The ply sheets had been, thanks to Maya’s dad, cut into the shape of sleighs which I had further transformed by painting bright red and decorating to look like the real thing. I had also added, in flowing white script, the words, Wynter’s Trees Transport along the sides. I had enough to bolt on to the sides of each cart, hopefully giving them the appearance of real miniature sleighs and I further hoped I might be able to encourage Bandit to pull one for long enough to get some video footage and a photo or two to send to the local press.

‘You’re so clever, Liza,’ Noah gushed.

‘Thanks,’ I self-consciously said, struggling to accept the compliment. ‘To be honest, I’m surprised Dad hadn’t come up with something like this years ago.’

‘From what I can remember,’ said Noah, cocking his head. ‘He was more practical than creative. The decorative flourishes are definitely more your forte, my love.’

Dad had said something similar the day he drove over to see me for what turned out to be the last time. I hastily pushed aside the memory and forcefully blinked away the tears which always arrived whenever it managed to squeeze its way in.

‘Thanks, Noah.’ I said again before changing the subject. ‘Have you and Michael finally recovered from your stag night experience?’

Noah rolled his eyes and shook his head.

‘Just about,’ he said, with a shudder. ‘I don’t know what my brother was thinking, insisting that we tagged along, although actually, some good has come out of it.’

‘Oh?’

‘We’ve talked practically every day since,’ he confided, sounding pleased. ‘We’d drifted apart a bit after I came out, but we’re closer now than we have been in a long time. And he really likes Michael, which has made Mum happy too.’

‘That’s fantastic.’

‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘It’s nice to feel that he needs me again. Only this morning, I was calming his nerves.’

‘Pre-wedding jitters?’

‘Mmm,’ Noah nodded. ‘I told him to follow his heart. Not that he’s really having doubts, but that’s always the best course of action, isn’t it?’

I hoped that was a rhetorical question because I tended to follow my head and good old-fashioned common sense, rather than my heart. I had adopted the strategy the day I left school. Hearts, I had realised by then, were vulnerable organs. Mum’s had let her down, and mine had been irreparably damaged by her death, it was then further crushed by Dad’s decision to move us and then stamped all over by Chelsea. I was better off ignoring it.