The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Ten

A s the clock ticked round to five o’clock on Tuesday, Sophie found herself getting flustered. For the most part she was calm and collected – in the face of disgruntled or disparaging customers; when it came to decisions about her future; when she happened upon an angry bull in a field on one of her runs. Growing up with constant uncertainty and some volatile characters, being moved on at short notice or missing out on something she’d been promised, she had learnt that getting worked up never solved anything.

But now, despite a successful day in the shop, with good sales and a commission for four notebooks from a regular customer who lived in Wells-next-the-Sea, her pulse was thudding and her hands were prickling with sweat. In half an hour she would meet Harry and, together, they would get the details about last year’s festival from Winnie. It wasn’t a scary task, so why was she so nervous?

‘OK, Sophie?’ Fiona asked.

‘Of course.’ Sophie cleared her throat.

‘Any progress with that book of yours?’

‘Not so far,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s only been a few days, and so much has happened since then. The festival … Jazz.’ She looked pointedly at her friend.

Fiona sighed. ‘She came down for dinner last night, but she hardly said a word. I’m worried we’ve offended her in some way.’

‘This whole thing must be a huge adjustment for her,’ Sophie said gently. ‘She’s been living on the streets, not knowing where she’s going to sleep or get a decent meal, and then suddenly she’s got you and Ermin looking after her, checking on her, asking what she needs. I think that …’ She swallowed. ‘A big part of it, for someone who hasn’t had a whole lot of good things happen to them, is that they start telling themselves they don’t deserve them. Somehow, this is where they should be, and anything positive seems too good to be true. You can’t expect Jazz to be a smiling, grateful open book right away. She’s probably finding it hard to trust you – trust the situation.’

Fiona nodded. ‘I wonder if she’d feel more at home in a hostel, but I don’t want to give her the impression we don’t want her here.’

‘The best thing you can do is sit down and talk about it. What she wants, and what you want and are prepared to do. I would maybe give it a few more days, but don’t leave it too long to find out what she’s thinking.’

Fiona gave her a weak smile. ‘You’re wise beyond your years.’

‘I’ve had to be.’ Sophie said it with a grin, so it didn’t come across as bitter. ‘Anyway, now I need to focus on this blinking festival, work out how I’m going to organize it with someone who rations himself to roughly five words an hour.’

‘That man.’ Fiona shook her head.

‘Ermin was more than happy to let him be involved.’

‘Ermin had a lapse of judgement. Harry doesn’t care about this village at all.’

Sophie thought of their meeting at the bakery. ‘I don’t know if that’s entirely true,’ she said carefully, ‘but I’ll find out soon enough.’

‘Just see if you can bring it into the twenty-first century,’ Fiona said. ‘Winnie is one of my favourite people in the world, but Hook the Duck is a little bit outdated.’

‘What makes you think we’ll do any better?’ Sophie glanced at the clock. ‘Hook the Duck might be Harry’s favourite game.’

‘I’d imagine he’s more of a “playing chess by himself, brooding over a glass of whisky” type man.’ Fiona sounded accusatory, but Sophie didn’t mind the image it conjured up: his features lit by the soft glow of a crackling fire, the leather of the chair creaking as he shifted position. She pushed the image away, remembering May’s quiet indulgence as she’d spoken about him. No good could come of mooning over someone who was so completely unavailable. She reminded herself that Harry infuriated her every time they met, and went back to watching the hands of the clock tick slowly round towards her fate.

Harry was waiting for her next to the steps leading up to Mistingham Hotel’s welcoming front door. The temperature had fallen with the sun, and an icy twilight made the village feel crisp and clean, the first stars visible in the deep blue sky. Under the hotel’s generous porch light, Sophie could see her fellow planner was wearing jeans and a forest green jumper, his waxed jacket open over the top. His hair looked a little less like he’d run through a hedge than usual.

‘Hey.’ He raised a hand as she approached.

‘Hey yourself. How are Darkness and Terror?’

His jaw tightened. ‘They’re fine. How’s the mop?’

‘He’s with Ermin; I’m picking him up later. What jumper is Felix wearing today?’

