One Family Christmas: The perfect, cosy, heart-warming read to curl up with this winter

by Bella Osborne

  ONE FAMILY CHRISTMAS

  Bella Osborne

  Copyright

  Published by AVON

  A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

  Copyright © Bella Osborne 2020

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

  Cover illustration © Lucy Truman / Meiklejohn

  Bella Osborne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008331344

  Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008331351

  Version: 2020-08-24

  Dedication

  To Iylah and Hunter on your very first Christmas.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  Also by Bella Osborne

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Five weeks until Christmas

  Lottie tripped over the cat and watched the bag of flour sail through the air. There was a moment’s relief when she could see it was going to land on the kitchen table, but that soon disappeared as the bag exploded, sending a pure white mushroom cloud into the air. The radio merrily belted out ‘Let It Snow’ and as the flour settled, Lottie could see the ghostly figure of Nana Rose – white from top to toe.

  There was a small splutter. ‘It’s a good job I’ve stocked up on ingredients,’ said Nana, shaking her head and scattering more flour.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Lottie, watching the white dust catch in the light from the window. It was quite pretty, really. It looked like it had snowed inside and made Lottie feel instantly Christmassy. ‘I’ll get the dustpan and brush while you have a shower.’

  ‘No need for that,’ said Nana, dusting herself down. ‘We’ll probably make more mess anyway. We’ll have this cleared up in no time.’ She gave her granddaughter an indulgent smile. ‘Cheer up. It’s not the end of the world.’ Nana Rose was old school and immensely practical, and Lottie loved her dearly. Being back at Henbourne Manor might have felt like a backwards step for Lottie had it not been for the love Nana Rose had wrapped her in the moment she had returned. It had made it feel like a smart decision to live with Nana at twenty-seven, rather than her only option.

  But she wasn’t going to think about the mess her life was in. Today was Stir-up Sunday: the day that, traditionally, up and down the country, everyone was busy making their Christmas puddings. Although Lottie was pretty sure Nana Rose was in a minority – these days most people bought theirs from the supermarket; but however much the labels professed to be ‘luxury’ or ‘extra-special’ they were never a patch on Nana Rose’s pudding.

  They soon had the kitchen cleaned down, and this time Nana was in charge of the flour. As far back as Lottie could remember, she had made the Christmas pudding with her Nana. As a small child she had been balanced on a chair, and then later she stood on the upturned metal mop bucket until she was big enough to see over the top of the mixing bowl without it. Lottie was aware that after so many years of helping to make the pudding, she should be able to make it herself, but there was one main issue.

  ‘That should do it,’ said Nana, tipping some flour into the large stoneware mixing bowl.

  ‘Why don’t you measure anything?’ asked Lottie, passing Nana an assortment of dried fruit.

  ‘Don’t need to,’ said Nana, a puzzled frown appearing for a moment before her usual smile chased it away. ‘As long as I’ve got my trusty bowl, I’m fine.’ She gave the bowl a reverent pat with her gnarled fingers. Some of her recipes were written down in her frayed cookbook but most of them, including the recipe for the Collins family Christmas pudding, were safely locked in Nana’s memory. Lottie still felt privileged to be involved in making it, as countless relatives and friends had asked for the recipe and Nana would never reveal her secret ingredients.

  ‘Now, while you grate that carrot, tell me what’s bothering you.’ Nana Rose fixed Lottie with her grey eyes. There was no escape from Nana’s knowing look. Lottie fidgeted distractedly, adjusting her sparkly hair clip. Her hair didn’t need clipping back, she just liked sparkly things. A little sparkle seemed to make even the darkest day better.

  ‘It’s Mum. She’s driving me potty as usual.’

  ‘Ah.’ Nana gave an understanding nod. ‘There’s nothing you can tell me about our Angie that will surprise me. Remember I’ve known her a lot longer than you have.’ She winked. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘She’s writing her memoirs,’ said Lottie, rolling her eyes so hard she feared she may strain something.

  Nana chuckled, not looking up from where she was deftly chopping pecans. ‘Well, if anyone has plenty to write about it’s my daughter.’

  How did Nana always seem to see the positive in everything?

  ‘Yes, but she keeps ringing me up and reading long passages out over the phone. And …’ Lottie paused. ‘It’s terrible, Nana.’

  Nana reached out and gripped Lottie’s arm. ‘Is it upsetting, hearing about your mother’s life?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It�
�s the writing – it’s truly dreadful,’ said Lottie with a giggle. A relieved-looking Nana joined in. ‘It’s all lustful looks and heaving bosoms.’

