The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Fifteen

W hen Sophie climbed into Harry’s Land Rover on Monday afternoon, the heater was blowing gently through the vents and the leather seat hugged her perfectly, and she knew that if she wasn’t careful she would fall asleep. She had messaged him yesterday, still on a high from Saturday night, and wanting to get the ball rolling before he got cold feet. Buying lights to thread through the oak tree’s branches was a good first step, and Harry said he knew exactly where they could go.

‘OK?’ he asked. He was wearing a cotton shirt, navy with a thin red check, and his usual dark jeans. Sophie shifted in her seat and got a waft of aftershave, something surprisingly vanilla-ish, even if there was a darker, woody scent beneath.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Good, even.’

‘Good, even?’ Harry repeated, amused. ‘Something to be celebrated, then.’

‘I’m excited about the festival – about having it on the green.’

‘Yes. Well,’ he grumbled.

Sophie grinned. ‘You know it’s the right decision. I can’t wait to tell everyone.’

‘You haven’t told Fiona and Ermin?’

‘Not yet,’ she admitted. ‘But we need to let them know soon, because it changes the logistics. We’ll need games for the green or the hall, rather than at Penny For Them, and whatever refreshments we serve will need to be in food trucks. There’s a lot to organize.’

‘It almost seems like we’re making everything harder by moving it,’ Harry said lightly.

‘But it’ll be more of a community event like this, rather than spread out along Perpendicular Street. We want everyone to be together.’

‘You sound like that old Prudential advert, but I get your point.’

‘Good.’ She smiled at him. ‘And the first easy win is lights. Where’s your person?’

‘On one of the business parks on the outskirts of Norwich. It’ll take about forty-five minutes.’ He switched on the radio, so low it was barely audible, but Sophie recognized the melody of ‘Last Christmas’ and was surprised all over again.

‘You don’t listen to farming radio?’

‘One goat doesn’t make me a farmer,’ he pointed out. ‘Felix is a boy, so he’s no good for milk and he’s not going in a stew anytime soon. I don’t farm anything.’

‘Birdie mentioned that he had a brother, Oliver.’

Harry swallowed, the bob of his Adam’s apple distinct in profile. ‘He died when he was a few months old.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie said. ‘Where did they come from?’

Harry glanced at her, then turned back to the road. ‘Not soon after I’d moved back here, I went to buy cement from a builder’s yard about ten miles away. There was this scruffy farm next door – I only noticed because I could hear the goats. They were bleating constantly, so I followed the sound, and … they were so small, stuck in this cramped pen, squalid conditions. It was clear they were distressed.’

‘How awful,’ Sophie murmured.

‘I went and found the farmer – if you could call him that. He said male goats had no value, that he was waiting to take them to the abattoir, and I-I couldn’t let that happen.’ He shook his head. ‘I offered to buy them – demanded is probably more like it, actually – and the farmer was overjoyed, because he would have had to pay to have them killed. Instead, Felix and Oliver came back to Mistingham Manor with me.’

‘You named them?’

‘A bit different to Darkness and Terror,’ he said with a smile. ‘But Oliver was already ill, because of the conditions he’d been kept in. I took him to the vets, we tried everything, but he didn’t make it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Harry shrugged. ‘I still have Felix. I was worried, after he lost his brother, because they’re such sociable animals, but he’s a resilient little bugger and I suppose … that’s why I indulge him. The jumpers, the sentimentality – it must seem like madness.’

‘It doesn’t exactly fit your Dark Demon Lord persona.’

Harry laughed. ‘No. Felix is my weakness. I can’t help it.’

‘I doubt many people could,’ Sophie said.

‘You’re humouring me.’ He flipped the indicator and they turned onto a wide road with stark, grey-brown fields on either side, the sky a liquid blue haze, mist hanging in clumps above the pared-back land. It was beautiful and wild, and it made Sophie’s breath catch. She wondered how different Cornwall would be.

