Drifts of Fate
Martin, a 35-year-old solicitor from Oxford, had always loathed New Years Eve. For him, it was nothing more than a relentless obstacle course.
There was the endless bustle, hunting for the perfect Secret Santa presents for colleagues he could scarcely tolerate, and of course, the dreaded work do. This year, his firm had outdone itself by hiring out a sprawling country manor in Surrey.
Driving through winding lanes in his polished black Jaguar, Martin listened to a podcast on inheritance tax, rehearsing his escape: show up for an hour, sip a glass of Prosecco, exchange pleasantries with the management, and then vanish into the frosty night.
By the time he arrived, the manor was heaving like a restless hive ribbons, sparkling jumpers, laughter that rang out just a touch too loudly, the air heavy with forced cheerfulness.
Martin cradled his glass and drifted to the shadowed edge of the room, a motionless sentry observing the endless carousel of feigned merriment. He felt like an explorer stranded on a planet where joy was mandatory, enforced by decree.
***
Then he noticed her. Not the boldest nor the brightest in the room a woman standing by the window, a little apart from the crowd, gazing out at the blizzard blurring the rose garden.
She wore a simple navy dress, clutching a goblet of apple juice, her expression neither sombre nor lonely more as if she was quietly untangling her own thoughts.
Martin found himself wondering if she looked the way he so often felt.
Not the best weather for the drive back, he said, approaching this stranger.
(It was the first thing that tumbled out.)
She turned and smiled, a genuine, gentle twist of the lips, not one of those strained, office-party grins.
But what a sight! she replied, tilting her glass towards the snow. When the countrysides buried, its like all the mess gets hidden away under a white quilt.
He blinked, caught off guard by her answer.
Im Martin, he introduced himself.
Harriet, she replied, shaking his hand, from accounts. Think weve bumped into each other in the lift, once or twice.
Neither felt any rush to speak. The hush wrapped around them, a cocoon against the revelry.
Beyond the glass, the snowstorm grew fierce. Suddenly, over the tannoy, a voice announced that all roads were blocked; the new year would dawn with everyone marooned at the manor.
A groan of disappointment and mild panic surged through the party.
Martin silently cursed. His escape plan was now dust.
Well, solicitor, ready for a night on a camp bed? Harriet quipped, eyebrow raised.
Nothing in the law prepared me for this, he grinned. And you?
Always bring a sturdy charger and a good book to these things. Prepared for any disaster. Harriet grinned back.
That evening, with their routines shattered and facades slipping, they found themselves talking.
She adored old British black-and-white films; hed always found them intolerable, but promised to give one a go if she would explain their charm. He dreamed of leaving his career to open a little café one day; she confessed she painted watercolours in secret, never showing a soul.
Together, away from the celebratory mayhem, they sat in the corner, sipping hot Earl Grey from a battered Thermos Harriet had somehow smuggled in.
She told stories of her cat Mr Tibbles, a snowflake-catcher extraordinaire, while he recounted memories of his grandmother teaching him to bake treacle sponge.
When midnight chimed, they exchanged no cheers or fireworks. Just a look.
Happy New Year, Martin, Harriet said, her voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire.
Happy New Year, Harriet, Martin replied, smiling softly.
They slept not in plush beds, but in the manors small lounge on two makeshift cots brought by the frazzled staff. Side by side. Whispering into the earliest hours, until the storms wrath finally softened.
At dawn, after the ploughs had carved paths through the drifts, they wandered outside. The world gleamed, icy-bright and unsullied. The sunlight sparkled off pillowy mounds of snow.
So, where next? Martin asked.
Bus stop. Homebound, she answered.
Well perhaps I could offer a lift?
Harriets eyes danced.
What if I told you I quite like this silent, frozen world? That Id rather walk to the stop and watch it all? she said.
Martin understood. This night had not been an accident.
It was the beginning of something real.
Then Ill walk with you, he replied, certainty threading his voice.
Through the untouched snow they went, side by side, on the first morning of the new year, leaving winding trails that vanished into the sparkling unknown.
It feels just possible, in dreams, to believe in such things.
