A Bookshop Christmas Page 2

  “You can have Me Before You,” I’d told them. “But Love Story is a romance novel and that’s a hill I’m willing to die on.”

  “There’s no point arguing with her,” Mum had said. “She’s loved that book since she was thirteen – she’s never going to back down now.”

  I smiled at the memory, making a mental note to read Love Story again soon and maybe watch the film too. It counted as a Christmas movie (“Of course it’s not a Christmas movie,” I could hear Bella shouting at me in my head – but Bella refused to accept that Die Hard was a Christmas movie, so what did she know), released in December, set predominantly in the winter and those heart-breaking final scenes taking place just before Christmas.

  Mum had been right – I had loved both the book and the film since I was a teenager, but over the last few years I’d found a strange sort of solace in the story. It felt like a blueprint for navigating my life as it was now and it made me feel less alone. Other people, even if they were fictional, had gone through what I had gone through.

  I was rudely awoken from my reverie in front of the champagne by a strong and sudden jolt to the back of my legs.

  “What the hell?” I exclaimed, turning around.

  A tall, dark man in a very expensive-looking wool coat was standing behind me with a trolley full of food, wine and what seemed to be Christmas decorations. He was looking down his slightly crooked nose at me in an irritable manner.

  “Did you just hit me with your trolley?” I snapped at him, annoyed at the interruption to my memories.

  “You’re in my way,” he said.

  “It’s usual,” I replied, summoning up my steeliest voice, “to say ‘excuse me’.”

  “I did. You ignored me.”

  “Well clearly I didn’t hear you; perhaps you should speak louder. It’s extremely noisy in here.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment and we stared at each other as Noddy Holder wished everyone a Merry Christmas over the awful supermarket speakers even though there was still over a month to go. He really was very good-looking – the man with the trolley, not Noddy Holder – and I found myself wondering what he might look like if he smiled.

  “You’re still in my way,” the man said after a while without even the merest hint of a smile.

  “And you still haven’t said ‘excuse me’ at an audible volume,” I replied.

  I watched him roll his eyes and look away for a moment. Then he ducked his head and looked straight at me.

  “Excuse me,” he said slowly and sarcastically.

  Reluctantly I stepped sideways, allowing him to pass.

  “You’re the rudest man I’ve ever met,” I called after him as he walked away. He didn’t turn around, he just raised one hand before disappearing into the crowd.

  2

  When I got back to the bookshop, I took the bottles of champagne that I’d eventually managed to purchase upstairs to put them in the fridge to chill. I felt another wave of embarrassment at the bizarre argument I’d managed to get embroiled in at the supermarket. After the rude man had walked away I’d realised that everyone in the wine aisle had been staring at me and I’d had to pick random bottles of champagne and hasten a retreat as quickly as possible. I didn’t really know what had come over me. I wasn’t usually the type to engage with strangers, especially ones like that, but there had been something about him…

  “Are you all right?” Mum asked as I came into the kitchen. “You look frazzled.” I noticed the wrinkle of concern in her forehead – she’d looked at me like that a lot since I’d first moved back to York and I hated how much she worried about me. I was meant to be grown up enough to look after myself these days, even though I wasn’t sure I could have got through the last three years without her.

  “Oh I’m fine,” I replied, trying to sound breezy. “The supermarket was heaving and a man rammed his trolley into the back of my legs and tried to blame it on me. I’m absolutely sure he did it on purpose.”

  “Ah Christmas,” Mum said with a chuckle. “Tis the season to be grumpy.”

  “It’s not even December.” I laughed, stacking the bottles in the fridge.

  “Have you got everything ready for tonight?”

  “As soon as the champagne’s chilled we’re good to go. Have you chosen a book?” The Die-Hard Romantics had decided to do their Christmas Romance recommendations a little early so we all had time to read each other’s favourites and talk (argue) about them through December.

  “You know what I’m choosing,” Mum said. “How about you? You know you can’t have Love Story again?”

