Page 101 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
‘And I convinced Harry that, after making the village change their entire set-up for the festival, the least he could do was offer to help out.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought you’d find out it was his book a lot sooner, that the mystery would be solved quickly, you’d laugh about it, get to know each other, and that it would just be one tiny part of how you met.’
‘But I didn’t …’ Sophie stuck her fork in her pudding, swept up some cream with her spoon, and combined the two. ‘I dismissed him straight away. Harry was so upfront about everything, and we didn’t even know each other until we started working on the festival. It just seemed impossible that it was him. Then Winnie and Simon got books, too.’
May nibbled an icing holly leaf. ‘I should have come clean sooner. I was going to, but then Harry told me you were leaving Mistingham, and I realized my gift hadn’t worked, that you felt singled out rather than included. And your changes to the festival, getting the whole community involved, gave me the idea of giving books to other people. I thought, that way, you’d feel a part of the village, instead of separate from it.’ She dropped her head into her hands, her next words muffled. ‘I should have trusted that you and Harry would be fine without it, and now the thing Idid to bring you together – it’s broken you apart.’ She looked up. ‘Don’t blame Harry, Sophie. Hate me if you want to, but don’t leave because you think Harry doesn’t care about you.’
‘He kept it from me for ten days,’ she said, but it was a weak protest. Fiona had reminded her that Harry hadn’t known what a big thing the book had become for her: he hadn’t realized she’d been searching so hard, or that him not telling her would feel like a betrayal.
May nodded. ‘He wanted all the facts before he came to you. But Sophie …’ She put her hand on the table, fingers outstretched. ‘He cares about you.Somuch.’
Sophie sipped her tea. ‘Jane Eyreleaves when things get complicated.’
May made an exasperated sound. ‘It’s a bit more thancomplicatedwith Jane and Rochester. Harry doesn’t have a wife locked up in his attic, I promise you. He has a wayward goat he’s too fond of, but that should send youintohis arms, not out of them.’
‘Itiscomplicated though,’ Sophie said. ‘For me.’
‘Why?’
She sliced her pudding with her fork, working out how best to put it. She realized she wasn’t angry with May any more, or with Harry. She wasn’t sure she’d been angry with either of them for very long at all. It was panic, more than anything. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘whenever I let my guard down, it goes wrong.’
‘So you’re going to leave us all behind because you’d rather be alone on your own terms than trust that people love you and will always be there for you? Sounds pretty self-defeating to me.’ May gave her a gentle smile.
Sophie couldn’t be drawn in. ‘It’s what’s best for me.’
May nodded, her shoulders dropping. Sophie waited for her to argue, to tell her how selfish she was being, like Fiona had done. Instead she just took small, methodical bites of her pudding.
‘How’s Harry?’ she asked, when she couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘His shoulder, I mean.’
‘It’s bruised,’ May said. ‘Nothing’s broken, according to the doctor, but I know it’s painful. And I got my brother to check the roof is safe, that nothing else was dislodged in the storm. Harry did a good job as Santa last night, and he’s going to do it again tonight.’
Sophie felt a pang at the thought of missing Harry dressed as Santa on the last night of the festival. She put her fork down. ‘I’m really glad it’s not broken. I should get going, though. I’ve got a lot to do before I leave. Thank you for explaining. I’ll leave the book with Fiona – Harry should have it back.’
May looked shocked. ‘Don’t do that. I know Harry wants you to have it – take it with you. Please.’
Sophie could only nod. ‘Bye, May. Say goodbye to Harry for me.’
She didn’t wait for the other woman to respond, but put a twenty-pound note on the table and then, with Clifton hurrying to keep up, with her emotions a choppy sea of hardened resolve combined with despair, she left Mistingham Hotel as the band started to play ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’.
Sophie put her empty glass on the table and looked accusingly at the wine bottle. She would have to pour the rest of it down the sink. She had a long drive tomorrow, and she wanted to set off early, with a clear head.
The flat was packed up, all her boxes stacked by the door. Her hat and scarf were on the hook next to her coat, both in a soft, rose-pink wool. She’d bought them when she’d arrived in Mistingham and first met Fiona – ever the brilliant salesperson – and she’d been giddy at the thought of this new, promising place to start over in: a place she’d heard someone talking about on a train that sounded so romantic, so magical.It is, the voice in her head whispered.More than you ever imagined.
She couldn’t spend the whole evening in her echoey flat, looking up fairs and markets in Cornwall to contact in the new year. Usually by now she would be bubbling with excitement at all the possibility.
‘Come on, Clifton.’ She put his harness on, then slipped into her coat, scarf and hat, and left the flat.
It was just after seven, and the air was crisp and cold, with a bite that made her think of rubbery wellington boots and noses made out of carrots, of the cold splash of a snowball sliding down inside her collar. The sea air was unmistakable, but so was the telltale hint of snow. Would it really snow now, just before Christmas?
She could hear the Oak Fest from her front door: the jivy, over-the-top Rudolph Hoopla soundtrack, mingling with shouts and laughter, the high-pitched scream of an over-excited child. It was louder than the other nights, and Sophie knew that was down to the added giddiness of Christmas Eve. It was still early, so families could come out for a baked Alaska and a round of Christmas Hook the Duck, take part in Birdie’s candlelit blessing before heading home to their Christmas traditions: stories read and stockings hung in fireplaces, milk and cookies orwhisky and mince pies laid out in preparation for their late-night visitor.
Sophie’s chest ached. She had her own traditions, the little things she did, just for her: she made herself a beautiful new notebook, a brand-new design for a fresh year, then wrote a list of all her wishes, setting herself challenges that she wanted to fulfil over the next twelve months. She allowed herself a bottle of champagne – if she could afford it, and had a glass on Christmas Eve then put a teaspoon in the neck, keeping it fizzy for the following day. This year, she had forgotten to buy one.
Mrs Fairweather had cooked pancakes for Christmas breakfast, with a variety of toppings, and Sophie had carried that over into her life with Trent. His favourite topping was berries and yoghurt, so she’d always gone with that instead of what she wanted, hoping it would make him happy. She had pictured having pancakes with Harry this year, making them in Mistingham Manor’s building-site kitchen, May, the dogs and Felix there too, eating breakfast together on Christmas morning.
‘Not joining the party tonight?’
Sophie jumped. It was Dexter, standing with his hands in his pockets, giving her a curious look.
‘No, I …’