‘I’m not humouring you,’ she told him. ‘It’s perfectly acceptable for a man who’s … how old are you?’ She’d guessed he was about her own age.

‘Forty-two,’ he admitted, his brows knitting together. ‘Forty-two years old, and I hardly have my life together.’

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘You have your own house, which has to count for something.’

‘I inherited that, I very nearly lost it altogether, and it’s basically falling down.’

‘You didn’t lose it, and you’re fixing it.’

‘Trying to.’

‘Succeeding. Rome wasn’t built in a day.’

‘Starting from scratch might be less hassle.’

‘I doubt that,’ Sophie said. ‘Anyway, I’m not much younger than you, and I have a rented flat above a chippy, a forgotten corner of another person’s shop to sell my handmade notebooks in, and the only being who relies on me is a scruffy dog I rescued from under a bridge. My list of life achievements is short.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Harry said. ‘You’re proudly independent, and you know what you want out of life. You’re not bowing to pressure from friends or villagers, or society. You do what you want, not what’s expected of you.’

Sophie hid her surprise. ‘You don’t think I’m in the position I’m in because I haven’t had much choice?’

‘Not at all. You’re determined. I think if you wanted something different, you’d find a way to get it.’

Sophie nodded, thinking about Cornwall. She was determined to have the life she wanted, and sometimes that meant starting again somewhere new. It was the best way she knew of feeling in control: keeping people at arm’s length was better than caring too much, giving them control of you. That wasn’t something she was about to admit to Harry, so she stared out of the window as the flat, winter-sparse fields were broken up by quaint villages, cottages decorated with wreaths, outdoor trees draped with golden lights that twinkled even though it was morning. Christmas was coming, and Sophie and Harry were responsible for bringing it to Mistingham. She hoped they could pull it off.

Harry swung onto the large car park and Sophie looked up at the building they were about to enter. Called the Seasonal Superstore, it clearly changed with the time of year, and right now, over halfway through November, it was all about Christmas. It was also an assault for the senses.

In the window, a slightly wonky tree was draped with various different light strings, some static, some winking; they were gold and frosty white, blue and multicoloured. There was a forest scene of two plastic reindeer, a snowman and, inexplicably, a giant hedgehog, all of them lit from within, like the figures Sophie had sometimes seen decorating front lawns during December. An inflatable Santa was stuck halfway up the window, a sack with illuminated presents spilling out of it, the disaster frozen in time. Two gold angels stood discreetly in the corner. Sophie imagined they were cowering.

‘This is … classy,’ she said, as they walked up to the door.

‘We’re not decorating Sandringham,’ Harry replied. ‘Now we’ve committed to this, the first thing we need to do is bling up our oak tree.’

‘ Bling it up? ’ Sophie spluttered out a laugh. ‘Can you say that again so I can record it?’

‘No,’ Harry said, but she thought he was fighting a smile as he held the door open for her.

She stepped into a space that, despite the warning in the windows, she wasn’t prepared for. ‘Holy shit.’

‘It’s … a lot,’ Harry agreed. That was, possibly, an understatement. Displays of ornaments, lights and baubles, trees and statues and garlands shimmered, twinkled and flashed in every colour imaginable, while speakers blared out ‘Fairytale of New York’.

‘Harry, my dude!’ A man appeared from somewhere, dressed in a red shirt that was at least two sizes too big for him, his brown hair straggling over his shoulders, a scruffy goatee on his narrow face. ‘It’s been an age.’

‘It’s good to see you, Scratch.’ Harry sounded slightly embarrassed. ‘This is Sophie – Sophie, meet Scratch. We knew each other at school.’

‘Yeah, but I hightailed it out of Mistingham as soon as I could, in search of the bright lights.’ He laughed at his own joke, and Sophie tried to join in. ‘You need my assistance.’

‘We need to decorate the oak tree for our festival,’ Harry said. Sophie might have been imagining it, but she thought he sounded relieved, as if a part of him had been wanting to give in to the villagers’ requests all along.

