The fire in the office fireplace crackled low, throwing waves of heat that fought the dense cold seeping through the old windows. We were on the floor, leaning against the low sofa, a pile of financial spreadsheets scattered between us like evidence of a battle we were finally starting to win. The numbers from the "Winter Festival" were coming in, bookings for next Christmas were already breaking records. For the first time since I opened the bank's letter, the ghost of the debt seemed a little more distant.
Alice was beside me, her bare feet touching my leg. She held a mug of tea, and on the tablet between us, a comedy series played at low volume, more an excuse for us to be there together than from any real interest in the plot.
"And the worst," she said, laughing at the memory, "was t
