Page 12 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
‘Harry.’ May stood up and went over to him. She rested her hand on his arm, reached up and whispered something into his ear. If it was possible, his jaw clenched even more tightly, but when she stepped away, he gave a jerky nod.
‘I could offer some assistance,’ he said grimly, as if he’d just agreed to push all the older residents into the sea rather than help put on a sparkly Christmas festival. Sophie found herself empathizing with him all over again. She wanted to melt into a puddle of despair on the floor.
Fiona joined her husband on the stage, sporting a look of such unfettered delight that Sophie wondered if, actually,she should do her midnight flit immediately –tonight–and leave Mistingham for good, anonymous book-gifter be damned.
‘What a wonderful outcome,’ Fiona said. ‘To have such a strong team in charge this year. Residents who I know are hugely committed to Mistingham—’ she paused long enough for Sophie to glare at her ‘—who will do everything in their power to make this the best Oak Fest we’ve had. Please, everyone, give it up for Sophie Stevens and Harry Anderly – and, when they come to talk to you about your contribution, please be as helpful as you can. A successful event benefits us all.’
There was a smattering of applause, a few cheers shot through with relief from people who had dodged bullets, who hadn’t opened their big mouths and put themselves forward for entirely stupid reasons. Who hadn’t ended up in such an impossible, unenviable position.
While everyone gathered their coats and chatted with their neighbours, Sophie held Clifton against her chest and skimmed her gaze over the crowd. May looked pleased as punch that Harry had shown up and walked straight into Ermin’s trap, Fiona was talking animatedly with Birdie, knitter of tiny goat jumpers, and Dexter was laughing with Mary, his arm around his daughter Lucy’s narrow shoulders.
Then she looked over at the door. Harry had stepped aside, letting people out into the unforgiving night, and his eyes were trained perfectly on hers. He looked part shocked, part accusatory, as if she had somehow tricked him into organizing the festival with her.
It was the worst possible outcome. Working with the world’s grumpiest man, on an event everyone cared deeply about, that he’d forced them to compromise on because he was a prominent landowner who was precious about atree.He would be even less cheery doing this than he was hitting fence posts with a hammer.
It was going to be torturous, and it was all the fault of the mysterious book. If it wasn’t for the beautiful hardback ofJane Eyrewith its fancy gold foil, she would never have considered offering up her time. And now she wasn’t just helping to plan the festival, she was 50 per cent of the planning team.
And the other half, standing in his dripping coat with his pink-tipped nose and his hard-as-diamonds gaze, his dogs with stupid names and his baffling indulgence of a goat who hadknitted jumpers, for God’s sake, was not going to make things easy for her. She could tell that already, without a shadow of a doubt.
Chapter Six
The sensible thing would have been to approach Harry then and there, to at the very least arrange to meet up and discuss how it was going to work. But Sophie was flustered, her original plan sent into disarray, and Harry’s stare was colder than it was outside, so instead, she wove through the chairs, nodding and smiling as villagers gave her curious looks, and slipped her arm through Fiona’s.
‘Sophie!’ Fiona was jubilant. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before now – you’ll do a wonderful job.’
Sophie glanced over her shoulder, looking for a tall figure with brown hair. ‘Do you want to show me the old sweet shop?’
‘What,now?’
‘Now is as good a time as any.’ She could have left; slipped out of the door and hot-footed it back to her flat, but she wanted reinforcements in case Harry sought her out, and if she convinced Fiona that she was excited about the possibility of moving into the sweet shop, then her friend wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of a late-night tour.
‘OK, then,’ Fiona said. ‘I’ll just tell Ermin. Wait here.’
Sophie tucked her chin into her collar, trying to look as unapproachable as possible.
‘Here we are.’ Fiona held up a large key ring, the keys jostling and clinking together.
When they stepped outside, the cold was like a physical force propelling them backwards, and a mist had rolled in off the sea, draping the green and streets around them in ghostly gossamer. The streetlights emitted a weak golden haze, and Sophie shivered and zipped her coat up to the neck.
She followed Fiona, Clifton quiet alongside her, and resisted the urge to look behind and see if Harry was following: if she’d made him even angrier by leaving without arranging to talk things through. They skirted the edge of the green, the leaves of the giant oak rustling in the wind, as if protesting at being left out of the festivities, and then, once on the pavement, their footsteps echoed in the evening air.
‘Give me two minutes,’ Sophie said, gesturing to her dog, and Fiona nodded.
Sophie didn’t know what the old shop was like inside, particularly the state of the floor, so she hurried back to her flat, only a minute away, settled Clifton inside and raced back to Fiona, who was standing outside Ye Olde Sweete Shoppe, The Book Ends next door to it.
Both shops looked unwelcoming, the interiors dark, the window displays dismantled, the large panes of glass streaked with dust. The sweet shop’s door frame and windowsills were still a bright, candy pink, though the paint obviously hadn’t been refreshed for a couple of years. The bookshop was more muted, though the glow from the streetlight picked out its cherry-red door.
Fiona tried different keys in the lock of the smaller shop, before she found one that made a satisfying clunk, the door pushing inwards with a groan. Sophie followed her inside. The scent of sugar still lingered in the air, and it made her smile as she turned on her phone torch and panned it across the spartan space. There were fitted shelves on opposite walls, and behind the small counter at the back of the shop. A door in the far wall presumably led to an office or tiny bathroom.
‘Delores had it fitted with all mod cons not long before she gave it up,’ Fiona said. ‘She paid May a fortune to install the latest tech: a snazzy payment system, lighting built into the shelves to show off her jars of sweets. The electricity will be switched off now, but if you decide to take it on, it should only take a bit of elbow grease, a few phone calls and new contracts, to bring it up to muster. Not that you can see much in the dark,’ she added pointedly. ‘We could come back tomorrow.’
Sophie turned in a circle, the floorboards creaking under her boots. Annoyingly, it was perfect for her. It would take more stock than she currently had, allowing her to be more creative, develop her designs and try new things, but it wasn’t so big that it was daunting. It was a cosy space and – while obviously dusty at the moment – elegantly kitted out. She imagined painting the walls teal or lilac, the shelves a glossy white to best display her cloth and leather notebooks with their delicate threads and gilded edges. Then she pushed those thoughts away.
‘It’s a good space.’ She tried to sound matter of fact. This tour was purely a distraction, and shewasn’tmoving in here. After the New Year, she wouldn’t be here at all.
‘It’s ideal for you,’ Fiona said. ‘Just imagine – notebooks here, books next door.’
‘There are no books next door.’ Sophie tried not to roll her eyes at the worn conversation. ‘Everyone’s said that Harry isn’t going to resurrect the bookshop.’