‘Ah, the Mistingham Oak. For sure.’ Scratch nodded. ‘Come this way, and I’ll show you all the possibilities.’

‘ All of them?’ Sophie whispered, horrified, as she followed the two men to the back of the shop.

An hour later, her head ached and she felt as if dust had worked its way into all her cracks and crevices, but they had their lights.

They’d chosen a string of simple globe bulbs in bright colours and one of little illuminated books, which Sophie had secretly picked in tribute to her copy of Jane Eyre . Scratch had insisted on them having a whimsical string of acorns as well, because it was an oak tree. Sophie was surprised at how good quality the lights seemed, how robust they were, and she was feeling a lot more confident than she had when they’d come in.

They were on their way back to the till, when she spotted something that made her gasp.

‘OK?’ Harry asked.

‘Look!’ She pointed.

‘Sophie.’ His deep tone held a warning, and a shiver ran down her spine. She realized how much she loved his voice, an entirely unhelpful thought that she quickly dismissed.

‘We have to get it,’ she said. ‘For the green.’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘Felix would love it.’

His sigh was harsh. ‘I have no idea how Felix would react, but luckily we’re not going to find out.’

‘We are.’ She hurried over and picked it up. ‘Look how adorable it is.’

Harry rolled his eyes.

It was another of the glowing animals, but this one was a goat, its tiny horns and large ears giving it a distinct personality, despite it not having eyes. It was so Felix-like, she couldn’t imagine leaving without it.

‘This as well, please,’ she said to Scratch, who was carefully boxing up their lights.

‘Oh, the goat. Sure.’ He began rootling around beneath the counter.

She could feel Harry’s stare on the side of her face. ‘Sophie,’ he said calmly, ‘what are you doing?’

‘I’m buying us the goat.’

‘Us? Or the good people of Mistingham?’

‘The good people of Mistingham,’ she said. ‘But also us.’ She could not think about there being an us.

Harry shook his head. ‘If you’re that enamoured, you can borrow Felix. He’d love a couple of nights in your flat: he’d only destroy about 90 per cent of it.’

‘This way, he’ll have a little friend.’ When she glanced at Harry, he was rubbing his eyes, looking put-upon and frustrated and utterly, deliciously grumpy. Sophie grinned. She decided that low-key riling Harry Anderly was one of her new favourite pastimes. When Scratch had boxed up their lights, they paid for them with the festival funds they’d been assigned by Ermin, raised at various fundraising events throughout the year. Sophie paid for the goat herself. She carried it out to the car, while Harry carried the boxes of lights. She had an extra spring in her step, and she realized her headache had gone. She couldn’t help thinking of a line from Jane Eyre , one that had stuck with her when she’d come across it:

I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs. ‘A good idea!’ I thought with glee. ‘I see I have the means of fretting him out of his melancholy for some time to come.’

They drove back to Mistingham and went straight to Vea’s Crafts, which was tucked away down a narrow road behind the seafront, a hidden jewel of a shop with a colourful window display that promised soft textures and delicate projects to while away a few, satisfying hours. Sophie had used Vea for as many of her notebook supplies as possible, and she’d always been helpful when Sophie had wanted to order in anything specific. After the assault of the seasonal superstore, it felt like a balm.

Inside, the shop smelled of cinnamon. The front room was tiny, much of the space reserved for large rolls of fabric at the back, and Sophie could feel how close Harry was behind her.

Vea wafted through the white muslin curtain that cordoned off the fabric room from the rest of the shop, her smile on seeing Sophie turning to surprise when her gaze landed on Harry.

‘Goodness!’ She pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I thought I’d stepped into the past for a moment, though you’ve filled out a bit since you were a teenager.’

Vea was Jamaican, in her sixties, Sophie thought, though she seemed a lot more youthful, the grey in her corkscrew curls looking more like silver dye, the frames of her glasses pink and studded with jewels.

‘Hi, Vea.’ Harry cleared his throat. ‘How have you been keeping?’

‘Oh well, well, thank you! And you? How’s the patch-up job on the manor going? What about all those books?’

