Clara's Last Christmas (Clara Andrews Series - Book 9)

by Lacey London

  Clara’s

  Last

  Christmas

  Copyright © 2016 by Stacey Cartlidge

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For all fans of the Clara series.

  After two years, nine books and an amazing roller-coaster of emotions, the Clara series has finally come to an end.

  Thank you for riding this wave with me.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Even the strongest blizzards start with a single snowflake…

  Chapter 1

  There is absolutely no way that I can go into work today. My head is thudding like a nightclub speaker. The alarm has been chirping away in the background for at least fifteen minutes and despite my efforts to mentally curse it into oblivion, it is still ringing incessantly. Would an impromptu duvet day be so out of the question? It is the season to be jolly. Surely we can be excused from the mundane realities of life for twenty-four little hours?

  With it being just a few weeks until Christmas, you would think I would be itching to get going, but every part of my body is begging me to pretend that today has been cancelled. My brow creases into a frown as I suddenly remember that I have gifts to wrap, a house to decorate and a Body Pump class to attend. Between me and you, I have absolutely no intention of hitting the gym today or any other day for that matter, but the thought alone is enough to make me cower under my quilt.

  Sticking an arm out from beneath the mountain of sheets, I reach down and grab my phone from its resting place at the side of the bed. Blinking repeatedly in a desperate bid to get my tired eyes to focus, I let out a groan as the time on the screen flashes furiously back at me. I foolishly thought that changing my mundane alarm to a cheery Christmas anthem would make leaving the confines of my cosy bed that little bit easier. Swearing under my breath as I attempt to silence the twinkling tones, I have to admit that I was sorely mistaken.

  Jabbing at the screen with very tired fingers, I hit snooze and throw the handset into the overflowing laundry basket. The cold air nips at my nose as I fight against the overwhelming urge to bury my head beneath the pillow. Allowing my eyes to close for a nanosecond, I curl up into a tight ball in a desperate bid to warm up. Being British, you would think that I would be used to the terrible weather, but these past couple of months have been almost unbearable. I don’t think I’ve seen the sun for days, weeks, even. Yes, I am very aware that it is officially approaching winter, but this consistent run of grey cloud and drizzly rain is making me want to grab my bikini and jump on the next flight to the Caribbean.

  To make matters worse, not only am I absolutely freezing right now, I am also completely exhausted. Due to my son’s unwavering

  insistence that there’s a blue, hairy monster hiding beneath his bed, I only managed to grab a measly three hours of sleep all night. At first I thought it was kind of cute, but having Noah’s bony elbows wedged between my husband and I on a nightly basis is really starting to take its toll. I’ve tried every trick in the book to convince him that his resident monster isn’t real, but he still comes flying into our room at 2 o’clock like a bat out of hell. His ear-piercing scream almost has me believing that there’s something terrifying in there, although I’d never admit to this anyone else, obviously. Begrudgingly pushing myself to my feet, I let out a yawn and hold my throbbing head in my hands. When Noah turned three, I thought I had left the days of sleepless nights behind. Unfortunately for the giant bags beneath my eyes, it seems that I am not out of the woods just yet.

  Grabbing my fluffy robe from the back of the door, I stumble over to the window and press my head against the cold glass. It might be 8 o’clock, but the streets below are still cast in the shadowy darkness of night. Despite the black sky and hazy street lights, the city is thriving with people. I wrap my arms around myself as I watch them scuttling around like busy ants. This is the thing I love the most about living in London. Come morning, noon or night, the city is always alive and bursting with energy, an energy that seems impossible to achieve without the help of a gallon of caffeine.

  Stretching an arm behind my back, I rub my aching shoulders and yelp as I hit a sore spot. If Noah doesn’t get out of this habit soon, I’m going to end up like Quasimodo. Positioning myself against the window frame, I rock my back against the ledge in an attempt to loosen my crippling knots. The rows of twinkling fairy-lights that are draped amongst the bare trees shine up at me as I huddle against the warm radiator. The calendars have only just clicked over to December, but Christmas spirit seems to already be in the air.

  Glancing down at the unopened box of decorations, I run my fingers through my wild curls and let out a tired sigh. I have been meaning to deck the halls in boughs of holly for days now, but my lack of sleep has meant that I am more than a little behind schedule. I think back to last year and remember just how beautiful our apartment looked dressed in its festive finest. Sparkling tinsel covered every surface, stockings hung from the spiral staircase and the world’s most perfect pine tree stood proudly in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. It really was a Christmas to remember in so many ways. Not because anything remarkable happened, quite the opposite really, but the fact that the merry season passed us by without a hitch was something quite spectacular in itself.

