The Christmas Bookshop(88)

But now, as he saw the happy faces, as his fingers flew while wrapping up brown paper packages with string for excited children and other cheerful customers, and observing the excited tourists taking photographs of the window, he wondered why he had turned away from this for so long.

Carmen had phoned in a gush, so happy that her sister had had her baby and that she now had to take care of the children that day, apologising profusely, and her happiness had bubbled over the telephone. She definitely made him feel more cheerful when she was around.

And they would have a good Christmas. The shop had never made so much money. So. Someone probably would want the business.

He would sell the house. And buy somewhere small, he supposed, as retired people do. One bedroom. Maybe a new flat with triple glazing so it was always warm, somewhere out in the suburbs where there were no steps to get everywhere so he wouldn’t risk tripping on the ice. Maybe two bedrooms, one for him and one for his books. Just him. On his own.

‘Are you all right?’ said the nice lady who was watching him slow down and stop wrapping The Snow Queen, which was annoying as it was her last bit of shopping and she was very much looking forward to sitting down and having a coffee at the café Dahlia worked at and if he didn’t hurry up it would be eleven o’clock and full of people who had planned to meet there then and she’d miss it and wouldn’t get a seat.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr McCredie absently. ‘Merry Christmas.’

The woman stopped short on her way out as a handsome, recognisable man held the door open for her. Oh no! How she regretted rushing to make her pre-11 a.m. deadline. She considered pretending she’d forgotten something but the shop was not large and Blair Pfenning – Blair Pfenning! – was holding the door for her.

‘I’ll just sign the rest of the stock,’ he said loudly to Mr McCredie, who nodded gratefully.

In behind him slipped Oke, head down. It was the last time, he’d decided. He was fed up with making a fool of himself. It was ridiculous. She didn’t want him. He was going home.

He had just thought … maybe one last time. Before he caught his flight. Just to say goodbye. To somehow explain, in a way that did not come easily to him, that he did not usually travel expecting to meet people; quite the opposite, in fact.

But he had liked meeting her. Very much.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Where’s Carmen?’ He peered through the back.

‘She’s not here,’ said Mr McCredie, about to explain, direct him the right way, but his head was pounding, and he felt very sick.

‘So, yeah, these should do you,’ interrupted Blair, brandishing a pile. He’d really also come to see Carmen, and was annoyed she wasn’t there. Whatever. There were plenty of women who were very happy to have him. He wasn’t going to let her hurt his ego, just because she made him laugh.

‘God, I can’t believe I made it down. Bit of an exhausting night, know what I mean, lads?’

Blair could not have found two less laddish people to attempt having laddish banter with. Both men stared at him suspiciously.

‘The weather up here is freezing but the girls are pretty hot, right? Right?’

Oke’s face fell as he cottoned on. He remembered Carmen’s expression the night before, deep in intense conversation with Blair, just as Skylar had said. And now Blair was bragging about …

No. It was over. He had to forget about it. It was time to go home.

‘Goodbye,’ he said to Mr McCredie, but he was a world away. ‘I suppose I should say Merry—’

‘You off, man?’ said Blair.

‘Yes,’ said Oke. ‘Back to Brazil.’

Mr McCredie looked up, his face terribly sad for Carmen. Oh, what a rotten shame.

‘Wow. They have super-hot babes there too, don’t they?’ said Blair.

Oke shrugged. ‘Well … ’

Blair beamed at him.

‘Well, you have caught me in a good mood – what’s your name?’

Oke gave it, and Blair signed a book with a flourish, even though it wasn’t technically his and Oke really hadn’t wanted to buy it.

‘Here,’ he said, handing it over. The title of the book was Love Every Day.





Carmen was worried about turning up to the school not knowing anyone, and having to loiter awkwardly around the school gates looking like a total weirdo, but Phoebe had point-blank refused to go into class on her own and was hanging on to Carmen with all her might and actually there were lots of mothers she recognised from the shop, who nodded and waved to her.

Pippa had marched in, hauling her bassoon and absolutely full of her amazing little brother news, prepared to be queen of the playground, but Phoebe had held back, and Carmen had remembered hearing about the disastrous last time when she’d frozen in front of the whole school.

‘Are you doing a solo today?’ she said, squeezing her hand.

Phoebe shook her head.

‘I’m in the back row,’ she said. ‘Calintha McGuire is doing it.’

‘She sounds awful,’ said Carmen, and was rewarded with a half-smile. ‘There she is.’ Phoebe nudged her attention towards a girl in bright blonde immaculate plaits, over-enunciating to a group of acolytes.

‘Bloody hell, she looks awful,’ said Carmen, and Phoebe sniggered. It was lovely to hear the child laugh. ‘Well, I’ve heard you in the bath,’ Carmen continued. ‘And I have to tell you, I think you’re tremendous. I can’t sing at all. Promise me you’ll just perform to me and not all these other people, every single one of whom is stupid. Sing your song just for me. And for the new baby. It can be his song.’