Harry narrowed his eyes. She thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he said, ‘It’s red with white pompoms.’

‘Oh my God! Do you have a photo?’

‘No. Shall we go in?’

‘Winnie was happy for us to grill her?’

‘Of course she was.’ Harry sounded eternally put upon, and Sophie’s curiosity grew.

‘Lead the way,’ she said.

He did.

‘Good to see the prodigal son is getting back into the thick of things.’ Winnie settled herself in her chair at their chosen table, in a cosy corner of the hotel’s lounge. ‘Henry Anderly in the flesh, sitting right here, opposite me.’

Harry gave a gentle sigh. ‘It’s Harry, Winnie. It has been since I was small. And I’ve been back in Mistingham for over a year and a half.’

‘Nobody would know it, though, would they?’ Winnie had tried to clip her wayward hair back from her face, but a good portion of it had come free and was haloed around her head. She was wearing an apron with something gold and sticky-looking – possibly honey – smeared across it. Sophie knew the older woman was outspoken, but she almost laughed when Winnie leaned over the table and prodded Harry in the chest. ‘You’ve been hiding. Are you ashamed at how you left Bernie to struggle on his own?’

‘That’s not how it was.’ He’d dropped his voice, as if he didn’t want anyone, least of all Sophie, to hear the words he was grinding out. ‘Not that I have to explain myself to you. It’s all in the past now, anyway.’

‘You think anything’s ever really in the past?’ Winnie said. ‘The Book Ends is standing empty, and that’s a testament to how wrong things went.’

‘We didn’t come here to talk about this,’ Harry said firmly, ‘and Sophie doesn’t want to be caught up in it. If you want to chew me out for my life decisions, let’s schedule a different meeting, OK?’

Winnie gave him a steely-eyed stare, but Harry didn’t look away. ‘Fine,’ she said eventually. ‘But know that it’s not right. None of this is.’

‘Oh, I know,’ Harry said with a tinge of bitterness. ‘Now, what can you tell us about the festival? Do you have notes? Lists of suppliers you’ve used in the past? I assume we want to keep everything as local as possible.’

‘I can tell you that it would be much better on the green, with that beautiful tree decorated like a fir, than as some chaotic street festival.’

‘You’ve made your point. What else?’

‘Don’t take that tone with me, young man,’ Winnie snapped. ‘I remember when you were running around on the beach with your shorts falling down.’

‘What would you say the spirit of the festival is?’ Sophie rushed out. ‘Ermin is keen for us to update some of the elements, but we want to do your legacy – and Mistingham – justice, so what do you suggest we focus on?’

Winnie turned a beaming smile on her, and Sophie saw Harry’s shoulders slump. ‘It’s all about community,’ she said. ‘Celebrating what makes Mistingham unique. This village is unlike any other: we’re not a ghost town in the winter, we’ve held on to our identity because a lot of folk still live here all year round, and we have independent shops and suppliers. You need to balance putting on a traditional show for the locals, and not alienating any winter visitors. We welcome everyone.’ She shot a look at Harry. ‘Even if they’ve betrayed the foundations of this place.’

Sophie held her breath, waiting for his reply. She was desperate to know the full story, but she’d only ever heard snippets about why everyone was so against him. He’d abandoned his father, and the bookshop, supposedly, but there had to be more to it; there had to be a side of the story that he had yet to tell. She didn’t know how anyone could have his self-control, stay in a place where he was so frowned upon. Perhaps that was a small part of why he was here with her right now; perhaps he wanted things to change. After all, he could have point-blank refused when Ermin had asked him to be involved, but he hadn’t.

Harry ran a finger over the soft cream tablecloth and said, gently, ‘I’m trying my best, Winnie.’

Sophie felt a pang of sympathy. There was a lot going on beneath his granite persona, and she wondered if she’d get a chance to see some of it over the next few weeks.

Harry’s almost-apology seemed to mollify Winnie somewhat, and Sophie got her notebook out. It was a deep purple, covered in silver foil snowflakes, the lines on the pages wide and faint. She had made it a couple of months ago, a practice run for new winter designs for the shop, and it had since become one of her bestsellers.

