LITMIR.BIZ

       7

      The journey home in the taxi from the airport was like driving through a winter wonderland, buildings and streets were white with snow, the pavements lined with festive lights. We sat in the back, shivering at the change in temperature from India, even though we’d pulled out winter coats and scarves the moment we’d collected our luggage at Heathrow.

      As we drew up at Marcia and Pete’s three-storey, Victorian house in one of the back roads in Hampstead, I glimpsed their eldest daughter, Freya, peering out of a downstairs window. She was twenty-seven, a beautiful, long-limbed girl with her mother’s dark looks, she lived in her own flat in Camden but had moved back to the family home for the duration of the Indian trip. I reckoned she’d be relieved to give her siblings, Ben and Ruby, back into her parents’ care. Not that either of them needed much care: Ben was in his last year at Nottingham University and Ruby in her first; both were now home for the holidays. Freya disappeared, then reappeared moments later at the front door and came tumbling out with Ruby, a younger version of herself with the same stunning looks. In the background, I could see Ben, so like his father, too cool to rush forward, but Marcia was already out of the car, gathering her girls into her arms before moving up the steps to embrace Ben who, despite himself, looked pleased to see her.

      I waved to them all from the back of the car and wondered how many parties they’d held with their uni mates in their parents’ absence, and what Marcia and Pete were getting back to.

      ‘Call tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to settle,’ said Pete as he hauled their last case from the boot of the car. ‘We need to talk plans for Christmas lunch, it’s only two days away.’

      ‘I will,’ I promised. ‘Tell me what to bring and I can shop tomorrow.’ It had already been arranged that I’d spend the day with them and the rest of the waifs and strays they always gathered. They wouldn’t hear otherwise, although I’d have been perfectly happy to curl up in my pyjamas and watch It’s A Wonderful Life for the fiftieth time and Love Actually for the hundredth.

      ‘No need. I’ll get it all from Harvest Moon,’ said Pete. ‘Just bring yourself.’

      *

      The taxi continued up the hill and into Highgate. It had long been one of my favourite parts of London, one of the few places in the city that had maintained a village atmosphere. It was picturesque in all seasons, with the Georgian houses surrounding Pond Square, but particularly so now with the snow-covered trees that were twinkling with Christmas lights. We drove through the square, along the High Street, down the hill and at last I was home, a one-bedroom terraced house where I’d lived for the past ten years.

      As I put my key in the door and stepped into the small porch, I was struck by how quiet it was in contrast to where I’d been for the last two weeks. The whole world and everyone in it had appeared to be out on the streets in India, a life where people spent so much of their time outside, as opposed to the closed doors and curtains sealing everyone inside in their homes in the winter in England.

      The house was lovely and warm, a lamp on in the kitchen and a note propped up by the kettle. It was from Stuart. Welcome back to the snowy UK, it said. Milk, bread and a few provisions in the fridge. I’ve put on the heating. Get out your thermals! What a sweetheart he was. I’d given him a key because, after he’d heard about a recent spate of burglaries in the area, he’d been insistent about calling in from time to time while I was away to make sure everything was OK.

      I had met Stuart almost a decade ago in the autumn, just after I’d moved into my house in Highgate. I had been out on the Heath with my dog Boris, and he had dug his heels in at the bin area by the gates and was refusing to move.

      ‘That’s how I feel some days,’ said a voice behind me, and I’d turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in a long herringbone overcoat with a red scarf wrapped around his neck. He was smiling at me while trying to control a golden Retriever puppy. He looked interesting, not conventionally good-looking, but there was something attractive about his features and I immediately felt drawn to him.

      ‘He will not budge,’ I said as I pulled on Boris’s lead. ‘I think I might have to carry him home.’

      Stuart laughed. ‘Good luck with that.’

      ‘I know. I’d need a wheelbarrow.’ Boris was a big dog, a black German shepherd.

      ‘How old?’

      ‘He’s twelve now. Actually, he’s my parents’ dog – or rather was my parents’ dog – but they moved to Spain and weren’t sure he’d adapt well to the hot climate at his age. They couldn’t bear to put him in a rescue centre and nor could I, hence here we are.’

      Stuart pulled a dog treat out of the pocket of his coat, knelt down and held it out to Boris, who miraculously recovered his mobility and trotted over to him.

      ‘Looks

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