Christmas morning everyone crowded onto Hannah’s bed. Dylan made himself comfortable next to Jemima who snuggled next to Hannah and opened her stocking. Her sister, Robyn, lounged at the foot of the bed, doing her yearly lament about whether they were finally too old for stockings. Hannah sipped piping-hot tea while Dylan’s boyfriend, Tony, took his marginally less-awkward position on the chair in his silk dressing gown, a little more comfortable with the family with another year under his belt. Her parents burst in carrying stockings for them all and made themselves comfortable on the sofa, feigning wonder and amazement at the gifts in Jemima’s stocking that they had all been roped into buying as Hannah sat up sewing Jane’s outfit.
Hannah watched them all chatting and laughing. The same as every year. All the same. And all so different. This year the knot had gone in her stomach. The worry. She was getting there. Getting where she’d wanted to be.
She’d sewed with her mum until the small hours of the morning. At one point her mum had looked up and said, ‘Are you happy, Hannah?’
‘Yes,’ she’d replied, without really having to think about it. And she was happy. Her life was lovely. But there was a tiny part of her that felt like something was missing. Something she was aware of only because she had had it momentarily and then lost it. She missed Harry. She missed the flip in her heart that she felt when she heard his voice. And while she knew they were not to be, she missed the possibility.
Now, as she sat in bed, Robyn’s voice cut into the memory. ‘What’s wrong with Hannah? What’s wrong with you? What are you staring at?’
Hannah mentally shook herself. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I was just thinking.’
But then Dylan leant forward and said, ‘She’s mooning over some bloke.’ His voice a loud, conspiratorial whisper.
‘I am not,’ she said quickly.
‘Yes you are,’ said Dylan.
Her mum put her cup of tea down and said, ‘What bloke? Who? Are you seeing someone, Hannah? How exciting.’
‘No! I’m not seeing anyone. There’s no bloke.’ She sat back assuming that was the end of it and tried to focus on her stocking.
‘He thinks she’s like Mary Poppins,’ Jemima’s little voice piped up.
‘What?’ said Hannah, glancing around a bit confused.
‘What?’ said Dylan, delighted by the possible insight.
‘What a nanny?’ said Robyn.
‘No.’ Jemima shook her head. ‘Practically perfect in every way.’
As her family oohed, Hannah had to close her eyes and slide down under the covers.