A New Year’s Eve Tale

A NEW YEAR INCIDENT

Emma absolutely wasnt in the mood to go home. The working day on December 31st had been blessedly short, and every other woman in the office had vanished at lightning speed to join their husbands, children, and salads. There was a stampede to the lifts, with shiny faces, arms straining under giant bags of clementines and a bottle of fizz eachcourtesy of Martin, their boss and the only man among them.

Emma, meanwhile, had no one waiting at home. No one needed a salad made by her. She glanced glumly at the mound of clementines bulging from their see-through Sainsburys bag, stranded on her desk, and gave a dramatic sigh.

No, she definitely didnt fancy heading home to her cold little flat. Instead, she waged battle with an atrociously dull report. Not five minutes later, a rather harried Martin burst in, coat flapping and woolly hat askew.

Oy, why are you still here? I left your bottle on your desk. Oh blastI forgot my wifes present, can you believe it? he huffed, before vanishing into his office.

He re-emerged a minute later, keys jangling.

Seriously, what are you hanging about for? Go home, Emma!

Oh, Ill be on my own at home, too, Martin, she replied.

Martin, who had been mid-flight to his family, froze in the doorway. He perched beside Emmas mound of paperwork, and for a moment gazed at her with an awkward paternal seriousness.

Now, now, we cant have this. Its New Years Eve! Dont look so sad. Its a time to have fun, you know! Youll never catch a fella looking so glum. Women ought to smile more! Come, chin up, he blustered, herding her papers into a neat pile and, in the process, smothering her in bossy but well-meaning cheer. Ive let everyone else go, you know! And here you are still stuck!

Honestly, Martin, no need to worry. Im heading off soon. Go on, get yourself home to your familyI can finish up here and lock up, Emma insisted.

Certain? he asked suspiciously.

Positive!

Well, then, Happy New Year! Martin made his getaway at last.

Emma sighed. She did look a right state, hanging about in the office. She should probably just go home. Maybe Ill order pizza, she mused, idly poking at her phone. Hope somewheres open on New Years Eve

First number: not a peep. Second: a breathless girl apologisedthey closed at six and wished Emma a Happy New Year. Emma checked the clock: six oh five. She dialled again, one last hopeful attempt. Success! Her order was cheerily accepted. She packed her things, wriggled into her jumper, scooped up Martins bag of clementines and her bottle of Prosecco, and braved the great outdoors.

It was honestly magical outside. The winter air was crisply nippy on her cheeks, and the pavements crunched agreeably beneath her boots. Lamp posts shone heroically, and Christmas lights twinkled in every window and shop front. People bustled about, overloaded with shopping bags and gift-wrapped boxes. And, as usual, plenty of Brits were stress-shopping at the last possible minute. Catching their mood ever so slightly, Emma felt her spirits begin to perk up.

What am I moping for? she told herself, and strode into the glaring light of the nearest supermarket.

Soon enough, she was unpacking her loot at home. Hope the spuds boil in time, Emma muttered, cranking the oven up, then dangling a new string of fairy lights in the window. She stuck the plug insparkle! The cheerful rainbow snake of light wriggled across the frame. Swinging her arms overhead, Emma did a little celebratory shimmy, ready to feast in honour of herself.

For me! Why not?

While the potatoes steamed out on the balconyand would serve her infamous potato saladshe deftly assembled little open sandwiches with a bit of salmon and red caviar. Cold meat slices arranged themselves on curly lettucevery poshwhile cheddar cubes and pineapple graced a snack plate beside Martins clementines.

Thirty minutes later, her salad was ready and chicken drumsticks were sizzling with promise. She dragged the coffee table in front of the sofa, laid out a lacy napkin, and ferried all her dishes over. She even set both a wine glass and glass for juice, arranging cutlery like she was expecting royalty. Eyeing her handiwork from a couple of steps away, Emma had to admit it: she outdid herself for invisible guests.

At half-past eleven, she popped into the kitchen to uncork the Prosecco, when suddenly her intercom rang.

“Pizza delivery! called a chirpy young man.

Heavens, Id forgotten! Emma scrambled for the entry buzzer. Come right up! she called.

How much do I owe you? she asked when a good-looking bloke greeted her with pizza box in hand.

Nothing at all. Its on the housea New Years gift, he beamed, genuinely.

I really cant. Dont you get in trouble for that?

Not at all. Swear on the Queen. Its late, and this is our apology. Take your pizza, youve earned it.

Noticing she was still clutching her bottle of Prosecco, Emma thrust it into his hands. Hold this, will you? She swapped for the pizza box and marched it to the kitchen.

Not very delivery-boy material, are you? she called.

Im not a delivery boy! Im the owner. I sent everyone else home earlyNew Year and all that. Theyve got families waiting. But then I noticed your order left in the system, so figured Id bring it myself. After all, no ones waiting for meunlike your pizza. Truth be told, I got a bit delayed

Ten minutes to go! Emma cried. Quick, open the Prosecconever mind clutching it like a lifeline. We need to toast the end of the old year!

Oh, absolutely. You have glasses, I assume?

As Emma fetched them, a loud pop echoed from the living room.

To the old year! they toasted.

“To the old year!” they echoed, downing their sparkling tipple.

Oh, crikey, what have we done?

What? asked the man, suddenly worried.

Youre driving, and you just had Prosecco!

Ah, yes, he said, breaking into a wide grin.

So youre not driving anywhere now!

Seems not!

And youll never get a taxi tonight

Indeed! he replied, looking more pleased than sorry.

Right, take off your shoes and come in, or well see in the New Year stood in the hallway like lost luggage!

Blimey, its proper cosy in here, he remarked.

“Pour away, the Prime Ministers already done his speech!”

“Happy New Year, err…”

“Emma,” she prompted.

“Happy New Year, Emma! Im Oliver,” he replied.

“Happy New Year, Oliver! Have some potato saladI made it myself. There’s only one set of cutlery, but, honestly, just eat straight from the bowl.” Emma couldnt seem to stop chattering, and for once, she didnt mind.

She quite liked Oliver, and she liked even better how easy he was to talk to.

Mmm, even tastier straight from the serving bowl. Do you have any brown bread lurking about? Im ravenous, like well, like a pizza man who missed his dinner.

“Of course,” Emma replied.

Coming back, she saw Oliver with a chicken drumstick in each hand, sporting a sheepish, sauce-smeared grin.

“Sorry, couldnt help myselfthese are too good. Emma, you should cook for a living!”

Im just glad youre enjoying it. I figured itd all go to wastelook how much Ive made! No way I could eat it all.

Are you kidding? Ill help you out!

Then please start immediately!

Suddenly realising she was hungry herself, Emma tucked in.

Together they demolished the potato salad, clinked glasses, watched a ropey New Years Eve TV special, and laughed at absolutely nothing.

“Looks like weve finished the Prosecco!”

Theres more in my carlet me grab it.

Wait, I’m coming with you! Emma declared.

“That air is delicious,” she said, arms thrown wide as they stood by Olivers car, while fireworks danced around them in the night sky.

You know what, Emma? Marry me. Not this secondmaybe in a year, once you’ve sussed me out properly.

Surely youre joking.

Not remotely!

Well then, I promise Ill consider it.

So, shall we continue with the celebrations?

Emma nodded, Oliver fetched another bottle from his boot, and togetherthey carried on ringing in the New Year, just the two of them, and just right.