The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Thirty-One

M istingham on Christmas Eve was a twinkling snow globe of festive cheer.

Almost every building was adorned with lights, and while most of them displayed a soft, elegant gold, a few – like Penny For Them and Two Scoops – were draped in shimmying rainbow bulbs, candy colours that couldn’t fail to make you smile.

When Sophie stepped outside with Clifton, wrapping her scarf tightly around her neck because it was bright but extra cold, she heard the melodic tones of ‘Silent Night’, too rich to be coming from a speaker. She walked up the street and saw that, outside the hotel, a Salvation Army band were performing, the shine of the brass instruments as enticing as the music.

After Fiona had left the day before, Sophie had spent the afternoon packing, flinging things into bags and boxes. Then she’d stood forlornly in her sparse flat, her notebook tools and materials the last things left to tidy away, so similar to the ones she’d seen in Harry’s secret room. It was something they had in common, and it should have brought them closer, but he’d kept it from her.

She’d stood there, looking at what little her life was made up of, the central heating no match for the chill she was feeling. Then she’d phoned the hotel and changed her booking, the receptionist at Crystal Waters pleasant but with an understandable note of irritation, as Sophie had explained she would be arriving on Christmas Day instead of Christmas Eve.

She reasoned that it would give her a bit of extra time, and the roads would be clearer on Christmas Day anyway, while everyone was ensconced with their loved ones, opening presents and popping champagne corks, the aroma of roasting turkey wafting through houses and flats, hugs exchanged.

Sophie walked through the village, smiling at people she passed, wondering how many of them knew, now, that she was going. A niggling voice in her head asked what she needed extra time for. She was packed – she’d waited until evening to clear her notebooks from Hartley Country Apparel, using her set of keys when she was sure Fiona and Ermin had left for the day. There was nothing left to do. She could get in her car and leave right now.

She stopped in front of Ye Olde Abandonede Sweete Shoppe, that and the bookshop next door conspicuous by their lack of Christmas cheer. Their reflections stared back at her, Clifton bright-eyed and fluffy, her looking tired and pale and bundled up against the cold, her boots crusted with mud.

She peered inside, trying to imagine the space decked out with her notebooks, other lines of beautiful stationery that she’d always imagined adding to her stock one day. One day when what? the niggling voice said. She was going back to fairs and markets, boxes in the boot of her rusty old car, another makeweight job in a café or restaurant. She wouldn’t have the time, the funds or the room to expand her business.

Another figure joined her reflection, and it took her a moment to realize who it was.

‘Sophie,’ May said, their eyes meeting in the glass. ‘How are you?’

Sophie couldn’t put everything she was feeling into words, so she shrugged.

‘I am so, so sorry,’ May rushed out. ‘I never meant for things to turn out like this. I wish I’d pressed pause at the festival, before the storm hit and you found out the way you did.’

Sophie turned, wanting to face her properly, and saw that some of May’s eternal optimism had faded. She had dark smudges under her eyes, and her usually glossy brown hair was tied up in a messy bun, strands escaping in every direction.

‘Why did you do it?’ It was the one thing Sophie couldn’t get her head around. Before November, they had been little more than casual acquaintances.

‘Can we go somewhere? It’s so cold today.’

They sat at a window table in the hotel lounge, the sound of the band muffled through the glass, so they could still hear each other over the festive tunes. Sophie loved this view, the hotel on a slight hill so she could see Mistingham Green and the village hall, the lights on the oak tree twinkling, showing that they, at least, had survived the storm. Perpendicular Street ran down to the sea, with Hartley Country Apparel on the right and then, further down, Batter Days and her flat, the blue of the sea visible in the gaps between buildings. She loved this view.

‘The green doesn’t look completely destroyed,’ she said, while they waited for their miniature Christmas puddings, neither of them able to avoid the novelty item on the menu, the sticky sweetness and brandy cream it promised.

‘A few of us patched it up yesterday afternoon,’ May said. ‘We put some sand down, a bit of gravel in places, once Harry and I had moved the books out of the annex. The tent grotto didn’t survive, but everything else is fine.’

‘Right.’ Sophie swallowed. ‘The festival went ahead yesterday?’ She hadn’t turned up, hadn’t wanted to face anyone. What did it matter anyway, when she wouldn’t be here after tomorrow?