  Flicking on the bedside lamp, I shove my feet into my husband’s slippers and smile as Pumpkin dives up onto the bed, causing Noah to stir slightly in his sleep. His dark curls flop in front of his chubby face as she bounds over and collapses in a golden heap next to him. Instinctively wrapping his little arms over her, Noah lets out a tiny snore and stretches out like a sleepy starfish. How something so small can take up so much bloody room is beyond me. With Noah refusing to stop in his own room for more than a few hours, our bed is constantly swamped with a dozen arms and legs. Between Oliver’s long limbs, Noah’s fidgety feet and Pumpkin’s fluffy butt, there’s no room for little old me anymore.

  I must admit that having my baby boy jump into my arms for a cuddle in the middle of the night used to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Now it just makes my back ache and gives me the world’s worst crick in the neck. Leaning down, I run my fingers through Noah’s chocolate hair and pull the duvet up to his chin. We should all be at the breakfast table right about now eating our weight in porridge and listening to Noah reel off his never-ending Christmas list, but the three of them look so adorable snuggling like a pack of sleepy puppies that I don’t have the heart to wake them.

  Obviously sensing me staring at him, Oliver peels open an eye before immediately falling back to sleep. Bless him. This is the first time in weeks that I haven’t woken up to him pacing around the kitchen with his brow furrowed into a frown. I scr
atch my nose as I give my lovely hubby a quick once over. He’s developed a few more wrinkles around his beautiful blue eyes of late, but he is still as gorgeous as the day I met him. It’s always struck me as incredibly unfair how men get better looking with age. Whilst Oliver rocks his silver highlights and adorable laughter lines, I spend hours on end desperately trying to cover up the fact that I shall soon be awarded some of my own.

  Feeling my feet start to turn to ice, I pull my robe tightly around my body and slip out into the living room. I must confess that it’s not just Noah’s overactive imagination that has been giving us sleepless nights lately. For the past couple of weeks, things have been a little tense for Oliver at work. Suave, the company he works for, have been making redundancies left, right and centre. The once vibrant and thriving workforce has been cut down dramatically and Oliver is starting to get pretty concerned that he might be next for the chop. I’ve tried to reassure him that he’s Suave’s most prized asset and they would never let him go, but I can tell that the threat of being jobless at Christmas is really starting to bother him.

  With Oliver being an award-winning designer, you would think there would be a whole bunch of companies just waiting to snap him up, but we made a few provisional phone calls and it seems that London doesn’t have much work at the moment for hunky American designers. Not having the energy to fret over it right now, I push all negative thoughts to the back of my mind and try to focus on feeling positive. As exhausted as I am, I have to pull myself together. There’s less than three weeks until Christmas and the Morgan house doesn’t even have a damn tree up. Seriously, this imaginary monster has a lot to answer for.

  Fumbling around for the light switch, I cover my eyes as the apartment springs to life. With the rest of the world going Christmas crazy, I hate to admit that it is looking a little miserable in here. The only clues that Santa Claus is coming to town are in the few greetings cards that have mournfully set up shop on the mantelpiece. I guess breathing a little festive cheer into the place is going to be the first thing on my to-do list.

  Stifling a yawn, I force myself to brave the cold tiles and flick on the coffee maker. My hand hovers over the cappuccino box for a moment, before moving swiftly on to the espressos. I think it’s safe to say that today is most definitely going to require a whole lot more caffeine than is found in a frothy coffee. Dropping an extra pod into the machine for good measure, I slide onto a stool and try to gather my thoughts. Do you ever have one of those days where you have so much to do that you don’t even know where to start? Well, today is one of those days. Our close circle of friends have been through so much lately that we really have been a bunch of busy bees.

  You see, after two heart wrenching years of trying to conceive, my good friend, Eve, was finally given the all-clear at her three-month baby scan last week. Needless to say, she has been shouting the fact that she’s expecting twins to anyone and everyone. Not that I blame her. The fact that Eve managed to fall pregnant at all is nothing short of a miracle.

  Popping two slices of bread into the toaster, I slide off the stool and wander over to the fridge. Nestled between the many pictures of my little family is an entire strip of 3D scan photographs. I reach out and run my fingers over the black and white images fondly. There they are, Harper and Harley. The two highly anticipated additions to the Lake family.

  I should probably point out that being just three months pregnant, Eve doesn’t officially know the sex of her babies, but she’s adamant that they will be Harper and Harley Lake whatever the outcome. Lianna and I have tried to convince her that those names are pretty gender specific, but they’re her children so she can call them whatever the hell she likes. To be honest, I actually quite like Harper. It’s one of the names that Oliver and I played around with when we were expecting Noah. Well, until we found out he was a boy. Then we had the whole Rusty, Randy, Sailor debacle, but that’s another story entirely.

  Mindlessly smothering my toast in jam, I snatch my coffee and curl up on the couch. I can see from my position on the sofa that it has started to snow, again. Well, I call it snow, but we have had nothing more than the dreaded sleet for days. You know the kind, the slushy mush which isn’t quite solid enough to play in and makes driving an absolute nightmare. Taking a bite of my toast, I slip my hands into my sleeves and try to warm up my frosty fingers. Realising that it’s near impossible to clutch a hot mug of coffee with my hands shoved in my dressing gown, I abandon my breakfast and shuffle closer to the radiator.

