Love and Lies at The Village Christmas Shop: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for Christmas 2018

Love and Lies at The Village Christmas Shop: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for Christmas 2018 Portia MacIntosh Blast the Michael Bubl?, wrap your hands around a cinnamon latte and enjoy this warm, hilarious Christmas novel!Ivy loves Christmas. As the owner of Christmas Every Day, the year-round festive store, you'd expect nothing less!The only thing missing in Ivy's life is a dash of romance – something her twin sister Holly will not let her forget…When her mother passed away, Ivy vowed to take over the running of her mother’s store and keep the Christmas spirit alive in the idyllic seaside town of Marram Bay.But all this changes when an enigmatic businessman moves to the town, threatening to bulldoze her beloved shop to make way for a holiday complex.Can Ivy save her shop before Christmas? Could there be a different side to the newest resident of Marram Bay that would make all her Christmas wishes come true?The brand-new laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from bestseller Portia Macintosh. Perfect for fans of Zara Stoneley and Tilly Tennant.Readers love Portia Macintosh:‘I really loved, no make that ADORED reading this book.’‘I didn't enjoy it… I LOVED IT!!!!’‘A heart-warming, uplifting book that had me captivated from the first chapter’‘Portia MacIntosh as always delivers us a treat, one that will leave us smiling from ear to ear.’‘Hilarious, unique, refreshingly brilliant, and addictive read’‘Heartwarming, well-written, and entertaining’ About the Author (#u12f265f7-4a1d-5d37-808b-614c3a56d48e) PORTIA MACINTOSH has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock chick phase or, most recently, whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales. After years working as a music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels instead. Bestseller Portia writes hilarious romcoms, drawing on her real life experiences to show what it’s really like being a woman today – especially one who doesn’t quite have her life together yet. Also by Portia MacIntosh (#u12f265f7-4a1d-5d37-808b-614c3a56d48e) Between A Rockstar and A Hard Place How Not to Be Starstruck Bad Bridesmaid Drive Me Crazy Truth or Date It’s Not You, It’s Them The Accidental Honeymoon How Not to Be a Bride Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli Love and Lies at the Village Christmas Shop PORTIA MACINTOSH HQ An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Portia MacIntosh 2018 Portia MacIntosh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. E-book Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008297725 Version: 2018-09-25 Table of Contents Cover (#ua96ab1b4-2052-51a6-83a2-0301675a480d) About the Author (#ue5eddb56-cae1-5e4c-870f-5f88e0dc67a2) Also by Portia MacIntosh (#u41045839-a24e-5fe9-a770-9a422ac1e080) Title Page (#u3a712caf-75c5-52b5-be8f-e21eb8f8a0f7) Copyright (#u110dafb1-763d-56fb-b20d-6888b7f2ed8d) Dedication (#u3d9f55c3-d099-5cdb-898f-996770f6570e) Prologue – 1998 (#u1959052c-6c89-50b0-87f9-e23460c73489) Chapter 1 (#ucff44ca6-0fae-5f1b-afcb-955df7243051) Chapter 2 (#u7457389d-78fa-5726-baba-ec80b0d0edb6) Chapter 3 (#u295dffe2-f9e8-5993-9211-1707d7fddd33) Chapter 4 (#u1d49d7f6-7551-5b43-bc7e-403eb3fd405b) Chapter 5 (#ufa724892-bcdc-5380-aad1-b00fdd21aef0) Chapter 6 (#u0cf2586f-9bc0-5a61-a489-d93f968c3469) Chapter 7 (#u50caf86c-d5e9-520d-80c9-86409ca5407e) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) Dear Reader, (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Dedication (#u12f265f7-4a1d-5d37-808b-614c3a56d48e) For J K J A J P B T D Prologue – 1998 (#u12f265f7-4a1d-5d37-808b-614c3a56d48e) ‘Holly Jones, what have you done?’ I hear my mum ask through gritted teeth, with enough volume to show that she’s angry, but not so much that the shop full of customers can hear her. I remove my nose from my copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone to see what exactly my sister has done now. I wouldn’t usually jump to conclusions, but this is Holly, and Holly will do anything if it has enough shock value. We went our separate ways at the school gates no more than a couple of hours ago. Holly wanted to go into town with her mates for a while before tea, but I wanted to come here and read my book, sitting on my stool behind the counter of my mum’s Christmas shop. I always enjoy spending time here but now that it’s December – and actually Christmas time – the place feels all the more magical. This afternoon the shop is overflowing with tourists, who have travelled from all over to check out Marram Bay’s open-year-round Christmas shop. Christmas Every Day is so much more than just a shop though, it’s like a magical Santa’s workshop, with wall-to-wall Christmas decorations and gifts, with glitter and twinkly lights everywhere you look. Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ is pumping out through speakers around the shop. It’s such an infectious song, which you can’t help but love and sing along to. I’m not even sure I can name another Mariah Carey song, but this one is a Christmas classic. Despite the trees in the shop being artificial (they do have to stay up all year round, after all), my mum has these special pine air fresheners which, combined with the locally made gingerbread she’s selling at the counter at the moment, give the place a real, irresistible Christmassy smell that I can’t get enough of. Perhaps my favourite part of all – and a favourite feature of many of the customers who visit the shop – is the steam train that runs on a track around the shop, over bridges, through tunnels and even around the shop Christmas tree that stays up all year. From the second you walk through the door there’s just this magical feeling in the air. That warm, hopeful, festive feeling you only get at Christmas time. It makes you want to eat gingerbread, sing carols and be happy with your loved ones – and I get to experience it all year round. But while I might share my mum’s love and passion for all things festive, my twin sister Holly absolutely does not. In fact, she has such a strong dislike for the most wonderful time of year that she always acts up around the holidays. And now, here she is, like clockwork, on 1st December, with a drastic new hairstyle that my mum did not sign off on. Holly’s previously shoulder-length blonde hair, along with her hairline and most of her neck, is now bright red. ‘It’s just like Lisa Scott-Lee’s,’ my sister says, running both (stained red) hands through her hair, by way of an explanation. I think it’s safe to say that her obsession with Steps has reached its peak. ‘You’re my 14-year-old daughter, you’re not Lisa Scott-Lee,’ my mum reminds her as she serves a customer. When the shop is so busy, my mum is forced to parent around working – or work around parenting, whichever needs to take priority at the time. I laugh quietly to myself, although not quietly enough. ‘Oh, should I want to be a wizard when I grow up, like Ivy does?’ she says mockingly. I clutch my book to my chest self-consciously. The customer my mum is serving laughs as she watches our little family drama play out in front of her. ‘Sisters, huh?’ she says to my mum politely, like perhaps she has daughters of her own, and she knows exactly how tricky they can be. ‘Would you believe they’re twins?’ my mum replies. ‘Non-identical, in both appearance and interests. Fascinating really. Can I get you anything else?’ ‘No, that’s great, thanks.’ ‘Have a very merry Christmas,’ my mum says brightly as she hands over a receipt, before turning her attention back to Holly. ‘Who did that for you?’ ‘I did it myself,’ she says proudly. ‘Only 99p from Boots.’ ‘Will it come out?’ ‘Yeah, well, in three washes,’ she admits. ‘Can you go and get started on the first wash now then, please,’ my mum asks gently. ‘I thought you’d like it,’ Holly persists. ‘Red is festive.’ My mum laughs wildly. ‘You’re not going to convince me you did this in tribute to Christmas – you hate Christmas.’ We all know Holly hates Christmas; she’s not exactly shy about it. Right on cue, Wizzard’s ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ starts playing. Holly rolls her eyes. ‘OK, fine,’ she whines. ‘Oh, Holly,’ my mum calls after her. ‘Ivy was looking for her boot-cut jeans. Have you taken them?’ ‘No, burglars broke in, and only stole Ivy’s jeans,’ she replies sarcastically as she disappears up the stairs. ‘Never have teenagers,’ my mum tells me once Holly has stormed upstairs. I blink at her. ‘You don’t count; you’re not like a teenager. You’re an angel.’ I smile. ‘Holly doesn’t think Christmas is cool,’ I tell her. It’s not a very good explanation, but it’s all I have. ‘Not cool like Steps.’ My mum laughs. ‘She’s going to be mortified, when she’s in her thirties and someone reminds her she used to wear a cowboy hat.’ With a moment of calm at the till between customers, my mum takes my natural long blonde hair in her hands, combing it with her fingers. ‘It’s no surprise your sister is sick of Christmas,’ my mum reasons. ‘She does live in a Christmas shop that’s open all year round. You’re lucky you love it as much as I do. For her, it must be torture.’ I replace my bookmark and close my book, setting it down to one side. ‘Have you always loved Christmas?’ I ask, because I realise I haven’t actually asked her that question before. ‘I have,’ my mum says with a smile. ‘This shop is my dream come true. Like now, in December, it’s so wonderful to see people coming in, all excited for the holidays, looking for quirky decorations to hang on their trees, or unique little gifts to give their loved ones. I love it in the summer too, though, when tourists come in from the baking-hot sun, usually after a day catching rays on the beach – they literally step into Christmas and that pleasantly baffled look on their faces is one I never grow tired of.’ ‘I can’t wait to work here,’ I tell her. Ever since I was little, all I’ve wanted to do is help out in the shop. My mum sometimes gives me little jobs to do, so that I think I’m working here, but now that I’m a teenager, I’m hoping she’ll let me work here properly one day soon. ‘And I can’t wait for you to help out, but you need to finish school first,’ my mum insists. I smile as I watch a dad lifting up a little girl so she can choose a bauble from the tree. She delicately removes a glass bauble with a white feather inside – a great choice; I’ve always loved that one. We have the exact same one on our tree in the living room upstairs. I feel my smile drop as I think about my own dad. It doesn’t matter how many Christmases go by since he passed away, I still miss him now more than ever. They say these things get easier with time but every time I see something that belonged to him, someone mentions his name, or I see a happy child playing with their dad, it gets me. I miss him so much. ‘You know, apart from you and your sister, this shop is the thing I’m the most proud of. It’s practically like one of my kids.’ She laughs. ‘It’s taken a lot more raising than you – probably less than Holly, but don’t tell her that.’ I giggle. ‘I like to think about when you and Holly are grown up, happily married, with kids of your own. I imagine you bringing them here and then, after I’m gone, I don’t know… I imagine the shop being in the family for years, generation after generation. That’s silly, isn’t it?’ ‘That’s not silly,’ I reassure her. ‘You’re a sweetheart, Ivy Jones, but you know I’d never expect either of you to work here. I’m sure you’ve got your own big ideas for the future.’ ‘Mum, I mean it. We’ll keep the shop going forever.’ ‘That’s my girl,’ she says, squeezing my hand before turning to serve yet another smiling customer, delighted by the armful of Christmas decorations they have selected. I’m not sure whether or not she believes me, or if she’s just humouring me, but I’m serious. I know how much this shop means to my mum. I’ll always be here to help. I hear thudding on the floor upstairs – most likely Holly working on her routine to ‘5, 6, 7, 8’. Holly might not care about Christmas or the shop, but I do. I know how important this shop is to my mum and I’ll always do whatever it takes to keep it going. Chapter 1 (#ulink_af59bde4-4286-5055-99d4-86bfb5d1b597) I sit up in my bed and stare straight ahead, as though that might make my ears more efficient. Did I just hear something or was I dreaming? After a few seconds I hear the noise that woke me again and realise it’s a knock at the door. I grab my phone from next to me and look at the time. Uh-oh, it is 8.45, which means I’ve overslept – I never oversleep. I grab my brown reindeer dressing gown (complete with antlers on the hood) and throw it on over my nightshirt before dashing downstairs to answer the door, combing my hair with my fingers and wiping sleep from my eyes as I hurry down the stairs. As I approach the shop front door, I can just about see Pete, the postman, on the other side of the glass, which, now that I think about it, I maybe went a little too heavy on with the spray snow. The white, frosty edges frame his face, giving him this angelic white glow. I don’t suppose I look so festive from where he’s standing; all he’ll be able to see is me hurrying across the shop floor undressed, with my bed head hair, fumbling with my keys. He waves at me, all smiles, as I unlock and open the door. ‘Hello, Ivy, sorry, did I wake you?’ he apologises as he clocks my dressing gown. ‘Hey, Pete. I’m glad you did,’ I admit. ‘I need to open the shop in 15 minutes.’ ‘It’s not like you to sleep in,’ he says, handing me a parcel. ‘Is everything OK?’ ‘Everything is fine,’ I assure him. I don’t tell him that I was up late looking over my finances, worrying a few years’ worth of wrinkles onto my face until I finally dropped off some time after 3 a.m. ‘I was up late reading.’ ‘Now that I believe.’ He laughs. ‘Is that what’s in there?’ Is there not some kind of law that prohibits postmen from asking you what’s in your parcel? There could be anything in this box – what if I’d ordered some super sexy lacy underwear or something? I mean, it is from Amazon, and it is book-shaped, but still. I’m not always so predictable (I am). ‘Yep, another book,’ I tell him. ‘Something to read while I’m working.’ ‘Business still quiet?’ Pete asks. ‘Yeah,’ I say with a sigh. ‘It’s December 1st though, so things should pick up a little.’ ‘I’ll be in for a few bits,’ he assures me. ‘Thank you.’ ‘I’m sure I had something to tell you,’ he says, hovering outside the door. I appreciate that it must be uncomfortable, talking about my difficult livelihood – especially for the man who delivers my bills. I usually enjoy his friendly small talk, but today I just want to get back inside and get some clothes on. Pete furrows his brow for a second, visibly racking his brain until he has a thought. The second it hits him his face relaxes again. ‘Oh, some gossip for you,’ he starts, setting his bag down on the floor and taking his phone from his pocket. ‘I saw a man in town today.’ ‘A man?’ I gasp, faking shock. Pete laughs. ‘No, like…a mysterious man. He isn’t a local, and he doesn’t look like a tourist. He’s walking around, wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase. Seems like he’s scoping the place out.’ ‘Hmm. For what, I wonder.’ ‘Indeed,’ Pete replies. ‘I snapped a photo of him, put it in the Facebook group. Just in case he’s one of those white-collar criminals – you know, in case he steals something or what have you.’ ‘I don’t think a white-collar criminal is just a criminal in a suit,’ I point out with a laugh. ‘See,’ Pete says, holding up his phone to show me a photo of a man in a suit, eyeing up a building on Main Street. ‘He’s weird.’ He’s gorgeous – but I don’t say this out loud. I study the photo for a moment, as my head fills with fiction-worthy reasons why this mysterious man might be hanging around town. The eligible bachelors in this town are few and far between. All the good ones are taken. This guy is definitely not from round here – take it from a single girl who knows. ‘Weird,’ I say in agreement, pushing all fantasies of handsome, mysterious strangers from my mind. ‘Well, I’d better get on with opening up the shop.’ ‘Yes, I suppose the post won’t deliver itself,’ he says. ‘Not yet, anyway.’ I don’t have the heart to point out that emails are pretty much that. ‘Same time tomorrow,’ he says as he walks off down the path. ‘Yeah, if I don’t sleep in,’ I joke. ‘Have a good day.’ I watch Pete head for his van before he drives off. My lonely little shop is his only stop here. The shop sits alone, on a quiet country road, outside the town. It’s an old, stone cottage, which used to be a big house, sitting smack bang in the middle of a massive, beautiful garden. Just like a house, it has a little gate at the bottom of the garden, and a cute little pathway that leads up to the shop doorway. When my mum took on the place, she converted the downstairs of the cottage into the shop, with a kitchen at the back, and the upstairs became our living space. It was strange, growing up above a shop when all my friends lived in big houses, but come summer time, when I had this massive garden to play in, I didn’t think twice about how cramped things were indoors. I notice a bill, hiding under my package. I shove it in my dressing gown pocket, to be worried about at a later date – probably tonight, when I should be sleeping. I unlock the fire exit at the back of the shop before flicking the switch that turns on every fairy light, every musical statue and snow machine. The things that make the shop seem alive, even when there’s no real people in it. I check the shop floor to see if anything is out of place, or if any rubbish is lying around, before turning the sign around on the door to say that we’re open…for all the good it will do. I don’t tend to see any customers until the afternoon mid-week – usually tourists in the middle of a hike, or, at this time of year, the occasional local in need of some new decorations or wrapping paper. I was only standing in the doorway chatting for ten minutes and I’m positively freezing. I’m almost always freezing, sometimes even in the heat of summer. I don’t know how long it has been since my last summer holiday, but I’m pretty sure it’s a double-digit number of years now. I don’t like to think about it; it makes me feel old. What I need right now is a steaming-hot cinnamon latte, with a generous dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkling of tiny golden white chocolate stars, to make it extra festive. I’ll make myself a drink, warm up a little and then head upstairs to throw some clothes on before the lunchtime rush which, yesterday, was a whopping four people. I plonk myself down on the stool behind the counter and fire up the usual Christmas playlist. The dulcet tones of Mud drift from the speakers, with ‘Lonely This Christmas’ – not exactly the vibe I need this morning. I take my phone from my dressing gown pocket and load up the Marram Bay residents’ group on Facebook. It’s a private group, strictly for locals and businesses in Marram Bay and over on Hope Island, mostly used for selling things, announcements and a good old gossip. People in small towns just love to talk – mostly about each other. Today’s gossip du jour is the ‘mysterious man’ Pete was telling me about. I see Pete’s paparazzi-style photo of a man wearing a suit, and carrying a briefcase, and otherwise not doing anything at all unusual other than being uncharacte?ristically good-looking. A glance at the comments tells me more about the man. He’s been spotted all over town this morning, driving around in his convertible Porsche – some reckon he’s a professional athlete buying one of the mansions that sits just outside town, someone else swore blind it was Henry Cavill, while someone else has corrected them that, no, it was in fact Jamie Dornan. It’s only now that I’m thinking about it that I realise Henry and Jamie do actually look quite similar and the thought of this man being a hybrid of the two is, coincidentally, exactly what I asked Santa for this year – well, it would be, if I were remotely interested in having a man in my life. Hmm, no, he’s definitely not a famous actor. I suppose he could be a sportsman. He’s got the build for it, but I don’t know nearly enough about sports to recognise anyone other than David Beckham. Perhaps he’s a prince, visiting from a sexy European country, looking for a woman to be his queen, or maybe he’s a spy, deep under cover in Marram Bay for some Secret Service operation… Perhaps I’ve just read too many books. Speaking of which, I unwrap my latest Amazon package to find a copy of Little White Lies, the latest Mia Valentina romcom. I do feel guilty, buying books when money isn’t exactly great, but the day I begrudge myself a ?3.99 book (when reading is my favourite thing to do) is the day I really need to think about selling a kidney. You can’t beat a good book, can you? The way it just drags you in, taking you into someone else’s life, into their home, their relationship – into their everything. It’s a sneak peek into something you don’t usually get to see, and I think that’s why I love it so much. Whether I’m walking through the streets in King’s Landing in A Game of Thrones or being a fly on the wall in Nick and Amy’s house in Gone Girl, people are living a million lives far more interesting than mine, and with books, I get to live them too. I have my coffee, I have my book, I’m all snuggly and warm in my dressing gown. I know that I won’t have any customers until after lunch at least, because I never do, so there’s no harm in starting my book and enjoying my drink before I head back upstairs to get ready. One chapter turns into two, and before I know it my cup is empty and I’m almost four chapters deep. I’ll finish this one and then I’ll get back to reality. ‘Hello,’ I hear a man’s voice say in an attempt to get my attention. I glance up from my book to see him standing in front of me – the mystery man, the athlete, the Henry Cavill-Jamie Dornan hybrid, (almost) all I want for Christmas. