The chip man presented them with two greasy parcels and told them to add their own condiments at the end of the counter. Josie went a bit overboard with the salt, but, hey, it was Christmas, and winced when Max doused his in vinegar. “Not a fan?”
She made a face. “Didn’t your parents tell you that too much vinegar makes you sour?” It had been Memo’s favorite saying as Josie was growing up, though she’d used it out of context all the time, so that it never actually made any sense.
His turn to laugh. “I suppose I am a bit sour at times.”
They ate their chips as they walked up the pier, though Josie bit into the first one a bit too enthusiastically, so that the fluffy inside burned the inside of her mouth. They found a bench to sit on, and though it was damp from condensation and sea spray, Josie found she didn’t care as she relaxed against it, Max shielding her from the worst of the wind.
“So why are you going to a work party, if they’re making you redundant?”
Josie paused in the process of licking salt off her finger. “Huh?”
He scrunched up the greasy cone in one hand, already finished with his chips. “Didn’t you say that’s what you were doing tomorrow? Work Christmas party?”
“Oh.” Josie frowned, trying to remember when exactly she’d mentioned it. “Right. Well, I haven’t decided if I’m staying on, remember.”
“Ah.”
“So I’ve got to keep in the good books to keep my options open, you know?” She picked up another chip—a thin, crunchy one, the kind she liked best—and popped it into her mouth. “It’s a charity event,” she explained, then made a face. “We’re all being forced to go—our parent company is putting it on for all the companies under their ‘umbrella,’ as well as a bunch of clients, and for a reason only known to them, they decided to do that on Christmas Eve.” She didn’t add that, until recent events, she’d actually been glad of it, because it gave her a purpose other than general “Christmassy” activity. Now, though…“I’m dreading it, to tell you the truth,” she said on a sigh. “But it’s important to network for the future, isn’t it?”
He grimaced. “I remember those events.”
Josie cocked her head. “You don’t have to go to them anymore?”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “No, not anymore, thankfully. I’m guessing the pixie will be there too?” Max added, before Josie had time to question him further.
She frowned. “The pixie? You mean Oliver?” She snorted at the description. She supposed he did have a slight pixieish quality, what with his height—or lack of it—and thin chin, but while she wasn’t sure if Max meant it as an insult, she was sure Oliver would take it as one. “Yeah,” she sighed. “Yeah, he’ll be there, as will the girl he cheated on me with.”
“Ouch. Don’t go then.”
She rolled her eyes and popped the last few chips into her mouth. “I told you, I have to.”
He nodded slowly. “Is it a closed event, or are you allowed a plus one?”
Josie’s stomach jumped, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. “I’m allowed a plus one, yeah.”
“So I’ll come then,” he announced, not making it into a question. She wondered briefly if she should be offended by that, but was too focused on trying not to grin too broadly to properly consider it. “We’ll make it fun.” He took the greasy paper from her hands, then tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear before throwing the paper in the bin to his left. She was glad he’d turned away from her, because she was pretty sure his touch had brought a flush to her cheeks.
“I said I’d meet a mate who’s passing through on the way home tomorrow during the day, but in the evening we can…” He trailed off, reached into his pocket and brought out his phone, which was buzzing, the name Chloe flashing on the screen. He glanced at Josie. “My sister,” he explained. “Sorry, I’d better answer, she’ll just keep calling if I don’t.”
Josie nodded her acceptance and watched as he walked away from her in that casual stroll, then leaned against the railings. She shivered, the wind biting at her face again now that she didn’t have Max’s body as a shield. She got up and walked around the bench to the side of the pier, clenching her fingers to her palms to try to warm their icy tips. There was a little boy on the beach just below her, laughing as he ran after a shaggy, golden dog. The dog’s tongue was lolling, its tail in the air as it ran toward the waves, barking like it was trying to ward them off, then lapping at the water when that achieved nothing. Wanting to capture the moment of the dog on the seaside, she unhooked her camera from her shoulder and adjusted the settings again, just as the boy’s mother, she presumed, came walking up behind them, wearing bright red wellies and a big puffy coat, clearly no stranger to the coastline.