‘Your only crime is murdering a nutcracker. I don’t think the punishment is twenty-five years behind bars, but maybe they’ve changed the charge of second-degree murder to include wooden dolls now.’
I narrow my eyes at her sarcasm and she laughs. ‘I need a cup of tea, so go on, go back over there and confess so you can watch the shop while I go and get one, or there might end up being a real murder committed due to tea desperation.’
I try to delay the inevitable for a few moments longer, but I know she’s right. I’m not a good enough liar to pretend it wasn’t me, and my conscience is already getting the better of me. Stacey and I have done craft fairs where people pick things up and pull them around and break them and then hastily put them down and hurry guiltily away, or even better are the ones who draw your attention to it and say, ‘This is broken, love. It was like that when I picked it up. I wonder how that happened …’ I would much rather someone outright apologise and offer to pay for it, even though it doesn’t matter as much with a £2.50 pair of earrings as it does with a £926 nutcracker. ‘And what is with that weird pricing?’ I say to Stacey.
‘Nia!’ she snaps. ‘You’re delaying. Get on with it.’
I’ve known Stace since the first day of secondary school, and sometimes I wish I hadn’t because she can see right through me. I grumble as I set the door open again and force one foot in front of the other to traipse back across to the open door with the Santa still Macarena-ing outside, feeling like some sort of hefty cyclops rather than an elegant ballerina this time.
Inside, the shop is still empty. Where on earth is this person? The nutcracker made such a crash when it fell that I’m surprised someone from the UK’s seismology team hasn’t turned up to investigate the unexplained earthquake that just registered on their scales, and yet there’s still no one in sight. This is getting weird now. I suppose I should pick the nutcracker up and wait with it until someone gets back …
I round the corner of the aisle where the nutcracker was, but the giant wooden soldier has gone, along with the broken bit of his arm, his sceptre and every splinter of wood, and lying on the floor in his place is a man. I scream.
The man is lying on his back and his head and right arm are under a shelf, looking like he’s trying to reach for something. His left arm is in a plaster cast and held across his chest by a sling.
He yelps in surprise at my noise and jumps so much that he clonks his forehead on the shelf hard enough to make the whole thing shake, causing such a reverberation that the rows of fifteen-centimetre-tall nutcrackers wobble and fall off, pelting down at him as he tries to curl in on himself and makes a noise of pain.
‘What are you doing there?’ I snap, the shock of seeing him making all logical thought fly out the window.
‘I work here. You?’ he snaps back as he wriggles himself out from under the shelf, every movement slow and stilted and followed by a noise of pain that he’s probably not aware he’s making out loud. He crunches the nutcrackers under his legs as he moves, until eventually he’s fully free of the shelf and is lying on the aisle floor, surrounded by a sea of little wooden nutcrackers, and squinting up at me in the brightness of the shop.
My heart is still pounding from the shock of his unexpected appearance and I’m sure he must be able to see it bouncing in and out of my chest like a cartoon character’s.
He’s got something clutched in the hand of his unbroken arm and he rubs his forehead with his free fingers. ‘Is your jumper flashing or is this the festive equivalent of seeing stars?’
It makes me snort with laughter. ‘It’s flashing.’
‘I thought you worked in the decoration shop opposite?’
‘I do.’ I can’t hide my surprise that he knows that.
‘Not the jumper shop?’
‘No.’
‘So you’re wearing that without contractual obligation?’
‘It’s Christmas,’ I say when I finally fall in to where his line of questioning was going.
‘And that makes it socially acceptable to wear a set of traffic lights?’
‘Ah, traffic lights only have three colours. This jumper has many more.’
‘Believe me, I can see that.’ He groans and clonks his head back onto the floor. ‘So, my arm breaker. You came back.’
‘I had to. I’m so sor— Wait, your arm breaker?’ The music playing in the background of the shop is now “The Waltz of the Snowflakes” from The Nutcracker and the ballet pops into my head. The nutcracker soldier given as a gift on Christmas Eve, who gets broken and then turns into a prince at the stroke of midnight and takes the young ballerina on a magical journey through a land of sweets and snowflakes.
