After dinner, Poppy curled up on the sofa with her legs tucked under her and picked up her book. She’d just lost herself in the adventures of the novel’s heroine when her mum walked in, holding a buzzing phone. The screen lit up with a beaming photo of her best mate, Gemma.
Poppy reluctantly set the book aside and answered, giving her mum a pointed look. Finally catching the hint, her mum left—though Poppy had no doubt she’d linger by the door to eavesdrop.
For five minutes, she and Gemma chatted about nothing in particular. Then Gemma announced she was throwing a birthday party at her family’s countryside cottage on Saturday.
“But your birthday was last month, wasn’t it?” Poppy frowned.
“What’s the difference? I’ll celebrate whenever I like. It’s just an excuse to get everyone together.”
“We could just meet up without an occasion,” Poppy countered.
“No, there’s got to be excitement, anticipation! My bloke’s mate’s coming over from Germany. He doesn’t know when my actual birthday is—he’d probably say no if I just asked to meet casually. But a party? That’s different. Debbie—you remember her?—proper lost it when she heard he was coming. He’s some big shot in film, a director or something. And Debbie’s desperate to be an actress. Clingier than a wet T-shirt, honestly. Won’t leave me alone.”
“Right, that makes sense. So… why’d you invite me?”
“What do you mean? It’s my birthday!” Gemma’s voice sharpened with irritation.
“To fill out the crowd?” Poppy guessed. “And why the countryside? There’s still snow out there.”
“Don’t be daft. So he can’t leg it,” Gemma cackled, pleased with herself. “So, you coming? We’ll have a laugh, fire up the barbecue. Still got the Christmas tree up—never got round to taking it down after New Year’s. Plus, the snowdrifts blocked the road for ages. Come on, do it for me?”
Poppy could practically hear Gemma’s exaggerated pout.
“Fine,” she sighed.
She agreed because Saturday was still four days away—anything could happen by then. Maybe she’d come down with something, or Gemma would, and the whole trip would be off.
Poppy set the phone down, and sure enough, her mum reappeared instantly.
“Where’s she asking you to go?”
“Mum, you heard,” Poppy smirked.
Unfazed, her mum pressed on. “Good. You never go out. Nearly forty and still not married. I’ll never have grandkids at this rate.”
“Mum, eligible men aren’t daffodils—they don’t just sprout up in the countryside,” Poppy joked. “I’m thirty-two, not forty. And kids should come from love, not because you’re itching for grandkids…”
Her mum pursed her lips, waved a dismissive hand, and left—only to return a second later, planting herself in front of Poppy again.
“You spend all day reading. Living through other people’s lives while yours passes by. Books won’t find you a husband. Time’s ticking…”
“You heard me—I’m going. I’ll bring you back grandkids, how’s that?” Poppy quipped.
Her mum shook her head, offended.
“Sorry, Mum.” Poppy sprang up and hugged her.
On Friday, Gemma rang again to remind her about the trip. “Dress nice, yeah? Can’t have us looking shabby in front of foreign guests. Me and my bloke will pick you up at seven sharp.”
“Seven? That’s mad early,” Poppy groaned.
“Long drive, need to heat the cottage, get everything ready… We’ll be lucky to finish by evening.”
At six the next morning, her alarm blared. Poppy couldn’t remember why she’d set it so early on a weekend. Then her mum bustled in, announcing breakfast was ready.
Poppy remembered the cottage, the party, and groaned. So much for a quiet weekend. She dragged herself to the shower. An hour later, as she stepped outside, Gemma’s bloke’s car was already idling at the kerb. Poppy climbed into the back seat and muttered a grumpy hello.
“Cheer up. You can nap on the way,” Gemma said magnanimously.
The whole drive, Gemma prattled nonstop. “How does her bloke stand her?” Poppy wondered before dozing off.
The cottage village was picturesque and empty. Untouched snow blanketed the gardens, with only tyre tracks cutting through. They weren’t the only ones braving the cold, then.
Inside, a massive artificial Christmas tree stood in the corner. For a second, Poppy felt like they’d time-travelled back to New Year’s. Gemma’s bloke got straight to work lighting the wood stove, filling the air with the nostalgic scent of burning logs.
Before the fire even caught, two more cars pulled up. Poppy and Gemma watched from the window as a couple of familiar faces emerged—along with Debbie, bouncing like an overexcited puppy, and a tall stranger in glasses.
“That’s the director? Doesn’t look the part,” Poppy mused.
“How many directors have you met, then?” Gemma shot back.
The group trudged through the snow toward the house. Debbie laughed loudly, announcing their arrival to anyone else spending the weekend there.
“Quit gawking,” Gemma said, pulling away first to greet them.
Poppy headed to the kitchen to unpack groceries.
“Your mate’s really a director?” she asked Gemma’s bloke.
Before he could answer, the house erupted with noise—footsteps, chatter, and Debbie’s shrill giggles as she made a beeline for the tree. The director walked in with bags, shook hands with Gemma’s bloke, and nodded at Poppy, his gaze lingering.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
The kitchen soon filled with people, laughter, and the crackle of the fire. Poppy decided coming might’ve been the right call after all.
After snacks and tea, the men went outside to set up the barbecue while the women chopped veggies and boiled potatoes. Toasts and birthday wishes flew across the table, Gemma basking in the attention. Then came the dancing. Debbie shamelessly draped herself over the director—Paul—who stayed sober while the others drank. When Debbie stepped out, he asked Poppy to dance.
“You’re really from Germany? How long have you lived there?” she asked.
Paul tried to answer, but the music drowned him out. Debbie returned, switched to a faster track, and danced wildly by the tree, nearly toppling it. A few ornaments shattered, sending everyone scrambling.
Seizing the chaos, Poppy grabbed her coat, shoved her feet into boots, and slipped outside. The night sky was ink-black, studded with stars—far more than she ever saw in London.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice came from behind her.
Poppy knew it instantly.
“Haven’t seen stars like this in years.”
“None in Germany?”
“Plenty. Just never had time to look. Here, they feel closer.”
“You miss Russia?” she asked.
“At first, I wanted to come back. Then I got used to it. There’s pros and cons.”
“What’re you working on now? Any new films?”
“There you are.” Gemma’s bloke appeared in the doorway. “Come on, you’ll miss the fun.”
“We’re coming,” Paul said for both of them.
“Not enjoying yourself either, huh?” he asked once the door shut.
“Too much noise tires me out,” Poppy admitted, shivering. “Wish I could just leave.”
“Why not? I’ve got a car. Want me to take you home?”
“Where to?”
“Wherever. Back to London. Your call.”
“What about my stuff? Gemma’ll be livid.”
“Ring her later, apologise, say I kidnapped you. Well?”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“Let’s go,” she decided, marching to the gate.
Between the music and the drink, no one noticed the engine.
Poppy dozed off on the drive, waking only as they reached the city.
“Sorry. Hope I didn’t snore?” she mumbled, smoothing her hair.
“Where to?”
She gave her address, then started directing him.
“I remember the city,” he cut in.
“Whose car is this?”
“Rented. Feels odd without wheels.”
At her doorstep, Paul asked for her number.
“I’ll ring tomorrow,” he promised. “You’re different from your friends.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he drove off.
“What happened? You said you’d be back tomorrow!” Her mum fretted when Poppy walked in.
“All’s fine. Cottage was cramped, and you know I hate sleeping away from home.”
The next day, Gemma rang, furious.
“Playing”Acting all shy, and then you go and nick the only decent bloke there!” Gemma ranted before hanging up, leaving Poppy staring at her phone with a quiet smile, knowing life had just taken an unexpected, but not unwelcome, turn.
