Page 1 of Christmas in Mistletoe
Chapter 1
The hairson the back of Fran Bell’s neck stood up, one by one, as if preparing to applaud. She tilted her gaze at the singer in front of her, squinting against the glare of the bright stage lights. Fran didn’t look away. She couldn’t.
Ruby O’Connell had Fran under her spell.
Fran hadn’t checked her phone once during the whole performance. Hadn’t had one other thought but Ruby, with her long, willowy body, confident stare, and voice like painted gold. Fran had been to a lifetime of gigs, but only a handful had made her react like this. Ruby O’Connell’s voice told a thousand bold stories. Fran wanted to hear more.
Damian, Fran’s colleague, nudged her. “What do you think?” he mouthed, his blue contact lenses glowing in the dark.
She leaned in to shout in his ear. “I think she’s a bloody slam-dunk.”
Damian nodded his agreement.
Ten minutes later, and the whole crowd in Holborn’s New Moon Jazz Club surged to their feet. Whistles sounded from the back, along with stamping of feet. A shout of “more!” from the man to Fran’s right. He was just voicing what everyone was thinking.
Ruby bowed, thanked the crowd for coming, then walked off-stage. She pulled the leather strap of her acoustic guitar over her head and put the instrument down, then gave her bass player a hug.
Fran followed Ruby’s movements, just in case she was leaving. When Ruby headed towards the loo, Fran turned to Damian. “She was fucking incredible. It’s a travesty she’s not headlining tonight.”
“Totally agree.” Damian pulled in his chair, his 5 o’clock shadow pronounced. He was one of the hairiest men Fran knew. “What a voice. It oozed class. Spoke to my soul.”
Fran raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t taken Damian for a poet, but he constantly surprised her. “I hope she listens to what I have to say. I’d love to work with her. She’s a little different to Fast Forward.”
Damian snorted. “Understatement of the year. But Fast Forward will be fine. I have faith. You need to get some, too.” Damian turned and got his phone out. He checked it, then raised his head, giving Fran a stiff grin.
Now they’d seen Ruby, he wanted to leave. As his boss, Fran wasn’t sure how long she should toy with him. Maybe another few minutes.
“Nine thirty. The final act’s on in ten minutes. It’s going to be at least another hour before we’re done.”
Fran twisted her wine glass on the round wooden table, and watched how the dim amber hue spilling from a small lamp turned her Merlot a warmer shade. She loved these venues: dark, intimate and with more than a hint of debauched times gone by. It was a far cry from London’s sticky, grimy clubs. Plus, you got a seat. Fran totally got what her dad meant now when he refused to go to any gig without a seat. There was no danger of getting a pint of Stella flung at you here. As if to illustrate her point, the people beside her made room on their table for another glass of wine and a charcuterie board to share. Eating at gigs. Only in jazz clubs.
Damian’s face was a stricken picture. “Really? Another hour?”
She was being unkind. But she was sort of enjoying it. Fran nudged him with her elbow. Being unkind to Damian was like toying with a puppy. “I’m only kidding.” She inclined her head towards the exit. “Go. Do whatever it is young people do on a Wednesday in town.”
Damian returned her look. “The same thing you do?”
Fran used to think that. But lately, as she’d just tipped over to 36, she’d begun to think otherwise. Now, at times, the lure of a cuppa was far greater than the lure of another glass of wine. Her dad would laugh at her for thinking so. But as her music industry job involved so much going out, staying in was a treat for Fran. Sofa, tea, movie. Bliss.
Damian, though, being 29, was already up and away, grabbing his jacket and legging it before Fran changed her mind. She followed his retreating form, but then her attention was snagged by the returning Ruby O’Connell.
Fran raised her chin and got up, tracking Ruby with military precision. She brushed down her navy jeans and pulled on the cuffs of her black shirt.
Ruby accepted a flurry of congratulatory handshakes.
Fran waited for the crowd to die down, and for Ruby to return to the rest of her band. Once Ruby had given her friends her first relaxed smile, Fran swooped. She’d done this enough times; she knew the drill.
She cleared her throat to get Ruby’s attention. It worked.
Ruby turned, her reddish-brown hair not as vibrant away from the bright lights of the stage. However, the intensity of Ruby’s emerald stare locked Fran in place. Her eyes had looked incredible from a distance, but up close, they were even more alluring. How old was she? Her smoky voice and old-soul vocals made her seem older. When she sang, Ruby could be any age. Up close, though, she was probably no more than 30, max.
Fran extended a hand.
Ruby took it.
Her handshake was firm, her stare true. This obviously wasn’t the first time this had happened to Ruby.
“Fran Bell, Dronk Records.” She turned up the wattage on her smile. “You were incredible. You have an absolutely amazing voice.”