He mutters something about the nutcracker, but all I can think about is the ballet and the nineteenth-century story behind it. About the nutcracker who turns into a real-life prince after being broken …
He’s just lying there, trying to catch his breath, pain obvious in every line that flashes across his face when he winces.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I did not think this through at all. Getting down here was hard enough, but I have absolutely no idea how to get up. I regret this decision.’ His face is still pinched but there’s a jokey tone in his voice that makes me smile.
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘No, I need a crane. Or a forklift truck.’
His tone makes me giggle again and when I look back at him, he’s smiling for the first time and his smile is so much like Flynn Rider’s that it stops me in my tracks. In that moment, he looks so much like the Disney prince that it’s almost like the animated version has stepped out of the screen and into real life. Wait … A Disney prince. A nutcracker prince. A prince … I wished for last night?
No, it couldn’t be. Like I’ve somehow developed the ability to see through walls, I look in the direction of the magical nutcracker. I wished for a prince. A prince like the nutcracker himself. And they say nutcrackers grant wishes if the wish is made at the moment a nut is being cracked, and the stars were twinkling just right and the wind did whisper in his beard. This man is even wearing a dark blue shirt with threads of green running through it, not unlike the nutcracker’s navy cuffs and green-trimmed coat.
It couldn’t be, could it? He couldn’t be … he couldn’t actually be the nutcracker I knocked over … could he?
No. Of course he couldn’t. What am I thinking? Maybe I’m the one who’s fallen over and hit my head. In the real world, outside of much-loved festive ballets, broken nutcracker soldiers don’t magically turn into real men. I think. Hope. I mean, it would be nice, but …
‘Can you take this?’ He’s holding his good hand up to me and sounding like it’s not the first time he’s said it. I put my hand out and his warm fingers touch my palm as he drops something into it.
I go to offer help again but the look he gives me makes me cut off the sentence, and I look down instead, trying to give him some privacy as he starts moving.
In my hand is an amber gemstone that I recognise from the front of the nutcracker’s gold crown, one of the many that must’ve fallen off and skidded under the shelf when I knocked it over, which explains what he was doing down there. I’m trying to look away, but he’s making so many grunts of pain that I can’t help watching him worriedly, hovering like I might be able to help even though he’s made it obvious that he doesn’t want any assistance. His legs move against the smooth laminate wood flooring, the fallen nutcrackers scattering around him as he tries to get upright.
He seems to be hurting more than a broken arm would cause, but I’ve never broken anything, so I wouldn’t know.
Eventually he gets onto his knees and has to stop. His good arm is laid along a low shelf and his forehead is resting against it, his chest heaving as he pants for breath.
I go to ask if he’s okay, but it’s obvious he isn’t. ‘What happened to your arm?’ I ask instead.
‘I got knocked over,’ he says without looking up.
I free
ze again. My fingers tighten on the amber stone I was fiddling with, hoping he’s going to elaborate, but he doesn’t. No. No … it can’t be. Obviously he doesn’t mean by me. Just now. When I knocked over the nutcracker and happened to break the exact same arm. That’s ridiculous. Even though I wished for a prince last night and the more I look at him, the more strongly he resembles a Disney prince. He’s like Aladdin, Prince Eric, and Flynn Rider got together and had all the best parts of themselves put into one person. He’s got Eric’s floppy dark hair, Aladdin’s wide-set brown eyes, and Flynn’s smile, and I feel every childhood crush coming back with a vengeance. It’s some kind of sign – it’s got to be. Obviously he can’t actually be the nutcracker come to life, but what if the whole nutcracker thing is some kind of nod from the universe and this is a sign? What if this guy really is the Prince Charming I’ve been waiting for?
