Page 2 of Meet Me Under the Mistletoe
Nory couldn’t argue with that.
The bell jingled, and Hannah, the owner of Delizioso Coffee, came in bearing three cardboard cups, steaming in the cold air.
“Thank you, Hannah,” said Nory, taking the cups. “You didn’t need to bring them over, I would have come and got them.”
“It’s no bother. We’re quiet at the moment. The lull before the lunch rush. Lots of people are talking about your window display. It’s quite a hit.”
Andrew beamed. This year’s Christmas window design had been his idea: a three-foot plump and jolly Father Christmas sat in a rocking chair, reading, his half-moon glasses slipped to the end of his nose. Around him were piles of well-loved books and vintage Christmas titles propped up, covers facing outward. This morning they had sold a particularly crusty-looking copy ofThe Little Match Girlfrom the display.
“Let’s hope it brings the customers in,” said Nory.
“If she can bear to actually part with the books,” added Andrew. He was kneeling at Ameerah’s feet, the papoose still attached to him while Ameerah poured adoration upon his daughter. Having men at her feet, even gay men, was something Ameerah was used to.
Hannah left, and Nory began searching for a book to fill thehole on the shelf left by the one just purchased—an unfilled bookshelf was a sad shelf indeed. She wandered over to a pile of leatherbound tomes sitting on an antique dining chair with a frayed red velvet seat. She knew exactly what she was looking for and gave a little hum of satisfaction when she found it: a book celebrating paintings by Maria Sibylla Merian. Nory carefully extricated it from the stack and stroked the cover. The antique chair creaked in gratitude at having some weight lifted from it. She gently opened the book and began to turn the pages, feeling a sense of deep contentment as her eyes roamed over paintings that were as familiar to her as her own face. Nory had studied literature and art history at university and had written her final dissertation on the forgotten female artists of the golden age; Merian’s work had featured heavily.
“Stop fawning over that tatty old book and drink your coffee,” called Ameerah.
“Don’t listen to her,” Nory comedy-whispered to the book, closing it and slipping it into the space left by the latest sale. Ameerah had very little appreciation for anything that came before the 1990s, and that included her boyfriends. Nory sat down on an old wooden milking stool she’d found in the basement when she’d taken over the shop, and sipped her coffee.
Serendipitous Seconds had more than its fair share of cozy nooks and each was filled with a comfortable old chair of some description. In Nory’s opinion, book buying should never be rushed; she wanted her customers to feel they could sit and get to know a book before they purchased.
“Andrew, I’ve had another email from Jenna to say that Nory is dragging her heels about the house party. We’re supposed to arrive on the twenty-ninth of November—that’s this Sunday! Your employer is being unconscionably difficult. Talk to her.”
“I’ve tried, believe me. She’s being very resistant.”
“I am here, you know! And I’m not being difficult, I’m going to the wedding, and I’ve offered to help with prep in any way I can. I just don’t know if I ought to go to the house party first.”
“But it won’t be the same without you. The whole point is that we have the old gang together again, just us, before all the other guests arrive. When was the last time we were all properly together?”
“You know when,” said Nory.
A familiar pang of sorrow coiled around her ribs, making her chest tighten. They had been such a tight group at school. It had seemed unthinkable they could ever drift apart. But of course they did. Until Tristan’s death had brought them back together in the worst possible way.
“Exactly,” said Ameerah more softly. “And we said we wouldn’t drift apart again.”
“We haven’t. I keep in contact with everyone... well, almost everyone.” Nory frowned as a memory of her and Guy, in flagrante, flashed into her mind.
“Yes, but not all together at the same time! Come on, Nory, we’re theshits and giggles gang, remember? You have to come, or we’ll be another member down.” She pulled a sad face and then said: “Don’t make me benzodiazepine your tea.”
“For someone who works in law, you have a decidedly squiffy moral compass,” Andrew noted.
“My client list is long and varied and each one brings its own education.” Ameerah winked.
“Christmas is our busiest time of year; I can’t just go galivanting off for a jolly in a castle,” Nory reasoned.
“It’s not justany old castle, it’s Robinwood Castle, theplayground of our youth. And it’s not just any old jolly either. It’s a week spent with our oldest and dearest friends.”
Ameerah made a compelling case. It wasn’t that Nory didn’t desperately want to spend time with her friends, but it was complicated, and these days she tried to avoid complicated where possible. Still, she was running out of excuses.
“Also, I’ve had sex with the groom,” she countered.
Ameerah threw her head back and laughed. “We’ve all had sex with the groom, Nory!”
This was probably true. The very exclusive private school to which Nory had won a scholarship had been somewhat isolated, and as such provided a rather small pool in which its horny teenage students could experiment sexually; so, the girls and boys of Braddon-Hartmead made sure they swam every inch of it. Charles, the groom, had been generally known to be an absolute hound in the sixth form. Beneath his yearbook picture, the quote read:Most likely to become a porn star. He’d become an investment banker.
“Are you bringing Dev?” Nory asked.
“Yes. Man-Barbie will be accompanying me for the purposes of being eye candy and heroically good in the sack.”
