But you’re famous!

‘Really?’ Daisy shrugs. ‘I guess I just thought, you know, anyone would be psyched that their kid was dating a famous person.’

Daisy laughs out loud. ‘Bless you for saying that. No, sadly, when you’re a Monaco-dwelling river Nazi and his perennially bitch-faced wife, being on the cover of a magazine does not count for very much. I think they were hoping he’d bring back a countess. Or a royal. Or possibly just the woman who cured cancer.’ She’s not quite able to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

‘River Nazi?’ you echo. Daisy laughs.

‘Yeah, sorry. It’s my shorthand for anyone who lives on a boat that costs more than my house and fills it with creepy German war memorabilia.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘He probably wasn’t actually a Nazi. He just thought his son could do better.’

‘Wow,’ you say, struggling slightly for words. Daisy looks a bit self-conscious.

‘Sorry, that was probably way more detail than you wanted. What about you?’ She smiles encouragingly. ‘Can you beat my creepy German Christmas? I mean, as long as they didn’t make you hold hands and sing Frosty der Schneemann…’

You chuckle under your breath. ‘Ah… okay, maybe I can’t top that. I’m no stranger to shitty Christmases, though.’ Daisy makes a sympathetic face. ‘Which I always feel bad about, for some reason – like, everyone expects you to love Christmas. And I would love to love Christmas, it’s just… well, hey.’

You stare at the floor helplessly, aware that you’re not making a lot of sense. ‘Let’s just say that if you’d had to spend Christmas with my parents for the last twenty-six years, you’d be borderline fucking psychotic as well.’

Daisy laughs softly. ‘Trust me, I understand.’

‘Really?’ You have to work to suppress a smile. ‘Wait, sorry, I shouldn’t be happy that your folks are also certified whackjobs. But… seriously?’

‘God, yeah.’ Daisy lets out a long, rueful laugh. ‘The only good thing about steamboat Hitler was that it kept me away from the other lot. Trust me, if we’d had somewhere else to go…’

‘You have no idea,’ you say, settling more comfortably into the curved plastic seat, ‘how horribly happy it makes me whenever someone has worse childhood memories of Christmas than I do. Please go on.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t.’ Daisy grins, sliding down in her own chair. ‘Not unless you want to play therapist for the next six hours. I remember one Christmas literally hiding in the hall cupboard to get away from my grandmas. They’d finally bonded over how fat I was.’

You groan sympathetically. ‘Oh, tell me you’re kidding.’

‘Nope.’ Daisy snorts. ‘By the time I was twelve, they’d figured out this lovely little double act. One would sit opposite me at dinner, making loud remarks about how she always used to clean her plate when she was a kid. The other one would wait till I picked up my fork to tell me how plump I was getting these days.’

You close your eyes momentarily. ‘Dear God, I am so sorry.’

‘Thanks.’ Daisy laughs. ‘Hey, it wasn’t all bad. I think it probably made me better at dealing with all the bastards in this business. You know, having to practice not ramming my fork into her eye every Christmas dinner… I’m sure it taught me kindness or patience or some shit.’

You meet her smile. ‘Yeah, I bet. That kind of actually makes my hiding-in-a-closet story pale in comparison.’

‘Oh, no, tell me!’ Daisy hangs over her seat, so she’s looking right at you. ‘I showed you mine, now you have to show me yours. That’s definitely the rule.’