  The one thing I hate about this time of year is that my body refuses to believe that the heating has been on since the crack of dawn. It can be nearing thirty degrees in this place and I am still covered in goose pimples. Oliver, on the other hand, strolls around the apartment like he’s on a beach in Aruba. The, can we turn the heating on argument is one that my husband and I have quite frequently. We must look pretty comical when I am wrapped up in a duvet and he is lounging around in his Hawaiian print shorts.

  Hearing the bedroom door squeak open, my face breaks into a smile as Pumpkin sticks her snout into the room. Clearly being coaxed away from her bed by the smell of my Lurpak drenched Hovis, she stops to stretch out her legs before slowly creeping towards me. Deciding that she can be my hot water bottle, I tap the seat beside me and tear the crust off my bread. Not one to turn her nose up at the offer of food, Pumpkin gobbles it down greedily and rests her nose on my knee, obviously hoping that she looks cute enough to be given more. I swear, she would eat an entire loaf if I let her. Too busy stroking her soft coat, I don’t realise that the sun has come up and is now flooding the apartment with a bright, morning light.

  My eyes land on the clock on the wall and I let out a silent cry. Why is adulting so damn hard sometimes? Why can’t I grab an Advent calendar and crawl under the sheets to watch Elf all day long? Just as I am debating cancelling my plans to have an impromptu date with my Netflix account, my train of thought is stopped by the pinging of my laptop. Reaching under the coffee table, I offer Pumpkin the last piece of toast before jabbing at the keyboard. My emails pop up on the screen and I skim over the text before flipping down the lid. I’ve not even finished my coffee yet and Lianna’s already bombarding me with an itinerary for the day.

  It’s a good job that I cut my hours down at Floral Fizz, as helping Li to find a suitable investment for her ridiculous amount of cash has become a full-time job in itself. From investing in a perfume company to bringing out a children’s clothing line, we must have vetoed over fifty different business ventures this week alone. To be honest, I don’t know why she doesn’t just buy a swimming pool, fill it with pound notes and have fun diving into it. Can you think of a better way to spend a million pounds, because it has been two months and the swimming pool idea is the only thing we can agree on?

  If you don’t already know, Li and Vernon used to own a rather prestigious beach bar in Barbados and would be still running said beach bar if a certain luxury hotel chain hadn’t offered them a silly amount of money to purchase it. Lianna’s insistence on finding the perfect investment opportunity has literally taken over my life, but I shouldn’t really complain. Having my best friend back in London has been absolutely wonderful. When Lianna and her hubby, Vernon, first made the move back from the Caribbean, we had so much fun reintroducing her to our old haunts. A smile plays on the corner of my lips as I picture us in The Bistro. The very day that we collected the two of them from the airport, our entire gang headed to our favourite restaurant for a welcome home dinner.

  The Bistro was where Lianna and I spent the first few years of friendship, so to be returning as fully certified grown-ups makes me feel a little emotional to say the least. We might not be able to drink tequila and dance on tables anymore, but when we’re together with the rest of our friends, there’s a mischief between us that won’t ever die. Even though it had been such a long time since we were all last there, it hadn’t changed at all. Granted it has been through a refurbishment or two over the last few years, b
ut the theme of the place has thankfully stayed the same. The monochrome interior is exactly as it was the first time that I ever stepped over the threshold. The only noticeable difference is that the iconic splashes of red have been replaced with a striking shade of lime green.

  The Bistro holds many memories for our group of friends. Some of the best times of my life happened right there in that back booth. My eyes glass over as I am taken back to the days where sparkly mini dresses and Sambuca shots were what I lived for. It’s hard to believe that I am the same person now, sometimes I don’t even recognise myself.

  Our beloved eatery is actually where I first laid eyes on my husband all those years ago. If you don’t already know how our story started, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight, I’ll put it that way. With post-tequila vomit in my hair and Pepto Bismol spilled down my shirt, Oliver probably wasn’t hit with a case of the love bug immediately, although he swears blind that he was. I can’t lie and pretend that I didn’t fall for him as easily as I did, my knees went weak the second that I laid eyes on him. My stomach flips as I recall that day. Little did I know at the time that such a chance meeting would lead me to where I am today. A wife, a mother, a part-time florist and a full-time friend.

  Realising that I am procrastinating, I shoo Pumpkin to the floor and aim the remote at the television. Almost instantly the screen springs into action and familiar Christmas classics float out of the speakers. Even though I am surviving on almost no sleep, I can’t help but smile as I watch a young couple throwing snowballs at one another in the music video. Christmas really is the most wonderful time of the year, isn’t it? The time where we all pull together and appreciate the things we have and the people around us.

  Abandoning my coffee, I beckon Pumpkin to follow me and make my way into the bedroom. A rapid surge of adrenaline runs through me as I throw open the curtains and grab the box of decorations with sudden determination.