The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Three

S ophie was buttoning her coat at the end of the working day when Ermin, Fiona’s husband, came in with Sophie’s pride and joy on his harness.

‘He’s been a delight, as always.’ Ermin ran a hand through his thick hair, blond with a liberal seasoning of salt and pepper, and handed Sophie the lead.

‘That’s a relief,’ Sophie said with a laugh, though her dog was mostly well behaved. ‘Thank you, Ermin.’

‘Not a problem,’ Ermin assured her. ‘I’m always happy to have him.’

She had no idea what mix of breeds Clifton was, but he was the size of a Cairn terrier, with black, curly fur and a fringe that fell into his eyes no matter how often Sophie got it trimmed. He was good-natured, and friendly with other dogs and people. Small children were his favourites, and cats were his enemies.

Sometimes he accompanied Sophie to work, curling up in a basket behind her counter, an added benefit for customers who loved to fuss him, and sometimes – especially if Ermin was visiting wholesalers in his van, or working in his and Fiona’s sprawling garden – Clifton spent the day with him. It had been her biggest relief when they offered her the shop space, because she refused to leave him alone for long stretches.

‘Have a good evening,’ she said now, pushing open the door.

‘See you tomorrow!’ Fiona called after her as she swapped the warm fug for the cold November afternoon, the daylight already starting to fade, the wind biting. The shortest day of the year wasn’t far away now, and Mistingham was, understandably, significantly quieter now than during the summer. The village had its fair share of second homes, as did many places in north Norfolk, but Sophie had never thought of it as bleak or desolate – even when she’d arrived in January. The independent shops, the picturesque green, the hotel with its flint exterior and large, lit windows gave it a friendly atmosphere that was cemented by the people, the majority of whom would say hello when you passed them in the street.

With Clifton at her side and her collar turned up, Sophie walked down Perpendicular Street towards the sea. If she kept her pace up, they could get a good way along the cliff path before they had to turn around.

The North Sea spread out ahead of her, silvery and boisterous, and when she was almost at the promenade she turned left, cutting through an alley that led onto a narrow road flanked by several town houses, then squat holiday homes, a few with pots of hardy grasses beneath their windowsills. They had no room for gardens, but there was no need either, when this was your view.

Sophie passed old Mr Carsdale’s house, a flickering gas fire visible through the living-room window. She waved, unsure whether he’d noticed her and then, bunching her scarf more tightly against her neck, powered on, with Clifton padding happily alongside her.

At the end of the narrow street the buildings fell away and the land opened up, a wooden signpost pointing behind her for the village centre, right for the seafront, and straight ahead for the coastal path. In front and to the left of the path, there was an expanse of parkland surrounded by a sturdy-looking, waist-high fence. The public pathway was uneven, edged by unkempt grass that stretched for several feet to the right, before the drop down to the promenade and then the beach. Here it was only a low, gentle slope, but further on the land rose, and so the cliff got steeper and more perilous.

Sophie couldn’t help glancing at the parkland as she walked. Harry Anderly owned some of the land in the middle of the village, including Mistingham Green and a couple of the shops on Perpendicular Street, but this was the edge of the Mistingham Manor estate; the grass running down to the sea, clusters of mature trees further inland that mostly shielded the house from view. But she could see glimpses of it through the foliage, grey stone and the flash of the evening sun reflecting off the windows.

‘If it was me,’ she said to her dog, ‘I would have cut some of those trees down.’ Clifton looked up at her, inquisitive. ‘What’s the point of having your grand house so close to the sea, then obscuring the view of it behind a mini forest?’

She didn’t expect a reply, so when a loud bleat cut through the background rush of wind and waves, Sophie jumped. ‘Shitting shit!’ She pressed a hand to her chest as Clifton barked excitedly.

Her dog loved goats, and Felix the pygmy goat was a Mistingham celebrity: much better tempered than his owner, and with more advanced social skills.

‘Felix,’ Sophie cooed. She stopped so Clifton could put his front paws on a fence rung, then stick his nose through the gap. The goat trotted over to say hello. Today, Felix – who was white with black patches – was wearing a pastel paisley jumper, teal teardrops against a yellow and pink background.

‘Maybe I should get Birdie to knit you some jumpers too,’ she said to Clifton.