  Nana’s eyebrows jumped. ‘You know what I always say?’ Lottie shook her head. Nana had lots of sayings and wise words, so knowing which one she meant would be like trying to pick a book from a whole library. ‘If it’s not harming anyone else, then leave her be.’

  ‘It’s harming my ears,’ said Lottie with a sigh. The mental images it was conjuring up were the stuff of nightmares. And worst of all, Angie had only got as far as her eighteenth birthday meaning there was a lot more to come. Lottie hung on to the hope that her mother would stay true to form, get bored and move on to something else.

  Lottie added her carrot to the mixture. Nana sprinkled in some spices and added fresh breadcrumbs and some suet. Under instruction, Lottie added clementine zest and juice. Nana sloshed in some stout, followed by some brandy. ‘Right, you had best give that a stir and make a wish,’ said Nana, sitting down.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Lottie.

  ‘I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me. No use standing up when there’s a good chair going begging.’

  Lottie made a wish. It was the same thing she wished for every year – even though she knew it was pointless. She put the bowl on Nana’s lap. ‘You need to make a wish too.’

  Nana’s eyes sparkled. ‘I wish for a big family Christmas,’ she said with a chuckle.

  ‘But we do that every year.’

  ‘I know. So every year my wish comes true.’ Christmas at Nana’s was sacrosanct – or, more accurately, nobody was brave enough to go against the force that was Nana and disobey her orders to attend. Which meant every year without fail, Angie, her brother Daniel, their partners and offspring would descend on Henbourne Manor for the festive period. It was an annual pilgrimage to Nana’s and Lottie loved it.

  Once the mixture was safely decanted into the traditional pudding bowl, Nana showed Lottie how to cover it with parchment and wrap it in kitchen foil, her old fingers working quickly to tie it with string, knotting together a makeshift handle to lift the pudding in and out of the boiling water. When it was safely bubbling away, Lottie began tidying up.

  ‘I can’t wait for Christmas,’ said Lottie, thinking out loud. Whatever had happened in her life, Christmas was a life raft of happiness she clung to every December.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Nana, with a yawn.

  ‘Why don’t you have a lie down, and I’ll finish up here.’

  Nana stood up and gave herself a little shake. ‘Actually I’ve got things to do. I need to get my Christmas cards written.’ She took off her flour-smeared apron.

  ‘That’s a bit early.’

  ‘No time like the present,’ said Nana. ‘Now, do you think you’ll remember the pudding recipe this time?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Lottie, although she was hoping Nana wouldn’t test her on it.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Nana, giving her a floury squeeze.

  Chapter One

  Two weeks until Christmas

  Even the sight of Great Uncle Bernard running over a few toes in his mobility scooter didn’t bring a smile to Lottie’s face. She looked about her. People of all shapes and sizes were dressed in black – with the exception of her mother, who was wearing a dress that made it look like a rainbow had dribbled on her and heels most people would need a ladder to get into. The atmosphere seemed quite jolly, for a wake. The small village pub was rammed and, in contrast to the mourners, was decorated for Christmas: fairy lights were twinkling happily overhead and the tinsel shimmied with the heat from the open fire. The noise levels were high, and everyone was in good spirits. But it didn’t seem right to Lottie. She’d just laid her beloved Nana to rest and she wasn’t sure how long it would be before she’d smile again. The landlady added another log to the roaring fire. It spit its displeasure, as if in agreement with Lottie.

  ‘Darling!’ Lottie’s mother almost danced up to her. She kissed Lottie’s cheek fleetingly, but still managed to almost knock her own large designer sunglasses off her face.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Are you okay?’

  Angie pulled her head back slightly, adjusting her sunglasses. ‘Why? Don’t I look all right?’ She stretched her neck out and looked about, as if searching for a mirror.

  ‘You look fine, Mum. I wondered if perhaps you had the sunglasses to hide tears …’ Angie was looking confused, ‘because you’ve just buried your mum.’

  ‘Oh.’ Angie gave a cough. She held a manicured hand to her surgically enhanced chest. ‘I’m hurting inside, but I’m a strong woman, Lottie, and I work hard to keep my emotions under control. And anyway, when I cry my eyes puff up like yours.’ She pointed at both Lottie’s eyes in turn. Thanks for that, thought Lottie.

  She stared at her mother. There was something not quite right with her facial expressions; there weren’t any. ‘Have you had Botox again?’ asked Lottie, her voice rising involuntarily.

  ‘Shhh,’ said her mother, totally expressionless.

  ‘Really, Mum, I worry about you. I hope you didn’t go to that cowboy outfit again.’ It was always the same with her mother. She focused on how she looked and everything else, including common sense, went by the wayside.

