The Christmas Holiday: The perfect heart-warming read full of festive magic

by Sophie Claire

  ‘But we still have you, and we don’t want to lose you,’ her father went on.

  Emotion welled inside her, sudden and fierce, and Evie jumped up to throw her arms around him. It felt unfamiliar and strange, but good. And she was relieved. She’d been so worried that she might have gone a step too far with her outburst last time they’d met. In fact, she seemed to have brought into the open what, previously, they hadn’t been able to talk about.

  She hugged her mother, too.

  ‘We’re going to clear out her room. Redecorate. Start afresh.’

  ‘Really?’

  Her mother nodded. ‘It’s time. We have to let go.’

  Evie swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Would you like me to make a quilt out of Zara’s dresses and shirts? Something to remember her by. I could make one for you and one for me.’

  Her mother looked surprised, then thrilled. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

  The door swung open and Jake appeared with a tray of glasses and a large green bottle. He took in the scene in front of him and grinned. ‘Champagne, anyone?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said her father. They filled the flutes and drank a toast. ‘To new beginnings. We wish you both all the best – in your jobs, and in your relationship.’

  Evie and Jake’s eyes locked as they chinked glasses. ‘To new beginnings.’

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Megan Carroll, my agent, for all you’ve done to get me here today. A publishing deal is the golden prize that others see, but I know how much more you’ve done behind the scenes, negotiating on my behalf, and generally being in my corner.

  Thanks also to my editor, Kimberley Atkins and her assistant, Madeleine Woodfield, for taking a chance on me, being so professional and a delight to work with.

  My grateful thanks to Peter Moss for his enthusiastic advice on Jake’s Bentley (1952 R-Type, in case anyone was wondering). After speaking to you, Peter, I almost wanted to buy one myself – maybe one day.

  Thanks also to Louise Barrett, who patiently answered my many questions on curtain fitting.

  Huge thanks to my good friend Jacqui Cooper, who is always there and who understands. I couldn’t do this without you, Jacq.

  Thanks to Ian, who patiently listens to me moan about the latest plot hole I’ve got myself into, and always surprises me with his really good suggestions.

  Special thanks to Marian Keall for reading my book and checking the sewing. And finally, thank you to Bowdon Quilters for welcoming me into your group and advising me on numerous sewing questions, most especially the patchwork scarf Evie made (which would have been a tie if you hadn’t warned me about the difficulty of making one! Phew). You’re the most talented, knowledgeable and nurturing group of ladies I’ve met, and here’s to many more evenings of companionable stitching. xxx

  Read on for an extract from Luc and Natasha’s story in A Forget-Me-Not Summer

  Coming March 2020

  Prologue

  London, three years ago

  ‘Is there anyone we can call for you?’

  Natasha blinked. The nurse smiled kindly. Her eyes were the rich blue of hyacinths, filled with concern and pity.

  ‘Your husband maybe?’ The nurse looked at the ring on her left hand.

  ‘I left him a message. He’s abroad.’

  ‘A family member?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’re going to need a D and C. Dilation and curettage. It’s a minor operation, but necessary. Do you understand, Natasha?’

  She nodded. The baby was gone. Her heart folded up on itself and she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain.

  Afterwards, she lay staring at the white ceiling. The fluorescent lights tinged everything violet. Losing the baby still felt too enormous, too violent to think about so she turned her mind to Luc instead. She had to come up with a plan. What would happen when he came? Would he even come at all? His work was so important, after all, she thought bitterly. She knew she ranked very low down in his life and he’d only married her for the baby. She held her left hand up and the platinum ring was a silver blur that swam and swayed. She blinked hard. When he’d proposed she’d hoped it would be the start of something new, that he’d put his freedom-loving days behind him, and they’d work to become a family. She’d hoped they’d both share the same goal, and the baby would bring them together. She’d hoped so hard.

  The nurse came back. ‘Did you have a name for the baby?’ she asked gently.