Birdie was Mistingham’s well-loved grandmother figure. She grew vegetables and flowers in her cottage garden, and gave them out liberally to residents, sometimes in the form of suspicious concoctions that intrigued and alarmed Sophie in equal measure. She also knitted jumpers for Felix.

‘If Harry’s such a cold fish,’ Sophie said to Felix, ‘how come he dresses you in these adorable pullovers? Fiona would give her right hand to have a range of these in the shop; Birdie could be making a fortune.’

Felix accepted a vigorous stroke behind the ears, his bleats gentle and constant, then Sophie stepped away, taking her dog with her. ‘Sorry, guys. The light’s already fading, and we don’t want to be out here in the dark.’

She decided they would go as far as the lookout point, where a bench was precariously positioned on top of the cliff, alongside a fixed telescope, then turn around. The sea was no longer reflecting the sun in silver fragments, and the temperature was dropping sharply.

She was feet away from her turning point, her eyes on the uneven ground, when a loud thump made her jump for a second time. ‘Bloody hell!’ she shrieked, then tried not to full-on scream when a low voice said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’

She spun towards the parkland and saw a shadowy figure, a glowing spotlight trained on one of the fence posts. ‘I didn’t see you either,’ she said, peering through the gloom. For a moment, she thought it was a gardener or workman, but she’d seen him twice recently and she recognized his broad shoulders and his voice. They’d had a very similar interaction outside the shop.

‘Obviously you didn’t see me.’ His reply was slightly breathless. ‘Recent experience has taught me that bloody hell isn’t your standard greeting. Though who am I to judge? Greet people however you like.’ He whacked the fence post again, arms raised high above his head before he swung the hammer down with power. Sophie felt the vibration through her boots.

‘Is that a good idea, particularly?’ she asked. ‘Considering it’s nearly dark.’

‘About as good an idea as walking along an unfenced clifftop in the same conditions.’

Sophie bristled.

‘Also, if I don’t fix this now, then Felix will get out, and probably Ter … my dogs, too. Does your walk have such an urgent purpose?’

Sophie shook her head, though she doubted he’d seen it. ‘Clifton needed his evening walk, and it’s got dark a lot more quickly than I expected.’

‘Winter does that,’ Harry said, still not looking up. He brought the hammer down on the post with another decisive thwack, and Sophie was surprised the wood didn’t splinter in two. He stared at his fence post. ‘That should stop any escape artists.’

‘You said you had dogs?’

‘Two retrievers. They’re around here somewhere.’

Sophie lifted her own dog into her arms and said, ‘This is Clifton.’

Harry stood up straight and, to Sophie’s surprise, ruffled the dog’s fur. It was the first time she’d seen him anything other than irritated. Clifton, of course, decided Harry was his new best friend, and pushed his wet nose, then his tongue, into Harry’s palm. Sophie wished she could see his face properly, see if her pet had made him lose that chink of ice in his eyes.

‘Why Clifton?’ Harry asked.

‘Because I found him, bedraggled and abandoned, under the Clifton Suspension Bridge when I was living in Bristol.’

‘You rescued him.’

Sophie nodded. They were two strays; two lost souls finding each other. ‘What about your dogs?’

‘What about them?’ Harry turned his head, as if something had caught his attention behind her. Was it a sea monster? Something horrendous coming up out of the waves? It was disconcerting, the gathering gloom, and Sophie realized she had been foolish to attempt this walk so late in the afternoon.

‘What are they called, to start with?’ she asked. This man was patently incapable of making small talk.

Harry dropped his hand from Clifton’s head and glanced behind him, as if hoping someone would step out of the shadows and save him from this line of questioning.

‘Harry?’ Sophie prompted. ‘That is … can I call you – would you prefer Mr Anderly?’

‘Definitely not,’ Harry said sharply. He picked up his torch. ‘My dogs are called Darkness and Terror.’

Sophie leaned forward, almost upending herself over the fence. ‘I’m sorry?’ She could feel laughter bubbling up in her chest, the ridiculousness of the names combined with shock that he’d admitted it to her.

