The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Seven

‘ T he hostel I was staying at in Norwich got full up.’ Jazz had her hands curled tightly around a steaming mug of tea, her knees pressed together as she took up as little space as possible on Fiona’s cream sofa. It was late, and Fiona had turned on the lamps, casting the room in soft shadow, the French windows looking out onto the night. Poppet, Fiona and Ermin’s miniature schnauzer, was sitting patiently at Jazz’s feet, and the young woman bent down to stroke her head. ‘They can’t guarantee you a place every day, and I was late arriving one night, so then I was out.’

‘How long were you there?’ Fiona asked.

Jazz shrugged. ‘A couple of months, on and off. But this time I thought … it’s so cold, it’s going to be cold everywhere , and at least here I get to see the sea, have fish and chips, so fuck it. I took a bus up here. Longest bus journey ever. I must have been on it for three days.’

Sophie laughed. She surreptitiously rubbed her wrist, trying to loosen the ache without anyone noticing. ‘Where were you before Norwich?’

‘Ipswich,’ Jazz said. ‘Bury St Edmunds before that. Chelmsford. I’ve been all over, really.’ A catalogue of different towns in her recent past. Sophie wondered, if they compared notes, how long their respective lists would be.

‘How old are you?’ Fiona asked, an edge of steel in her voice. Sophie didn’t think it was aimed at Jazz.

The young woman kept her eyes on her tea. Beneath the blanket she’d been wrapped in, she was wearing a dirty purple hoody with holes in the cuffs, jeans, and trainers that looked as if they were falling apart. ‘Eighteen,’ she said.

‘ Eighteen? ’ Fiona sounded outraged, as if it should be impossible for this to happen to someone so young, but Sophie – while she agreed it was awful – wasn’t surprised. In some of her foster placements she’d met teenagers who had spent time on the streets, some who left the safety of the homes because they clashed with the adults, and ended up sofa-surfing or in hostels. There were too many of them and too few people who had the time, resources or desire to look out for them, so inevitably some slipped through the cracks. There were a couple of times when she had almost been one of them.

‘Your family home wasn’t a safe place?’ she asked gently.

Jazz looked up. ‘My mum died when I was fourteen, and my dad remarried. They brought out the worst in each other. Lots of drinking, sometimes drugs. They didn’t care what I did, and I decided I’d rather be anywhere else than there, so I made it happen.’ She took a chocolate biscuit off the plate that Ermin had produced. ‘It’s OK when it’s warm, but right now it’s fucking freezing. That old shop was a good place to hunker down.’ She smiled wistfully, as if she missed it.

‘We can do better than that,’ Fiona said. ‘You need a bed and a bowl of porridge in the mornings.’

Jazz sat up straighter. ‘I’m not Goldilocks. I can look after myself.’

‘As demonstrated by the fact that you’re here,’ Fiona said, ‘and you look incredibly healthy for someone living rough. Can doesn’t mean should , however, and there are enough rumours about the old bookshop being haunted without you adding fuel to the fire.’

‘There’s a ghost ?’ Jazz’s smile was bright and crinkled the edges of her eyes, and Sophie felt a twinge because she’d seen girls and boys who smiled so rarely that it felt like a miracle when they did.

‘You probably know more than anyone else,’ she said. ‘You’ve been staying there.’

‘Only for one night before you found me.’ Jazz shook her head. ‘But nah – not even rats.’

‘Thank God for that!’ Fiona picked up a biscuit. ‘You don’t want them getting next door and nibbling your beautiful notebooks.’

‘Fiona, I’m not—’

‘You sell notebooks?’ Jazz asked.

Sophie nodded. ‘I make them. They’re great for all sorts – for lists, or making plans, or writing down your worries … I always have one with me.’

Jazz chewed her lip.

‘I’ll give you one,’ Sophie continued. ‘Tomorrow. Come into the shop and you can pick your favourite.’

She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t use it.’ She’d brought a rucksack with her, saggy and far too empty, considering it contained all her worldly possessions. There was definitely room in it for a notebook.

‘You could give it a try,’ Sophie said softly. ‘See if anything comes to mind. The blank pages will wait as long as you need them to. Think of it as a Welcome to Mistingham present.’

‘And I think you should stay here tonight, rather than the bookshop,’ Fiona said. ‘You’ll have to share your sleeping space with a couple of broken mannequins, but if you’re fine with that, then you’re very welcome.’

Jazz’s mouth fell open. ‘You what ?’

‘You probably aren’t planning on being here long term,’ Fiona went on. ‘But we can look at things afresh in the morning.’

Jazz shook her head. ‘No way. I never meant—’

‘It’s just one night,’ Fiona said gently. ‘To stop you getting hypothermia. We can …’ she paused. ‘ You can look at other options tomorrow.’

‘I don’t … I can’t … can I use your toilet?’ Jazz asked.

‘Of course. Go into the hall and turn right, and it’s the door on the left, just before you reach the kitchen.’

‘Ta.’ Jazz got up and hurried out of the room, leaving her mug on the floor next to the snoozing dog.

‘That’s very generous,’ Sophie whispered. ‘You don’t know anything about her. Are you sure Ermin’s going to be OK with it?’

‘I’ll check in a moment,’ Fiona said. ‘But I would put money on him agreeing with me. And it’s just for tonight: we can’t take her back to the bookshop, can we? Return her to fusty, musty floorboards.’

‘What about the hotel?’ Sophie asked. ‘We could chip in to get her a night there.’

‘I think she’d benefit from something a little more personal.’ Fiona tapped her polished nails against her cup. ‘I used to volunteer in a homeless shelter, decades ago. I might not be as sharp as I used to be, but I still have some understanding of the young and chronically unloved. Jazz deserves a chance, and one night can’t do any harm.’

