkey and duck. The sweet, spicy scent must be the pudding.

No, it wasn’t the Christmas Day she’d imagined—not by a long shot—but this wasn’t half bad.

She bounced up the townhouse stairs, mindful not to slip. The snow was lovely, but she was glad not to have anywhere else to go tonight.

Vivian was nowhere to be seen as she hustled into the kitchen with the food. Still asleep? She hadn’t emerged from her room since Jules had woken up, and that was hours ago now. It was nearly seven and fully dark outside.

“Time to get up,” Jules muttered as she dumped the bags onto the kitchen island. She reached for her phone and texted Vivian:

I’m back with dinner.

There. Vivian would either come down or she wouldn’t, but Jules’s stomach had started to growl again. She’d hardly touched her lunch and was ravenous. Time to throw some food onto a plate and scarf it down as soon as possible.

Then she paused with a frown. No. That wasn’t right.

She looked at her phone again, then at the Echo unit on a countertop. A few minutes later, she’d linked the two devices, and “Deck the Halls” played in the kitchen while she looked for the flatware.

By the time Vivian arrived, Jules had finished an impressive table setting for two. The linen napkins were even in rings. She hummed “Silver Bells” along with Dean Martin as she lit two white tapered candles she’d found in the buffet.

Vivian stopped dead at the entrance to the kitchen. She looked genuinely taken aback.

In spite of Jules’s determination to enjoy her Christmas evening, she felt a pang of anxiety. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Vivian shook her head. She’d changed out of her green dress into a cream-colored blouse and pair of loose black pants with a pair of black flats to match. She was hardly dressed to the nines, but at least she hadn’t wandered down to Christmas dinner in a T-shirt and yoga pants. (Did Vivian even own T-shirts?)

Meanwhile, Jules wore a red sweater and her own pair of black slacks that hugged her hips and ass beautifully—the closest she could come to Christmas garb. She hadn’t bothered with hair or makeup, but this was festive enough for a quiet night in. And for once, she looked better than Vivian Carlisle.