  Natasha nodded. She hadn’t discussed it with Luc – they were barely talking – but it was certain in her mind. ‘Hope. Her name was Hope.’

  Now Hope had died there was nothing left, no reason for her to stay. The pain was crushing, intense.

  The sound of quick heavy footsteps in the corridor made them both look up. There were raised voices, then Luc appeared, breathless. She was surprised.

  ‘I came as fast as I could,’ he said.

  Her heartbeat picked up at the sight of him. His dark hair, his treacle-dark eyes. She wondered if she’d ever stop loving him. He doesn’t love you, though.

  He stayed with her as she drifted off, welcoming the anaesthetic of sleep. He was still there when she woke up and the nurses told her she could be discharged. He took her back to his penthouse, and she didn’t have the energy to argue.

  Back at his flat, he looked worried, he couldn’t do enough for her. It was as if he was speaking to her through a funnel, his words were muffled and distant. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, ‘What can I get you?’

  She shook her head. Too little, too late, she thought. This wasn’t the man he’d been the last few weeks. Since she’d told him about the baby resentment had filled this big flat, pressing against the glass walls.

  He left the room, she heard the front door shut, and a memory came back of when she’d left her great aunt’s house at sixteen. She’d made a promise to herself then that she’d never allow herself to be in that situation again: unwanted, resented. A plan was assembling in her mind.

  It didn’t take long to pack her clothes, toothbrush, and the tiny framed photograph of her parents. She was waiting by the door, ready to leave when he came back from the shops.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He stared at her.

  He had a pint of milk in his hand. She looked at that. ‘I’m going home.’

  She thanked her lucky stars that she’d kept the lease for her bedsit these last two months. Perhaps a part of her had always known it would end this way.

  ‘But you’ve only just come out of hospital. You can’t go.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  She blinked. Her head was fuzzy, the room tilted left, then right. She put her hand out and touched the wall to steady herself. He doesn’t love you, she reminded herself silently.

  ‘You’re not strong enough—’ he began.

  ‘Because it’s over. The pregnancy was a mistake. We only married because of the baby, and now …’ She couldn’t stay where she wasn’t wanted. Self-preservation kicked in and she lifted her head, she looked him in the eye. ‘Now we can both get on with our lives.’

  He didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything at all. His silence sliced through her, killing any doubts she’d still carried.

  The intercom buzzed. Her taxi had arrived. She bent to pick up her case. Tears welled, salty and hot. She wished she wasn’t so weak, she wished she didn’t love him so much, so fiercely and completely.

  ‘I’ll take that,’ he said nodding at her suitcase.

  Their hands collided. He snatched the case away from her and she mumbled something about divorce papers, then left.

  He didn’t try to stop her. Far from it. He saw her to the taxi, he lifted her luggage into the boot, then stood back, hands in his pocket, his mouth a flat line, and watched as the taxi drove away.

  He didn’t love her, he never had. And that was why she had to go.

  Chapter One

  Present day

  Natasha was slic
ing the thorns off a marshmallow-pink rose when he came in. The door chimed and she glanced up, ready to smile, then froze. The flower in her hand was forgotten and she stared, because there, in her shop, was Luc.

  Her heart thumped hard. The shop flooded with cold air, as if it were the middle of winter, not this bright June afternoon. His tall figure and broad shoulders filled the door and his dark eyes fixed on her, but gave nothing away. She swallowed, feeling a sharp twist in her chest, and glanced at the back room. But of course Debbie had already gone home, so she was alone.

  ‘Natasha,’ he said, stepping forward and closing the door. ‘Good to see you.’

  The sound of his voice was as unsettling as an earthquake. Deep. Sure of himself.

  ‘Luc,’ she said. She couldn’t disguise her shock. It had been – how long? – three years since she’d last seen him. ‘Why are you here?’