‘Everyone deserves a chance,’ Sophie said. Fiona had taken her under her wing as soon as she’d moved to Mistingham, even though she was thirty-six and perfectly independent. She loved taking care of people. ‘Just be careful, OK?’

‘Of course.’ Fiona nodded. ‘There will be ground rules. Now, let me have a look at that wrist.’

‘What?’ Sophie moved her arm behind her back.

‘Don’t think I didn’t notice.’ She tutted. ‘You fell on it.’ She moved across to Sophie’s sofa, and Sophie reluctantly held out her arm. Her skin had turned purple, stark against the cream cuff of her jumper. ‘I think you need to get this checked out properly,’ Fiona said, as the doorbell echoed through the room.

‘Who’s that?’ Sophie asked, wincing as Fiona took her hand. It was getting late for casual callers.

‘The bookshop lock is broken, so I got Ermin to give—’

‘Here he is!’ Ermin appeared in the living-room doorway, and Sophie sucked in a breath when she saw who he was. Harry Anderly, towering over Fiona’s husband, wearing the same waterproof coat he had been wearing earlier, as well as the same stony expression.

‘Harry,’ Fiona said. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘You said it was about the bookshop?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘I’m afraid the lock is broken.’

Harry stepped awkwardly into the living room. He looked far too handsome, and also slightly mutinous. His jacket was unzipped and his rust-coloured jumper set off the gold flecks in his eyes, which were suddenly focused on where Fiona was still holding Sophie’s wrist.

‘How did the door get broken?’ he asked.

‘It was me,’ Jazz said, slipping back into the room. She seemed even smaller under Harry’s glare. ‘I’m really sorry. I-I’m Jazz. I was looking for somewhere dry to sleep, somewhere a bit warmer than a bus shelter, so …’ Her words trailed away.

Harry’s gaze softened a fraction. ‘It’s good to meet you, Jazz. The door is an easy fix; please don’t worry about it.’

‘Right.’ Jazz sank back onto the sofa.

‘She’s staying here tonight,’ Fiona said, exchanging a look with Ermin, who nodded his assent. ‘Thank you for coming, Harry. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to let you know about the lock. You might want to get it fixed right away.’

‘There’s nothing in there worth stealing.’ His gaze landed on Sophie. ‘Are you staying here too?’

‘No.’ She felt a blush creep into her cheeks. ‘No, I’m …’ She stood up and shoved her phone into her pocket. ‘I need to get back to Clifton. I dropped him off at the flat, and—’

‘I’ll walk you out,’ Harry said.

Sophie exchanged a wide-eyed look with her friend, wished them all goodnight, and followed him down the corridor.

Fiona waved them off then gently closed the front door, and then it was just the two of them, standing on the pavement outside Fiona and Ermin’s house, a couple of cheery gnomes standing sentry in the slate-covered beds in their garden, a water feature trickling gently.

‘That looks sore.’ Harry gestured to her wrist.

Sophie resisted the urge to hide it again. ‘I’ll be OK.’

‘How?’

‘What do you mean, how ?’

‘How will you be OK, if you don’t get it looked at?’

‘I’m sure it’s just a sprain. I really need to go—’

‘Hang on.’ He stilled her with a touch on her arm, then gently lifted her injured hand, Sophie’s fingers tingling at the contact. ‘May I?’ he asked, and she realized she was holding her breath. She nodded, transfixed by the way he was touching her, carefully pressing the pads of his fingers into the purpling flesh around her wrist.

‘Does that hurt?’ he asked.

‘A little. It’s not too bad.’

‘Can you move it? Rotate the joint?’

Sophie did, closing her eyes briefly as pain jolted through her. But she could move it, and that meant it couldn’t be too serious. ‘I think it’s OK,’ she whispered.

‘Did you fall on it?’

‘I put my hand down to break my fall.’

He nodded. ‘It probably is a sprain. You could do with getting it checked out by the doctor, but I could wrap it up for you in the meantime?’

‘Do you have a first-aid kit in your car?’ She peered past him to the dark hulk of a Land Rover Defender parked at the kerb.

He shook his head quickly. ‘At home.’

‘Mistingham Manor?’

‘My home,’ Harry repeated. ‘We could be done in twenty minutes, then I’ll drive you to your place.’

Sophie sighed. It seemed like days, rather than hours, since she’d been in the village hall, foolhardily raising her hand to offer her assistance with a project she had no expertise in. ‘I need to get home and check Clifton’s OK,’ she said again.

‘You don’t like accepting help, do you?’

Sophie laughed. ‘I just don’t think I need it on this occasion, but thank you for offering.’

She moved to go past him, and he put his hand on her arm again, the touch warm but fleeting. ‘We should get together,’ he said. Then, after a pause, added, ‘To talk about the festival.’

‘Sure.’ Sophie swallowed. It felt intimate, the two of them standing in the dark, just beyond the gentle glow of Fiona’s outdoor light; the quiet, misty village in shadow. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

She took a step back, and Harry dropped his hand.

‘Fine,’ he called after her as she walked away. ‘Just don’t leave it too long, OK?’

As Sophie strode home, her wrist throbbing in time with her footsteps, she decided she’d imagined his concern when he was looking at her bruised skin. He was Harry Anderly, the Dark Demon Lord of Mistingham, and any gestures of kindness or affection were an aberration she would do well to ignore. They could plan this festival together, as efficiently as possible, then get on with their own lives. It didn’t have to get complicated, and if there was anyone who was an expert at keeping control of her feelings, then it was her.