Page 52 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
His eyes were back on the sewing machine, perhaps out of embarrassment, and with the overhead light above him – they’d turned it on so they could see well enough to work – his long eyelashes made feathery shadows on his cheeks.
‘This is a lot of bunting,’ he said gruffly, after a few minutes of awkward silence.
‘I know,’ Sophie said. ‘But it’ll be worth it. We’re supposed to be doing it together, though.’
Technically, they still were. Sophie was tidying up the pennants Harry had sewn together using the thick, glittery ribbon they’d chosen, snipping off loose threads and generally neatening up where necessary. Except he really had it under control, and now they had a long trail of Christmas pudding bunting, another with gambolling reindeer on, and a third that was a frenzied delight of triangles in glittering red, green, gold and silver, which made Sophie’s eyes hurt.
‘Wearedoing it together,’ Harry murmured, his focus on the fabric and ribbon he was easing beneath the needle. ‘Anyway, I’m going to get to the end of this row, then we’re downing tools.’
‘We are?’ Sophie hid her disappointment. She thought of her flat, homely but with few distractions on a Friday night in November.
‘I thought I could cook something, if you wanted?’ Harry said. ‘Unless you have other plans.’
‘Oh! No, I don’t. I’d love that.’ She pointed at the sewing machine. ‘Hurry up, then. I’m starving.’
‘Yes, boss.’ He flashed her a smile that felt more dangerous than she cared to admit.
He refused to let her help him in the kitchen, which left her stuck in the study, unwilling to take herself on an illicit tour of his house while he was otherwise occupied. She got out her notebook, looked at her paltry list of Secret Bookshop candidates, then put it away again. At least getting involved in the festival had done the village some good, even if it hadn’t yet solved her book-shaped mystery.
Fiona and Ermin had been delighted when she’d cornered them both in the shop and told them the festival was moving to the village green, and they’d embraced her ideas about involving the community: the pot-luck buffet, the open-mic night, everyone making decorations for the tree and some kind of games tournament.
‘Which game?’ Ermin had asked eagerly, Poppet dancing at his feet, impatient for her walk.
‘I don’t know yet. I need to see what games the village hall has first.’
‘And you’ll allow anything at the open-mic night?’ Fiona asked. ‘Any talent at all?’
‘I think so,’ Sophie said. ‘We want everyone to feel comfortable taking part.’
‘Jazz mentioned something about singing,’ Fiona said. ‘She’s done some busking in the past, and I was going to suggest she could get involved in the carol choir, but she might want do something on her own.’
‘How’s she doing?’ Sophie saw her whenever she popped into the shop, but she still seemed elusive, almost like the ghost they had believed her to be when they’d heard her in the abandoned bookshop.
‘She’s still here,’ Fiona had said, her smile wavering. ‘She says she’s grateful for our help, but she doesn’t want to be in debt to us. She’s going to see Mary about a job at the hotel, because she wants to pay us rent. She said she might stay until Christmas, then move on.’
Sophie had felt a dull ache in her chest. It was all so familiar, that need to be self-sufficient, to not want to rely on other people. ‘I’ll ask her to coffee,’ she’d said, wanting to help in some way.
‘Why?’ Fiona had asked. ‘So you can share your plans about leaving Mistingham behind?’
Sophie hadn’t known what to say to that. She hadn’t wanted to tell her friend that she’d done nothing more to set her move in motion since looking up Cornwall on her phone. The truth of it was that mysterious books, Christmas festivals and Harry taking up so much of her time meant she hadn’t had a chance to plan her getaway in any more detail.
Harry came back into the study carrying two plates piled high with food. There were sausages, mashed potato and gravy, peas spilling across the top, and Yorkshire puddings placed precariously on the side.
‘This looks incredible,’ Sophie said, moving to his desk.
‘The Yorkshires are Aunt Bessie’s, but the sausages are local.’
‘Do you always eat in here?’ she asked, as Harry put a plate in front of her.
‘Not always, but the kitchen and dining room are disaster areas right now. Ithinkthe mash is dust free.’
Sophie scooped some up on her fork and tried it. ‘Well, even if it’s not, it tastes delicious.’
They tucked into the food, the silence between them so much more comfortable than it had been a couple of weeks ago.
‘What will you do when the house is finished?’ Sophie asked. ‘Find a full-time consulting job?’
He laughed. ‘I don’t know if the house will ever be finished.’