  “I know, I’ve got something brand new for this year.” I paused for a moment, hesitating. “Do you think they’ll like my idea for the Christmas party?” I asked.

  “I’m sure they will, love,” she said, coming over to me and squeezing my shoulder. “I love it and I know Trixie will too. And once Trixie is onside the hard part is over.”

  Trixie Hendricks was the matriarch of the Die-Hard Romantics – of undisclosed age, but somewhere in her seventies – she had become the fifth permanent member of the group shortly after I’d first put up the posters in the bookshop. A retired librarian with a social life that most women my age could only dream of, and a dating record to match – she particularly loved an unsuspecting widower. She was also a huge Janeite with an almost indefatigable knowledge of Austen and Regency England, and she loved reading historical romances – if only to pick holes in the details. Over the last two years she’d really helped the book group expand its horizons, taking us on trips to Chatsworth, on which Mr Darcy’s home of Pemberley had been based, and the Jane Austen festival in Bath when we’d all dressed in Regency costume. The money for these ‘field trips’ as she called them had come from her own pocket.

  “Husband number two left me rather well off,” she’d said. There had been three husbands in total, all ancient history now.

  I’d loved these Regency outings, but not everyone had been keen.

  “Why can’t we go on a field trip to meet hot ice hockey players?” Missy, who was more of a sports romance fan, had asked.

  I knew Trixie would be a fan of my idea for the big Christmas Eve party but I wasn’t sure everyone would be. I was relying on Mum and Trixie to encourage them all to take part.

  *

  “Please tell me you haven’t chosen Love Story again,” Missy said, rolling her eyes. The Die-Hards had all arrived early, excited to talk about Christmas romances and my idea for the Christmas party. I’d insisted they do the book talk first, knowing that things would descend into chaos if they didn’t get that out of the way, and then nobody would have any reading suggestions for the Christmas period.

  “No,” I said. “I promised Mum I wouldn’t bore you all to death about that for the third year in a row.”

  “Good, because it’s neither a Christmas book nor a romance,” Missy said, pouring herself more champagne.

  “Well this book is definitely a Christmas book and a romance,” I replied, ignoring the jibe. “And it’s the prequel to a series so gives me lots to read and discuss with you guys well into the new year.”

  “Out with it,” Bella said. “What is it?”

  “It’s called A Christmas Gone Perfectly Wrong and I think it’s the perfect Christmas romance.”

  “Bold words,” Mum said with a smile.

  “It’s the day before Christmas Eve 1807 and Andrew Blackshear – who is tremendously handsome but rather stuck-up and proper…”

  “Of course,” Bella interrupted, looking interested. Unlike Missy she loved historical romances.

  “He’s out in the Suffolk countryside picking up a Christmas present for his sister when he meets a woman in the road. Needless to say that isn’t the last time they meet and, due to a series of complicated events, he ends up with her in his carriage, and with a broken carriage wheel on Christmas Eve…”

  “And there’s nowhere for them to go?” Bella interrupted.

  “Exactly.” I gr
inned. “So they have to pretend to be husband and wife to find somewhere to stay for the night…”

  “And there’s only one bed?” Bella interrupted again. “Please tell me there’s only one bed.”

  “There’s only one bed,” I confirmed.

  “My favourite trope,” Bella squealed.

  “It does sound wonderful,” Trixie said. “I wonder why I haven’t heard of it?”

  “Your turn, Dot,” Bella said. “What’s your favourite Christmas romance this year?”

  “There hasn’t been a new Ruby Bell book this year,” Missy said, “So I’m intrigued to see what you’ve chosen.”

  Dot Bridges was a lecturer in English at York University, although she hadn’t been there when I’d been an English undergraduate. Unlike Trixie, Dot had never married. She’d been a member of the Die-Hards for just over a year – the last permanent member to join – and was Ruby Bell’s biggest fan. She always pre-ordered the latest seasonal romance – one in summer, one in winter – from Taylor’s Bookshop. Ms Bell had picked up where Jackie Collins had left off, writing sweeping romances set in exotic locations with sex scenes to make a reader blush. But for some reason this winter Ruby Bell hadn’t published a new book and there was no real way of finding out why because nobody knew who Ruby Bell was – she had no social media presence, no website, no author headshot on the cover of her books. She was a complete mystery.

