The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Two

M istingham was like a relic from a different time, a village taken straight out of a period drama, if you ignored all the modern cars and people wearing Nikes and Hunter wellies. It was nestled along Norfolk’s northern coastline, with a soft, sandy beach and a wide promenade, the North Sea glittering blue, steel grey or close to black, depending on the weather and its mood, the wind farm like a cluster of white garden windmills on the horizon.

Seagulls were a constant presence, cawing or swooping or stalking along the tops of walls, surveying unsuspecting tourists emerging from the establishments on Perpendicular Street: the ice-cream shop Two Scoops; Batter Days – which sold incredible fish and chips right below Sophie’s flat; the old-fashioned arcade Penny For Them, and of course, Hartley Country Apparel.

The village pub, the Blossom Bough, had a traditional Norfolk flint exterior and sash windows that emitted a soft, alluring glow on winter nights, the dark wood bar and panelling inside offset by modern lighting, gleaming optics and cream walls. Dexter’s bakery was at the top of Perpendicular Street, its delicious smells settling like snow across the village when the wind was blowing in the right direction, and the Mistingham Hotel – run by sisters Mary and Winnie – sat at the top of the gently sloping hill and overlooked Mistingham Green, with its ancient oak tree – the subject of so much consternation – and the low-slung village hall.

The post office had been run from the hotel since before Sophie had moved there, the sisters agreeing to take on the role on top of their already busy schedules rather than lose it altogether, to ensure that the residents – a lot of whom were elderly – didn’t have to travel for such a vital service.

On Monday morning, Sophie stepped into Mistingham Hotel’s calming foyer. There were no Christmas decorations up yet, but an autumn garland of red and gold leaves trailed along the mantel above the fireplace, a couple of miniature pumpkins left over from Halloween nestled amongst the foliage.

The post office was at the front of the hotel, next to the kitchen, and she breathed in the aromas of butter and roasting meat, her stomach rumbling even though she’d just had breakfast. She made this trip at least twice a week, sending out orders from her online shop, sometimes collecting parcels of paper, leather or board when she had missed the postman trying to deliver them to her flat.

The queue was already long, two women in front of her talking about the fireworks that had gone off without a hitch on the beach on Saturday night.

‘They spent more money on it this year judging by how long it went on,’ one woman said, her arms full of packages. ‘Probably to placate us.’

‘We all had sparklers on the prom,’ her friend replied. ‘It was a bit windier, but I didn’t mind.’

‘What’s the village green for, if not community events?’ The first woman sounded plaintive.

‘Ducks?’ her friend suggested.

‘It doesn’t have a pond.’

Sophie hid her smile behind her own parcels, just as Winnie called ‘Next!’ and Indigo, the teenage son of the Blossom Bough’s landlady, Natasha, took his place at the counter, holding a large cardboard box. The women in front of Sophie shuffled forwards, and she did the same.

Winnie got Indigo to put his box on the scales, and they exchanged a joke Sophie couldn’t hear, Indigo’s chuckle low and soft. She stared out of the window, at three jackdaws tussling over something on the dewy grass, as a shiny black Mercedes pulled into one of the parking spaces in front of the hotel. The sky was a washed-out blue, the sea Sophie had greeted through her kitchen window that morning slate grey and gently rippling.

Footsteps and voices echoed behind her as more people joined the queue, and she couldn’t help listening in.

‘There has to be some way of doing it.’ The woman spoke in a low voice, so although Sophie thought it was vaguely familiar, she couldn’t tell who it was without turning around. ‘Some way you can—’

‘There isn’t .’ The man’s reply was sharp, and Sophie knew exactly who this was, because two days before he’d bumped into her outside the shop, then given her gruff, tight-lipped responses when she’d been gracious enough to apologise. ‘It’s hundreds of years old,’ Harry Anderly went on. ‘It’s fragile, already compromised, and there is no possibility—’

‘There is always a possibility,’ the woman said, and Sophie realized it was May. They lived together at the crumbling manor, had apparently been friends since they were children, and were, according to all the rumours – though Sophie had never asked her outright – a couple. ‘At least go to the meeting,’ May continued. ‘That way you could see—’

‘I don’t have your rose-tinted view,’ Harry cut in. ‘The world isn’t full of perfect solutions just waiting to be found. Sometimes things simply aren’t possible, and all you can do is accept that and move on.’

‘You’re not trying hard enough,’ May said breezily, and Sophie grinned to herself. In their limited interactions, May had always sounded upbeat, as if she was convinced something good was just around the corner if you only believed in it. But Sophie was with Harry on this one: you couldn’t simply wish something into existence, no matter how passionately you wanted it. Growing up in foster care, where – for her, at least – the wishing had always outweighed the getting, had put optimism quite a long way behind hard work and practicality in terms of go-to responses.

Harry’s reply was a deep, world-weary sigh, and Sophie risked turning her head so she could look at them.