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘Have you been here long? I used to do the exact same thing when I was younger, just sit here behind the counter, lost in a book while my mum did all the hard work.’ ‘Am I in your living room?’ he asks with a laugh. I pull a puzzled face as I close my book and place it down in front of me. It’s only as I do that I notice the brown sleeves of my reindeer dressing gown and I remember what I’m wearing. ‘Oh, God, no, sorry,’ I babble. ‘It’s a long story. This is a shop and we’re open. I run the place. I’m Ivy.’ I hope down from my stool and walk around the counter to shake his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Ivy. I’m Seb.’ Seb holds my hand for a few seconds as he peers over my shoulder. ‘Are…are those antlers and a red nose on your hood?’ he asks with an impossibly cheeky smile. I feel my cheeks flush the same colour as the nose on my dressing gown. ‘Yes,’ I reply with an awkward laugh. ‘I wasn’t expecting any customers yet and it was cold…’ ‘No, I like it,’ he replies. ‘It’s cute.’ If it’s even possible, my blushing intensifies. ‘So, business is quiet?’ he asks, walking across the shop, picking up a snow globe from the shelf before shaking it up and watching the flakes fall. I can’t help but stare at him – not watch him, really stare at him. Taking him in. Seb must be over 6 feet tall, and he’s so muscular that I feel like an elf next to him, my petite, 5’3” frame resulting in me not even coming up to his shoulders. He has perfectly neat, swept back dark hair, and a thick but short beard – combined with his sexy blue eyes, his chiselled cheekbones and those gorgeous dimples when he smiles are probably the reasons why people so easily mistook him for a Hollywood actor. ‘It’s picking up for Christmas,’ I assure him. ‘It’s a strange thing, a Christmas shop that’s open all year round,’ he muses as he strolls around. ‘It’s not that,’ I insist, following him closely. ‘My mum opened the place up when I was a kid and it was always heaving back then. I took over, after she died, and we were busy for a while. It’s since satnavs became popular. This road used to be the main way into town, so tourists would always pass the shop on their way in or their way out. These days, satnavs lead everyone along the new road, so no one even knows we’re here. We get hikers, and other shops let tourists know we’re here, and they usually remember to stop by.’ ‘Hmm,’ Seb says thoughtfully. ‘So, is it just you working here?’ ‘You ask a lot of questions,’ I point out. ‘I do,’ he replies. ‘It’s been said before.’ ‘What do you do for work?’ I ask. ‘At the moment, nothing,’ he replies. I raise my eyebrows. ‘What?’ Seb laughs, and there are those dimples again. I suddenly remember what I’m wearing and tighten the belt of my dressing gown self-consciously. ‘You do nothing?’ ‘Nope.’ ‘How does a man who does nothing afford a suit like that? And drive around in a Porsche?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘You’ve got me, I’m a drug dealer,’ he says sarcastically. ‘No, I’m just between jobs at the moment. Does this train work?’ Seb runs his hand along the track until he reaches the miniature steam train that used to run all around the shop. ‘Not anymore,’ I admit. ‘It needs repairing.’ ‘Shame,’ he says. ‘I like it.’ ‘So, you’re just taking a break in Marram Bay then?’ I ask. ‘Just having a look around.’ ‘Well, if you need someone to show you the sights,’ I start, before my brain has chance to catch up with my mouth and reality hits me. What am I saying? This isn’t me; I don’t talk to men. Well, I do talk to men, most days in fact, but this isn’t Pete the postman, this is a man man. I don’t know what on earth I was thinking, saying that. There’s just something about Seb that is drawing me in. I quickly backtrack. ‘I’m sure you don’t…’ ‘I might just take you up on that, Ivy,’ he replies with a big smile. ‘Do all your customers get this kind of special treatment?’ ‘What customers?’ I joke. Seb takes the snow globe from the shelf and brings it over to the counter. ‘Is this Marram Bay, inside?’ ‘It is. There’s a local guy who makes them – I buy them from him.’ ‘I’ll take it.’ He grins, placing it down in front of me. I can’t help but wonder if he actually wants the snow globe, or if he’s only buying it because he feels sorry for me, for seemingly having no customers. I can appreciate that, to an outsider, a Christmas shop that is always open might not seem like the kind of place that would get much custom, but things will pick up in the run-up to Christmas. Either way, I appreciate him buying something. Along with his cheeky smile, Seb has a glimmer of kindness in his eyes, a glimmer that I can’t help but notice twinkling when I look at him. ‘That’s ?9.99, please. Would you like me to wrap it up for you?’ ‘That’s OK, I’m going straight to my car,’ he says, before furrowing his brow. ‘How did you know I drove a Porsche?’ ‘What?’ ‘You know what kind of car I drive…’ ‘Oh, just a guess.’ Seb laughs. ‘Is that your party trick? Guessing what kind of car people drive?’ he asks. ‘Is it even possible for anyone to be able to do that?’ I reply. ‘Sure,’ he tells me. ‘Hold out your hand.’ I place my hand out in front me, which Seb takes in his hands, examining my palm. It’s amazing, just how warm his hands are compared to mine. ‘Let’s see…you drive…a Honda HR-V,’ he says. Spooked, I snatch my hand back. ‘A gold one,’ he adds with a smug grin. ‘Ahh, you saw it outside,’ I say, suddenly self-conscious that he’s seen my 1998 plate Honda. It might be old, but it’s an amazing car that never lets me down. It’s no convertible Porsche though, that’s for sure. ‘How could I miss it?’ He laughs. ‘It’s the only car for miles.’ I step out from behind the counter and walk Seb towards the door. He stops in his tracks to say something to me, stopping when he notices the mistletoe hanging above us. ‘How seriously do you take Christmas tradition?’ he asks with an awkward laugh. ‘Pretty seriously,’ I say cautiously. ‘I pretty much live Christmas every day…’ ‘Hmm,’ he replies. There’s an awkward silence between us, but only for a few seconds. I glance around the room awkwardly until I notice Seb’s face just inches from mine. He plants a quick peck on my lips, immediately seeming surprised at himself for doing so. Maybe, as cool and as confident as he seems, he doesn’t do this sort of thing often. I guarantee this sort of thing happens to me even less. ‘OK, well,’ he says, a little flustered, but with a smile on his face. ‘See you around, Ivy.’ ‘Bye,’ I call after him, running my fingertips over my lips, where Seb’s lips touched them even if it was only for a second. As I sit back down behind the counter, I look at my book. For the first time – maybe ever – something happened to me in real life that was fresh out of a romcom, and I can’t quite believe it. He said ‘see you around’ when he left – it would be great to see him around, but what are the chances I’ll ever see him again? He’s not about to need another snow globe anytime soon, is he? He’s got a posh, southern accent, and we don’t have too many men like that in Marram Bay. We have farmers, fishermen – we even have a guy who makes snow globes, but no well-spoken southern men in flashy suits. Nope, I don’t think I’ll ever see him again. But if I do, I really hope I’m not dressed as a reindeer. Chapter 2 (#ulink_140afde0-ed49-5166-828f-431b3a226725) ‘I need a 110-millimetre hex head bolt,’ I say. ‘What did I give you?’ ‘A 35-millimetre hex head bolt.’ ‘What’s the difference?’ she asks. ‘Exactly 75 millimetres,’ I joke. ‘Are you OK?’ My sister, Holly, doesn’t seem herself today. She never really seems herself around Christmas time – more so now than ever. Growing up in a Christmas shop, with a Christmas-crazy mum, Holly quickly became sick of all things festive. My sister and I are best friends, but around this time of year, she becomes insufferably miserable. She’s antisocial, short-tempered and goes into her shell until New Year’s Eve, when she’s as far away from the festivities as she’s ever going to be, when she can draw a line under the year and start afresh. At least I know this though – that fun-loving Holly will be back by January, and it makes it easier to endure, knowing that there’s light at the end of the tunnel. I just need to give her the space she needs, and take over the festive duties, and everything will be fine. My mum’s passion for the holidays is one that predates my sister and me – either that, or it’s just a huge coincidence that we were named Holly and Ivy. She opened Christmas Every Day so that it could feel like Christmas every day, and as a result we’ve lived our lives in a snow globe. I think it’s more than that these days though. I don’t think Holly is just sick of Christmas still; I think it reminds her of Mum. I always miss her so much more at this time of year too. ‘I’m fine,’ she assures me, brushing the longer side of her freshly cut asymmetrical bob behind her ear. With Holly’s latest short, brown hairstyle, we couldn’t look less alike. I still have the long, blonde hairstyle I’ve had my whole life – I don’t like change, or rather, I’m too scared to pull the trigger. Despite the fact that now, more than ever, Holly and I look absolutely nothing like sisters let alone twins, I think it really suits her. It’s her annual ‘it’s December, I should do something reckless’ stunt out of the way, at least. My sister hands me the bolt I think I need. ‘Erm…’ I hesitate, only for a second, and the two pieces I’m trying to connect fall to the floor. ‘Ergh, just leave it,’ my sister snaps. ‘Hey, are you sure you’re OK?’ I ask, putting down the bolt, taking my sister’s hand. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ She mellows a little. ‘It’s just – and I would hate for Chloe to hear me say this – but I think we need a man.’ ‘Can’t you do it?’ Chloe asks from the doorway. Holly jumps. ‘She’s always sneaking up on me, listening to everything.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure her. ‘She’s too young to think her mum is a bad feminist.’ Chloe, my 7-year-old niece, joins us and sits on my lap. ‘Do we need Daddy?’ she asks. ‘I think we do,’ Holly replies, before turning to me. ‘It’s times like this that I miss Lee.’ ‘Only times like this?’ I laugh. ‘I miss him all the time, of course,’ she clarifies. ‘But, I mean, it’s when we need man’s work doing that I really feel him not being here.’ ‘Man’s work,’ I repeat back to her, grimacing. ‘You’re letting the patriarchy win.’ She laughs. ‘I think I’m just missing Lee; that’s why I’m so stressed. I could do with him here to do this. We were crazy to think we could build bunk beds. And don’t give me that patriarchy rubbish – it’s just genetics. We’re both small, with zero upper body strength.’ ‘When is Lee back?’ ‘Christmas Eve,’ she says with a roll of her eyes. ‘Which is not helpful at all.’ Lee, Holly’s husband, works in the oil industry. He’s a drilling engineer, in Qatar. He works for six weeks, then he’s home for three weeks, so Holly has to look after the house and two little kids while he’s away, which is probably why she’s stressed out so often – especially when there is flat-pack furniture to contend with. ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ Chloe reassures her. ‘We could put the Christmas tree up. Would you like that?’ I ask. ‘Yes,’ Chloe squeaks, her eyes lighting up. ‘I’ll go get Harry.’ Harry, my nephew, is 5 years old, and like his sister, he loves Christmas. With their mum not being much of a fan, I’ve always stepped up to make Christmas amazing for them, going through all the Christmassy motions, just like my mum used to do for me. ‘Thanks,’ Holly says. ‘I really can’t face it.’ ‘You know I enjoy it,’ I tell her. ‘And there’s no man required.’ We stand up and head downstairs. ‘You know, this is why you need a man,’ my sister says as we walk downstairs. She’s always pointing this out. Holly found a man, got married, had kids and now she’s this perfect little housewife. She looks at me, her twin sister, a hardworking spinster, and she wonders where it’s all gone wrong for me, why I just can’t seem to find a man. ‘I need a man because you need a man?’ I laugh. ‘To build your bunk beds.’ ‘That and, well, I just don’t like to see you alone,’ she says softly. ‘I’m not alone, I have you and the kids.’ Holly just smiles. I probably won’t tell her that a stranger kissed me yesterday. I don’t think that’s what she has in mind for me. Anyway, that kind of thing just doesn’t happen to girls like me – I doubt she’d believe me anyway. ‘Oh, I need a favour,’ Holly starts. ‘You remember when you played Mary in the school nativity.’ ‘Most years,’ I reply with a chuckle. My sister rolls her eyes. ‘Well, Chloe has been chosen for the part this year and I’m supposed to make her costume. I’d be surprised if you didn’t have at least one in all the junk you hoard in your loft. If you do, can Chloe borrow it please?’ ‘Of course,’ I reply. I’m sure I could take a little offence at that if I wanted to, but I won’t. I’m pretty sure I’ll have every costume I’ve ever worn up there. I like to hang on to things – especially things that remind me of certain times or events. As Holly cooks dinner, the kids and I put up the tree. I’ve never been able to persuade Holly to have a real tree, hard as I’ve tried. Obviously in the shop I have artificial trees, because I need to keep them up all year round, but I have a real tree in the flat, which, teamed with the fresh popcorn I painstakingly string each year to drape around it, makes the place smell incredible. Holly doesn’t want the hassle, though, so we’ve taken out her good, old artificial tree, and the box of decorations that I’ve been adding to each year. If I had the space Holly did – a whole house, instead of a tiny flat above a shop – I’d do so much with my Christmas d?cor. I used to have a house – although I can’t claim it was as big as this one. Still, I would go all-out at Christmas time, decking the halls inside and out. When my mum died Holly wanted to sell the shop, but I wanted to keep it. I wound up selling my house to buy Holly’s half, but even though business isn’t as good as it used to be, I have no regrets. It would be nice to have more space sometimes though. I love spending time with my niece and nephew, especially at Christmas time, because there’s something all the more magical about seeing Christmas through the eyes of a child. As much as I love it, when you’re grown up, Christmas is stripped down, just a little. You can see the commercial side of it, you know there’s no Santa Claus, you know that it’s a lot of hype and pressure to get everything perfect for just one day of the year. But for the kids, it’s still just pure magic. They don’t have to go to school, the whole family get together, they get presents and chocolate and watch festive movies all day. Holly might not be a fan of the festivities but the silver lining is that I get to go through all the motions with her kids. ‘OK, who wants to put the star on top?’ I ask. ‘I do, I do,’ Harry sings. ‘Let him do it,’ Chloe says with a casual bat of her hand. She’s such a little diva, for a 7-year-old. I carefully hand Harry the gold star before lifting him up in the air so he can place it at the top of the tree. After a lot of wriggling I lower him back down. ‘There we go,’ I say. ‘I think it looks even better than last year – what do you think?’ ‘It’s amazing,’ Chloe says as she admires our handiwork. ‘That was some great teamwork,’ I tell them. ‘Good job.’ Holly walks into the room with a tray of drinks. ‘What do you think, Hol?’ I ask. ‘It’s…a tree,’ she replies, feigning enthusiasm. ‘It is a tree,’ I reply. ‘Do you like it?’ My sister forces a smile. ‘It’s great,’ she eventually says. ‘I’d better go check on the chicken.’ My sister hurries back into the kitchen so I leave the kids admiring their handiwork and follow her. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I ask her. ‘You know I don’t really like Christmas all that much.’ ‘I know, but you’re worse this year,’ I point out. ‘How’s the shop doing?’ she asks, changing the subject. ‘Meh,’ I reply. ‘I’m hoping it picks up now it’s December. It’s just so hard, because no one knows we’re there, now that cars don’t really drive past anymore.’ ‘You not fancy going back to plan A?’ she asks. ‘The shop has always been plan A,’ I remind her. ‘What you’re talking about is just something I did because Mum wanted us to do something different and come back to the shop if we wanted to. And I wanted to.’ Our mum was always adamant we do our own thing; she didn’t want us to feel pressured into joining the family business. So, after school, as well as working part-time in the shop, I pursued a career in catering, eventually training in patisserie and confectionery before getting a job at Walters, a shop on Main Street that makes and sells chocolate and sweets. It turned out that cooking was something that came naturally to me, and while I knew the shop was safe in my mum’s hands, it was something I was more than happy doing full-time. But then, when my mum died, my priorities changed. I knew that stepping up to take over the shop was the right thing to do. ‘That reminds me,’ I say, grabbing a bag from under the kitchen table. ‘I brought the kids advent calendars from Walters.’ ‘Oh, I already got them ones.’ Holly points to two, not-very-exciting-looking advent calendars. ‘Where are they from?’ I ask. ‘Buy one get one free at the petrol station.’ ‘These are the ones Mum used to get us,’ I say, showing her. ‘They deserve special ones.’ ‘So mine aren’t good enough, but amazing Auntie Ivy comes along with her fancy ones and—’ ‘Hey, I’m not trying to steal your thunder, I just thought they’d love these. I won’t say they’re from me, just say they’re from you.’ ‘Can I pay you for them?’ she asks. ‘No, you’re my sister, you cannot pay me for them. Just take them.’ With a shake of her head, Holly takes the bag from me. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I ask again. ‘I’ll stop asking if you want but you just don’t seem OK.’ ‘Ivy, I’m fine,’ she says slowly. ‘OK,’ I say, because what else can I say? But for some reason, I’m just not convinced. Chapter 3 (#ulink_2f5aead7-476e-5c07-b85f-8cd01da73e41) Today I did not sleep in, nor did I forgo getting dressed before opening up the shop so, despite the usual lack of custom, I’m already having a great day. I have adjusted the countdown to Christmas (it’s 23 days, in case you were wondering), turned up the Christmas music (we’re kicking things off with Michael Bubl?’s cover of ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’, which is much better for morale than yesterday’s offering), made myself a cinnamon latte and I’m currently reading my book and tucking into a slice of pistachio panettone that I bought from the deli in town. As mornings go, this isn’t a bad start. I’m not so deep in my book that I don’t notice a customer walk in today. As I hear the door, I snap my book shut and place it on the counter. ‘Good morning,’ I say brightly, snapping into professional mode. As I look up I realise that it isn’t just any customer, it’s Seb, here again. He’s wearing a grey suit with a long black coat and a black scarf. He’s a snappy dresser, with a really stylish, cosmopolitan look that I appreciate. ‘Good morning,’ the man replies. ‘Oh, you’re dressed today.’ ‘I am,’ I reply. ‘And you’re here again – twice in two days – are you after another a snow globe?’ He laughs. ‘I am not.’ What is he after then? If he’s not here to buy something…is he here for me? He’s not…he’s not here to ask me out, is he? I mean, I’m flattered, he’s obviously good-looking, rich and successful, but I’m not after a fleeting encounter with a tourist. ‘I’m just having another look around,’ he says. ‘Don’t let me distract you from your book.’ ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I assure him. ‘You a big romance fan?’ he asks, eyeballing the cover. ‘I’m not just into romance, I’m into a bit of everything,’ I reply. As I watch Seb’s eyebrows shoot up I realise that what I just said didn’t sound exactly as I intended it. ‘I mean as far as reading goes,’ I clarify. ‘I see.’ He laughs again. ‘I dated a girl who was obsessed with the Fifty Shades books. I didn’t see the fascination with those.’ An awkward silence follows. ‘Do you read?’ I ask him. ‘I don’t,’ he replies. ‘But I’m hoping that will change. I’ve always been so busy so, now, I’m looking for somewhere to settle down, run a small, easy business, where I’ll have more free time.’ ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I reply. ‘Where are you thinking of moving?’ ‘Here,’ he replies. ‘Oh really?’ I reply. Suddenly, Seb isn’t just a tourist. The fact that he might be moving to Marram Bay changes everything. I’ve always thought I was too busy for relationships but there’s just something about Seb… Maybe he’s worth breaking my self-imposed man ban for. Business is pretty quiet at the moment, and other than hanging out with my sister’s kids, I have almost nothing going on in my life. Maybe I should go on a date with him and see what happens…even though it’s been so long since I went on a date, I don’t really remember what’s supposed to happen on them. As far as I remember, you just make awkward conversation before feeling largely disappointed, and going home alone. I’m pretty sure that’s right. Seb’s phone rings, interrupting our conversation. ‘I’m sorry, I really need to take this,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe I’ll pop back in and see you later?’ ‘I’d like that,’ I call after him. ‘Great,’ he replies. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’ That sounds ominous… Then again, I did offer to show him the sights, so perhaps he just wants the benefit of my local knowledge. I try not to think about it – although my mind is racing – busying myself with a few little jobs before grabbing my book again while it’s quiet. Just as the story starts to pick up, I hear the door again. It’s another familiar face: my landlord. ‘Ivy, hello,’ he says. ‘Are you OK?’ ‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ I say, coming back down to earth as I wonder how long I’ve been lost in a combination of my thoughts and my book. ‘How are you, Mr Andrews?’ ‘Can’t complain,’ he says before clearing his throat. ‘I need to talk to you.’ ‘Oh?’ is about all I can reply. Suddenly, I’m terrified, racking my brains to figure out when the last time I sent him a rent cheque was, and if it might have bounced. My mum may have owned the business, but she has always rented the shop and the flat above it from Mr Andrews. So, when my mum died, I didn’t just take over the shop, I took over paying the rent too. ‘You know Sean, my son?’ I nod. ‘Well, he and his family live in Australia and, my wife and I, we’re getting on a bit now and, well, we want to join them over there for our retirement.’ ‘That’s lovely,’ I reply. The idea of packing up and starting again in another country is an idea that I can get on board with. Just wiping the slate clean and starting again in a new place with new adventures to be had, rather than spending day after day in the same small village, where one day blurs into the next because nothing ever really happens. ‘To do this, though, we need money, so we’ll be selling this place.’ ‘Oh,’ I reply. ‘So, will I be getting a new landlord?’ ‘That’s what I need to talk to you about,’ Mr Andrews replies. ‘You know how the shop is in quite a large plot, and, I don’t know if you know this, but planning permission is already approved here.’ ‘Right,’ I reply. ‘So, that actually makes this place quite valuable to me, but less so with a tenant. Most people who want to buy the place want to knock it down and build something new. I mean, this place has seen better days, hasn’t it?’ I feel hurt on behalf of my shop and my home. Sure, the windows maybe need replacing, because as soon as there’s a bit of wind they whistle and let cold air in, and maybe the place is a bit tatty, but in a shabby chic, country cottage kind of way. ‘OK.’ ‘I’ve found a buyer for the place, Ivy, and…well, someone has made me an offer I’d be crazy to refuse, but the offer is on the understanding that I sell the place without a tenant.’ ‘You want me to leave?’ I squeak. ‘I don’t want you to leave, I need you to leave,’ he clarifies. ‘Believe me, if there was some other way, I’d take it. You and your mum have both been excellent tenants. You’ve always paid on time, never caused me any problems.’ ‘I don’t want to leave,’ I tell him firmly. ‘I won’t leave, in fact. I have rights, you can’t just kick me out.’ ‘Actually, I can,’ he replies. ‘Your mum’s tenancy agreement ran out a long time ago and, well, it’s a small place, we all trust each other. We just had a handshake deal. We never renewed anything. I always intended to, and then she passed away and you took over and…it was just an oversight.’ ‘So, you’re telling me I have no rights? And that you’re just going to kick me out?’ ‘Ivy, it sounds awful when you put it like that. But this is the only way I can move closer to my family,’ he stresses. ‘You’re close with your family, you must understand.’ I do, but I don’t. How can he do this to me? ‘So who is buying the place?’ I ask. ‘And what are they going to do with it?’ ‘Perhaps you should have a meeting with the buyer?’ he suggests. ‘The plans really are something special, and they do have the town in mind.’ ‘The town, bar one,’ I point out. ‘Ivy, I’m sorry, but I really need the money if I’m going to emigrate,’ Mr Andrews insists. He does sound apologetic, but that doesn’t change anything. ‘Can’t you sell it to me?’ ‘Can you afford it?’ he asks. ‘How much is it?’ Mr Andrews takes a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. ‘This is the offer the buyer just made.’ I raise my eyebrows as I look at the astronomically high number. ‘How long have I got?’ I ask. ‘Until you have to leave?’ I was going to say to raise the money, but I suppose the answer to both questions is the same. ‘The buyer has a few checks he wants to make but I’m ready to sell when they are ready to buy. I’m going to Australia tomorrow, to look at some houses.’ ‘What if you held off, until you got back?’ I suggest. ‘Maybe I can sort something out and you can sell it to me instead.’ ‘You know I’d rather sell it to you,’ Mr Andrews says. He scratches his head. ‘Look, I need someone to assist the buyer while I’m away. If you do that, I won’t sell until I’m back. If you have the money, I’ll sell to you, OK?’ There’s something about Mr Andrews’ voice – I don’t think he thinks I’ll be able to get the money together, but he doesn’t want to quash my hope. But it doesn’t matter if he believes me or not; all that matters is that he agrees. Maybe it’s a long shot, but maybe I can get the money together in time. If I can increase business, get a mortgage… There must be lots of options. ‘So, assisting the buyer,’ I start. ‘Just, make them feel welcome, help them take measurements, or do whatever is needed. Answer questions. I’ll be back before Christmas. Can you do that?’ ‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘I’m a professional.’ ‘Your mum would be proud of you,’ Mr Andrews says. ‘I’ll give him your number, and tell him that you’ll be here, so he can come and talk to you about his plans.’ ‘OK,’ I reply, with faux positivity. ‘Have a nice time in Australia.’ Once Mr Andrews is gone, I sit down on my stool and place my hands over my face. I take a few, calming deep breaths. Conscious breathing – that’s what Holly calls it. Holly is a big fan of conscious breathing, and always recommends it to me when I’m feeling stressed. Further proof that my sister and I are polar opposites: the reason Holly likes it is the reason I don’t. Focusing on your breathing is supposed to remind you that you are breathing, that you’re alive. It only reminds me how fragile we are though. I watched my mum take her final breath and then she was gone. I don’t like to think about how life hinges on our ability to take a breath. It fills me with panic. Over the years, this shop has become as important to me as breathing. It’s my reason for getting up in the morning, it’s my livelihood, it’s my way of making sure my mum lives on. And, what, some man in a suit is just going to come in and knock it down? I’ll be jobless, homeless… He must not know that, otherwise I’m sure he wouldn’t be going through with it. Maybe, if I explain to this buyer, he’ll go find somewhere else and, if not, well, I suppose I have until Christmas to try and get the money together. Otherwise…I don’t know what I’ll do. Chapter 4 (#ulink_62bbb336-30a8-59fb-8a8d-6deff2bb20b6) After a long day of few customers and lots on my mind, it’s a relief when I finally walk towards the shop door, to turn the open sign to closed. As I approach the door, I see Seb walk up the pathway, and seeing his face instantly perks me up. It’s been a tough day, but seeing a friendly face – even a new one – is suddenly making all the difference. For the first time today, I smile. ‘Hello,’ I say brightly. ‘Hey,’ he replies. ‘You said you would be back,’ I say. He smiles. ‘I did.’ ‘And that you wanted to talk,’ I remind him. ‘I do.’ ‘Well, come in, I’ll make us a couple of coffees. I made some fruit mince tarts, topped with meringue. You can try one, tell me if they’re any good.’ ‘That would be great,’ he says, loosening up a little. It surprises me that someone so cool, with so much confidence, could be so awkward after one little peck. I show him into the kitchen and place a coffee and a tart down in front of him. ‘Wow, you made these? They look amazing,’ he says. ‘I was a chef in a past life,’ I admit. ‘I’m happy to see you’re still dabbling,’ he says, taking a bite. ‘Wow, they’re incredible.’ ‘Thanks,’ I reply, with a weak smile. ‘How are things?’ he asks. ‘Not ideal,’ I tell him honestly. ‘I spoke to my landlord today.’ I pause for a second, unsure whether or not someone who is pretty much a stranger is the right person to tell this to. And not only is he someone that I don’t know very well, but he’s also someone I don’t want to scare away by banging on about my problems. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asks. ‘No, it’s fine,’ I reply. ‘You’re taking this better than I thought. It’s a huge relief,’ he says, picking up a second tart. I stare at him blankly. ‘I was worried about telling you,’ he clarifies. ‘Telling me what?’ ‘That I’m buying the shop,’ he says. I don’t know what I do with my face, but my reaction is all Seb needs to realise that I didn’t know he was buying the shop. ‘Wait, I thought you knew? I thought your landlord had spoken to you?’ he asks, suddenly looking even more worried than when he arrived earlier. I shake my head. ‘Oh, Ivy, I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘This wasn’t how I wanted you to find out. I thought Mr Andrews would have said.’ ‘He just told me that someone was buying the place, not who or why.’ ‘Oh…well, me,’ he replies, cringing at his own delivery. ‘My plan is to knock the place down and build holiday homes.’ ‘So do that someplace else,’ I say angrily, the idea of the shop being knocked down suddenly seeming so much worse than someone else simply buying the place. ‘This place is perfect,’ he tells me. ‘It’s the only spot I can find that is big enough, which already has planning permission. There’s huge demand for holiday homes in Marram Bay – you can’t keep up with the increasing number of tourists. And, well, speaking from a strictly business point of view, there’s not much demand for a Christmas shop that’s open 12 months of the year.’ I place my hand on my chest. Ouch. ‘I just mean from a business point of view,’ he says. ‘There are other things you—’ ‘Seb, just stop,’ I say. ‘We don’t need to talk about it.’ ‘Ivy—’ ‘I’ve told Mr Andrews that I’ll be here to help, if you need anything,’ I remind him. ‘For now I think it might be best if you leave.’ ‘OK, sure,’ he replies. Seb opens his mouth, as though he’s about to say something. His words are on the tip of his tongue before he obviously thinks better of saying them. Well, what can he say? He gives me a half-smile before heading for the door, like I asked him to. I can tell that he feels bad about the way I’ve found out but, again, what good does pity do me? I am angry and I’m upset, but I’m not going to show it. Instead, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure I can buy this place first. He might have money and charm, but I have roots here. I believe that Mr Andrews will sell to me over Seb if I can make the money first. I just need to figure out how on earth I can do that… Chapter 5 (#ulink_6f553cef-87b3-5340-beea-598b3b859795) I have come to a shocking and saddening realisation. It has occurred to me, in light of recent circumstances, that I don’t have a life. I suppose I already knew it, at the back of mind – maybe not even the back of my mind, perhaps it was obvious – that I didn’t have much going on other than my work. A love life, a social life, a family… These are all things that have taken a back seat to business. Sure, I have a best friend in my sister, but if I think too hard about it, I feel like that’s maybe just by default. We shared a womb, of course we’re best friends. Taking joint second place on my list of friends are my niece and nephew and then, I suppose, Pete the postman takes the bronze. That’s sad, isn’t it? I don’t get invited anywhere, apart from my sister’s, and I don’t really do anything but work, read, or watch TV. If I lose the shop I’ll lose my home, my income, my mum’s legacy and my reason to get up of a morning all at once, in an instant, gone before the New Year. The first thing I need to do is increase the number of customers, and the amount of stock they are buying. That’s why I’ve spent the past two hours making glitter-covered signs letting people know that we’ve got a big, pre-Christmas sale on. I’ve also been going around with a pad of little white stickers too, reducing the price of almost everything. I’m not crazy, I know that knocking a couple of quid off snow globes isn’t going to save the shop, but if I can improve things just a little, maybe it will help me secure a mortgage. With the way business is at the moment, the banks aren’t exactly going to be fighting over me. I examine the sparkly ‘sale now on’ sign I made to place in the window before securing it in place. As I do this, I notice a couple of men outside, standing at the end of the front garden. ‘Can I help you?’ I ask them, the similarity between myself and Tubbs from League of Gentlemen making me feel both uneasy and amused. ‘Don’t worry, Ivy, they’re with me,’ I hear a familiar voice say. That’s when I notice Seb is with them, and that they’re spraying paint all over the ground. ‘What are they doing?’ I ask. It looks a little like they’re holding a handheld vacuum cleaner, like my mum used to have. ‘They’re checking for unexploded bombs underground,’ Seb replies. I feel my eyebrows shoot up around the same time I hear the men sniggering quietly. A joke. Wonderful. ‘They’re tracing the utilities in the road, so we can work out where to connect services to the new buildings.’ ‘You’ve not even bought the place yet,’ I point out. ‘I know.’ He laughs. ‘But I will. I’m just making sure everything is right first.’ I glance down at the spray paint on the ground. ‘Don’t worry, it washes off,’ he says with a smile. I bite my lip, the way I always do when I’m thinking. ‘Nice hands,’ he says and laughs again. ‘Very festive.’ I glance down at my hands, which are covered in glitter. ‘I’ve been making signs,’ I explain. ‘Don’t worry, it washes off. Do you want to come in for a drink?’ I ask, quickly clarifying what I mean. ‘A tea or a coffee.’ ‘That would be great, thank you,’ he says. ‘Boys, tea break.’ Oh, I actually meant just Seb, and I’m not being nice, I’m on a fishing expedition. If I know what his plans are, maybe I can work out a way to put a stop to this. ‘OK,’ I say, gesturing towards the door. The three men follow me inside the shop. I take drinks orders before popping into the kitchen and making them. I place the drinks on a tray, along with a few of my homemade gingerbread men – why am I snapping into hostess mode? ‘Here we are,’ I say, setting the tray down on the counter where Seb is waiting. ‘Does the train work?’ one of the men calls over. ‘It doesn’t,’ I reply. ‘It needs repairing.’ ‘I’ve got a screwdriver in the van,’ he starts, but I stop him. ‘That’s very kind of you, thank you, but it requires some kind of vintage model train expert, and an expensive repair. It was my mum’s so, when I’ve got some spare money, I’ll get it done.’ ‘No worries,’ he calls back. ‘I know a train guy,’ Seb tells me. ‘He’s pretty cool, actually. He’s famous for making the smallest running train sets you can get.’ ‘Doesn’t sound cool.’ The workman laughs, grabbing a gingerbread man before biting his head off. ‘This is Barry and Paul,’ Seb tells me. ‘Do not, under any circumstances, make a Chuckle Brothers joke, because they will not laugh.’ Seb’s cheeks dimple at his own joke. ‘Boys, this is Ivy.’ ‘Your name is Ivy and you run a Christmas shop,’ Barry points out. ‘My sister is called Holly,’ I tell him. ‘My mum loved Christmas – that’s why she opened this shop.’ ‘Why are you selling it?’ he asks. ‘I, erm, I’m not,’ I tell him. ‘My landlord is. I’m being kicked out.’ ‘You’re kicking her out of her family’s business before Christmas?’ Barry asks, shocked. ‘And my home,’ I tell him. ‘I live upstairs.’ ‘Mate,’ Barry says. Seb raises his eyebrows at him, I’d imagine to subtly remind Barry who he works for. ‘So, when are you hoping to knock this place down?’ I ask, trying to work out how much time I have. ‘You said in the New Year, did you, gaffer?’ Paul offers, helpfully. ‘Yes,’ Seb replies, seeming ever so slightly annoyed that Paul has answered. ‘It’s not set in stone – we’ll see.’ ‘And then you’ll start on the new building?’ ‘Buildings,’ Paul points out. ‘Oh, there’s going to be more than one building then?’ ‘Paul, thank you,’ Seb says. ‘Why don’t you lads go finish up if you’ve finished your drinks?’ ‘Sure, gaffer,’ Barry says, taking the hint. ‘I like them,’ I say, once we’re alone. ‘They’re chatty.’ ‘Too chatty,’ Seb replies with a smile. ‘Tell me a bit about you,’ I say, hugging my mug with my hands to keep warm. I’m wondering what kind of person can happily move to a new town and kick someone out of their home. ‘About me?’ he replies, sounding surprised. ‘OK. Well, I’m from Oxford.’ That explains the accent. Seb has a very BBC newsreader kind of way with words and it makes me feel a little self-conscious about my Yorkshire accent. ‘How did you get into this line of work?’ I ask. What I really mean is, how did he get into knocking down people’s childhood homes, but I’m too polite to say that. ‘I was all set to play professional cricket,’ he tells me. ‘And life just…I don’t know, it did its own thing. I went from one business venture to the next – I’ve been living in Dublin for the past four years.’ Well, I suppose I can relate to that. I was a chef, before life changed my plans. ‘So, what, you just decided you wanted to move to the Yorkshire coast?’ ‘I decided I wanted to move out of the city,’ he says. ‘And I knew I’d need to make a living.’ I nod thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry for the way this is playing out,’ he says. ‘I’m a little surprised you’re not fighting it…’ I am fighting it; he just doesn’t know it yet. ‘And I appreciate you telling Mr Andrews you’d look after me while he’s away,’ he adds. I didn’t, well, not really. Not by choice. I just smile. I’m not taking it well at all, but I’m not taking it lying down either. Sure, let Seb come here with his workmen and do his tests. It will all be for nothing when I swoop in and buy the shop first. ‘I suppose I just expected a little more resistance, when I realised you were being made to leave against your will,’ he persists. ‘It’s the rest of the locals you need to worry about,’ I tell him. ‘You’re not the first southerner to come here and try to open up a business.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘A few things the people of Marram Bay don’t take too kindly to: outsiders, big businesses, any threat to local business – I imagine your venture is an unwelcome mix of all three.’ ‘It sounds like it.’ He laughs. Seb laughs so much, he’s just so easy-going. It’s like nothing worries him – perhaps that’s an easy confidence that comes with having a lot of money. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness obviously never had a failing business and impending homelessness hanging over them. ‘I have a meeting with the board,’ he tells me. ‘The Nation of Shopkeepers?’ ‘That’s the one. I’m told that if I can sway them, I’m a shoo-in.’ ‘I’d say that was about right,’ I reply. ‘Your accent amuses me.’ He laughs. ‘Say that again.’ ‘No.’ ‘Nooo,’ he repeats, in what I’d imagine is his attempt at a strong Yorkshire accent. Unimpressed, I furrow my brow. ‘So, what happened with the last southerner who tried to start a business here? Did they let her open it?’ ‘They did,’ I admit. ‘There we go then. I’ll see you tonight,’ he says, taking the last gingerbread man from the plate. ‘You will,’ I reply. ‘Wish me luck,’ he says as he heads for the door. ‘Good luck,’ I call after him. He’s going to need it. Chapter 6 (#ulink_36338a66-2e9d-58d6-968d-8049b4cb9a84) In the Marram Bay Town Hall, the Nation of Shopkeepers gathers every other month to discuss all of the big issues affecting business in the town. ‘And that’s why anyone who has opted for blue fairy lights, instead of the traditional white lights, needs to take them down,’ George Price, chairman of the group and owner of Frutopia jam shop concludes. Yes, this is one of today’s biggest issues: that someone has gone rogue with their fairy lights. Mary-Ann – who runs the local dairy farm – raises a hand as she uses her other one to play with one of her brown plaits. ‘I think the blue lights look nice,’ she says softly, once she is given permission to speak. ‘Well, you’d be wrong,’ George says confidently. ‘Now, our final order of business. Waiting outside we have Sebastian Stone. He’s a property developer looking to knock down Christmas Every Day, and build holiday homes for tourists. Before we invite him in for his pitch, Ivy, would you like to say a few words?’ I stand up from my place on the U-shaped table. ‘I, erm… Closing down Christmas Every Day is not a decision I’ve been a party to,’ I say, pausing to anxiously nibble a fingernail. ‘I’m not saying Seb shouldn’t be allowed to start a business here, I just wish it weren’t at the cost of an already established one.’ An echo of ‘hear hears’ bounces around the room. ‘Does anyone else have anything to say on the matter?’ ‘After everything I went through to open a business here, I don’t see why this guy should have it easy,’ Lily, who runs the Apple Blossom Deli, says with a laugh. When she tried to open the deli earlier this year almost everyone was against it, and now here she is, a fully-fledged member of the community. ‘It wouldn’t be right, to push out a long-established business with deep roots in the community, in favour of something new,’ Tommy, who owns the local bookshop, adds. ‘Well, I think we’re all in agreement there. Let’s bring him in,’ George says, gesturing at the person nearest the door so that they can get Seb. Seconds later Seb walks in, in yet another one of his expensive suits. I feel like they’re symbolic of his wealth, his attention to detail, his attitude towards business – all things that look good, when you’re standing up in front of the people who will decide your future. Seb looks the part, from his suit, to the large iPad in his hands, to the confident smile on his face. ‘Hello, everyone, my name is Sebastian Stone, and this evening I’d like to share with you my proposal for new holiday homes on the current Christmas Every Day site.’ Seb taps on his iPad a few times before his proposal appears on the big screen behind him. I notice a couple of gaps around the room. ‘Bloody hell, we’ve never been able to get that to work,’ George tells him. Geroge is a living, breathing example of exactly what you’d expect a Yorkshire man to look like. He’s a big, broad fifty-something man, with dark hair that’s slowly being consumed by grey, starting with the sideburns. He knows what he likes and he likes what he knows, and for that reason, you can’t tell him anything. That’s why, at times like this, he’s the perfect chairman of the Nation of Shopkeepers, because he’ll take one look at an outsider like Seb and see everything that he hates about ‘this bloody country’ – consumerism, cutthroat businessmen, the bourgeoisie. ‘Ooh, he’s doing a keynote speech, just like Steve Jobs,’ Adam, who owns the Treasure Island arcade on the seafront, leans over to me to whisper. Adam is quite the hipster, so I’m not surprised he’s impressed. His arcade isn’t really an arcade, it’s a speakeasy hidden behind an area where parents can ditch their kids while they get drunk. ‘Marram Bay is a popular tourist hotspot that, unfortunately, doesn’t have enough accommodation to meet demand during peak seasons. This results in fewer visitors, less footfall, less business for everyone,’ Seb explains. He changes the slide to reveal a beautiful artist’s impression of the modern townhouses with dark cladding and grassy roofs. It’s so colourful, surrounded by blooming gardens and smiley people – if I didn’t know what I was looking at, I wouldn’t have recognised it as the spot where my shop currently stands. Seb cycles through a few slides, talking everyone through how his presence will increase business for everyone. ‘And through my proposed collaboration with holiday accommodation booking site Let’s Go, we’ll attract even more tourism. The last coastal town to work with them won the prestigious Staycation of the Year award.’ I glance around the room, trying to read the audience. He has their attention, that’s for sure. ‘The project will also meet passive house standards, which reduces the building’s ecological footprint. The result will be ultra-low-energy buildings that require little energy for space heating or cooling. Each building will have a green roof, which will provide further insulation – it will also keep the houses cool when they need to be, provide space for birds, and, well, I just think it looks cool.’ Seb gives his audience a wink and, as I look around, I notice that his charm offensive is working. All eyes are on him. From his tech skills to his innovative business ideas, to his good looks and his eloquence. The audience is his, with everyone fully captivated, so impressed by everything he has to offer. I’d go as far as to say a few of the women are swooning – maybe even a couple of the men too. ‘If that’s not enough, the development will be entirely self-sufficient thanks to renewable energy sources. We’ll combine the use of wind and solar power, which, actually, will create a surplus of electricity, which we’ll be donating to your local school.’ ‘How would that work?’ George asks. ‘All the energy that we create, that we don’t use, will go back to the grid and the net profit will be deducted from the school’s energy bill.’ As Seb continues to share his plans with his spellbound audience, I tune out a little. His plans are perfect and, if they were anywhere else, I’d want to get behind them too. It’s just…it’s my home, and my business, and if he could find somewhere else, everything would be fine. ‘You’ve given us a lot to think about,’ George says, pulling me from my thoughts, bringing me back into the room. I’d say his poker face was firmly on, were it not for the strong handshake he gives Seb. ‘We appreciate you running your plans by us.’ ‘And I appreciate you taking the time to listen,’ Seb replies. ‘Your blessing is important to me, as is your local MP’s. I’ll be talking with her tomorrow afternoon.’ He starts collecting his things, getting ready to leave. ‘See you, Ivy,’ Seb says to me directly. I give him a half wave and as much of a smile as I can muster. ‘Ooh, Ivy, get you,’ Lily from the deli teases, as soon as Seb has gone. ‘So, that’s what I needed to do to get accepted quicker, hmm? Have better tech skills and look good in a suit.’ ‘OK, thank you, Lily, we’re judging him on his proposal,’ George reminds her. ‘So, let’s go around the room and find out what people think.’ I notice George glancing around, making awkward eye contact with me before purposefully picking someone from the other side of the room. ‘Rob,’ he prompts, calling upon the local butcher first. ‘He was very persuasive, wasn’t he?’ Rob says cautiously, testing the waters. George nods thoughtfully. ‘The thing he was saying about the electricity – I didn’t know that was a thing; that’s pretty cool,’ Lily says. ‘Yeah, free electricity for the school…’ George says. ‘The stuff about the booking website, and the Staycation of the Year award,’ Arcade Adam starts. ‘Is that legit?’ ‘It is,’ Tommy from the bookshop chimes in. ‘Just Googled it, Portmeirion won last year.’ ‘It does sound like it will be good for everyone…’ George says slowly. I can hear the excitement in their voices building as they talk about Seb’s proposal. The love hearts in their eyes have turned to pound signs now. ‘Ivy?’ George finally says. ‘What do you think?’ ‘It’s a good idea,’ I admit. ‘But at the cost of my shop and my childhood home…’ As my voice trails off, an awkward silence follows. I feel like everyone in the room is looking at me, just waiting for me to take one for the team, to put the town before myself. They’ve all been charmed by Seb, with his flashy suit and his big ideas and his cheeky smile. ‘Yes, it would be a shame to lose your shop,’ George says. ‘What about an anonymous ballot?’ ‘We don’t normally do things anonymously,’ I say. ‘I know,’ he replies. ‘But, with this affecting a member of the panel, we need to make sure people feel free to vote for what they want.’ ‘OK, sure,’ I reply. Pieces of paper and pens are handed out, for each of us to write down whether we are for or against Seb’s proposal, but as I write my objection down, I can feel that this isn’t going to go my way. George collects the pieces of paper, then takes them back to his seat to count them. ‘Based on these votes, the majority would like to support Seb in his business venture,’ George announces. ‘How many people were against?’ I ask curiously. ‘Now, Ivy, if I told you that, it wouldn’t be an anonymous vote, would it?’ he replies, which can only lead me to believe that I was the only person to vote against it. I don’t think there’s anything I can say that will convince people my shop is worth saving, so I’m just going to have to do it myself. How, I’m not exactly sure. Chapter 7 (#ulink_c0092528-21e9-584f-81f3-8fddcaad025e) To the best of my memory, I’ve only really been in trouble once in my life – nearly 20 years ago. Holly and I were in different ability groups for every subject, apart from art class. This not only meant that we got to sit together for something, but I also got to see my sister in all her rebellious glory. My mum was always getting letters about my sister, then phone calls, before she was finally was called in for a meeting. In Holly’s defence, she wasn’t bad, she was just…disruptive, and while the rest of the class found her cheeky antics funny, things had got to a point where Holly was on her last warning – one more major disruption, and she would be excluded. On this particular day, my sister was more preoccupied with flirting with Lee Blake than she was with the silhouettes we were supposed to be painting. I never liked Lee. I always found him to be really smug and entitled. Like he thought just because he was the ‘coolest’ boy in our year then everyone else should bow down to him. My sister was not only willing to take the knee, but she wanted to be his queen. I was just sitting and rolling my eyes as they flirted, ignoring the task at hand, until their playful flirting escalated into flicking black paint at each other, which also escalated into black paint being flung across the table, with yours truly being caught in the crossfire. Ms Evergreen caught wind and came charging over, ready to reprimand the suspects. She had seen Lee throwing paint so he was banged to rights, but his opponent was still unknown. ‘Holly Jones, aren’t you on your final warning?’ she asked angrily. ‘It wasn’t me, Miss,’ Holly insisted, unsuccessfully trying to hide her grin. ‘No? Then who was it?’ I didn’t actually think about what I said, before I said it. It just felt right. ‘It was me, Miss,’ I confessed. ‘You, Ivy?’ she gasped in disbelief. I remember her glancing down at the painting of a willow tree I’d been working so hard on, and looking back up at me. Now that I think about it, it was obvious I’d been working hard all lesson and that Holly, whose paper was suspiciously blank, apart from a few abstract splashes, had not. ‘It was me,’ I said again confidently. This was my first taste of trouble, and while it didn’t feel good, it did feel right, to help out my sister. We’re two halves of the same thing. Her problems are my problems. I don’t think Ms Evergreen believed me, but she had no choice but to send Lee and me to Isolation (a room where kids were put for extended periods of time to keep them from disrupting lessons). There, we chatted and I guess taking the fall for my sister went a long way to impressing him because from that day on, he thought I was OK. Predictably, being on the receiving end of attention from a cool, good-looking guy resulted in me developing a silly, schoolgirl crush on him. My sister went on to marry him, so all is well that ends well. I’d be mortified if either of them knew that, and it’s safe to say that, post GCSEs, my crush soon died. The point is, other than that occasion, I’ve never really been in trouble because I’ve never really done anything wrong. I’m just not very good at it – even a harmless little white lie fills me with guilt. That’s why I’ve been staring at my phone for half an hour now, thinking about whether I should do what I’m planning on doing. It feels wrong, but…when Seb first came into the shop, I felt just like I did at school – flattered that someone out of my league was giving me attention, and I don’t ever want to feel like that again. Being so easily flattered doesn’t make for a very good feminist, does it? Speaking of good feminists, I pick up the phone and dial and, after a few seconds, I am connected with Prue Honeywell, our local MP. Prue is exactly the kind of person you want speaking for your town, because she really cares about everyone – especially women. And, look, my plan isn’t to lie to her, it’s just to tell her about the kind of man Seb Stone really is. ‘Hello, Ivy,’ she says brightly. ‘How are you?’ Prue and I have spoken on many occasions. I’m one of the first people to help out when it comes to all of her charitable causes for the town. ‘I’m not too bad, thank you. How are you?’ ‘Oh, you know,’ she says. ‘Stressed but blessed. What can I do for you today?’ ‘It’s about Seb Stone, the man who is hoping to buy the land my shop stands on, to build holiday homes,’ I start. ‘I just…I don’t think he’s right for the town, and I know you have a meeting with him today.’ ‘Tell me more,’ she says curiously. ‘Well, he’s been quite underhanded about it all. He came in to scope the place out, without telling me why – and now he’s buying it from under me. He’s obviously a big, important businessman—’ it’s hard to hide the sarcasm from my tone ‘—and it just seems like he has no respect for the place. He’s going to build these modern-looking homes and he thinks he can just do whatever he wants, so long as he smiles and winks while he’s doing it.’ ‘He sounds dreadful, based on that character reference,’ Prue agrees. ‘Ivy, if you know one thing about me, it’s that I want what’s best for this town, and I take care of us without taking any stick from men. Let me meet with him this afternoon and, if he’s not right, I’ll make sure he knows it, and I’ll put a stop to this, OK?’ ‘OK, great,’ I reply, a wave of relief washing over me. ‘Why don’t you meet me in the deli afterwards, say 3 p.m.? And we can discuss any concerns you still have.’ ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, emotion prickling my throat. It’s just nice to feel like someone has my back. After the call, I shut up shop for the day, which is fine because, until I figure out how I’m going to draw in more customers, it’s not like people will be beating the door down to buy baubles. With Holly resisting all things festive more defiantly than usual this year, I am trying extra hard to make things special for Chloe and Harry. They don’t have school today because, thanks to a dusting of snow last night, someone skidded off the road and crashed into one of those green boxes that are something to do with the phone lines. Holly sounded especially stressed to be entertaining the kids today, so I have offered to take them to see Santa Claus – the only Santa in town, at Wilson’s garden centre. ‘Thanks for doing this,’ Holly says, as she fastens the kids into the back of my car. ‘I should be thanking you,’ I say enthusiastically, mostly for Chloe and Harry’s benefit. ‘I’m more excited than the kids.’ ‘I’ll get my jobs done while you’re gone, hopefully. Let me know when you’re on your way back.’ ‘Will do, sis,’ I reply, lowering my voice. ‘Are you OK?’ ‘Yes, why?’ ‘You just seem a little flustered.’ ‘I’m fine,’ she says firmly, although not entirely convincingly. I know my car is old, but it’s safe. She seems even more worried than usual to be sending her precious cargo off with me. ‘Well, we’re going to have more fun than your mum is, tidying up all day,’ I say as we make the short journey to the garden centre. ‘Mummy is going out,’ Chloe informs me. ‘Is she?’ ‘Yep, I heard her on the phone,’ she says. ‘She was saying she would see someone.’ ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. It’s not like my sister to lie to me. ‘Yep,’ Chloe says confidently. Could she be right? Holly did say Chloe had been paying more attention to things lately, hanging around, listening to the adults. And Holly has been acting a little odd recently. ‘We’re here,’ I say, pushing any thoughts of my sister being up to something from my mind. She’s probably just organising their Christmas presents or something. No matter how Holly feels about what she calls the so-called most wonderful time of the year, she always buys her kids presents. I hurry to keep up with the kids as they charge through the various departments of the garden centre, before we finally reach Santa’s grotto, a small log cabin surrounded by sparkly fake snow, stuffed reindeer and plastic elves – none of which lend well to the legitimacy of this Santa Claus. Well, it’s 2018, and our children have Google. They watch Marvel movies and read Harry Potter books, and know exactly what is real and what isn’t, so if we want them to buy into this Santa character, we need to do a much better job of selling it. Fake snow, stuffed animals and plastic people aren’t going to cut it, although perhaps that’s just my cynical, grown-up point of view because Chloe and Harry are happily caught up in the excitement, gleefully unwrapping their candy canes as we join the queue. They’re not worrying about the aesthetics and I really miss that about being young. ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ Santa bellows, as Chloe and Harry cautiously make their way towards him. I suppose, to them, he’s a superstar. It would be like me queuing up to sit on Henry Cavill’s lap. I suck on my candy cane as I glance around Santa’s grotto. It’s not up to much this year, but it is the only one in town so I suppose it will do. ‘And how is Mummy doing today?’ Santa Claus asks. I quickly turn to face him, widening my eyes. ‘Sorry?’ ‘She’s not our mummy,’ Chloe informs him. ‘She’s our auntie.’ ‘Your auntie, huh? And is she on the nice list or the naughty list?’ Santa enquires. ‘The naughty list, for sure,’ Chloe says emphatically. ‘Because she didn’t build our bunk beds, like she said she would.’ I feel my jaw drop a little, as my sweet little niece throws me under the bus. ‘Well, that’s OK, Santa doesn’t mind a naughty auntie,’ he tells her. ‘So, what do you two want for Christmas?’ Santa is well hidden, under his suit, hat, and fake beard, but I can see his blue eyes clearly. I can tell that he’s young, and that there’s a cheeky glimmer of something behind them. ‘Well, other than my bunk beds,’ Chloe starts, and as she reels off a list of all the toys she wants, I can’t help but feel like Santa is undressing me with his eyes. ‘And what about you, young man?’ he asks Harry. Harry thinks for a moment. ‘A bike,’ he says excitedly. ‘Well, if you’re both good kids – which I’m sure you are – then I’m sure you’ll get everything you want. But you have to be good between now and Christmas. Can you promise me you’ll be good?’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/portia-macintosh/love-and-lies-at-the-village-christmas-shop-a-laugh-out-l/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.