Crossing an admittedly small village, walking on the fresh snow, in her evening shoes, with a heavy cake in her hands - she could never bake a small one - wasn't possibly the cleverest idea. Still, it wasn't as bad of an idea as changing her mind at the last moment and putting on her red Kate Louboutins. She slipped fourteen times. She counted. She didn't fall, which was amazing considering the history of her accidents in the past fortnight - but by the time she reached Mrs. Hooper's cottage she felt like she'd run a marathon. She stopped on the porch, took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell.

Shut up, shut up, shut uppity up! Stop writing in your head and imagining fifty different scenarios of how this whole situation can go tits up in the first ten seconds.

He's not there. He's there with a new girlfriend. He's asleep. No one is there. They have finished dinner already. Dr. Edwin Montjoy is in the house. They are all sick. He's sick. There's a fire in the house. John is over you already. Oh, that last one. Yeah...

The door opened, and Clementine stared at a small dark-haired boy.

"Happy Christmas," she said. "You must be Killian. I'm Clementine, I'm–" And who are you exactly, Clementine? "I'm John's friend."

"Happy Christmas," the boy answered politely and smiled at her. "You're our neighbour John's been talking about."

Oh. As in 'I stayed with this lovely bird for a fortnight, and now I'm head over heels with her?' Or 'I hope she burns in a house fire caused by broken Christmas tree lights that she'd been so anal about?'

"Who is it, Killian?" Mrs. Hooper's voice came from the hall, and she stepped from around the corner. She wore a lovely tartan pencil dress and black pumps. "Oh. Ms. Popplewell?"

Tina pulled a wide smile on her face.

"Happy Christmas," she said. "I– John invited me for the Christmas dinner. I hope I'm not–"

Intruding? Overstepping? Being a nuisance? Acting like a complete moron? Make your choice.

"Oh, no, no, please come in!" Di said and started frantically beckoning Clementine inside. "We've all tested negative yesterday, by the way. And you've been isolating." No shit, Sherlock.

"Right, I have."

With your brother. Thoroughly. Several times a day. Shut up, Clementine's libido and the memories of his hands all over her body!

"Is that a cake?" the boy asked and pointed at the box in her hands.

"Ah, yes," she answered. "John mentioned you don't bake," she said to the woman. "So I thought I'd bring a cake." She smiled at the boy. He looked like a smaller copy of his Uncle. "I think your Mum should take it, it's pretty heavy."

"Who's there?" another voice rang in the hallway, and Georgette Millais-Scott appeared in the sexiest outfit Clementine had ever seen: a perfectly tailored velvet trouser suit! Phew, at least you aren't overdressed, Clem. "Oh my god, it's Clementine! The Clementine!" the blogger exclaimed. "And look at you! Looking gorgeous! Love the shinies in the hair!"

"Down, girl," Di grumbled and picked up the box out of Clementine's hands. "Don't let her fluster you. She'd had one too many eggnogs."

Clementine laughed. "Thank you," she said to the blogger.

"Here, take this to the kitchen." Di passed the box to the blogger. "I'll take your coat, Ms. Popplewell."

"Clementine, please," Clementine said and started taking off her houndstooth Max Mara.

"Oh wow," the blogger said. "Shall we send your picture to Woman&Home?"

"You look like that creepy doll our Grandnana puts under the Christmas tree in her drawing room," Killian said. "You're pretty!"

"Why don't you two go to the kitchen now?" Di said and pinned the blogger and the boy with a pointed look. They scampered, and she turned to Clementine. "Sorry about that. This family goes rather mental over Christmas. And we've been isolating for too long. Come through, please. "

Clementine made a few gingerly steps in. Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic. Just come in and make your case. Tell him– tell him– Oh god, what is she going to say?! She should've thought it through!

"This is Philip," Di introduced a slightly bigger boy who was sitting with a book on the elegant carpet in the middle of the drawing room.

He also looked like his Uncle, except for the silky blonde curls, like a cloud around his head.

"Happy Christmas," the boy said mannerly.

"Happy Christmas," Clementine answered and threw a discreet look around.