  He didn’t answer immediately but glanced around her tiny shop, taking in his surroundings. She followed his gaze from the sunflowers to the gerberas, and for a moment she hoped this might be an accident. That, by some bizarre coincidence, he’d arrived in this tiny village and had walked in here to buy a bouquet. But then he turned back to look at her and his eyes, the colour of molten chocolate, fixed on her with such a fierce look of determination that she knew it was no accident. Her fingers gripped the rose a little tighter.

  ‘You could at least pretend to look pleased to see me,’ he said.

  He was right, she thought. She might feel like she’d just been plunged back in time to a dark place of violent emotions, but she didn’t want him to know how much he was affecting her. Not when, in the past, he’d been so cool with her.

  Pretend, she told herself; act as if you’re totally indifferent to him.

  ‘I’m just – just surprised, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting you. You should have called.’ As she spoke, she noticed that he’d changed. The details were subtle; small lines around his eyes, a few greys at his temples. He was still good-looking though, she noted grudgingly. And he looked effortlessly stylish, even in a simple cream jumper and jeans. She suddenly felt self-conscious. No doubt he would disapprove of her new, quirky style; he’d think her outfit was eccentric and too bright, not sophisticated like him. She fought the urge to hide her fingernails, painted pale blue with tiny daisies, telling herself it didn’t matter what he thought. She might have tried to please him in the past, but those days were over.

  ‘There wasn’t time,’ he said and looked at the flower in her hand, but there was an uncharacteristically distant look in his eyes. ‘It was quicker to come straight here.’

  Natasha frowned. Really? How much time would it have taken to call her from the train or the car or however he’d arrived?

  ‘Don’t tell me, you urgently need a bunch of flowers?’

  He shook his head and the corner of his mouth tilted, almost a smile and impossibly sexy. She was certain that no woman could look at him and not feel a little weak in the legs.

  ‘No. Not flowers. I need you.’

  She put the rose down What did he mean, he needed her? And why did her mind instantly fill with heated images? Memories of him and her. Naked.

  She shook her head, feeling dizzy, struggling to think straight. ‘Me? What on earth would you need me for?’

  ‘I need your help.’

  As he held her gaze steadily, she realised he was being serious and a spike of emotion shot through her, something between fear and anger. ‘Luc, I’m your ex-wife. We’re not usually top of the list for being keen to help.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary. Besides, I have faith in you to help, ex-wife or not.’

  Did he now? She eyed him suspiciously: was he saying she was a pushover? But then she noticed he looked pale, and now she wondered if the lines around his eyes were signs of ageing or of something else – strain possibly, tiredness? Though she tried to prevent it, she felt a tug of concern. ‘What’s wrong, Luc? What’s happened?’

  A look flashed through his eyes: preoccupied, pained.

  ‘You’re not on the run from the police, are you?’ she joked, but it was feeble, and she wished she hadn’t said anything. She was just nervous, rattled by his unexpected appearance here, by the desperation etched into his handsome features.

  ‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’ he asked.

  She glanced at the clock. ‘I suppose I could close a little early …’ Then she threw him a stern warning look. ‘But whatever you’ve got to say, you’ll have to say it here.’

  ‘OK.’ He was so quick to accept that she knew something was seriously wrong and anxiety needled her more strongly than ever. He might be her ex-husband but that didn’t prevent her from feeling sympathy for him. It just made her incredibly wary.

  She locked the shop door, flipped the sign to ‘closed’, and dropped the roses she’d been trimming into a bucket of water. Then she returned to stand behind the counter. She felt safer with a bit of space between them. It seemed incredible that after three years apart he still had the power to make her feel so on edge.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ she asked, trying to sound detached and efficient, though her hands were unsteady as she swept up the thorns and leaves and cuttings scattered across the counter.

  ‘My father is ill,’ he said. ‘Very ill, in fact.’

  She stopped tidying and looked up. ‘Oh Luc, I’m sorry.’

  She’d never met his parents, not even when they were married, but her heart went out to him.