She opened it to the next blank page and smoothed the pages. ‘Can you tell us a few of the things you’ve organized in the past? Your favourite suppliers or attractions – especially from last year, when it was a street festival.’

‘I’d be glad to.’ Winnie leaned over the table towards her. ‘Let’s start with the games. Hook the Duck, I know for a fact, never gets old.’

When they left the hotel, some of the evening traffic had died away and the roads were quiet, a thin layer of frost dusting the grass and the roof of the village hall. It added to the sense of cold, and Sophie shivered.

‘Do you need to pick up Clifton?’ Harry sounded dejected, as if he’d exhausted his hostility and had nothing left. For once Sophie couldn’t blame him – not after the dressing-down he’d got from Winnie.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘We’ve got some basic information, but don’t you think we should work out what we’re going to do? The longer we leave it, the harder and more stressful it’ll be.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘So come back to mine?’ He gestured to his mud-splattered Defender.

For a moment, Sophie was so surprised she couldn’t speak. He was inviting her to the impressively mysterious, supposedly haunted Mistingham Manor? She fumbled with her phone. ‘Let me check in with Ermin.’

‘Sure.’

She fired off a text, and Ermin’s reply was almost instant. ‘I can get Clifton any time.’

‘Great. So you’ll come?’

‘Let’s do this!’ Sophie knew her reaction was cringingly over-the-top, but Harry didn’t comment on it.

It was only a few minutes’ drive to the manor, but Sophie appreciated the car, because it would have been a cold, dark walk. As Harry indicated and turned off the main road, down a wide, tree-lined avenue that looked terrifying even in the glow of the headlights, she kept all her thoughts to herself, because she didn’t want to ask a question he’d be able to ignore when they arrived at their destination.

She got a fleeting glimpse of the house as they drove past it, then he parked down the side, opened the passenger door for her and led her round to the front.

Mistingham Manor wasn’t as large as she had imagined, but it was still impressive. It was made of grey stone, solid and imposing, and the main entrance was double-height, with two arched wooden doors. A series of evenly spaced spotlights were angled up at the building, highlighting window frames that needed a fresh coat of paint.

There were four front-facing windows on the ground floor and five on the first: the middle one was arched, echoing the shape of the doors below. Five of the nine windows were glowing, as if the manor was inhabited by a large, sprawling family instead of two adults and two dogs.

Taking in as many details as possible, Sophie followed Harry up the wide stone steps, and was surprised to see a beautiful Christmas wreath hanging on one of the doors. It was a glossy mix of holly and pine leaves, gold-sprayed pine cones nestled alongside dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks tied with twine. An elaborate, silver-blue ribbon sat in a big, shimmering bow at the bottom.

‘I thought you weren’t doing decorations, let alone getting in early?’ Sophie leaned in and sniffed: it smelt like mulled wine, like cosy December nights tucked up under snug blankets. ‘Did May do it?’

‘No, I did,’ Harry said.

‘You made it?’

He shrugged, and she thought he had to be remembering their conversation in the post office, how adamant he’d been that decorating for Christmas was a waste of time. ‘There are healthy holly trees in the driveway, and Birdie had dried orange and cinnamon made up ready. It’s just a wreath,’ he added defensively, when he saw her grin. ‘Come on.’

He pushed open the door and Sophie stepped into an entrance hall that was bigger than her flat. She’d been expecting something dark and draughty, but instead the space had soft cream walls and polished pine floorboards. The stairs rose up on the left, then turned ninety degrees onto a landing. At the end of that they turned another ninety degrees, rising up and disappearing on the right side of the hall. The banister uprights were threaded through with a silver and purple garland, frosted leaves and tinsel and shiny baubles. Just a wreath? It was on the tip of her tongue, but he was looking studiously away from her.

‘This is lovely,’ she said instead. ‘And it’s so warm. ’ There was a gargantuan fireplace along the right-hand wall, a fire crackling and spitting inside it. ‘Is May home?’

