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single thing to say on their date? Would she be able to keep up the façade of the strong, independent woman for more than five minutes?
    ‘Emily, are you still there?’
    ‘Yes, sorry, I was thinking.’
    ‘Were you thinking yes or no?’
    ‘I was thinking … maybe.’
    ‘Maybe you’ll call in next Saturday?’
    ‘Next Saturday?’
    ‘Well, yes. I presume you’ll be working all week? It says on your card that you’re the chief features writer for Stylish Living .’
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’
    ‘Hey, that sounds pretty impressive.’
    ‘Um, thanks.’
    ‘And, of course, I’m sure you have plans for Christmas Day tomorrow, and so on? So shall we say the first Saturday after Christmas?’
    Emily closed her eyes. She didn’t have a single plan for Christmas Day, but Dylan didn’t have to know that. She’d give her parents a quick call, of course. But that was about it. For the rest of the day it’d just be herself and her Christmas tree, a ready meal and the Radio Times .
    ‘Okay, then,’ she heard herself saying. ‘I’ll see you, then.’
    ‘Great. Bye, Emily.’
    ‘Bye, Dylan.’
    Emily shut off her phone and went into the bedroom. She sat down gently on her unmade bed and looked pointedly at the wardrobe.
    ‘Yes, I know,’ she told it. ‘I’m not quite ready yet. But if I don’t do something soon, I never will be ready. I don’t have to throw myself at him, you know. I’ll just go along to the shop for an innocent cup of coffee and see what happens. And if he turns out to be as lovely as he looks, that’ll be brilliant. And if he turns out to be a let-down … well, I’ll just deal with it, okay?’
    She crossed the floor and turned the small bronze key in the wardrobe lock. With a tiny squeak the door opened. Inside, folded neatly into a hundred layers like a cross-section diagram in a geography book, were all the clothes and keepsakes that were holding Emily back. Things she hadn’t looked at in years. She could almost smell the disappointment lingering on everything like brick dust or mothballs. So many things, going all the way back to her insular childhood on a Belfast estate. She was thirty years old, she reminded herself. A milestone year. Surely she was not going to let a milestone year go by without at least making some changes to her safe (but stuck) life? And was it better to be safe and stuck or vulnerable and free?
    A life coach would have described Emily as a butterfly. But was she a cowardly butterfly that was going to remain safely in her little glass box for ever? Or was she going to bravely take flight up into the bright blue sky, with all the possibilities – both good and bad – that might await her there?
    Emily closed the door again and went to bed. She listened to the radio for company and was glad she hadn’t told Dylan she’d be on her own for Christmas. It was too soon to burden him with her various little family anecdotes, none of them pleasant.
    Emily was still awake and thinking about Dylan when Christmas morning dawned. She got up, went into the sitting room and switched on the lights on her pretty tree. She made a cup of hot chocolate and listened to a carol service on the radio. She rang her parents in Belfast to wish them a merry Christmas, but nobody answered the phone – even though she let it ring for ages and ages before she gave up. Wondering what might have happened to her flaky mother and father, Emily opened the sitting-room curtains to find it was snowing heavily, yet again.
    ‘Oh, I don’t believe it,’ she murmured. ‘Not more snow! Will this winter never end?’

4. Tea and Biscuits
    Dylan set the two mugs on the counter and offered Emily a broken biscuit.
    ‘Sorry, I dropped the packet on the floor,’ he said.
    ‘Better than dropping the tea on the floor,’ she replied.
    ‘So, Emily, is that a trace of an Irish accent you’ve got there?’ Dylan asked brightly.
    Emily laughed in spite of her nerves. She was wearing skinny jeans,