Harry huffed out a breath. ‘Darkness and Terror,’ he said again. ‘Darkness is a black retriever, Terror is golden. May suggested the names when I got them – as a joke, obviously. She said I should give them names that were appropriate for the Dark Demon Lord of Mistingham that I was clearly trying to become, so – out of spite – I did. At first I refused to back down, and then, by the time I was ready to give them proper names, the dogs had got used to Darkness and Terror, so …’ He raised the torch in a one-armed shrug. ‘Serves me right.’

Sophie had held in her laughter, and now she felt a twist of unexpected empathy for him, because she knew what it was like to feel like an outcast. But it was a story that deserved a comeback, so she said, ‘The Dark Demon Lord of Mistingham ? I’m going to slip that name into conversation with Fiona, see how long it takes for it to get round the village.’

‘Please don’t,’ Harry said in a pained voice. ‘Look, it’s basically dark now, and you’ve ended up on the cliffs with no light source whatsoever. Didn’t you bring a torch?’

‘I’ve got my phone.’ Sophie squared her shoulders. She didn’t like the insinuation that she couldn’t look after herself.

‘That’s no good,’ Harry said. ‘Have my torch.’

‘No thanks. How will you get back to your country house?’

‘A damn sight more easily than you will along that path. How could you let this happen?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Sophie said, ‘maybe because somebody engaged me in conversation? I would have been home by now if it wasn’t for you.’

‘Then take my torch.’ He waggled it at her. ‘ Take it.’

Sophie should take it. She had decided to leave Mistingham, but she was aiming for Cornwall, not plunging to her death off the north Norfolk cliffs. She put Clifton down, and was about to take his torch when Harry pulled his arm back.

‘Fine,’ he said.

‘What? I was going to take it!’

‘You’ve missed your chance, and I’m not confident a torch is good enough anyway.’

‘Oh you’re not confident. So I have to do what you say?’

‘Do you and Clifton want to make it home safely, or not?’ He held his free hand out.

‘What’s that? Your other, invisible torch?’

‘Take my hand, and I’ll help you over the fence.’

‘Why?’

‘Because then I can drive you home. In a car. With headlights.’

‘This is just …’ Sophie shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Got a better plan?’ Harry’s frustration was thinly veiled.

Sophie turned away from him, towards the sea, and suddenly felt dizzy. It wasn’t quite dark yet, the sky the colour of a smudged bruise, but all the sharp edges had gone. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and put the torch on. The light it cast was brighter than she’d expected, and she felt a sudden surge of confidence, of relief, that she wouldn’t have to rely on this abrasive man for help.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she told him.

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he said sternly. ‘You can’t possibly—’

‘Stop telling me what to do!’ She took a deep breath. ‘My life, my safety, has nothing to do with you. You’ve held me up for long enough, so now I need to hurry so I can get home before it’s completely dark.’

He put his hand on her arm, wrapping his fingers round her wrist. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘I’ll be fine ,’ Sophie said. ‘Let me go.’

She watched Harry’s brows lower, could just make out the clench of his jaw in the light from her torch. ‘It will take five minutes to get back to the manor,’ he said. ‘We can do it in silence if you’d prefer.’

‘I walked out here by myself, and I’m perfectly capable of getting home again.’

He was quiet for a long moment, then he let go of her arm. ‘Be careful.’

Sophie barked a laugh. ‘Believe me, I have no intention of ending up in the sea. I’m leaving now.’

Harry took a step back, and Sophie waited for him to say something else – a parting shot – but instead he nodded once, then turned around and strode away. He whistled once, loudly, and then there was Felix, a ghostly goat in a paisley jumper, trotting at his side.

‘Right,’ Sophie said. ‘That’s that, then. Come on, Clifton.’

She took a first, tentative step, and then, with her phone torch guiding her, she made her way carefully back along the cliff path, trying to ignore the dark void to her left, the crashing, thrumming beat of the waves. Her pulse refused to settle until she was safely back under the signpost, with concrete beneath her feet and the row of neat holiday homes ahead of her. She let out a long, slow breath, into a night that was, now, completely dark, and decided that she’d never been so pleased to see streetlights in her life.

For a second, she let herself imagine what would have happened if she’d taken Harry’s hand; if she’d let him lift her over the fence and drive her home. But the way he had extended the offer – he hadn’t even attempted to be polite, so if he was feeling guilty, and maybe a little bit worried about her; well, that was good. She’d survived by herself long enough: she didn’t need to start relying on a man – and a rude one at that – to keep her safe.