‘She’s probably upstairs,’ he said, juggling his car keys. ‘She must have lit it earlier. The rest of the house is not like this, believe me. But I’m pleased with the entrance – first impressions matter, that’s what everyone says.’ He took a breath. ‘Sophie—’

There was a skittering noise, a single, joyous bark, and then Darkness and Terror appeared. They gave their owner a cursory greeting, then raced up to Sophie, their noses up, jostling against her legs so she was forced to bend and lavish them with attention. Terror whined happily, and Darkness put a paw on her knee, his dark, liquid eyes beseeching.

Sophie laughed. ‘They’re so affectionate.’

‘Sickening, isn’t it? They’ve completely failed to live up to their names.’ She looked up in time to see a brief flicker of a smile, there and then gone. ‘Let me take your coat.’

Sophie slipped out of her coat and Harry hung it on the tall coat stand that, she couldn’t fail to notice, was electric blue. She loved how the hall had its original features alongside splashes of creativity, of colour and energy, and wondered if he was planning the same style for the rest of the house.

‘Do you want anything to eat or drink?’ he asked. ‘It didn’t escape my attention that Winnie didn’t even offer us a cup of tea.’

‘What are you offering?’ Sophie was expecting a glass of water, maybe a mug of PG tips.

He shrugged. ‘Beer and a cheese toastie?’

‘That would be perfect.’ She hoped she didn’t sound too surprised, and decided to try her luck in the face of his sudden hospitality. ‘And a tour?’

‘Not a chance,’ Harry said. ‘Not right now, anyway. You can wait in my study: the kitchen’s a total shitshow, but it’s clean enough to cook in. I’m not about to poison you.’

‘Good to know.’

Harry led her to the door on the left of the hallway, then pushed it open. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll be back soon.’

‘OK.’ Darkness and Terror stayed with her, pawing and sniffing, not letting her forget their presence as she took in her surroundings and tried to make sense of Harry’s sudden about-turn. Had May told him to play nice, or had he reasoned that everything would be a whole lot harder if he wasn’t at least cordial with her while they worked together?

His study had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that took up two of the walls and were filled with a jumble of hardbacks and paperbacks. Some were organized in neat rows, others stacked vertically as if they’d been put down in a rush. They all looked fairly modern, with none of the old-fashioned, leather- or clothbound tomes like the one she’d received.

A large pine desk stood under the window, the pale wood gleaming in the light of a second fire that May must have lit in the fireplace on the opposite wall. The desk chair was modern, and a shiny MacBook was partly hidden beneath untidy piles of papers.

The window behind the desk was framed by heavy curtains, but they’d been left open, exposing the room to the night, and a frayed rug lay over old carpet in front of the hearth, where two leather chairs faced each other over a low coffee table. Sophie flushed when she noticed a chess set on a separate table in the corner of the room – it looked as if Fiona’s musings had been fairly accurate – but it was a large, elaborate set with pieces shaped like characters that must have been from a book or a film. She didn’t recognize them, and she was desperate to ask him, to discover a little piece of Harry Anderly geekiness.

The armchairs by the fire felt too intimate, so she sat in the fabric chair on the other side of his desk, facing the window, and – as if needing to demonstrate how focused she was – cleared a space amongst the papers and got her notebook out.

The dogs got up before she heard Harry’s footsteps, and when he shouldered the door open carrying a tray, they were quicker to reach him.

‘Down,’ he said firmly, as they angled their noses up. Sophie couldn’t blame them; her mouth was watering at the delicious smells of grilled cheese and toast.

‘Shall I …?’ She stared at his desk, unsure what to do.

‘Just move it all to the windowsill.’

‘Just …’ She mimed picking it all up, and he nodded.

She scooped up as many bits of paper as she could and, purposely not looking at them, slid them onto the wide windowsill, then moved his sleek laptop to the side. She wondered what he did, now he was back in Mistingham. Had his London job allowed him to work from home? He was clearly modernizing the manor, but was he doing that full time? The amount of paperwork suggested otherwise – unless these were all documents to do with the running of the estate. Every new question that was answered seemed to raise at least five more in its place.

