‘Yours,’ Clara reminded her cheerfully. ‘And I know you love it, really.’
Clara hadn’t been sure there was a market for this sort of thing when Merry had first suggested it. Did Londoners really need another concierge and events service? Would people really pay them to organise their lives, buy their gifts, arrange special access and perks, plan their parties and family gatherings, their holidays and so on? Merry had been adamant that they would.
With your magic at making things perfect and my business knowledge, we can’t fail, she’d insisted over a bottle of wine at Clara’s tiny rented flat one evening.
So Perfect London had been born and, four years later, business was booming. Especially at Christmas.
‘I suppose it’s all right,’ Merry said, the smirk she threw Clara’s way showing her real feelings. ‘Pays the bills, anyway.’
And then some. Clara was still amazed at just how successful they’d been. Successful enough that she’d been able to move out of that tiny flat into her own house two years ago. Successful enough that she no longer lay awake at night, panicking about how she would provide for her daughter, Ivy, alone.
Clara stared at the mountain of presents again, then turned her attention to the Christmas tree standing in their shop front office window. Gazing at the star on top, she made a wish. The same wish she’d made every year since Perfect London had taken the city by storm that first Christmas, when media mentions and word of mouth had seen them triple their income in a month and the numbers had held at that level for the following year.
Please, let things stay this good for another year?
The fact that they had so far went a long way to wiping out some of the less than wonderful Christmas memories from her childhood. Clara would even go so far as to say that, these days, Christmas was a magical time of year for her—especially with Ivy around to share it with.
‘What have you and Ivy got planned for Christmas?’ Merry asked.
Clara shrugged. ‘Nothing much. She wants a bike, so I imagine we’ll be taking that out for a ride.’ She frowned just for a moment, remembering that a bike wasn’t the only thing her daughter had asked Father Christmas for that year. Ivy didn’t know that she’d overheard, but Clara couldn’t shake the memory of her whispering to the man in the red suit at the shopping centre that what she wanted most in the world was ‘to have a dad’.
At least the bike was more achievable, even if keeping it hidden was proving tricky. She could walk out and buy a bike at any number of shops in the city.
A father was rather more difficult to procure. Especially Ivy’s real dad.
She shook the thought away. There were only a couple of weeks until the big day, and Clara was going to focus on the wonderful Christmas she could give her daughter.
‘Other than that,’ she went on, ‘pancakes for breakfast, the usual turkey for lunch and a good Christmas movie in the afternoon.’ Quiet, cosy and just the way Clara liked it.
Worlds away from the Christmases she had once expected to have, before Ivy had come along, before Perfect London. Before she had walked out on her marriage.
It was strange to think about it now. Most of the time, she could barely imagine herself still married to Jacob. But every now and then, something would happen to remind her and she’d find herself picturing the way her life might have gone. Like a parallel universe she kept getting glimpses of, all the might-have-beens she’d walked away from.
They would probably be spending Christmas in one of his many modern, bright white, soulless properties. They were barely houses, let alone homes, and they were certainly not cosy. Maybe his family would be with them this year, maybe not. There’d be expensive, generic presents, designer decorations. Maybe she’d have thrown a party, the sort she loved organising for clients these days—but it would have felt just as much like business, when all the guests would have been Jacob’s business associates rather than friends.
But there was the other side of it too. They’d only managed two Christmases together, but they had both been packed with happy moments—as well as the awful ones. She had memories of waking up in Jacob’s arms, the times when it had been just the two of them and a bunch of mistletoe. A walk in the snow with his arm around her waist. The heat in his eyes as he watched her get ready for another party. The way he smiled, just sometimes, as if she was everything he’d ever imagined having in the world and so much more.
Except she wasn’t, and she knew that now. More than that, she knew that she was worth more than he was willing to give her—only bestowing his attention on her when it suited him, or when he could drag himself away from work. When you truly loved someone, it wasn’t a chore to spend time with them and they should never have to beg you for scraps of attention. Ivy had taught her that—and so much more. She had taught her things Clara couldn’t imagine she’d spent twenty-seven years not understanding but that Ivy had been born knowing.
So Clara seldom thought twice about her decision to leave—she knew it had been the right one. But still, from time to time those parallel universes would sneak up and catch her unguarded, reminding her of the good things about her marriage as well as the bad.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Merry asked. ‘You’ve been staring at that tree for five solid minutes and you haven’t even asked me to start on the next job. I’m beginning to worry.’
Clara shook her head and turned away from the tree. It didn’t matter, anyway. Because in all those visions of that other life, there was always one person missing.
Ivy.
And Clara refused to imagine her life without her daughter.
‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘Just Christmas Past, I suppose.’
‘I prefer Christmas Presents,’ Merry joked. ‘Or even Christmas Future if it means we’re done working for the year.’
‘Done for the year?’ Clara asked incredulously. ‘Have you forgotten the Harrisons’ New Year’s Eve Charity Gala?’
Merry rolled her eyes. ‘As if I could. Who really needs that much caviar anyway?’
‘Two hundred of London’s richest, most famous and most influential people.’ Twenty tables of ten, at ten thousand pounds a plate, with all proceeds going to the children’s charity the Harrison family had set up in memory of their youngest child, who’d died ten years ago from a rare type of blood cancer.
No one else would have dared to hold such an important—and expensive—fundraiser on New Year’s Eve. The one night of the year when everyone had plans and people they wanted to be with. But the Harrisons had the money, the influence, the charm and the celebrity to pull it off. Especially with Perfect London organising everything for them.
Clara had been nervous when Melody Harrison—activist, author and all-round beautiful woman—had approached her. The Harrisons were possibly the most recognisable family in London: the epitome of a perfect family. And Melody wanted Clara to organise the most important charity event in their calendar.
‘You did such a beautiful job with the True Blue launch event,’ she’d said. ‘I just know Perfect London is the right fit for our little charity gala.’
‘Little’, Clara had found
