Page 1 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
Chapter One
It wasn’t even dark when Sophie Stevens heard the first firework, but she knew, then, that it was time to move on. She stood behind her narrow counter in Hartley Country Apparel, twirling a silver biro between her fingers, and listened to the staccato, celebratory pops that sounded too close by.
‘Probably some lads from the school.’ Fiona didn’t look up from her crossword, her brows creased in concentration. She was wearing a tweed jacket, always a living mannequin for the high-end items they sold, her golden hair falling in layered waves that framed her face. ‘From now until Christmas they’ll be bubbling over with mischief. This is only the beginning.’
‘At least they’re having fun,’ Sophie said.
Fiona looked up. ‘Do you want to abandon your notebooks, go and set off some illicit bangers? Have you been hiding a reckless streak from me this entire time?’
‘I might have some hidden features you don’t know about.’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘You sound like a smartphone.’ Fiona paused, then added, ‘Everything’s OK, though? You’ve seemed restless these last few days.’
Sophie tried to hide her surprise. Firework night was her catalyst; the time when she always started to think about leaving. Except that if Fiona had noticed she was restless, her subconscious must have begun priming her for her short-notice disappearing act already. This time she was considering Cornwall, which was almost as far as she could get from where she was now: the sleepy, beautiful village of Mistingham, on the north Norfolk coast. She found that the further she went, the easier it was to start again.
‘I’m fine,’ she said to Fiona. ‘Just gearing up for Christmas, working out which materials I need to reorder, how many more notebooks I need to make to keep my shelves filled.’
‘They’re very beautiful shelves,’ Fiona said.
That was one thing Sophie would miss: the notebook concession she had in Fiona and her husband Ermin’s country clothes store. The shop drew in a lot of customers, and unique, luxury notebooks were just the kind of indulgent treat that tourists and visitors let themselves buy on holiday or days out. She always had a range of styles, sizes and price points: clothbound notebooks with ribbon ties; card-covered jotters with hand-painted designs and long-stitch binding; leather, casebound journals that took her the longest to make but were cooed over on a daily basis, the ultimate treasure.
She made them with plain pages for doodling, thick- and thin-lined for to-do lists and general scribbling, dotted for people who were serious about their bullet journals. Hercorner of the shop was a cornucopia of colour and texture, offering the endless possibility of hundreds of blank pages.
And at Christmastime, her notebooks shimmied into the limelight. They were bought as presents, of course, because it was easy to be that little bit more lavish when you were buying for someone else. But December was also a month of list-making: lists of presents you needed to buy, who to send Christmas cards to, your shopping list for the Big Lunch. Recipes copied from books and amended to suit your guest list, mindful of any allergies or intolerances. There were secret lists of the gifts you wanted for yourself, or the Christmas wishes you were going to make, because – if you were like Sophie – you still believed in that festive magic at thirty-seven, as well as the power of a fresh, sparkling New Year, even if you would never admit it to anyone.
This was Sophie’s time to shine, and every year she leaned into it. She expanded her notebook range, honed her craft, surrounded the workstation in whatever rented flat she was living in with piles of new materials. She had fallen into a pattern of having a frenetic, successful festive season, then packing up all her things, what was left of her stock, and starting again somewhere else.
‘Everyone in Mistingham will have at least one new notebook by the end of December, if I have anything to do with it,’ she said. There was no reason to change that pattern this year, even if she had found a static home for her business here in Mistingham.
‘Why stop at one?’ Fiona said. ‘Why not aim for a trio of notebooks for every resident? You could put together little packs.’
‘Icould.’Sophie turned to her current to-do list, becauseshe didn’t just advocate the power of notebooks, she was a true believer. She always had several on the go, all with different purposes, in the same way Fiona was always wearing at least one item of Hartley Country Apparel stock. ‘You’re like me,’ Fiona had said to her ten months ago, on the day Sophie had arrived in the village with her suitcase and her craft supplies. ‘You live it, rather than just selling it.’
Before Mistingham, Sophie had sold her creations at country fairs and festivals, craft and farmers’ markets, her online shop receiving a trickle of orders rather than a rush. She supplemented her income working in cafés or pubs, and she hadn’t expected to be able to afford shop space, but Fiona and Ermin were big on supporting local businesses, and when the owner of their last concession – a woman who made soy candles – moved away, Fiona had offered the cosy corner of Hartley Country Apparel to her.
Sophie had been able to expand her stock, working in the evenings at the sun-drenched workstation in her living room and, over the last ten months, she’d built up a busy, popular business with lots of tourist sales and repeat customers, a momentum she hadn’t experienced before.
Nothing had gone wrong so far – everything was going better than it had done in a long while – but Sophie couldn’t ignore the slow simmer of unease in her gut: the knowledge that if shedidstay much longer, then things would turn sour, as they always did. Restricting herself to a year in each place meant it was easy to break what few ties she’d allowed herself to knot.
The ping of the shop door announced a new customer, and Sophie smiled as Dexter appeared. He ownedMistingham Bakery, and was a dark-haired hulk of a man. Today he was wearing a green corduroy jacket that looked too light for the weather, and a thick navy scarf.
Beyond the glass, a whisper-soft mist coated everything with a silver tinge, adding to the November chill.
‘Afternoon Fiona, Sophie,’ Dexter said, rubbing his hands together.
‘Have you come in for some gloves?’ Fiona turned pointedly to the stand next to her counter. Sophie knew, because it was hard not to stroke them, that the gloves were made of the softest leather and suede. Who wouldn’t want to slide their fingers into them? If she’d had a boyfriend to buy a present for – the thought was simultaneously laughable and tinged with sadness – then she would have bought him a pair in buttery, caramel-coloured suede.
‘One day,’ Dexter said, his smile warm and amused. ‘Except that my hands are always covered in flour, so I’d ruin them in a heartbeat. I came to see if you’d got any new scarves in. You had some really colourful ones last year.’
‘Is Lucy excited about Christmas?’ Fiona asked.
Lucy was Dexter’s nine-year-old daughter, and the two of them came as a pair. Dexter’s wife – Lucy’s mum – had died a few years ago, but Lucy was as high-spirited as her dad, who always had a smile for everyone.
‘We’re not allowed to be excited about Christmas yet,’ Dexter told them. ‘Lucy’s got it all worked out. We had to focus first on Halloween, then it’s Bonfire Night, then Christmas. If she knew I was getting in early with the present buying, I’d get a proper telling off.’
‘Whyareyou getting in so early?’ Sophie couldn’t help asking. She was fascinated by how different families workedbecause, growing up in so many foster homes, the range of traditions, rules and outlooks of her temporary parents had left her in a constant state of whiplash.
‘It’s pure panic.’ Dexter leaned an elbow on the varnished wood of Fiona’s counter, sounding as far from panicked as it was possible to get.