When he looks up, there’s sweat beading on his forehead from the effort it’s taken him, but he gives me a soft smile that makes every thought disappear from my mind and my body goes hot all over, and I realise I’ve spent the last few minutes staring at him.
‘I’ll clear these up.’ I look away and start gathering up the mini bare-wood nutcrackers, anything to give myself something to do besides stare at him.
I take a couple of armfuls over to the counter, and he doesn’t look up again until I go back for the third and final lot. ‘At least it wasn’t the snowglobes. That would’ve finished the job for the multiple things that have been trying to kill me this week.’ He glances at the tiny globes lined up on the next shelf along. ‘And been a lot messier to clean up.’
It makes me smile as I put the nutcrackers down and go back to hold my hand out. ‘Now do you need a hand up?’
He smiles gently up at me and seems to consider it for a moment before reaching out and slotting his right hand into mine. My fingers close around his and I widen my feet and brace my knees and pull him up. Agony crosses his face as he stumbles to his feet and when he gets upright, he doesn’t let go of my hand, even as he leans against the shelf for support, short of breath again. I can’t imagine how badly that arm must be broken if it’s causing him this much pain.
Eventually he opens big brown eyes with dark circles under them and moves from holding on to my hand to shaking it softly. ‘Seeing as we’re shaking hands anyway, I’m James.’
‘Nia,’ I murmur, feeling ridiculously entranced by his eyes. They’re light brown, an unusual wood-like colour. You’d expect someone with such dark hair to have dark eyes, but his are so light they’re almost out of place. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing the painkillers from last night are still in my system or I wouldn’t be functional at all.’ He ducks his head and his hair flops forwards, and I can’t help noticing he’s around six foot tall – exactly the same height as the nutcracker.
Somehow, my hand is still in his, and we’re still mindlessly shaking them even though the introduction phase and the awkward phase have passed and we’re now just two strangers staring at each other and holding hands. A little tingle has sparked from the touch of his fingers and I can feel it gradually sparkling up my arm, across my shoulders, and down my spine, and it takes a long few minutes for me to realise I came here for a reason.
‘I’m so sorry about your nutcracker,’ I say in a rush.
‘My what?’ He blinks, looking dazed for a second, and then awareness seems to hit him hard enough to make him jump and he yanks his hand back and pushes it through his hair, which instantly falls across his forehead again anyway. ‘Oh, that. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m so sorry. I broke it, I have to pay for the damage.’ I don’t add “assuming you aren’t actually it come to life” to the end of the sentence. That would be one way to make an impression and not the good kind.
‘Oh, please. I couldn’t give a toss. You’ve done me a favour – I’ll mend it and sell it at a reduced price. It needed to be reduced anyway – believe me, no one is going to pay £926 for that thing.’
‘Yeah, but I damaged your stock. Everyone knows about the “you break it, you buy it” rule. I can’t afford it outright, but if you’d let me start paying—’
‘Nia, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yeah, but—’ I start again, but he cuts me off.
‘It’s nice of you to offer, but forget it. It’s just another Christmas decoration – exactly what everyone needs around here.’
‘You work in a Christmas decoration shop …’ I say slowly, confused by his attitude. I thought he’d be calling the police to have me done for criminal damage given half a chance, and now he’s telling me I don’t even have to pay it off?
‘Exactly. I think there are enough nutcrackers to go round, don’t you?’ He waves his good hand towards the pile on the counter. ‘You can smash up the rest of the shop too, if you want. I hate Christmas.’
I take a step back in surprise and quickly think better of it and check behind me, lest we have another nutcracker-related disaster. ‘You hate Christmas?’ I shake my head in disbelief. Surely he’s winding me up? ‘You own a Christmas decoration shop in the most Christmassy place in the country.’
‘Exposure therapy?’
‘Are you serious?’
He laughs a sarcastic laugh, which quickly turns into a wince of pain. ‘I didn’t think it through, okay? I usually do an office job but I needed a change this year. I took a wrong turn and pulled into your car park to turn around and saw a “Help Wanted” sign. And it seemed like a sign. You know, from the universe. And a literal sign. So I don’t own it, I just work here.’