  “No new Ruby Bell this year,” Dot said, pulling a battered paperback out of her handbag. “But I do have this.” She held up a copy of One Day in December. “It’s not strictly a Christmas book but it is so romantic.”

  “Oh I loved that book!” Mum exclaimed.

  “Me too,” said Missy and they fell into discussion about the story of Laurie and the boy on the bus.

  Mum had chosen The Lady Most Willing as I’d guessed she would – a Regency romance about a Christmas trip to Scotland – and Bella had chosen The Devil in Winter, another historical romance – early Victorian this time – but one Mum wasn’t a fan of.

  “I don’t know how anyone can forgive Sebastian St Vincent for his actions,” she said.

  “He’s completely swoon-worthy, Martha,” Bella replied. “What are you talking about?”

  “He kidnapped someone!” Mum replied.

  “I’m with Mum,” I said. “I just don’t see that there’s any coming back from the kidnapping.”

  “The kidnapping was in the previous book,” Bella said, trying to defend her hero, who had first appeared in an earlier book in the series. “He’s reformed by Evie’s love.”

  Mum made a snorting noise.

  “I’m not really convinced by those reformed rake storylines,” I said. “Some are OK. I guess it depends what they’ve done – if they’re just rude and arrogant and there’s a reason for it I guess we can come back from that.” I thought again of the rude man in the supermarket with the dark eyes and the perfect cheekbones. “But kidnapping? I don’t think so. Besides, it doesn’t even mention Christmas – it’s just set in winter.”

  “We could argue about this forever,” Missy said, looking bored. “Who’s next?”

  Nobody was surprised when Trixie chose a collection of seasonal short stories by Georgette Heyer called Snowdrift and Missy chose an ice hockey romance called Maybe This Christmas.

  “You should read it, Megan,” she said. “Ash and Emma are to die for and there’s this scene on a physiotherapy couch that is just on fire!”

  “I’m not interested in ice hockey,” I said.

  “You don’t need to be. It’s just a hot Christmas romance and anyway, it might get you into ice hockey – someone on this grey, wet island must like it!”

  Missy had grown up in the Connecticut town of Hartford (“Like Lorelai Gilmore,” she’d said, as though Lorelai was a real person), the daughter of two Yale graduates who had had great hopes of their daughter following in their footsteps. She’d disappointed them by getting on a plane to London when she was nineteen instead. She’d been in England ten years now and not many people knew what had brought her here or why she never went back home.

  But she’d told me the story one night soon after we’d first met, not long after I’d first told her about Joe, knowing that I would understand how hard it was to go back after something like that had happened. I still wondered if I’d ever be able to go back to London – or if I’d ever want to.

  “So now we’ve all shared our Christmas books, are you going to talk about the party?” Bella asked, topping up everyone’s champagne glasses. “You’re being very mysterious.”

  “OK,” I said, picking up my glass. “I thought that we could do something a bit different this year rather than just the usual drinks and crisps and standing about kind of party that we’ve had for the last three Christmases.” It had been my idea to have a little gathering after closing on Christmas Eve each year in the first place – something I’d instigated when I’d come back to York and slowly taken over the running of the bookshop from Mum, but it had never been anything very formal. Just drinks with local authors, regular customers and suppliers. “This year I thought we could do a Regency Christmas,” I announced to the group.

  “I’m intrigued,” Trixie said, leaning forward and smiling a red-lipsticked smile. “Go on.”

  “We could play Regency games, have Regency food and…” I hesitated for a moment, knowing this next announcement might not go down well with everyone in the group “…wear Regency dress. After all, we still have our gowns from when we went to Bath.”