‘It was really well attended,’ May told her. ‘I think because people felt cheated out of it on storm night. Tonight’s the last night,’ she added, a hopeful note in her voice – although of course Sophie knew that.

‘Why did you send me the book?’ she asked. ‘Leave it for me, I mean?’

‘I love Harry.’ May unfolded her napkin, then looked up. ‘As a friend. He’s my best friend. He’s always been there for me, and he had an awful time those last few years in London, doing a job he hated, trying to save the estate from afar, then his dad getting ill. He came back here and threw himself into repairing the manor, but it was in such a bad way and he only ever seemed happy when he was working on those books – rebinding the damaged ones; giving them new covers. It’s meticulous work, it requires so much concentration – you know that, of course.’ She shook her head. ‘It was as if he was carrying on his dad’s legacy.’

‘They’re really beautiful,’ Sophie said truthfully.

May nodded. ‘I know. But he didn’t want to do anything with them. He just wanted to keep them in that hidden room, hoarding them away, and books – books are magical. Even when they’ve been read a hundred times and the cover is falling off, or they’ve got stained pages, or they’ve got an ill-advised, ugly cover from the Seventies.’

‘Some modern covers are ugly too,’ Sophie said.

‘Oh, I know.’ May rolled her eyes. ‘Some are so ugly. Anyway. I didn’t think he should spend all that time and effort on them, only for them to sit there, forgotten. He’d told me how he’d been sent that book by his dad – North and South , the old copy that Bernie had once upon a time given to his mum – and how it changed everything. It had made him realize he needed to come home. So I thought – why couldn’t I do the same? Why couldn’t I give someone this beautiful, special book, and see what happened?’ She was animated, her eyes bright, and Sophie could see that she believed wholeheartedly in the magic of books, the power of what she’d done, even if it hadn’t worked out how she’d expected.

‘Why did you pick me?’ She sat back when Jazz brought their tray over, with a pot of tea and two of the mini Christmas puddings.

‘Fiona says you’re leaving,’ Jazz said without preamble, her eyes hard, like shiny black buttons.

Sophie picked up her fork. ‘It’s time to move on. You know what it’s like.’

But Jazz was already shaking her head. ‘From here ? From Fiona and Ermin and Dex? From that shop, just waiting for you to fill it with all your fancy notebooks? What about Harry? You can’t let her do this.’ She stared imploringly at May.

‘It’s not my decision,’ May said. ‘I probably have the least sway of anyone right now.’

‘I am here, you know,’ Sophie said with a laugh.

‘Not for long though,’ Jazz replied. ‘So why you do you give a shit if we talk about you?’

‘Jazz—’

‘No,’ Jazz cut in. ‘Don’t you realize what you’ve got here? Who you’ve got? I thought you did – I thought we talked about this and you had decided you were staying.’ She swallowed. ‘I didn’t expect to find anything but a dry place to sleep and some chips before I got booted out and had to move on again, to the next place I didn’t belong. But nobody here has made me feel like I don’t belong. You’re totally nuts.’ She spun on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen, and Sophie saw Mary, standing next to the door with her arms folded, doing absolutely nothing to reprimand her staff member for the outburst.

‘Why me?’ she asked May again, trying not to show how flustered Jazz had made her.

‘Because you seemed so nice, even though we’d only talked a few times. I knew a bit about your background from Fiona, and then …’ She laughed. ‘It was so obvious Harry liked you. He kept bringing you up in conversation, but he was so hopeless whenever he saw you. I think he felt self-conscious, so he blundered, then he was angry with himself and that made him angry with everyone and …’ She sighed. ‘He’d just finished binding Jane Eyre , and it was stunning. He put it on the shelf, alongside the others, and I thought … I thought it was special. The story, of course, but also the care he’d put into every aspect of it. The foil details, the bookmark, the logo on the spine. I thought if I left it for you, and wrote a puzzle of a note, you’d go looking.’

‘I did go looking.’

‘And I convinced Harry that, after making the village change their entire set-up for the festival, the least he could do was offer to help out.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought you’d find out it was his book a lot sooner, that the mystery would be solved quickly, you’d laugh about it, get to know each other, and that it would just be one tiny part of how you met.’