He's not here, you lummox. It's a very big house. He could be anywhere.

"The dinner will be ready in about half an hour," Di said.

"Alright," Tina said with another polite smile. Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask! "And where's John?" Dimwit.

"Oh, he's not here," Di answered and made an apologetic, uncomfortable grimace.

Oh.

My.

Bleeding.

God.

Clementine wavered. Like a bloody heroine in a bloody harlequin novel. Except not from a heartbreak, but rather from acute social anxiety. She'd just invaded this lovely family's home and invited herself to their Chiristmas dinner - and the man she came here to chase wasn't even there!

"Oh... Oh dear..." she exhaled and took a cowardly step back to the door.

Run, Clementine, run! Invent some sort of an excuse - anything will work, it's already awkward AF - and run!

"Oh no, no, please, don't worry," Di exclaimed and stretched her hand to Clementine. You probably look pale and quaking, all according to the genre. The next thing, she'll offer you salts. "He's just walking the dog."

Bloody hell.

"Oh." Very eloquent, Popplewell.

How much mental energy do you have left to stop yourself from hyperventilating and acting like a psycho? 

Clementine imagined the sort of the bar video game characters had above their heads. Hers would say 'confidence' - and it would be about one fifth full.

"He'll be back any minute," Di said. "He knows he needs to help to set the table. And he needs to change. Oh, this reminds me, I need to get another set of plates and cutlery for you."

"Do you mind if I wait for him on the porch?" Clementine blurted out. "Or in the hall."

The dark-haired woman's eyebrows jumped up. Oh god, she looks just like John! Which isn't helping Clementine's composure right now.

"You see, we've had a–" Break-up? Fall out? A domestic? "A row," Clementine said quietly, and threw a quick look at the blond boy who seemed absorbed in his large tome. "The conversation might be awkward."

"Blimey, what has he done this time?" Di rolled her eyes in an exasperated gesture. "Don't you just want to thump him to that thick head of his sometimes?"

Clementine laughed nervously. "Yeah, sometimes. But this time it's my fault," she said. "And I need to apologise, and I don't know if he'll–" Kick me out of your cottage? Send me packing? Listen to me with that cold haughty expression of his and then just shake his head - and that'll be the end of me, because I simply won't bloody survive this! "–want to talk to me."

"Oh." The woman looked her over. "I love my brother to bits, but are you sure you want to go through this with him? He's not the most emotionally literate of men."

Clementine nodded. Actually, if anything, she was the emotionally stunted here. And now it was time to woman up and take risks.

"Well, good luck to you," Di said with a shake of her head and patted Clementine's upper arm. "Feel free to grab one of the umbrellas if he doesn't behave. No one will judge you here."

Clementine returned her smile and minced to the hallway. She leaned her back against the coat closet door and stared at the velvet toes of her shoes. She wriggled her fingers and then stuck her hands into the pockets of her dress. Five minutes later - which felt like five hours! - she couldn't stand the habdabs anymore, and jerked the entrance door.

He was walking up the pathway with a giant St. Bernard on a leash, looking down at his phone. He lifted his face, and slowed down, gradually coming to a stop, his widened eyes on Clementine.

"Hi," she said.

The dog looked up at the man questioningly, made a 'hrumpf' sound, and headed to the entrance door, pulling the leash out of Holyoake's hand. The canine passed Clementine, sniffed her skirt, apparently approved of her, and disappeared inside.

"Hi," Holyoake said and put his mobile away in the pocket of his peacoat.

Oh god, how is he so– so beautiful?! And large, and sexy, and so– so– John! Clementine clenched and unclenched her hands, took a shuddered breath in, and stepped out onto the porch. She half-closed the door behind her, and he gave her a surprised look.

"I came," she said and gave him a trembling nervous smile. "I wanted to talk to you. And to see you. And to talk."

He tilted his head, in that sardonic way of his, and her heart fluttered.

"Can we talk, please?" she asked in a tiny voice.

He pushed his hands in his pockets. His face remained just as expressionless, and Clementine chewed her bottom lip.

You only get one shot here, Clementine. You're a bloody writer! Do your magic!