‘Thanks.’ He put the tray down, then moved the plates and bottles of beer onto the desk, settling himself in the chair opposite her as he ordered the dogs over to the rug in front of the fireplace.

‘This room isn’t finished,’ he told her, gesturing vaguely at the bookshelves.

‘It’s cosy, though,’ she said. ‘Even in its unfinished state.’

‘A bit gloomy. There’s too much dark furniture.’

‘Was it your dad’s?’

His shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh, and he nodded. ‘He spent a lot of time in here when he wasn’t at the bookshop. The view from the window looks down to the sea – I mean, you must have realized: it’s at the front of the house.’

‘But your desk chair faces away.’

Harry rubbed his jaw, his stubble rasping. ‘I wouldn’t get much work done if I faced the window. I’ve always found the sea a bit too mesmerizing … Anyway, dig in.’ He picked up one half of his sandwich, and Sophie did the same. It was so good, the bread golden-brown, the Cheddar thick and strong and gooey, still bubbling as it oozed out of the sides.

‘I didn’t put in any onion or chutney. I didn’t know what you liked, or if you were allergic to anything.’

‘Nothing, as far as I know.’ Sophie pulled a cheese string off her lower lip. ‘This is amazing.’

‘Good.’ Harry gave her a quick smile. ‘I wasn’t sure. You get your sandwiches from Dexter, and that’s a high bar.’

‘Oh, you’ve definitely met that standard,’ Sophie said, enthusiastically.

They munched away in contented silence, and then, when Harry had finished, he pointed at her notebook. ‘You’re a proper fan, then. You don’t just sell them.’

‘Of course not. I make them, too.’

Harry’s eyes widened. ‘You made this?’

Sophie nodded, savouring the last bite of her sandwich, regretting its loss as soon as it was gone. ‘I’ve always loved notebooks – everyone should have at least one good one – and after I finished art college, I realized it was what I wanted to do: making things that were beautiful and practical, being able to sell them too. I wanted to be busy, but not stuck in a studio every day, only showing my pasty face for exhibitions.’

‘You learnt how to bind them?’ He sounded incredulous, as if it was impossible for an individual without high-powered machinery to be able to bind books to a high standard.

‘There are a lot of different techniques,’ she explained. ‘I’m limited to which ones I can do, because I only have a tiny workspace in my flat.’ She thought of the old sweet shop, the room behind the shop floor that she hadn’t investigated yet. Would it be big enough to allow her to expand her designs? ‘But there are a few I’ve got good at: stitched, casebound, spiral-bound. You’re acting like you don’t believe it.’

‘No, I … no! Not at all! It’s – I’m surprised, that’s all.’ He laughed, but it sounded awkward, as if he was unpractised. He tapped his laptop. ‘I’m afraid I don’t use notebooks.’

‘Writing is a completely different thing to typing,’ Sophie said. ‘There’s something about scribbling on a page that’s cathartic and illuminating. It fires your thoughts in different ways. Even if it’s just a to-do list, or a note to someone else – I’m not just talking about journalling.’

‘But you do? Keep a journal, I mean?’

‘Most days,’ Sophie admitted. ‘I like to get my thoughts out of my head. Sometimes it feels like there isn’t enough room for them, and when I’ve written them down, I feel lighter.’ She flushed at the confession, and at the way Harry was watching her, his gaze steady. It was disconcerting to be sitting opposite him. He was a big presence even when he was silent.

‘What sort of thoughts?’ he asked gently, and Sophie was, once again, at a loss. He’d barely been able to say hello to her a few days ago, and now … this?

‘All sorts,’ she said vaguely. ‘Outlines for new notebook designs, marketing strategies. Plans for my future.’ She cleared her throat. ‘What do you do, then?’

‘About what?’

‘What helps you clear your head? You obviously have a lot to deal with.’ She gestured to the paperwork on the windowsill. ‘You face questions and challenges whenever you leave this place.’

He puffed out a sigh. ‘I like working outside, being practical. That helps me sort through anything I need to – fresh air and physical exertion.’

