Love and Lies at the Village Christmas Shop Page 3

  ‘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 décor. 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

  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 Bublé’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, wi
th 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

  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.