May was a good few inches shorter than Harry – a couple of inches shorter than Sophie – and her long dark hair was pulled up into a messy bun, her dark, intelligent eyes taking in the space around her. She was holding three boxes of the Christmas cards Sophie had seen on a display just inside the door. Harry’s hair was still ruffled, his jaw still set tight, and he was wearing the same grey jacket as when she’d last seen him.

‘I told you.’ She pointed at it. ‘Black coffee doesn’t stain. Hi, May.’

‘Sophie!’ May’s smile was warm. ‘Are you sending off Christmas presents already? You’re even earlier than me – I’m only just buying my cards.’

Sophie laughed. ‘I’m not, I’m afraid. These are notebooks – online orders from customers. They’re probably Christmas presents, but not mine: I’m nowhere near that organized. You’re ahead of the game thinking about your cards already.’

‘She’s the annoying, efficient angel on everyone’s shoulder,’ Harry said. ‘Far too organized and positive. She makes the rest of us look bad.’ There was affection there, along with gruffness, and Sophie decided they were the ultimate case of opposites attract.

‘Harry won’t send anyone a Christmas card,’ May said.

‘It’s a waste of time,’ he replied. ‘You look at them for two seconds, try to decipher the handwriting, then chuck them in the bin.’

‘That’s what you do,’ May corrected. ‘Most people aren’t like you.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘Don’t,’ May said brightly.

Harry caught Sophie’s eye, and she felt a spark of electricity. He had such a stern, penetrating gaze, it was as if she’d done something wrong just by meeting it. ‘You have an online shop as well as your stand in Fiona’s?’ he asked.

‘That’s right.’ She was surprised he knew even that much about her. ‘I couldn’t survive solely on what I sell in Hartley’s.’ Though she couldn’t deny that the momentum of the last few months had started to change things, given her business more solid foundations than it had ever had before.

‘And you’re in the flat above Batter Days?’ Harry asked stiffly. ‘It’s good fish and chips.’

‘The curry sauce is to die for!’ May added, glancing from Harry to Sophie.

Sophie imagined the two of them standing at the Batter Days counter, bundled up in their winter coats, ordering wrapped cod and chips and taking them back to Mistingham Manor, sitting at a polished table in a huge, gleaming kitchen with floor-to-ceiling windows and an Aga. Harry, wide-shouldered and stoically silent, eating his dinner methodically, one chip at a time; May, dainty and dark-haired, covering everything with vinegar, peas slipping off the edge of her plate.

She felt a stab of envy. Whatever shape their relationship took, it was clear they were close, able to be bitingly, teasingly honest with each other, living together in the grand house on the edge of the village. The one-bed flat above Batter Days that she shared with her scruffy dog Clifton couldn’t be more different.

‘I bet the manor will look so pretty once you’ve decorated it for Christmas,’ she said, then immediately wished she could take it back. At least she hadn’t also voiced her fantasy of their cosy fish and chip dinner.

May’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, when we do—’

‘Decorations won’t cover up the cracks,’ Harry said, folding his arms tightly. ‘It’d be like putting glitter on a grave, so I doubt we’ll bother this year. Not when there are so many more important things to get done.’ Dismissiveness radiated off him like a glacial chill.

May offered Sophie an apologetic glance, but she was undeterred. ‘On the other hand, it would bring some brightness to your home, give you a reason to smile when things feel particularly bleak. A few glitzy baubles, some paper chains.’

He didn’t respond immediately, and she resisted the urge to say sorry. It wasn’t her fault that she liked daydreaming about families at Christmas, houses decked out in festive finery. She hadn’t meant to press on a sore spot.

‘Sophie,’ Harry said eventually, his voice rough.

‘Yes?’ She hated sounding hopeful, but she was glad he was going to apologize for being sharp with her.

Instead, he pointed past her. ‘It’s your turn.’

‘Oh!’ She spun round, and saw that the two women who had been in front of her had been served. Winnie was waiting for her with a smile, her grey hair a mane of curls. ‘Hi, Winnie.’ She hurried up to the counter with her parcels, her cheeks warming.

‘How are you, Sophie, love?’ Winnie asked. ‘Got more packages to send out to eager customers?’

‘Just a few.’ Sophie imagined she could feel Harry’s impatience as an oppressive force behind her, and rushed through her interaction with Winnie, wanting to get out of there and back into the cold, fresh air. It was no wonder that even Fiona, with all her powers of persuasion, hadn’t been able to change Harry’s mind about the business with Mistingham Green and the oak tree. If she was in charge, she would probably have moved the events to another village altogether, simply to avoid his wrath.

But then, running away was her modus operandi, so it wasn’t a huge surprise Harry Anderly inspired that reaction in her. She took her receipt and thanked Winnie, then set her sights firmly on the doorway.

‘Bye, Sophie,’ May said.

‘Bye.’ She gave the other woman a warm smile, then risked a last glance at Harry. He was rubbing his forehead, a pained expression crumpling his features. As she escaped into the November chill, she realized she knew exactly how he felt.