‘I didn’t know there had ever been a “Help Wanted” sign up …’ I rack my brain, trying to think of a sign I might’ve missed. I go to push further but I realise how weird I must sound and stop myself quickly. ‘Sorry, it’s just that you’re selling off Nutcracker Lane stock …’
‘Am I?’ He looks around, seeming surprised by this. ‘I collected my keys this morning from Santa who was rolling his own earwax into balls and flicking it at passers-by. I have never been so grateful for antibacterial hand gel.’
It makes me giggle again, even though with that Santa, I doubt he’s joking. ‘All this stuff used to decorate Nutcracker Lane. Where did you get this from?’
He shrugs again but I can tell he’s being careful this time because it’s a muted shrug, and I want to ask him if he’s okay again, but he doesn’t seem like he’s going to elaborate either way. ‘I don’t know, it’s nothing to do with me. All I’ve been told is that the new owner’s selling off stock and needed someone to man the shop.’
‘It’s not his to sell!’
‘Well, if he’s bought the place, technically it is his and he can do whatever he wants with it …’ He sounds cautious, like he’s waiting for me to yell at him.
‘Have you met him? Do you know who he is? He sounds like an absolute monster.’
‘No.’ He shrugs with a blank look on his face. ‘Like I said, I’ve just got a job here until after Christmas. I needed to get out of the office for a while.’
‘And you thought this was the ideal place for someone who hates Christmas?’
He pushes his floppy hair back again. ‘Look, I may not have thought it through properly, okay? I needed to do something different while I still can, and this came up and I grabbed it. It was only afterwards that I realised what I’d be doing and how festive it’d be.’ He pulls a face.
While he still can? It makes it sound like he’s dying … Or like he’s a magical nutcracker come to life for a limited time … No. I have to keep repeating it until I believe it myself – he is not a giant nutcracker come to life who’s going to turn back into a wooden soldier on Christmas Eve. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing. Forget I said anything. I think we shook hands for so long that I feel like I’ve known you for months, not minutes. Ignore me, I probably hit my head harder than I thought.’ He rubs his forehead at th
e spot where he clonked it on the shelf.
I smile because, despite hating the thing I love most, there’s something about him. Something that makes me wish we were still shaking hands. Something that makes it impossible to look away from his brown eyes and hesitant smile. He must be in his late thirties, probably a couple of years older than me, and he’s definitely from around here because he’s got a local Wiltshire accent that’s warm and animated.
‘It doesn’t seem right that you’re selling stuff that doesn’t belong to you. Nutcracker Lane is all about handmade goods and shop owners who really care about their products, make bespoke orders for customers, and put their heart and soul into every festive season.’
‘Well, I’ll put my heart and soul into getting rid of this festive tat. Does that help?’
‘It’s not festive tat.’
‘No? God help the person who sees that Macarena-ing Santa and thinks, “That’s it! That’s what’s been missing from my life!” and rushes in to throw money at me and then Macarenas all the way home with it.’
His sarcasm makes me laugh and I let out a very unflattering snort that makes him smile his Flynn Rider smile again, and I really do have to stop staring. I force myself to turn away and my eyes fall on the miniature mechanical nutcracker factory in the window. ‘That used to mark the spot between Nutcracker Lane and the factory next door, and now you’re selling it for £96. And that snow.’ I point upwards as another flake of fake snow floats down from an unseen machine in the ceiling. ‘Nutcracker Lane used to have a snow machine but it broke down.’
‘I know, I mended it.’
‘You mended it? I thought you only picked up your keys an hour ago.’
Something flashes across his face but it’s gone in the space of a blink. ‘I’m a fast worker.’
I’m not sure I believe him. It took him ten minutes to inch his way up off the floor, but he has been missing from the shop for ages; it’s not unfeasible that he could’ve been out the back mending a broken snow machine. One-handed.
The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane Page 4