The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Seventeen

O n Monday morning, Sophie arrived at Hartley Country Apparel earlier even than Fiona. She hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning, her thoughts running wild after her conversation with Harry in front of the fire. She’d established that he wasn’t with May after all – something she had started to suspect, especially after their walk home from the pub – and in return she had quashed his assumptions about Dexter. So far, so good. Then she’d ruined it by being honest with him about her future. This, this , was why she didn’t get close to people. It caused too much hurt, led to miscommunications and disappointments, or unmet expectations in the case of Trent, her boyfriend in Bristol.

She turned on the shop lights and the twinkling gold fairy lights, and switched the kettle on. She was logging into her till when Fiona arrived with Jazz. The young woman looked relaxed but smart, in navy jeans and a raspberry jumper that matched her hair.

‘Morning, Sophie.’

‘Jazz! How are you?’

‘All right,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Mary’s giving me a trial run at the hotel later.’

‘That’s brilliant.’ Whatever Jazz’s long-term plans were, Sophie was relieved that she felt comfortable enough here to get a seasonal job, to make some money and be more prepared for whatever she chose to do next. ‘Are you looking forward to it?’

‘I am, actually. Fiona says Mary and Winnie are cool, and the hotel’s pretty nice. I hope it’ll be fun.’

‘Of course it will be,’ Fiona said bullishly, as if she hadn’t had a moment’s worry about Jazz or her future. ‘You could do a lot worse than putting down roots in Mistingham. Now, Sophie, do you want to update us on the festival? I told Jazz you’re planning an open-mic night, and we want to know details.’

‘Let me make drinks first. What do you want?’

Once they were settled, Sophie ran through the ideas she and Harry had cobbled together and their purchases so far.

‘Pot-luck food?’ Fiona raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re letting everyone make and bring a dish for general consumption? Have you had the misfortune of trying Mrs Elderberry’s sweet potato curry?’

‘Not so far,’ Sophie said, with a laugh. ‘But that will only be a small part of it. We’ll still have Batter Days and the Blossom Bough offering fish and chips and drinks, but I want all the villagers to have a chance to contribute. You gave me the idea, Jazz.’

‘I did?’ She stopped slumping on the counter.

‘What you said about everyone here looking out for each other. It made me think about how people can be lonely, especially at Christmastime if they don’t have friends or family nearby. Not everyone will love the arcade games and bar truck, but if we give them the chance to share their favourite dish, run a Scrabble tournament in the hall, it’ll appeal to the residents who might not have come otherwise.’

Jazz’s smile was filled with pride. ‘I knew there was a reason I came here. Apparently, it was to teach you all a valuable lesson.’

Sophie laughed. ‘You might just be right.’

‘If you carry this off as well as I think you will,’ Fiona said to Sophie, ‘Ermin will recruit you as Mistingham’s permanent events coordinator.’

‘Fiona,’ she said, ‘I don’t think—’

‘You’d be great at that,’ Jazz cut in.

Sophie sighed. ‘I’m not sure what I’m doing next year.’

‘Are you off on a round-the-world trip?’

‘I’m probably moving to Cornwall,’ she admitted.

Fiona scoffed not so discreetly.

‘Why?’ Jazz looked puzzled. ‘Everything here’s pretty sweet for you, isn’t it? Do you really want to leave?’

Sophie hesitated. Standing in the warm shop, with her notebooks displayed elegantly on the shelves, with Fiona’s friendship and Jazz’s open curiosity, excitement about the festival bubbling just below the surface and the memory of Harry’s hand round hers, and his muted, distant expression when she’d told him about Cornwall, the answer to Jazz’s question seemed more elusive than ever.

She was about to offer up something non-committal, when the door of the shop opened and a family bustled inside, the young girl and boy, who looked about eight years old and were possibly twins, staring wide-eyed at the twinkling lights, the colourful displays of clothing and notebooks: a Santa’s grotto a month before Christmas.

‘Hello,’ Fiona said brightly. ‘How can I help?’

Sophie stayed busy for the rest of the week, with a flurry of customers seeking out the perfect present and notebook commissions to work on in the evenings. In moments in between, she arranged to talk to villagers about the festival. Everyone knew it had moved back to Mistingham Green, and were adapting their plans accordingly. They’d taken the change in their strides, and Sophie was reminded that, apart from last year when Harry had kept them away from the oak tree, this was what they were used to.

She stayed in touch with him by text, but he hadn’t invited her to the manor again, or suggested they meet up for anything else. He was always enthusiastic; he told her he could arrange the speaker system for the open-mic night, the outdoor power they would need to run that and the lights, but every exchange was festival-focused, and Sophie thought he was distancing himself from her.

She should be grateful. It would make leaving a lot easier if their growing closeness was stopped in its tracks, but she felt the loss of him like someone taking a warm, comforting blanket away from her on a frosty night.

