Page 88 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
‘Last year I stopped the festival from taking place here, on Mistingham Green. I was over-protective of the oak, and I was … basically, I was being selfish – wallowing in the past. A Christmas Day Grinch.’ He was louder now, more confident, and a few people laughed. ‘Someone told me I needed to let it go, let the green be enjoyed, used as it was meant to be, by the whole village.
‘And now, standing here, seeing you all tonight, and knowing the effort that’s been put in by Simon and Jason, Annie and Jim and their Christmas Hook the Duck, Vea and Birdie and Dexter, Natasha and Indigo, May, who volunteeredme for this role, together with Fiona and Ermin, of course, and everyone brave enough to perform as part of the open mic … Now I can say, with complete confidence, that I’m glad I was persuaded, and that I’ve been a small part of the festivities we’re bringing you over the next four nights.’
There was more applause.
‘I won’t take up too much more of your time,’ Harry said with a smile. ‘There’s just one, final thing, one more person I need to mention: the person who changed my mind about the oak tree, who has been my partner – who has led the way, really.’ His eyes dropped to his feet, then he looked up again. ‘I have been back in Mistingham a while, as most of you know, but I haven’t really been …back, if you see what I mean. But for the first time in years, I feel a real part of this village: I know I’m where I’m supposed to be, and that’s down to Sophie Stevens. She, more than anyone, has made tonight what it is, and she’s made it …’ He glanced at her, then turned back to the crowd. ‘She’s made this all worthwhile, for me. I wouldn’t have wanted to do it without her.’
As cheers filled the air, he stepped back and handed her the microphone, in the one moment she couldn’t have said anything even if she’d wanted to. Harry Anderly was a private person, he didn’t like airing his clean – let alone his dirty – laundry in public, so what was that? What had he just done? Sophie took the mic, took a step forward, and tried to remember how to breathe, and then how to speak.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next morning, Sophie was sitting on the kitchen counter in the manor, reading a book she’d found shoved unceremoniously on the end of a bookshelf in Harry’s study:The Art of Being a Consultant Who Cares.Harry was frying bacon, slicing a seeded sourdough from Dexter’s bakery, and the radio was playing festive songs, ‘Fairytale of New York’following ‘Last Christmas’in the background.
‘Listen to this,’ Sophie said, swinging her legs.
‘Do I have to?’ Harry took four eggs out of a box and put them next to the hob.
‘Being a truly caring consultant,’she read aloud, ‘means thinking like your client, bringing yourself to their level. You will never understand how best to help them unless you identify with them in some way. See what colours they like, match your tie to their jumper. Bring them their favourite coffee when you meet. Take an interest in their children’s lives.Harry!’ she laughed.
‘It was my leaving present when I left the job in London – a tongue-in-cheek one.’
‘It’s a real book, though,’ Sophie said in wonder. ‘It has a publisher and everything. But it’s incredibly nuts. Is the writer a real human, do you think?’
‘He’s probably a psychopath. You get a lot of them in high-stakes business.’
She leaned back on the counter. ‘Areyoua psychopath?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Harry turned the bacon over, and the sizzling ratcheted up a notch.
‘You said nice things last night.’ She put the book down. ‘About Mistingham, and about me.’
‘And you returned the favour.’ He put down the spatula and stood in front of her. She widened her legs, caging his hips between them.
‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I mumbled something pathetic up on that stage. But that wasyourfault, because you caught me off guard.’
‘I think you said …’ He closed his eyes, as if he was trying to remember. ‘Working with Harry has been great.’ He opened them again, and gave her what could only be described as a cheeky smile. It entirely warranted her flicking a tea towel at his arm.
‘Hey!’ He rubbed the spot where she’d landed her weapon. ‘You are way too good at the tea-towel flick.’
‘A boy in one of my foster homes did it constantly, so I had to up my game.’
Harry squeezed her waist. ‘No need to up your game here,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to change anything about yourself; you don’t need to try at anything. Just be you.’ He kissed her nose, then went back to his pan.
‘OK,’ Sophie managed around the lump in her throat. ‘Except I think we’ll have to try hard to rustle up some visitors for tonight.’ She gestured to the window, the blur of rain against the glass, the tap-tap-tap from the sleet that was mixed up with it. The trees were swaying chaotically, like a backing group that had all been given a different dance routine for the same song.
‘Some of the hardier villagers will still come,’ Harry said. ‘And if it gets too awful, we can move most of it into the hall. The open mic, the Rudolph Hoopla. The bridge tournament and the Decoration Station will just have to be squeezed a bit.’
Sophie slid off the counter and got out plates and cutlery. ‘It’s going to fuck everything up, though. We can’t possibly fit all of it in the hall, and the craft stands and food trucks won’t survive a monsoon.’
‘We’ll play it by ear,’ Harry said calmly. ‘Take every challenge as it comes.’
It was this, Sophie thought: his certainty, his confidence, that she loved so much. One of the things, anyway. It made her feel safe, it madeherfeel certain. Her brain was stuttering over the word that had come so easily to her, theLword, when he said, ‘You remember that book you mentioned? You said you’d been given one as an anonymous gift?’
Sophie stilled, clutching two forks. ‘So Ididtell you, then.’
‘You mentioned something about it.’ Harry cracked eggs into the pan. ‘Any luck finding out where it came from?’
‘No,’ Sophie admitted. After accusing Fiona, it felt tainted, somehow. Not the book itself, but her desperate need to find out the source. It was as if it was telling her to staywell away, enjoy it for what it was – like Winnie and Simon were doing with theirs – and stop digging. ‘I didn’t find out, but I don’t mind, really.’