‘But I didn’t …’ Sophie stuck her fork in her pudding, swept up some cream with her spoon, and combined the two. ‘I dismissed him straight away. Harry was so upfront about everything, and we didn’t even know each other until we started working on the festival. It just seemed impossible that it was him. Then Winnie and Simon got books, too.’

May nibbled an icing holly leaf. ‘I should have come clean sooner. I was going to, but then Harry told me you were leaving Mistingham, and I realized my gift hadn’t worked, that you felt singled out rather than included. And your changes to the festival, getting the whole community involved, gave me the idea of giving books to other people. I thought, that way, you’d feel a part of the village, instead of separate from it.’ She dropped her head into her hands, her next words muffled. ‘I should have trusted that you and Harry would be fine without it, and now the thing I did to bring you together – it’s broken you apart.’ She looked up. ‘Don’t blame Harry, Sophie. Hate me if you want to, but don’t leave because you think Harry doesn’t care about you.’

‘He kept it from me for ten days,’ she said, but it was a weak protest. Fiona had reminded her that Harry hadn’t known what a big thing the book had become for her: he hadn’t realized she’d been searching so hard, or that him not telling her would feel like a betrayal.

May nodded. ‘He wanted all the facts before he came to you. But Sophie …’ She put her hand on the table, fingers outstretched. ‘He cares about you. So much.’

Sophie sipped her tea. ‘ Jane Eyre leaves when things get complicated.’

May made an exasperated sound. ‘It’s a bit more than complicated with Jane and Rochester. Harry doesn’t have a wife locked up in his attic, I promise you. He has a wayward goat he’s too fond of, but that should send you into his arms, not out of them.’

‘It is complicated though,’ Sophie said. ‘For me.’

‘Why?’

She sliced her pudding with her fork, working out how best to put it. She realized she wasn’t angry with May any more, or with Harry. She wasn’t sure she’d been angry with either of them for very long at all. It was panic, more than anything. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘whenever I let my guard down, it goes wrong.’

‘So you’re going to leave us all behind because you’d rather be alone on your own terms than trust that people love you and will always be there for you? Sounds pretty self-defeating to me.’ May gave her a gentle smile.

Sophie couldn’t be drawn in. ‘It’s what’s best for me.’

May nodded, her shoulders dropping. Sophie waited for her to argue, to tell her how selfish she was being, like Fiona had done. Instead she just took small, methodical bites of her pudding.

‘How’s Harry?’ she asked, when she couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘His shoulder, I mean.’

‘It’s bruised,’ May said. ‘Nothing’s broken, according to the doctor, but I know it’s painful. And I got my brother to check the roof is safe, that nothing else was dislodged in the storm. Harry did a good job as Santa last night, and he’s going to do it again tonight.’

Sophie felt a pang at the thought of missing Harry dressed as Santa on the last night of the festival. She put her fork down. ‘I’m really glad it’s not broken. I should get going, though. I’ve got a lot to do before I leave. Thank you for explaining. I’ll leave the book with Fiona – Harry should have it back.’

May looked shocked. ‘Don’t do that. I know Harry wants you to have it – take it with you. Please.’

Sophie could only nod. ‘Bye, May. Say goodbye to Harry for me.’

She didn’t wait for the other woman to respond, but put a twenty-pound note on the table and then, with Clifton hurrying to keep up, with her emotions a choppy sea of hardened resolve combined with despair, she left Mistingham Hotel as the band started to play ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’.

Sophie put her empty glass on the table and looked accusingly at the wine bottle. She would have to pour the rest of it down the sink. She had a long drive tomorrow, and she wanted to set off early, with a clear head.

The flat was packed up, all her boxes stacked by the door. Her hat and scarf were on the hook next to her coat, both in a soft, rose-pink wool. She’d bought them when she’d arrived in Mistingham and first met Fiona – ever the brilliant salesperson – and she’d been giddy at the thought of this new, promising place to start over in: a place she’d heard someone talking about on a train that sounded so romantic, so magical. It is , the voice in her head whispered. More than you ever imagined.

She couldn’t spend the whole evening in her echoey flat, looking up fairs and markets in Cornwall to contact in the new year. Usually by now she would be bubbling with excitement at all the possibility.

