Page 3 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
Books and notebooks: one with the pages already full of magic; the other waiting for you to create some of your own. She couldn’t do without either, and she was already looking forward to getting back toBeach Readby Emily Henry that evening. And then, maybe she’d start a Christmas book, to get her in the festive spirit.
‘Have you got time to show me these scarves, then?’ Dexter asked, when he’d drained his tea.
‘Of course,’ Fiona said smugly. ‘This way.’
Once they were hidden behind a rail of expensive jeans, their voices muffled, Sophie opened her notebook to the middle pages and wrote ‘Cornwall 2025’ at the top. Shepushed her ponytail, long and reddish-brown, over her shoulder, and waited for the familiar buzz of energy she usually got when she set out the next chapter in her story, crafted a new life plan. This time, it was distinctly muted. She doodled a flower-shaped bullet point, waited for inspiration to strike, and was distracted by a clatter from outside.
She saw through the window that their A-board, advertising chunky winter knits and luxury leather journals, had fallen over in the wind. She slipped out from behind her counter, pushed open the door and headed for the sign, which was lying on its side on the pavement. Her shoulder connected with something and she jolted back, just as someone said ‘Jesus! What the …?’
Sophie looked to her right, where a man was staring down at his grey jacket, the unhelpful angle of his takeaway coffee cup, and a dark stain spreading across the fabric. With his gaze elsewhere, Sophie had time to examine him, and felt a spark of recognition. Thick, mid-brown hair that had been tousled by the wind; square jaw brushed with stubble; long, straight nose; thick brows.
Then he looked up, and she added to her cataloguing: eyes that were neither dark nor pale, but that bore into her with an intensity she wasn’t used to. This, she realized, was Harry Anderly – as if talking about him had conjured him here, perhaps to admonish them all.
‘I didn’t see you,’ Sophie said.
‘Clearly.’ His voice was tight.
‘I’m sorry,’ she went on, ‘but you might have noticed me, too. You were walking towards me: I was right in front of you.’
‘I was distracted.’ He glanced away from her, towards the shop window, as if that had been the cause.
‘Right,’ she said, when he didn’t add anything else. She gestured to his jacket. ‘If it’s black coffee, it won’t leave a mark.’
He looked back at her and their gazes held. She saw that his eyes were hazel, greens and browns mingling together.
‘Good to know,’ he said after a beat, then cleared his throat.
The silence stretched, and Sophie decided that Dexter’s sympathy for him was misplaced. She reached out towards the A-board, but before she could pick it up Harry grabbed hold of it. He slammed it on the ground with almost enough force to crack the paving stones and then, without even glancing at her, strode off up Perpendicular Street.
Sophie stared at him. ‘I wasrightin front of you,’ she said again, this time to nobody. It was a good job the fireworks were being let off from the beach rather than his land. She couldn’t imagine how bad things would get for everyone if he gave into the village’s requests and something went wrong. She tapped the top of the A-board, checking Harry had put it back on even ground, then went inside.
Fiona and Dexter were still by the accessories, so she returned to her notebook and her plans for next year. There was a part of her that knew it made no sense, that questioned why, when things were going well, she felt the need to start again. But the memories of Bristol were still stubbornly fresh in her mind. She’d been there for three years, let herself get complacent with a job she loved, a man she believed was in it for the long haul, and it had all fallen apart.
She was happiest when she wasn’t tied down, felt lighter when there was nothing holding her to a place or a person.Everyone was different, and this was how she chose to live her life: there was nothing wrong with it.
Fiona and Dexter were laughing somewhere behind her, and she could see people in heavy coats and thick hats walking past outside, cheeks pink from a bracing walk along the seafront. Sophie decided that she would throw everything into the next two months, make sure her Christmas was as profitable as possible, so she’d have everything she needed to start afresh at the beginning of next year. The buzz of energy and excitement would come as soon as she had something concrete written down, as soon as she firmed up some of her ideas. She was sure of it.
Chapter Two
Mistingham was like a relic from a different time, a village taken straight out of a period drama, if you ignored all the modern cars and people wearing Nikes and Hunter wellies. It was nestled along Norfolk’s northern coastline, with a soft, sandy beach and a wide promenade, the North Sea glittering blue, steel grey or close to black, depending on the weather and its mood, the wind farm like a cluster of white garden windmills on the horizon.
Seagulls were a constant presence, cawing or swooping or stalking along the tops of walls, surveying unsuspecting tourists emerging from the establishments on Perpendicular Street: the ice-cream shop Two Scoops; Batter Days – which sold incredible fish and chips right below Sophie’s flat; the old-fashioned arcade Penny For Them, and of course, Hartley Country Apparel.
The village pub, the Blossom Bough, had a traditional Norfolk flint exterior and sash windows that emitted a soft, alluring glow on winter nights, the dark wood bar andpanelling inside offset by modern lighting, gleaming optics and cream walls. Dexter’s bakery was at the top of Perpendicular Street, its delicious smells settling like snow across the village when the wind was blowing in the right direction, and the Mistingham Hotel – run by sisters Mary and Winnie – sat at the top of the gently sloping hill and overlooked Mistingham Green, with its ancient oak tree – the subject of so much consternation – and the low-slung village hall.
The post office had been run from the hotel since before Sophie had moved there, the sisters agreeing to take on the role on top of their already busy schedules rather than lose it altogether, to ensure that the residents – a lot of whom were elderly – didn’t have to travel for such a vital service.
On Monday morning, Sophie stepped into Mistingham Hotel’s calming foyer. There were no Christmas decorations up yet, but an autumn garland of red and gold leaves trailed along the mantel above the fireplace, a couple of miniature pumpkins left over from Halloween nestled amongst the foliage.
The post office was at the front of the hotel, next to the kitchen, and she breathed in the aromas of butter and roasting meat, her stomach rumbling even though she’d just had breakfast. She made this trip at least twice a week, sending out orders from her online shop, sometimes collecting parcels of paper, leather or board when she had missed the postman trying to deliver them to her flat.
The queue was already long, two women in front of her talking about the fireworks that had gone off without a hitch on the beach on Saturday night.
‘They spent more money on it this year judging by howlong it went on,’ one woman said, her arms full of packages. ‘Probably to placate us.’
‘We all had sparklers on the prom,’ her friend replied. ‘It was a bit windier, but I didn’t mind.’
‘What’s the village green for, if not community events?’ The first woman sounded plaintive.