On Thursday she visited the hotel, and was greeted by Jazz, dressed in a white shirt and smart black trousers, her red hair styled in a fancy up-do.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked. ‘I was hoping to talk to Winnie about permits for the festival. My contact at the council has gone dark, and I need to check that our new location and plans are covered by the one we’ve already applied for.’

Jazz laughed. ‘Nervous, much?’

Sophie sucked in a breath. ‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘There’s a lot to think about. How have your first couple of days been?’

‘Great,’ Jazz said. ‘It’s a steep learning curve, and Mary’s had to remind me about not swearing at least five times – which is fucking nuts,’ she added in a conspiratorial whisper, making Sophie laugh. ‘But everyone’s really friendly, even the more hoity-toity customers, and it’s so nice to be … busy , I guess. To be doing something that isn’t completely self-centred.’ She smiled, but her words pulled Sophie up short.

‘What do you mean?’

Jazz’s gaze was direct. ‘Fiona told me you grew up in foster homes, so you must know what I’m talking about. When you’re on your own, and so much is out of your control, you have to look out for yourself, don’t you? Where will I get a hot dinner, where am I going to sleep, why does someone else deserve that job more than me?’

‘But that’s totally understandable,’ Sophie said in a rush.

‘I know it is,’ Jazz replied. ‘But Fiona and Ermin have been so kind to me, and now Winnie and Mary, too. Everyone here says hello – Dexter and Lucy, Natasha in the pub. Indigo.’ Her smile was fleeting, there and then gone. ‘I’ve got room to breathe, so I can start thinking about them now, too. I want to buy something nice for Fiona and Ermin, take them out to dinner if they won’t let me give them rent money. I can do a really good job here, because I know I’ve got somewhere safe to go to when my shift ends.’ She shrugged, suddenly bashful, as if she’d said too much. ‘It’s nice, being able to think about everyone else. You must feel that too, living here.’

Sophie returned her smile, but her thoughts were racing. She had always put herself first, always been focused on self-preservation. She remembered Trent saying that to her, when she’d told him that she wasn’t ready to move in with him. He’d accused her of never considering anyone else’s feelings, of being self-centred. She remembered Harry’s closed-off expression the other night. Had she ever stopped to think of other people over her own needs? What her decisions might do to them?

‘It’s great, isn’t it?’ she said half-heartedly. ‘Do you know where Winnie is?’

‘Probably in the office, mooning over some book she got given.’

Sophie’s pulse skipped. ‘A book?’

‘Yeah, it’s this beautiful edition of a book called … Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont . It’s by Elizabeth Taylor, but not the Elizabeth Taylor apparently.’

‘Who gave it to her?’

‘Beats me,’ Jazz said, but then the woman in question appeared behind her, her grey curls untamed.

‘It’s from somewhere called The Secret Bookshop,’ Winnie said with a laugh. ‘Though goodness only knows what that is. It’s one of my favourite books, though – which is not that surprising, considering what I do for a living.’

‘How lovely,’ Sophie managed, her voice scratchy. ‘And did it … was there a note with it? Any kind of message?’

Winnie frowned. ‘There was a postcard – one of the local ones: Mistingham Green in the morning mist, the sun rising over the sea beyond. It mentioned The Secret Bookshop on the back. Are you OK, Sophie? You look like a stunned mullet. Come to the office, and I’ll show you.’

‘“Have a very happy hotel Christmas”,’ Sophie read aloud.

Winnie’s office was small and neat, the scents of bacon and cranberry wafting through from the kitchen, a cold November rain splattering the glass. The book Winnie had been given was as beautiful as Jane Eyre, the cloth cover pale blue, the title and author added in coral pink. No foil details, but it had the same logo as her book – a tiny house with chimneys – on the spine. But, compared to Sophie’s, the message was bland.

‘Lovely, no?’ Winnie said. ‘What a treat to have such a gorgeous edition of this novel.’

‘Who left it for you?’ Sophie turned the postcard over again, wondering if she would recognize the handwriting. She didn’t.

‘I’ve no idea, pet. But my name is on the postcard, and it came wrapped in this lovely brown paper. Left right here on the desk for me: someone must have sneaked in.’

‘How will you find out?’

Winnie finished typing something on her computer, then looked up at her. ‘I’m not sure I will. If The Secret Bookshop wants to give out Secret Santa gifts like this, then let them – that’s what I say.’ She chuckled. ‘I don’t want them taking it back. I’m due a reread, and how lucky that I get to do it with this edition? It might be my favourite Christmas present, and it’s not even December.

‘Now, Sophie love, what is it you need to know about a permit? Well done for talking Harry Anderly round, by the way. Seems like you’ve got some Christmas magic all of your own, because that can’t have been an easy thing to do.’

Sophie sank into the chair on the other side of Winnie’s desk, trying to ignore how much this quick visit to the hotel had upended everything. Jazz’s words, Winnie’s book. At the moment, the festival was proving to be the most straightforward part of her life, and that was saying something. ‘Thanks for helping, Winnie,’ she said. ‘I promise it won’t take long.’