The Christmas Bookshop(39)

There was another step behind them, and Carmen glanced behind her. Pippa was there too, about to announce herself and presumably tell everyone to get back to bed or she’d tell Mummy. Carmen, however, raised her finger to her mouth, then beckoned her forwards; there was enough space between the two duvets for her to snuggle between her siblings, and to Carmen’s surprise she managed to do so with the minimum of fuss.

The silence, the warmth of the small bodies, the astonishing display of the snow – all affected Carmen deeply as they looked out, awestruck, into the garden, transformed into a mysterious grotto of wonder.

Finally, Jack’s voice piped up.

‘Can we go out and play in it?’

‘At five o’clock in the morning in your pyjamas?’ said Carmen. ‘Your mother would have my guts for garters.’

There was general disappointment.

‘You can if you’re ready before school later though,’ said Carmen. ‘Get your wellies out … Actually,’ she added, as there came another boom, ‘I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if they cancelled school.’

At this, there was a sharp intake of breath from all of them.

‘I’ll miss my bassoon lesson,’ said Pippa worriedly.

‘I wanted a snowball fight,’ said Jack.

‘CLOSING THE SCHOOL,’ said Phoebe in the dreamy voice of one upon whom unimaginable riches have been bestowed.

‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Carmen hurriedly. ‘Now, back to bed.’

But nobody was remotely capable of going back to bed: Phoebe protested that she was too scared to go by herself, and would have to sleep in Carmen’s bed; Jack said if they went to bed he was just going to go out by himself; and Pippa sniffed and tutted like an old woman on the bus.

Carmen, so unused to her nieces and nephew, for once hit on the right solution: making everyone hot chocolate – the Aga was still warm, and they huddled around it as she ransacked the cupboard for something that might pass as hot and a treat.

She finally found an untouched bag of very posh hot chocolate in a Valvona & Crolla hamper which must have arrived as a client gift. Carmen looked at the children and they looked back at her wonderingly as if, on this night-time trip of marvels, they couldn’t possibly be realising their wildest dreams. Carmen figured out how to put on the hob and whisked up the milky frothy foam – it was dark chocolate, durr, the worst kind, so she added plenty of milk and sugar to make it palatable – and filled up their little stripy mugs with their names painted on them, and they sat around the table, talking about their plans for their snow day – the biggest snowman! Getting the neighbours in a snowball fight! Tobogganing!

And then, well, there was an entire Christmas hamper right there, and it wasn’t fair not to let them try the crystallised ginger – ‘yum’ according to the girls, ‘DISGUSTING’ according to Jack – and have one of the little hand-wrapped chocolates and smell the tea and okay then, just a Florentine, until the midnight feast was finished, and little heads began to droop, and Carmen shooed them upstairs together, making Pippa promise to supervise extra tooth-brushing, and only the dirty cups in the dishwasher later that morning betrayed that the little gang had been there at all – that and the unexpected kiss from Phoebe that was so fleeting Carmen wasn’t sure if it too had been a dream.





‘What the hell is thundersnow?’

Carmen squinted at her phone and the text message from a number she didn’t recognise. She frowned.

‘Who’s this?’

‘It’s Blair. Blair Pfenning. Blair who took you out to lunch? That Blair? You know? Yesterday?’

Carmen found her heart jumping. Goodness. Well. This was a surprise. She had trained herself not to expect it. And also, he was a knob. But …

Maybe he couldn’t stop thinking about her. I mean, she had thought he was a bit jumped up but still, it had been … it had been such a lovely treat. At a moment when she didn’t have a lot of treats, when she had had a tough old time of it, and she certainly didn’t have a lot of people taking her out to lunch, especially not Champagne and dragon phlegm lunches.



In his cosy hotel room with underfloor heating, Blair Pfenning stared at the contact list the publicist had left behind, with several precautions to make sure he could get his own plane, and how much she’d miss him but she had a major thriller writer flying in to London and … and he’d waved a hand magnanimously and announced that he wasn’t a baby even though he was secretly furious and feeling very annoyed. He needed a full-time assistant to follow him around; he was far too important to get to the airport by himself.

‘I’ve booked the cab for nine,’ she’d said. ‘It’s a black cab, so it can get through the traffic faster.’

‘Fine,’ he’d said shortly, and quickly put all his clothes through the hotel’s express laundry service so he’d at least feel he was getting his money’s worth.

Then of course she’d flounced off back to London on the train – and he was now completely stranded with a cancelled flight, which she couldn’t help him with as her train had run into snow just south of Newcastle and appeared to be stuck till the Army could get to it.

Blair had been curt in his sympathies.

She had, however, left the contact sheet with him. He’d thrown it in the bin, but then bent down and retrieved it. Surely someone could sort him out.