‘Come on, Clifton.’ She put his harness on, then slipped into her coat, scarf and hat, and left the flat.

It was just after seven, and the air was crisp and cold, with a bite that made her think of rubbery wellington boots and noses made out of carrots, of the cold splash of a snowball sliding down inside her collar. The sea air was unmistakable, but so was the telltale hint of snow. Would it really snow now, just before Christmas?

She could hear the Oak Fest from her front door: the jivy, over-the-top Rudolph Hoopla soundtrack, mingling with shouts and laughter, the high-pitched scream of an over-excited child. It was louder than the other nights, and Sophie knew that was down to the added giddiness of Christmas Eve. It was still early, so families could come out for a baked Alaska and a round of Christmas Hook the Duck, take part in Birdie’s candlelit blessing before heading home to their Christmas traditions: stories read and stockings hung in fireplaces, milk and cookies or whisky and mince pies laid out in preparation for their late-night visitor.

Sophie’s chest ached. She had her own traditions, the little things she did, just for her: she made herself a beautiful new notebook, a brand-new design for a fresh year, then wrote a list of all her wishes, setting herself challenges that she wanted to fulfil over the next twelve months. She allowed herself a bottle of champagne – if she could afford it, and had a glass on Christmas Eve then put a teaspoon in the neck, keeping it fizzy for the following day. This year, she had forgotten to buy one.

Mrs Fairweather had cooked pancakes for Christmas breakfast, with a variety of toppings, and Sophie had carried that over into her life with Trent. His favourite topping was berries and yoghurt, so she’d always gone with that instead of what she wanted, hoping it would make him happy. She had pictured having pancakes with Harry this year, making them in Mistingham Manor’s building-site kitchen, May, the dogs and Felix there too, eating breakfast together on Christmas morning.

‘Not joining the party tonight?’

Sophie jumped. It was Dexter, standing with his hands in his pockets, giving her a curious look.

‘No, I …’

‘This is your thing, though.’ His frown didn’t last long. ‘Though it is Christmas Eve, and everyone’s got stuff to do. I’ve been paranoid about having all Lucy’s presents ready, and I’d forgotten where I’d put that scarf I bought her. I remembered where it was just now, so I thought I’d nip home and arrange it with everything else.’

Sophie opened her mouth.

‘It’s OK, Birdie’s with her,’ Dexter said. ‘Probably buying my daughter her third ice-cream dessert of the evening.’

‘She must be excited.’

‘Oh yeah, she’s off the scale. Extra sugar is not necessary, but what can you do?’ He laughed, and Sophie thought how lucky Lucy was to have such a warm, loving father, who worked so hard to make her life as good as possible.

‘I hope you have a lovely Christmas,’ she said.

‘What are you up to?’ Dexter glanced towards the green when there was a raucous shout.

‘Oh, I’m … travelling.’

‘To see friends?’ The furrow appeared between Dexter’s eyebrows again, because surely it was common knowledge that Sophie had no family to go and see. But at least it seemed that news of her departure hadn’t made its way around the whole of Mistingham.

‘Sure,’ she said, not wanting to lie, wishing she hadn’t walked the minefield of coming out into the village one final time. ‘Have a wonderful Christmas, Dex.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Say Happy Christmas to Lucy for me.’

‘Come round when you’re back, if you like? We’ll be at home – Birdie’s coming, and who knows who else? It’s always a bit of a free-for-all round here, and you’d be very welcome.’

‘I’ll … I’ll see. Thank you.’

‘Merry Christmas, Sophie.’ He strode off in the direction of his house.

She waited until he’d gone, and then she took the narrow, less-trodden road that branched off Perpendicular Street, walking up it and emerging at the side of the village hall. She was careful to keep to the shadows, not wanting the lit windows to give her away.

The noise got louder as she got closer, and she felt camouflaged by it, everyone’s attention on the games, stalls and food. Jason and Simon stood together at the mobile bar, cheers-ing each other with plastic pint glasses, clearly having relinquished the running of their food stands to their staff. Vea was holding up beautiful felt baubles, offering them as last-minute additions to Christmas trees, and Jazz was standing with Natasha’s son, Indigo, at the Carnival Toss, laughing over his attempts to get two balls into the holes at once.

