Drifts of Destiny

Drifts of Fate

Matthew, a thirty-five-year-old solicitor, can’t stand New Year’s Eve. For him, its less celebration and more endurance test.

All the commotion, hunting for the perfect gift for colleagues he barely tolerates, and of course, the annual office do. This year, the firm has really gone all out, hiring an entire country house in Surrey.

Matthew is driving there in his spotless black Jaguar, listening to a podcast about tax codes, mentally rehearsing his plan: show up, stay for an hour, nurse a glass of Prosecco, exchange pleasantries with the bosses, and slip away before anyone notices.

When he arrives, the place is already buzzing; like a stirred beehive. People in garish jumpers and sequined dresses weaved through the crowd, laughter sounding just a bit too forced.

He collects his drink, positions himself near a wall, and watches this merry-go-round of feigned jollity. He cant shake off the feeling of being an alien, dumped on a planet where compulsory cheerfulness is law.

***

And then he spots her. She isnt the loudest or most striking in the room. She stands by the window, just a little apart, gazing out at the blizzard swirling outside.

Shes wearing a simple navy dress and holding a glass of juice. Yet she seems neither unhappy nor lonely; rather, she looks lost in thought.

Matthew realises she looks exactly how he feels.

Rubbish weather for the journey home, he blurts, approaching her.

(Its the first thing to come to mind.)

She turns and smilesnot the stiff sort everyone else has been sporting, but a genuine, warm one.

Beautiful though, isnt it? she replies, nodding at the snow. When the citys covered like this, it feels as if all our troubles are buried under it.

Matthews caught off guard. He expected anything but this.

Matthew, he introduces himself.

Harriet, she says, shaking his hand, from Accounts. I think weve shared the lift a few times.

They lapse into silence. It doesnt feel awkwardinstead, it feels oddly comforting.

The snowstorm outside intensifies. Over the speakers, someone announces that the roads are impassable and everyone will have to stay until morning.

A collective groan ripples through the room, tinged with panic.

Matthew silently curses. His plans in shambles.

So, Mr Solicitor, ready to spend the night on a camp bed? Harriet jokes.

My training did not prepare me for this, Matthew chuckles back. And you?

I always pack a decent charger and a book. Im ready for anything, Harriet grins.

That evening, stripped of plans and pretences, they talk.

Turns out Harriet loves old black-and-white films, which Matthew despisesbut he agrees to give one a try if shell explain the charm. Matthew secretly dreams of quitting law and running a little café, while Harriet paints watercolours, though shes never shown her art to anyone.

They sit tucked in a corner, oblivious to the party, sipping hot tea from Harriets thermos instead of Champagne.

Harriet tells him about her cat, who chases snowflakes at the window, and he reminisces about his gran, who taught him to make honey cake.

As the clock strikes midnight, they dont shout and cheer. They just look at each other.

Happy New Year, Matthew, Harriet whispers.

Happy New Year, Harriet, he replies.

That night, instead of plush suites, they sleep side by side in the drawing room on fold-out beds, set up by the staff for those stranded. They whisper through the early hours while the storm outside begins to fade.

In the morning, as the roads are cleared, they step outside. The world is white, still and bright. Sunlight glints off the snowdrifts.

So, where to next? Matthew asks.

Bus stop. Home, says Harriet.

I could give you a lift, if you like.

Harriet looks at him, her blue eyes sparkling.

And what if I say I love this frozen, quiet world, and Id rather walk to the next stop?

Matthew understands. That night wasnt an accident.

It was the start of something real, something new.

Then Ill walk with you, he says, sure of himself.

And together, they set off into the untouched snow, on the first day of the year, leaving footprints that lead to some brighter, unknown future.

Its hard not to believe in that.