‘I run too,’ Sophie said.

‘Not along cliffs in the dark, I hope? Or at least, not that often.’ He gave her a half-smile.

Sophie grinned. ‘Not that often. Winnie was hard on you,’ she added. ‘I can see why you were reluctant to meet with her.’

‘There aren’t many people here who approve of the way I’ve dealt with things over the last few years – and please don’t mention the oak tree.’

‘Fiona thinks you should have taken over the bookshop from your dad, rather than let it close down.’

Harry groaned. ‘My other favourite subject.’ He picked at the label on his beer bottle. ‘She’s not the only one who thinks that, and I don’t know how much you know – how many rumours you’ve heard – but I couldn’t come back here when Dad first got ill. Also, he was much better off in the care home than he would have been here, with me looking after him. I would have been a hopeless carer.’

Sophie sipped her beer, letting the bubbles invade her mouth. ‘I bet you would have done a better job than you imagine,’ she said quietly. ‘But only you can make the right decision for you and the people you love. Anyone can look in from the outside and have an opinion, but nobody knows all the variables except you.’

He stared at her. ‘Thank you. May’s the only other person who gets it, but she’s known me a long time.’

‘You both grew up here?’

Harry nodded. ‘With my shorts falling down most of the time, according to Winnie.’

Sophie laughed. ‘And are you …?’ It was on the tip of her tongue to ask. Were they actually together? Would it be strange for them to live here, just the two of them, if they were nothing more than friends, or was she being old-fashioned?

‘Am I what?’ Harry’s brows drew together, the side of his face turned golden by the fire. Sophie felt a flutter of something, but pushed it away before she could examine it too closely. He’d been nice to her for an hour, and her affection-starved brain was making too much of it. ‘Sophie?’ he prompted.

‘Nothing!’ she said brightly. ‘We’d better get going on this festival, hadn’t we?’

‘You think we can do it, then?’ He gestured to the notebook. ‘Plan the entire thing, just the two of us?’

Sophie sat back in her chair. ‘Of course we can. We can give it a good go, anyway. And just imagine if we do a genuinely great job – the village’s black sheep and its temporary outcast, putting on the best Christmas event Mistingham’s ever seen.’ She laughed, expecting Harry to at least muster up a smile.

Instead, he said, ‘Temporary?’ and she cursed herself for using that description.

‘I’ve not been here a year yet.’

‘That’s not what temporary means.’

‘You have a lot of books,’ she said, clunkily changing the subject.

‘I like reading,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Not entirely surprising considering Dad ran a bookshop. When this room is finished, they’ll be a lot more organized.’

‘It’s snug in here. I like it – and I love the books.’

‘What do you read?’

‘Oh, all sorts. Good thrillers, juicy romances, historical fiction sometimes. I like going back to the classics, too.’ She watched him carefully, wanting to see his response, but he was looking at the shelves.

‘Well, you can borrow anything from here – if you want to. It’s not exactly a library, but …’

‘That’s really kind,’ Sophie said. She was genuinely touched by the offer, even if he seemed embarrassed about having such a wealth of stories to share. ‘I’d love to have a look. Afterwards.’ She put her hand on her open notebook. ‘Otherwise we’ll never get anywhere.’

Harry leaned forward and took a long, slow sip of beer. ‘Where should we start?’

Sophie tapped her lips, pretending to think. ‘Oh, I know.’ Her insides skipped, but she decided to say it anyway. ‘Why don’t we move the festival from Perpendicular Street to the village green? There’s a lot more room there, and we could put some lights up in that rickety old oak tree.’ She grinned, her heart thudding.

When Harry’s scowl came – a scowl she had absolutely expected – she was surprised, because his eyes shimmered with amusement, and he didn’t point to the door or tell her to leave. Instead, he said, ‘Are you going to be trouble, Sophie Stevens?’ in a way that, if she’d trusted her instincts at that moment, she would have said was flirtatious. But it wasn’t – it couldn’t be for so many reasons, especially because of May … At least she’d teased him without him shutting down completely, though. More than anything else that evening, she counted that as a solid win.