Then Sophie heard a familiar, joyful sound, a happy bleat, and Clifton strained on his lead towards it. She stayed where she was, holding him back, pressed against the outside wall of the village hall so the darkness hid her from view, and felt her heart ache in a way it never had before.

Because there was Santa Claus, without a grotto because it had been destroyed in the storm, but commanding all the attention anyway. He was tall and wide-shouldered, his black boots impossibly shiny, his eyes hazel – though she couldn’t actually tell that from where she was; she just knew it was true. She knew every little bit of him. She could see how his left arm was hanging limply at his side, and how tired he was, despite his deep ‘ho ho ho’ and the way he was engaging with the children around him. And there were a lot of children around him tonight, because he had an assistant with him: a small, furry assistant with floppy ears and tiny horns, and a green and red jumper with little gold bells that jingled when he moved. He was wearing a harness underneath it, tethered to his master by a lead.

‘Who’s that?’ a little boy pointed.

Santa crouched down and encouraged the boy forward to stroke the furry nose of the goat, who was, for once, being entirely compliant. ‘This is my elf,’ Santa said. ‘He’s called Felix.’

‘And that one,’ a girl asked, pointing to the plastic, glowing goat that Sophie had insisted on getting the day they went to Norwich.

‘This is …’ his voice trailed off. ‘He doesn’t have a name. What do you think he should be called?’

The suggestions came thick and fast.

‘Pudding!’

‘Elfy!’

‘Flora.’

‘Poo head!’

And then an older voice, one Sophie recognized, said, ‘How about Sophie?’ and Fiona stepped into view, looking down at Santa and the two goats, the cluster of excited children.

‘Sophie,’ Santa repeated. ‘She said Felix would love it, and look.’ He gestured to where Felix was butting his head against his plastic counterpart, bleating gently. ‘She was right,’ he said with a laugh. It sounded sad, defeated.

‘She might have been right about a plastic goat,’ Fiona said, managing to sound sensitive and stern all at once, ‘but there were other things, much more important things, that she got completely wrong.’

‘Can I touch the goat?’ a boy shouted, and Santa beckoned him over.

‘Gentle now,’ he said to the blond-haired boy, and then to Fiona, ‘She has to make her own decisions. I could have begged her to stay, but what good would that have done? She had to want to stay here, to choose it on her own, and she didn’t.’

‘You’re as scared as she was,’ Fiona said. ‘She should have realized what she had, and you should have stepped out of your comfort zone and flung yourself at her feet. If you love someone, then you have to be prepared to risk your pride for them.’

Santa spread his arms wide. ‘I have no pride left, Fiona, and I don’t even care. I did all of this for her and, even though she’s gone, I’m not going to put my feelings in a box. I’m going to be the best damn Santa I can be, and then I’m going to finish the manor, and then I’m going to—’

‘What’s best damn Santa mean?’ one of the children shouted. ‘Are there more Santas?’

Santa and Fiona stared at each other, exchanging panicked looks, and Sophie’s cheeks bunched in a smile.

‘Of course not, darling,’ Fiona said smoothly. ‘This is Santa Claus. He has magic words, you know, to communicate with Felix and Sophie. Isn’t that right, Santa?’

‘Right,’ Santa said in a low voice. ‘Let’s see if I’ve got any presents left, shall we?’

There was a chorus of yes-es, little feet stamping happily, and Sophie felt the relief of a disaster averted. She watched as Santa turned round, angling his body towards her hiding place to pick up the large red sack that was on the ground behind him. He paused, glancing up, and she could see his eyes now, so perfectly Harry, clear and beautiful and with so much warmth and generosity in them: so much love, if you were lucky enough to be chosen by him. And she had been.

She realized she was holding her breath, but after a moment his attention was drawn back to the children, to where Felix had started to nibble one of the little girl’s sleeves, because that goat couldn’t go anywhere without causing a scene.

‘Bye, Harry,’ Sophie whispered. She turned away, wondering if her words would be carried to him on the last, dying gusts of the storm that had almost worn itself out, or if they would dissolve into nothing before they reached him. She strode back to her flat, Clifton padding at her side, leaving the Mistingham Festive Oak Fest, and all the people she’d got to know over the last year, behind.