  ‘He collapsed, it’s his heart, and the next few weeks – days – are critical.’

  She nodded cautiously, unclear how this had anything to do with her or how she could help.

  Luc ran his tongue across his lips. ‘I’ve just been to visit. All the family are there …’ He swallowed again, then met her gaze. Steadily. ‘But he was asking for you.’

  ‘Me?’ She laughed, a nervous and high-pitched sound. ‘Why me? I’ve never even met him before.’

  A flush of colour filled her cheeks and she turned to deposit the cuttings in a bin behind the counter, then briskly dusted off her hands.

  ‘Exactly.’ He picked up a half-clipped leaf she’d missed and absently rolled it between his fingers. ‘He was unhappy when he learned that we got married without inviting anyone. Now he’s asking that we spend some time with him. In France.’

  ‘We? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You and me,’ he said.

  She frowned, and her tone was sharp. ‘There is no “you and me” anymore. Anyway, why on earth would he want me to—?’

  ‘Because he believes we’re still married.’

  There was a long pause. In the street outside a car rumbled past. Natasha blinked, not sure she’d heard properly, but the words settled around her like a handful of rose petals fluttering to the ground. He believes we’re still married.

  After three years? Why? She’d assumed his family didn’t know about her: Luc certainly hadn’t told them about his marriage at the time. He’d behaved as if he were ashamed of it. Of her.

  Confusion made her head spin, and she felt a sharp point of irritation too. Let’s face it, what did any of this have to do with her?

  ‘Why on earth would he believe that, Luc?’

  He ducked his head and looked away. When he’d appeared in her shop she’d thought Luc didn’t look quite himself, but this was something new: the man who was never anything but one hundred per cent certain of himself now looked sheepish.

  He said quietly; ‘I haven’t told him about the divorce.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Haven’t told him?’ she repeated incredulously.

  He shook his head.

  Luc wasn’t a man to hide from the truth. He was bold and strong, with a core of steel. A core she’d once been sure was impossible to penetrate. ‘Why not?’

  His shoulders went back, his chin went up, and when he looked at her now there was a hardness in his brown eyes which warned her this was not safe territory
. ‘It’s complicated. This isn’t the time to go into it.’

  Fine. Two could play at that game, she thought, raising emotional barriers of her own. Because she desperately needed them. She hung up her apron and ran her palms over the skirt of her dress, smoothing out the rosebud patterned cotton. She adjusted the small red scarf around her neck and touched her hair band: everything was in place, yet she felt ruffled. Irrational though it might be, seeing him made her feel vulnerable, like she had been when they were married, made her feel scared that the pain of that dark time in her life might return. But of course it wouldn’t; she had to remember that.

  ‘Well it sounds like it’s time to have an honest conversation with your father,’ she said briskly, then turned and lifted her jacket off the hook behind the door, hoping he’d get the hint and leave, vanish back out of her life as suddenly as he’d appeared.

  ‘Natasha—’ he said, but she just walked right past him, keys jangling in her hand, and held the door open for him.

  She shook her head. ‘No way. I’m not getting involved in this.’

  Reluctantly, he moved past her and stopped in the street outside. With his skin the colour of caramel and his glossy dark hair, he looked as conspicuous in this English country village as an exotic flower.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you if I had any alternative.’

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t. There’s a reason why we got divorced.’ She locked the door.

  ‘It’s just two weeks—’

  ‘No!’ she said. Then, more calmly; ‘I don’t owe you anything, Luc.’

  ‘I know you don’t. That’s why I’m asking – appealing to you.’

  She could see the desperation, the worry in his eyes, and guilt stabbed at her because he’d come here clearly counting on her help. Then her friend drove past them and waved. It was Suzie, on her way home from the village primary school, and seeing her was a reminder of all Natasha held dear. She’d built a life for herself here and she was happy. As she waved back, she contrasted that with the dark turmoil she’d lived through when she was married to Luc, and her instinct for self-preservation kicked in.