“Happy at the New Year’s Rate”
“Thanks, Mum.” Oliver rose from the table and stretched. “I’m going for a quick drive. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful—hardly any cars out this time of evening.”
“Ever since you bought that car, it’s been your whole world. You should be thinking about settling down. They say a man puts his car before everything.”
“Mum, please,” Oliver sighed, stepping closer to hug her. “You know how long I dreamed of owning one. Let me enjoy it a bit longer, then I’ll think about a family. Promise.”
“Fine. Nearly thirty and still playing with toys.” She ruffled his hair. “Go on, then.”
Oliver stepped out into the frosty evening, brushing fresh snowflakes from the windscreen of his car. He’d earned his licence years ago—his dad had let him drive the old Ford until the accident. He knew the roads. But he still hadn’t tired of the thrill of owning his own car.
He’d saved for years, researched every model. Now, every night, he cruised the streets, sometimes venturing onto the motorway. If he saw someone hitchhiking, he always stopped. Never took a penny.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turned the key, savoring the engine’s purr before turning up the radio. The headlights caught swirling snowflakes—winter had come hard this year, blanketing London in white. He drove aimlessly until he spotted a woman with a child, gloved hand raised. He lowered the radio, pulled over, and rolled down the passenger window.
“Could you take us to Bishop’s Avenue?” she asked, leaning in.
She was young, pretty.
“Hop in,” Oliver nodded to the seat beside him.
“How much will it be? It’s quite a way.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t charge pretty ladies.” When she recoiled slightly, he laughed. “Twenty pounds suit you? Come on, I don’t bite.”
She opened the back door, ushering her son—about five—inside before joining him. Oliver merged onto the main road.
“How many horses does it have?” the boy piped up.
“Horses?” Oliver chuckled. “No idea.”
“What d’you mean? You *have* to know!”
“When I bought it, I cared about how it looked, how comfy it was. Horsepower didn’t matter much. You know your cars, then?”
“Course I do,” the boy said, dead serious.
“What’s your name, then, car expert?”
“Charlie. You?”
“Well, Charlie, I’m Oliver. Can’t shake your hand right now.” He grinned at the boy’s earnestness.
“Charlie, stop bothering the man,” the woman chided.
“He’s fine. Clever lad, Charlie. Fitting.” Oliver caught her eye in the rearview mirror. Something warm flickered in his chest.
The city glowed—shop windows, streetlamps, Christmas trees outside department stores twinkling with lights. A month until New Year’s, but the festive spirit was already thick in the air.
“Just here, please,” she said.
“Want me to pull up to the door?” He checked the mirror, but her gaze was fixed outside.
She stepped out, holding the door for Charlie.
“Hurry up,” she urged.
“You picking me up tomorrow?” His voice wavered.
“Sunday. And don’t cry—you’ll get a stuffy nose. I’m in a rush. Out, now.”
Charlie inched toward the door. Oliver got out.
“Here.” She handed him a twenty.
He folded the note, tucked it into his jacket. “I’ll keep this as a lucky charm.” He offered his hand to Charlie. “See you.”
“Bye.” The boy’s small, warm fingers curled into his palm.
“Come on. Gran’s waiting.” She tugged Charlie away.
After a few steps, the boy glanced back. Oliver waved—then noticed a man stepping from a parked car. He kissed Charlie’s mum, offered the boy his hand. Charlie turned away sharply.
*Date night. Kid’s jealous. Stepdad’s not winning him over.* The thought sent an odd flicker of hope through Oliver.
Back in the car, he turned up the radio—Elton John crooning *Your Song*. The lingering scent of her perfume teased the air. He checked the mirror as if she might still be there.
The drive lost its charm. The song grated. He switched stations, but her face lingered—ordinary, pretty. What was it about her?
Years ago, he’d fallen for an older woman with a daughter. Proposed, brought her home.
