When I arrived back in the centre of Oxford, I found the streets even busier than the railway station. The famous university city was a top destination for tourists and local visitors alike, and the centre of town always hummed with activity, but now, with Christmas just around the corner, it was completely mobbed.

The Michaelmas term was over—Oxford University terms were unusually short at just nine weeks—and most of the students would have already “gone down”, leaving their rooms in college and returning to their homes, but there still seemed to be a huge number of people filling the streets. They gawped at the festive shop windows and Christmas market stalls, juggled carrier bags filled with purchases, and tottered into pubs and cafes, seeking mulled wine and hot chocolate to warm their cold hands and feet.

I paused for a moment beside Carfax Tower, the twelfth-century landmark that had the distinction of being the tallest structure in town, for no other building in central Oxford may be built taller. This crossroads also marked the unofficial “heart” of the city, the junction for Oxford’s four main streets, and I’d stood here many a time when I was a student. Now I gazed down the streets stretching into the distance, at the iconic “dreaming spires” that made up Oxford’s famous skyline, and felt a sense of nostalgia again.

It was strange to think that this time a little over a year ago, I had only just returned to England. The eight years working overseas seemed more like a dream now, and it was almost hard to remember the horror and disapproval that had greeted my decision to abandon a high-flying corporate career and return home to open a traditional English tearoom. But now, a year on, the gamble has paid off, I thought with a smile. My little tearoom was thriving, I loved my work, Devlin and I were back together, and yes, I’d even learned to cope with living so close to my mother.

Well, most of the time anyway, I thought as my phone rang and I answered it to find my mother’s well-modulated tones on the other end of the line.

“Hello, darling. Would you like your flannel underwear in white or red? The red ones come with a reindeer pattern and the white ones come with snowmen.”

“I don’t want flannel underwear at all, Mother,” I said in alarm.

“Or they do them in a nice blue as well, with a pattern of penguins,” my mother continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Dorothy Clarke got some for her daughter, Suzanne—you remember Suzanne, darling? She works in the University Alumni office. Dorothy says they’re marvellous. The flannel underwear, I mean, not the Alumni office. So soft and warm, and they don’t chafe your privates.”

“Mother. I said I don’t want any flannel underwear,” I said, feeling my blood pressure start to rise.

“Dorothy says they even prevent urinary tract infections. Fancy that! Suzanne suffered terribly with UTIs, you know, even though she was always drinking gallons of cranberry juice, but she had this dreadful burning sensation every time she—”

“Eeuuww! Mother!” I protested. “I’m sure Suzanne wouldn’t appreciate us discussing her genital health. And I really don’t want any flannel underwear. I’ll never wear it, and then it’ll be a complete waste of money—”

“Oh, nonsense, darling. Of course you’ll wear it. I know! I can get you a pair in each colour, then you can mix and match. Although I suppose you really ought to separate the white ones for the white wash and…”

Her voice faded as I held the phone away from my ear for a moment and took a deep, steadying breath. Grrrrr. Why did my mother always have the ability to make me feel like I was thirteen again, sulky and impotent with frustrated rage?

“…anyway, I was also ringing you to tell you that I might be slightly late for tea,” my mother was saying when I put the phone back to my ear. “I was supposed to meet Annabel in Home Furnishings to have a look at some chenille throws, but she’s been delayed in Gift Wrap & Delivery, and she says—”

“What? Who’s Annabel?”

“Don’t say ‘what’, darling; say ‘pardon’. Didn’t I tell you that Annabel was joining us for tea? Annabel Floyd. Well, she was a Morecombe before she was married; you know, Sir Hugh Morecombe? She’s his daughter. The Morecombes are one of the oldest families in the area. They have an estate—Thurlby Hall—just outside Meadowford-on-Smythe—”

“Oh… yes, I think I’ve passed it a few times when I was cycling to and from work. Or at least, the road leading to the estate.”

“Yes, it’s a vast property. The house is set well back, in the middle of parklands. Lovely old manor house, with the most magnificent entrance hall. Well, Annabel and I are both on the committee of the Sinterklaas Foundation. She’s in charge of organising this year’s Christmas event for the children; it’s going to be a tea party at Thurlby Hall and—oh! There’s Annabel now. I hope she can see me waving… Why don’t you go on ahead and get us a table first? I hear that afternoon tea at The Randolph has become very popular and it must be even busier now with all the Christmas crowds—Oh dear! Annabel hasn’t seen me waving and she’s going the wrong way!”

“Can’t you just call out to her?”

“Call out to her?”

“Yes, shout her name. Get her attention.”

“Are you suggesting that I yell like a fishwife?” My mother sounded shocked. “A lady never raises her voice in public. I must dash, darling—I need to catch her before she gets in the lift. Toodle-oo!”

The line went dead. I stared at the phone a minute, then sighed and started up Cornmarket Street towards The Randolph Hotel. I hadn’t gone far, though, when something in a shop window caught my eye: a luxury artist’s set featuring tubes of oil paints in a huge selection of colours, a wooden mixing palette with thumb hole, metal palette knives, kneaded putty rubber, oil rags, and a range of hog-bristle brushes in different sizes, all contained in a beautiful varnished beechwood box with clasps and handles. I stared at it in delight. It would make the perfect Christmas present for Cassie!

Eagerly, I went into the shop, but when I was told the price, I gulped slightly. It was no wonder artists were always “struggling” if their supplies were so expensive! Still, business at the tearoom had been booming lately and I could afford to splash out a bit—especially on my best friend who had been such an amazing support the last year. I handed over my credit card and left the shop a few minutes later with the artist’s set beautifully wrapped and placed in a Christmas gift bag.

Swinging the bag happily, I continued towards the hotel, smiling to myself as I imagined how Cassie’s face would look when she opened her gift. I arrived at the front of The Randolph to find a small crowd gathered outside the entrance. It seemed like several new guests had all arrived at once; they were milling about in slight confusion as the porters attempted to sort out the luggage for check-in, and I paused by the group, waiting politely for them to go into the hotel first.

Then I felt something tug violently at my hand.

I gasped and whirled around, just as the gift bag was wrenched out of my grasp.