  Angie gave a pout, which Lottie was actually pleased to see because it meant one part of her face was, thankfully, free from the muscle-paralysing toxin. ‘They’re not cowboys. They’re lovely at Pins and Needles.’

  You’d have thought a name like that would be enough to put people off, thought Lottie. She took a deep breath and let it go; now was not the time to have an argument. ‘Are you staying at the house tonight?’ asked Lottie. Angie wasn’t the most reliable or attentive of mothers, but she was all Lottie had, and she didn’t fancy rattling around the big house all evening on her own once Great Uncle Bernard went to bed (at nine o’clock precisely).

  Angie gave a pretend wince. ‘Darling, I would love to, but I have to get back to London for something important.’

  ‘What’s this one’s name?’

  ‘Don’t be bitter, it doesn’t suit you,’ she scolded. There was a very brief pause. ‘He’s called Scott, and he has been “this one” for three months now.’ Lottie was tempted to call Guinness World Records as this was most definitely a record for one of her mother’s relationships. ‘I’d love you to meet Scott. He’s drop-dead gorgeous, has an arse like a pair of freshly pumped-up basketballs and worships the ground I walk on. Doesn’t he sound perfect?’

  Lottie held on tight to the judgemental sigh desperately trying to escape. She grimaced in a way that probably made it look like she was holding in wind. ‘Just be careful, Mum.’ She had been here many times before. When it came to men, Angie was the living embodiment of hope over experience.

  ‘Oh, don’t be all doom and gloom.’

  ‘At a funeral? I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Lottie, with a disbelieving shake of her head.

  Her mother gave her a wilting look over the top of her sunglasses. ‘We must catch up in the new year, once the house is sold.’ She leaned in to kiss her cheek and Lottie jerked backwards.

  ‘Sold?’ Lottie knew the house would have to be put on the market, but she’d figured that wouldn’t be any time soon as she and Great Uncle Bernard were still living in it. After three months, she had just been starting to feel settled.

  ‘Lottie, please be realistic. The will splits everything between me and Daniel, with a chunk for Bernard, so it has to be sold. I wish there was another way. I really do.’ Her mother held her hand briefly and Lottie assumed that, despite her absent frown, she was probably trying to look sincere.

  ‘I guess,’ said Lottie. Although that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

  ‘Daniel is rushing the estate agent along, so hopefully it’ll be sold pretty quickly. Large house, huge potential. I don’t get involved.’ Although Lottie knew her mother would become very involved when the money appeared. ‘Prime building land. Blah, blah, blah.’
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  ‘Building land? What? Knock down the manor house?’ Nana would have been horrified, and so was Lottie, and she couldn’t even imagine what the villagers would think. An image of an angry mob of old people wielding pitchforks and tartan wheelie trolleys ran through her mind.

  ‘If someone buys it, they can do what they like. A dusty old village like Henbourne could do with some new style injecting into it. All those decaying properties. Rat-infested thatch …’ Angie gave a shudder. She saw things very differently to Lottie. The village Lottie loved was dotted with quirky cottages and even quirkier locals, nestled in a sleepy corner of the Cotswolds and wrapped in a patchwork of fields. Angie was far better suited to the bright lights and superficial side of London, even if she could barely afford to hang on to the outer reaches of the city by her manicured fingernails.

  ‘But I’ll see you at Christmas?’ Lottie tried to hide the plea in her words.

  ‘I don’t think so, sweetie. We’re thinking of—’ her mother’s voice tailed off as she became distracted by her brother, heading for the exit without even a goodbye. ‘Daniel!’ she beckoned him over. His wife, Nicola, looked irritated but came with him.

  Daniel appeared suitably embarrassed. ‘We need to dash off I’m afraid.’ He rattled his car keys.

  ‘Will we see you at Christmas?’ asked Lottie. She needed some things to stay the same, and for now she was clinging on to Christmas. This was all happening too fast. One moment she was being cosseted by Nana, licking her wounds after finding herself suddenly single; the next, Nana was gone. And now she was facing being homeless, and very alone in the world.

  Daniel was pulling a face and checking his Rolex. Nicola piped up. ‘Actually, now we’ve been released from Nana Rose’s annual summons, we thought we’d jet off to Bermuda. Or possibly Aruba.’ Lottie thought Nicola was looking more and more birdlike each time she saw her. Her beady eyes darted about, as if keen not to miss anything she could pounce on.

  Lottie was starting to feel the tides of change slosh in her gut. ‘That sounds lovely, but—’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it. Sounds expensive,’ said Daniel, his eyebrows knotting up.