  Bella groaned. “I was with you until the dressing-up part,” she said. “You know I hate that bit.” Sometimes Bella’s work at the Jorvik Viking Museum meant she had to wear appropriate costume. She hadn’t been enthusiastic about the Bath trip, but she’d done it – so I was sure she could be encouraged to do it again.

  “Costumes will be optional,” Mum said. “After all, we can’t expect everyone to have a costume ready with only a month’s notice.”

  “I think it would be nice if we did all dress up, Bella,” Dot said. “Especially as we do have the gowns anyway. Lead by example and all that.”

  “We’re all women though,” Missy interjected. “It would be better if we had some Regency men in very tight breeches, wouldn’t it?” She raised one perfect eyebrow lasciviously.

  “Well, I could start by asking Colin to dress up,” I suggested, trying not to laugh. Colin was a postgraduate student who worked part-time at the bookshop and, while he was very nice, I wasn’t sure he was quite what Missy had in mind.

  Missy crinkled her nose. “Hmmmm, I was hoping for someone with more muscular thighs,” she said. “But otherwise I’m all for it. Just tell me what I have to do. I can’t wait to get that gown on again.” Missy had looked particularly good in her gown and her heavily tattooed arms and green diamante glasses had accentuated the look. But then Missy was one of those people who could make a hessian sack look glamorous.

  “I think it’s a fabulous idea,” Trixie said. “But it will take a lot of work to get it right and we don’t have much time.” I noticed that she was already scribbling lists in a notebook. “That will have to go,” she said, pointing her pen at the Christmas tree that I’d dragged across York that morning and spent most of the afternoon decorating. “Beautiful as it is.”

  “What? Why?” I asked.

  “Because trees weren’t brought into the house and decorated in Regency times. Instead greenery – holly, ivy and mistletoe of course – was gathered on Christmas Eve and laid on the mantelpiece, as I’m sure you know from your historical romances.”

  “Can’t we have both?” Mum asked.

  “We could take it down on Christmas Eve before the party,” Trixie suggested.

  “Let’s have both,” I said. I was the one who’d dragged the tree across town and now it was here it was staying until twelfth night or when all the needles fell off – whichever was sooner. “The Christmas tree stays and we bring greenery in on Christmas Eve as well. W
e could get everyone who comes to bring a bunch of holly or something.”

  “OK,” Trixie said, making a note. “Now you mentioned games…”

  “Snapdragon,” Bella interrupted.

  “Bella, I don’t think a game that involves setting fire to sultanas is a good idea in a shop that is essentially full of paper,” I said.

  Bella’s face fell. “Oh yes, I hadn’t thought of that. Still, it sounds like one of the more fun Regency games.” I’d never really got to the bottom of the rules of snapdragon, other than that it seemed to involve dried fruit and naked flames, but it had been mentioned in more than one of the Christmas Regency romances that I’d read.

  “It is a Regency game,” Trixie confirmed. “But I think we’ll probably be safer sticking to cards – whist, cribbage and pontoon are all fairly easy to learn.”

  “You could teach us,” Mum suggested. “And we could teach other people on the night.”

  “And we need to make sure that people only play for matchsticks or something,” I said. “No gambling or I’ll be closed down!”

  “Oooh, we could make it a masked ball,” Bella said. “I’d dress up for that.”

  “But we’d all know each other,” Dot said. “It’s always the same people who come on Christmas Eve so you wouldn’t have to be a genius to work out who was who.”

  “Besides, we’re mostly women,” Missy pointed out again. “So there’s not much chance of a quickie behind the bookshelves with a masked stranger is there?”

  “There’s always Colin.” Dot laughed.

  I held up my hands. “No quickies in the bookshop!” I said. “But dancing sounds fun. Do you know any Regency dances you could teach us, Trixie?”

  “A quadrille should be fairly easy to learn—”

  “Again,” Missy interrupted, “we’re all women.”

  “Well we’ll just have to dance with each other then, won’t we,” I said, feeling as though the Regency night wasn’t quite as popular with the Die-Hards as I’d hoped it would be. “Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea after all. We can just go back to what we normally do if you prefer.”