Page 2 of Confessions of a Christmasholic

Her lovers weren’t good at sticking around. And neither was she. As she knew, the thinnest strands of love or affection could quickly thicken to ropes and chains. She’d been tied down as a teenager and a young adult and she didn’t like being unable to move.

A gust of wind, sneaking under the coat of her collar, sent chills down Sutton’s neck. A head-to-toe shiver racked her body. She looked down and frowned. Why was her coat open and why wasn’t she wearing any gloves? Jamming her hands into the pockets of her too-thin puffer jacket, she bent her head, her footsteps echoing on the quiet country lane.

God, it was so quiet. Serial killer quiet.

Killers didn’t live in Conningworth, an isolated and very lovely town in the Lake District. She hoped. But someone with serial killer-ish tendencies could easily fly under the radar here. He, or she, could live as a teacher or a church elder, or a shopkeeper, with no one suspecting they kept eyeballs in jars in the garden shed. Or that their massive train set stood in front of a door to a secret room that held a hospital bed and eyeball-removing instruments. Right, now she was scaring herself. Sutton’s eyes darted from one side of the road to the other, looking for shadows behind the snowbanks, listening for a heavy breather. But all she could hear was her own laboured pants. Lugging herself up this goddamn-it-to-hell steep hill had her sounding like a hippo with emphysema. She needed to get fit.

But fitness fell way down on her priority list. Waaay down. Housing and feeding herself occupied the top spots.

The road levelled out and Sutton released a thankful sigh. It was also a lot brighter up here, thanks to the light pouring from the Christmas-house-from-Vegas a hundred yards away. Where was Jason’s uncle’s place? She narrowed her eyes and trudged on, taking in the spectacle.

It looked like a light factory had vomited its contents all over the building and the lawn.Dear God. Sutton stopped, taking in the dizzyingly festive house. Underneath the twinkling lights was a standard two-storied house with a slate roof, and what she thought was a painted black, or maybe navy blue, front door and cottage pane windows. When stripped of its cascade of lights, it would be just another reasonably sized country house in a small, rural English village.

But thousands of fairy lights adorned the roofline, window frames and the edges of the gutters, and Sutton lifted her hand to shade her eyes. Honestly, it was enough to cause an epileptic to fit.

The front garden was even worse than the house. Multicoloured string lights illuminated the neatly trimmed hedges and encircled mature trees. The trunks and branches of a few trees were wrapped in warm white lights, acceptable, while others boasted an eye-blistering medley of red, green, blue and yellow hues. Red and white light-up candy canes, interspersed with neon snowmen and reindeer, lined the path to the front door. Two brightly decorated Christmas trees sat in matching bright red pots on either side of the door. And if that wasn’t enough, a ten-foot-high inflatable Santa, looking a little grotesque and utterly creepy, squatted on the lawn, like it was about to take a…

You’re drunk, Sutton, there’s no need to be vulgar. Keep it tidy, chicken.

Sutton blinked. A man – a rather dishy one – landed a dropkick on Santa’s temple. Then another one. Seriously? Tequila wasn’t her friend, but it never made her hallucinate before. Thinking she might forget this in the morning, Sutton opened her phone and started filming Conningworth’s equivalent to John Wick. It would be a fun clip to put online. Maybe it would go viral and gain her more followers. Like, more than the twenty she had at the moment. A great-looking guy beating the crap out of a fake Santa…good for a couple of likes, right?

His fist rocketed into Santa’s stomach, his knee into his kidney. The man, mid to late thirties, with shoulders as wide as Canada – she was a huge fan of tight, long-sleeved T-shirts and straight-legged track pants – looked to be in his mid-thirties, maybe a little older but he was fit. Properly fit…muscly, brawny and ripped. Unlike her: she was skinny unfit. And despite landing some massive blows, the guy wasn’t even breathing heavily.

Unlike Sutton. After walking upthathill, she needed an oxygen tank and, possibly, a defibrillator.

‘I fucking hate Christmas and I hate Kate’s Christmas Shop! I fucking hate Christmas decorations and I fucking hate December!’

Preach it, brother.

He landed a series of kicks on Santa’s hip, one after another while standing on one leg – how did he do that? – and Sutton envied him his balance. How was hers? She lifted her right foot two inches off the ground, and she wobbled, her pack swaying as the world tilted. She dropped her foot, the world stabilised itself and she gripped the straps of her backpack.No sharp and sudden movements, Alsop.

But she did envy him for having a convenient punching bag. And she didn’t blame him for kicking the crap out of Santa, as he’d yet to drop his shit-eating smirk. She cocked her head to the side. The inflatable was huge, but he wasn’t going down. Hot and Cross looked like he could do with some help.

She could kick. And punch. Okay, not well, she had ramen-noodle arms, but it was the thought that counted, right? She could be his Hot Guy’s wingwoman, his backup plan, someone to help inflict a little more pain.

Santa was goingdown,baby.

‘Hey, do you need some help?’ she called, allowing her pack to drop to the grassy pavement.

He whipped around, as fast as the wind, immediately lifting his fists and bouncing on his toes. She raised her hands and stepped onto the path. ‘Whoa, Rocky, I’m on your side. I can help you beat up Santa.’

‘What?’ he demanded, hoisting up the sleeves of his T-shirt to reveal very nice, muscled forearms. His forehead glistened with sweat, there were damp patches on his shirt, under his arms and spreading over his chest, and she figured he’d been at it for a while.

Not fair. He could’ve waited for her. She’d had a crappy day, a crappy month. She needed an outlet for her frustration too. ‘Can I have a go?’

‘Who the hell are you and where did you come from?’

‘I’m a resident of the world and a traveller of its lands,’ she grandly declared. She was also a little – or massively – drunk and didn’t want to explain she was about to sneak into one of his neighbours’ houses – what number was this house and where was Sunshine Cottage? – to misappropriate a bed. Not her finest moment, but she was out of options. She gestured to the inflatable. ‘Lemme have a go.’

‘Are you pissed?’ he demanded, frowning. In the light coming from the godawful decorations, she saw thick, dark eyebrows pull down. That was quite a scowl. She couldn’t see him clearly and wished she could: she suspected his face matched his rather spectacular body. She needed to know if it did, but she couldn’t see from where she stood on the wet road. And there was no way she could punch Santa from here. She needed to hit the fat old bastard. Hell, she needed to smacksomeone. Pretty much anyone would do.

Sutton’s genius plan to reach Hot Guy and Santa faster was to take a shortcut by cutting across the lawn. She veered off the road and onto the path and came to an impenetrable wall of neon candy canes and snowmen. Undeterred, Sutton plunged into the candy cane, reindeer and snowmen maze, determined to find a way through. Crap, why were there sneaky electrical cables lying around? Whoops! Her feet got tangled in the cables, and suddenly her body was on the move while her feet struggled to catch up.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sutton noticed a couple of snowmen and candy canes taking flight. Hot Guy shouted what she thought might be a warning.Too little, too late, dude!She heard his filthy curse as the brick path rose to French kiss her face.

Ah,man. This would hurt.

And then all the lights went out.

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