Harry shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets. ‘The books went when Dad closed the shop.’

Vea fiddled with the gold chain round her neck. ‘Is that the case?’

‘Are you a big reader, then?’ Sophie cut in. She could add another name to her anonymous gifter list.

‘I wouldn’t say big reader,’ Vea said, her focus still on Harry. ‘It’s mostly cookbooks and crafting manuals, more practical than recreational. Harry reads, though.’

‘I know.’ Sophie deflated a little. Crossing someone off the list wasn’t as good as circling their name.

‘Such a shame,’ Vea said heavily, ‘that the leftover stock from The Book Ends was sold or given away.’

‘What else was I supposed to do with it?’ Harry’s voice was tight. ‘The shop had to close, and I had no use for a lorry-load of books. I sent what I could back to the wholesalers, some went to other bookshops in the area, I took a few boxes to Dad’s care home, for their library. Of course a few came back to the manor with me, but … it was all I could do.’

‘You could have kept them,’ Vea said, in a way that managed to be both soft and steely.

‘We’ve come to talk to you about bunting,’ Sophie said desperately. ‘We want a whole lot of Christmas bunting for the Oak Festival.’

Vea finally gave Sophie her attention. ‘Do you want to make it, or do you want me to?’

‘Oooh.’ Sophie turned wide eyes on Harry. ‘What do you think?’

He stared at her as if she’d sprouted three heads. ‘No. Sophie—’

‘What does making bunting involve?’ she asked Vea.

‘I sell you whichever fabrics you like, give you a pattern for the pennants and the edging, and you put it all together. It’ll be simple – especially considering how skilled you are at your notebooks.’

‘Would we need a sewing machine?’

‘We?’ Harry echoed.

‘It would make quicker work of it, especially if you’re making a lot. I can lend you one.’

‘Amazing!’ Sophie felt a flutter of excitement. She wanted this festival to be about community, about getting involved, and they needed to set a good example for the rest of Mistingham.

‘Sophie, we don’t have the time or money—’

‘Sure we do.’ She flapped a dismissive hand at Harry. ‘I don’t mind paying for a few extra crafting bits, and this is a great plan. Vea, can you show us your fabrics?’

‘I absolutely can. This way, please. Come and pick your Christmas materials.’

Harry carried the sewing machine to his Land Rover.

‘We’re making bunting.’ He sounded incredulous, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d been talked into it. ‘With a sewing machine.’

‘It’s going to take us a whole lot longer if we hand-stitch it. And think how much money we’re saving as opposed to buying the ready-made stuff. It sounds pretty simple, doesn’t it?’

‘What if I said I might not have been listening fully to Vea’s instructions?’

‘Then I’d say it’s doubly good that we’ve got the pattern. Anyway, crafting is good for you.’

‘So is kale, but I’m not going to start eating it. Are we taking this to your flat?’

‘There’s more room at the manor.’

Harry was in the process of putting the machine in his boot, but he paused and looked up at her. They were organizing this together, but Sophie knew that just inviting herself to his house, invading his space and getting him to do crafting with her – of all things – was perhaps a step too far.

‘You’re taking the lead on it, though,’ he said after a moment.

Her heart thudded. Maybe not a step too far, then. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’ll be worth it, I promise. When we see that bunting flying, knowing that we made it? It’ll feel great. Doing things with your hands is really satisfying.’

Harry’s gaze was steady, somehow both hard and soft, and it was turning her insides into a hot, liquid puddle.

‘It can be,’ he said, deadpan, then he got into the Land Rover, leaving Sophie to scramble into the passenger side and play back their exchange, then consider all the ways it could be interpreted that had absolutely nothing to do with bunting.

As the silence between them stretched, and she fought the urge to cross her legs because she was 100 per cent sure that he would notice, she realized that Harry had grown on her, slowly and stealthily, like a jaguar approaching its prey, and that she had to put a stop to her feelings before someone ended up getting hurt.