The meter of happiness was running at a festive rate.
“Thanks, Mum,” said Jeremy, stretching as he rose from the table. “I’m going for a quick drive. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. Roads are quiet this time of night.”
“You’ve done nothing but drive since you bought that car. You ought to be settling down by now. They’re right—men always put their cars first.”
“Mum, please,” Jeremy chuckled, wrapping an arm around her. “You know how long I dreamed of having my own set of wheels. Let me get it out of my system, then I’ll think about marriage. Honest.”
“Nearly thirty and still playing with toys,” she sighed, ruffling his hair. “Go on then.”
Outside, Jeremy brushed the soft snowflakes from his windscreen. He’d had his license for years—ever since his dad let him drive the old Rover before he wrote it off. He knew his way behind the wheel, but the sheer joy of ownership still hadn’t worn off.
He’d saved for ages, researched for months, and now, every evening, he drove aimlessly through the city, sometimes out onto the motorway. If he ever saw a hitchhiker, he’d pull over and never took a penny.
The engine purred to life, and he turned up the radio before easing out of the car park. Snowflakes glinted in the headlights, spiralling toward the glass. Winter had come early this year, burying the streets in white.
Then he saw her—a young woman with a little boy, thumb out in the cold. He turned the radio down and rolled down the passenger window.
“Could you take us to Baker Street?” she asked, leaning in.
She was pretty, with wide, dark eyes.
“Hop in,” he nodded toward the passenger seat.
“How much will it be?” she hesitated.
“Don’t worry about it. I never charge pretty girls.” He grinned but noticed her stiffen. “Tell you what—ten quid sound fair? Come on, I don’t bite.”
She opened the rear door, ushering the boy in first—a lad of about five—then slid in beside him.
“How many horses does it have?” the boy piped up.
“Horses?” Jeremy chuckled. “No idea.”
“How can you not know?”
“Listen, mate, when I bought this car, I cared about how it looked and how comfy the seats were. Horsepower wasn’t top of my list. You know your stuff, then?”
“Course.”
“What’s your name, then, Mr. Gearhead?”
“Ben. You?”
“Blimey, manners and all. I’m Jeremy. Sorry, can’t shake hands while driving.”
“Ben, stop bothering the man,” the woman chided.
“Let him talk. Lovely lad. Ben the Petrolhead—catchy, eh?” He caught the woman’s eye in the rearview mirror. Something warm fluttered in his chest.
The city glittered—shop windows, lamplights, Christmas trees already twinkling outside shopping centres. A month to go, but the season was in the air.
“Just here,” she said as they reached a row of terraced houses.
“Want me to pull up at the door?”
“No, here’s fine.”
She climbed out, holding the door for Ben. “Come on, slowcoach.”
“Are you coming back tomorrow?” the boy whined.
“Sunday. And stop snivelling, you’ll get a cold. I’m in a hurry!”
Ben dragged himself reluctantly toward the door. Jeremy got out.
She handed him a tenner. He folded it carefully and tucked it away. “I’ll keep this as a good-luck charm.” He held out his hand to Ben. “Cheerio, mate.”
“Bye.” The boy’s tiny fingers squeezed his.
“Right, come on. Gran’s waiting.” She tugged Ben away.
A few steps on, the boy glanced back. Jeremy waved—then saw a man step from a parked car, kiss Ben’s mum, and reach for the boy. Ben shied away.
*A date, then. Kid doesn’t like the new bloke.* The thought pleased him.
Back in the car, the radio blared: *”Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart… My angel, my only delight, I knew but one joy from the start—the day you came into my light!”* The scent of her perfume lingered. He checked the mirror, half-expecting to see her still there.
His mood for driving soured. The song grated, so he changed the station—but her face stayed in his mind. Just an ordinary, pretty woman. So why couldn’t he shake her?
Years ago, he’d fallen for an older woman with a daughter. Proposed, even. Brought her home to meet his mum.
*”She’s older. Has a child. You’re handsome, young—can’t you find a nice girl your own age? Don’t make a mistake…”*
Later, his mother regretted it. None of his relationships stuck. He was liked—just never felt that spark again. Then her ex came back, and she remarried him.
And now today…
He drove past Ben’s gran’s street often. Could’ve asked around, knocked on doors. But what would he say? For all he knew, things were fine with that bloke by the car.
So he drove. Hoping.
New Year’s Eve came. His mother cooked all morning; the tree sparkled, *Love Actually* played on telly, and with the holiday on a Saturday, he’d slept in. He helped chop veg, dug out the good china—but as night fell, something pulled him outside.
“Mum, look at the snow! Just a quick spin. I’ll be back before the countdown.”
“Now? It’s nearly—”
“Half an hour, tops. Taxi’s scarce tonight—let the drivers enjoy the holiday.”
The car was dusted white. The heater hummed to life. Streets lay hushed, windows glowing as families prepped for midnight.
A burly man in an unbuttoned coat flagged him down. “Cheers, mate,” he huffed, clinking bottles in a bag as he climbed in. At his stop, he handed Jeremy fifty quid for a short ride.
*New Year’s generosity. Festive surcharge.*
Next, a bickering couple. He refused their money. They left arm in arm, disbelief melting into cheer.
Then—his usual route. Past the street where he’d first seen her. Past Ben’s gran’s. Kids set off fireworks in the dusk.
And suddenly—there they were. Walking toward him. Her in that beige coat and white bobble hat. Ben trudging beside her, miserable. His pulse leapt.
He braked hard, hopping out. They froze, wary. *They don’t remember me.*
“Need a lift? Festive special—on the house.”
They approached. He offered Ben his hand. “Alright, Ben?”
The boy glanced at his mum before slipping his icy fingers into Jeremy’s.
“Forgot your gloves? You’re freezing! In you get.”
They settled in the back.
“Don’t remember me? Gave you a ride last month.” He met her eyes in the mirror—red-rimmed, puffy. “Where to?”
“Paddington Station.”
Ben stayed silent, hunched.
“Less than an hour till midnight. You won’t get far. And why rush? Dunno what’s happened, but no tears tonight, yeah, Ben?”
“We went to Gran’s for Christmas, then she and Mum had a row,” the boy mumbled.
“Ben!”
“Hey, happens. Tell you what—no stations tonight.” He cut off her protest. “Think about Ben. He’s freezing. Don’t ruin his holiday.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Mum’s cooked enough for an army. Bloody delicious, too. Come back with me—we’ll toast the New Year. Fancy it, Ben?”
“Yeah!” The boy lit up. “Mum, please?”
“Come on. Where’ll you go now? Mum’ll be chuffed. Leave the bad stuff in this year—start fresh.”
He cranked the radio. *”Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart…”* His heart kept time with the song.
*Fate. Has to be. Same bloody track. And they say miracles don’t happen.*
Parking outside his flat, he herded them inside. “Quick, in you go! Clock’s ticking!”
Ben bolted ahead. Jeremy swung the door open. “Mum! Guests! Frozen *and* starving!”
His mother emerged, flour-dusted, gasping.
“This is Margaret. And this is Ben and—”
“Claire,” she murmured, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Mum, get them seated. Move it!”
At the table, his mother dabbed her eyes. “Put out an extra plate—habit.”
“Mum, none of that. Listen—the PM’s on.”
They toasted as Big Ben chimed.
“Happy New Year!”
“New happinessAnd as the clock struck midnight, Jeremy looked around the table—Claire’s hesitant smile, Ben’s excited chatter, his mother’s quiet joy—and realized that sometimes, the best journeys don’t start with a map, but with an open door and an unplanned detour.