“She’s got a child, Oliver. You’re young, handsome—can’t you find someone your own age?” Mum had pleaded after she left.
Later, she’d agonized over “ruining his happiness.” No one since had stirred him like she had. And now…
He drove past Charlie’s gran’s street often. Knew the house number. Could’ve asked around. But what would he say? And what if things were fine with that bloke by the car?
So he kept driving, scanning pavements, hoping.
New Year’s Eve dawned. Mum bustled in the kitchen, the tree glittered by the window, *Love Actually* played on telly. A Saturday, no work. Oliver slept in, helped chop veggies for salads, fetched the good china from the loft. But as dusk fell, restlessness tugged him outside.
“Mum, it’s snowing—like something from a story. I’ll take a quick drive, or I’ll doze off before the countdown.”
“Now? It’s nearly time!”
“I’ll loop round and be back. Taxis’ll be scarce—let the drivers have their night.”
The car wore a dusting of snow. The heater fought the chill as he rolled through quiet streets. Festive lights flickered in windows; late stragglers hurried home.
A burly man in an open coat blocked the pavement, waving. Oliver stopped. The man clambered in, clinking bottles in a bag. At his stop, he handed Oliver fifty quid for the short ride.
*Holiday generosity. New Year’s premium.* Oliver pocketed the cash.
Next, a bickering couple. He refused their money. They left, suddenly all smiles, arm in arm.
Then—the familiar route. The street where he’d picked them up. Windows glowing. Was she inside now, with Charlie, and *him*?
Fireworks popped as kids set off sparklers in the estates.
Then, there they were. Walking toward him. Her—beige coat, white bobble hat. Charlie trudging beside her, miserable.
Oliver braked, stepped out. They halted, wary. *They don’t remember.*
“Need a lift? Special New Year’s rate—free,” he blurted.
They approached. Oliver offered Charlie his hand. “Hey, mate.”
The boy glanced at his mum before sliding his tiny, icy fingers into Oliver’s grip.
“Forgot your gloves? You’re freezing. Get in, quick.”
They settled in the back.
“Don’t remember me? Gave you a ride a month ago.” In the mirror, her eyes were red-rimmed. “Where to?”
“Paddington Station,” she whispered.
Charlie stayed silent, unusually still.
“Less than an hour till midnight. Trains’ll be packed. Whatever’s happened… you can’t cry tonight. Right, Charlie?”
“Gran had a row with Mum,” the boy mumbled.
“Charlie!”
“Families, eh?” Oliver kept his tone light. “Listen—no stations tonight. Hear me out.” He stalled as she reached for the door. “Think about Charlie. He’s cold. Don’t take his Christmas away.”
“What’s it to you? Just drive us.”
“Mum’s cooked enough for an army. We’ll go to mine. Fancy that, Charlie?”
“Yeah!” The boy lit up. “Mum, can we?”
“Say yes. Where’re you going this late? Mum’ll love company. Leave the tears in this year—start fresh.” He turned up the radio. *Your Song* swelled—the same track as last time. His pulse matched the beat.
*Fate. Has to be. They say miracles don’t happen.*
At the flat, he herded them inside. “Mum! Guests! They’re freezing—ten minutes till midnight!”
Mum appeared, hands fluttering.
“This is Elizabeth. And this is Charlie and—”
“Emily,” the woman murmured, shy without her coat.
“Mum, get them seated. Quick!” Oliver nudged them toward the dining room.
As they settled, he cranked the telly.
“Knew I laid an extra plate for a reason,” Mum said, eyes glistening. “Still can’t believe your dad’s not here.”
“Mum, no tears. Listen—the PM’s speech.”
They listened, each lost in thought.
Big Ben chimed. Oliver popped the champagne, filled the flutesAs the clock struck midnight, Oliver clinked his glass with Emily’s, feeling the first stirrings of a future he hadn’t dared hope for—one where love arrived not by chance, but by the quiet magic of a snowy New Year’s Eve.
