‘Because someone did something that’s made coffee very popular in Oakbarrow again.’
‘Yeah, it was mainly your mum with the social media, wasn’t it?’
He drops his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me into his side. ‘You know exactly who I mean.’
‘What about It’s A Wonderful Latte? You’re there every day, you can’t just disappear for two weeks.’ The grin he gives me is cheeky and just a little bit smug. ‘Can you?’
‘My sister’s going to step in for a while when we’re away, and on busy days like when the craft market is in town. Paris won’t be our last trip and Becky and Izzy are ready and waiting. Becky actually wants to do it. She knew a lot about what my father wanted to do with the place and now she’s confronted the emotions that come with it, she wants to run it with me and Mum and honour him as a family.’
‘He’d love that.’
‘He would. And he’d love you for what you’ve done for all of us … That’s why they’re here.’ He nods to our friends and family on the bridge. ‘It seemed right that we all spend Christmas Eve together. And Mum and Becky are doing dinner tomorrow, Mary’s spending it with Patrick, and Casey’s going to her own family, but Bernard’s coming, and you and your dad are invited too. Please say you’ll come. After everything we’ve done for Christmas in the past few weeks, I can’t imagine spending it without you.’
‘Are you sure?’
He steps minutely closer and tucks the strands of hair that have escaped from my ponytail back behind my ear, letting his thumb linger on my earlobe, brushing one of the plain silver studs that I haven’t even changed for Christmas earrings today. His eyes are holding mine, shining in the dark night, the passionate look in them leaving me with no doubt about what’s coming.
My breath catches as he angles his head, not dropping eye contact until the very last moment when our lips finally meet. It feels like the first time I’ve ever kissed him, at least the first time with no secrets between us, and the kiss turns deeper, more desperate, as I let go of everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, all the weeks leading up to it, the pain of yesterday, the sheer dread that took over when Bernard knocked earlier, the panic and fear of losing Leo.
I melt against him as his hands clutch my jaw, and he kisses me like he’s drowning. My fingers wind in his hair and pull him impossibly closer as everything else fades away. We could be hit by a low-flying sleigh carrying Father Christmas and I wouldn’t notice.
It’s an embarrassingly long time before we remember we’ve got an audience, but instead of jumping back awkwardly like I expected him to, Leo rests his forehead against mine.
‘Does that answer your question?’ he whispers, his breath warm against my cheek.
I’m incapable of words so I just nod, not wanting to pull away – mainly because I like being this close to him, and also because I’m not sure my knees won’t buckle after that kiss.
‘There’s something else,’ Leo says when he does inch back a little. ‘I got in touch with the owner of Hawthorne’s today. It’s the grandson now. He’s younger than us, grew up playing virtual games on screens small enough to fit on a matchbox. Never knew granddad’s old shop in its heyday, didn’t think it had any value now. I explained a bit about what’s been going on here, about the street and trying to take things back to how they used to be. He put his father on who’s a bit older than us and remembers it like we do. We had a really good chat, he remembered me and my father, and the upshot of it is that they’ve arranged a structural engineer to come out in January and make sure it’s safe, and then they need a clean-up team and a new manager before they re-open. I said I knew an amazing retail manager who happens to be at a loose end at the moment.’
‘You did not!’ I slap at him but instead of hitting him I scrunch my fingers in his coat and squeeze his arm.
‘Hawthorne Junior can’t wait to meet you. I told him everything and he loved it. He looked up our stories online while we were talking. Said we clearly made a great team and as long as you’d be the manager, offered us both an additional job doing weekly window designs like his father used to do.’
‘Us? How are you going to manage that? You’re rushed off your feet as it is. Even your sister getting more involved won’t change that.’
He smiles that ‘I know something you don’t know’ grin again. ‘Well, my new assistant manager was delegated his first job tonight – to go and collect my favourite Georgia and fetch her here. Admittedly his jobs will probably be more coffee-related in the future, but –’
‘Bernard’s your new assistant manager?’
‘I’ve always said I’d employ him if I had the work, and now I do. Because you didn’t give up.’
‘You didn’t give up, Leo. You reached out for help when you needed it. That’s the bravest thing anyone can do.’
‘And I’m so glad I did.’ He’s blushing as he speaks. ‘I know that we haven’t waved a magic wand over Oakbarrow and made all its problems go away. All the shopkeepers who’ve come back might not stay, customers might stop coming, not all the empty shops will sell to new retailers, but things are better than they have been for years, and as long as you’re with me, some of your positivity might rub off. And if it doesn’t then you’ll just have to brew an extra batch of that potion.’
‘We do make a pretty good team, after all.’
He grins. ‘And we know that Bernard makes a great Santa for when you re-open Santa’s grotto next year.’
I grin at the thought, fully expecting my face to actually start splitting in a minute. I’m overwhelmed at the idea of working at Hawthorne’s, running a toy shop and all the possibilities it holds. Reviving a place that I loved so much when I was little for a new generation. Recreating that feeling I had as a child, the feeling of magic that’s never the same once you’re an adult.
‘I can’t believe you did all this,’ I say, my voice shaky from excitement and sheer disbelief. ‘You’ve certainly been busy.’
‘Didn’t sleep a wink last night,’ he whispers, leaning in close. ‘I can’t put into words how much these past few weeks have meant to me and I hated myself for walking away yesterday. I was trying to protect myself from this lie when I knew you’d only been trying to protect me from the very beginning. Figured anyone who’d go that far for me deserved more than a quick apology.’
He reaches down to retrieve a paper bag from Patrick’s shop that I hadn’t even noticed leaning against the wall. ‘And this.’
‘What’s th –’ I burst out laughing when I see the purple cardboard of a selection box peeking out. ‘You remembered!’
‘Someone once told me that all chocolate tastes better from a selection box, but only if you eat it for breakfast.’
‘Thank you,’ I mouth at him, because it’s such a silly little thing but he remembered something so trivial and did it anyway.
He smiles wide and uninhibited. ‘I love you, George. I promise to get you a selection box for Christmas morning breakfast every year from now on.’
‘That’ll be pretty weird after you’ve broken up and are both married to other people!’ Casey shouts over.
‘Thanks, Case,’ I shout back. ‘Always the voice of reason at key romantic moments.’
‘It’s better than the usual Christmas Eve tradition of watching that bloody old film you’ve made me watch a hundred and seventy-nine times!’
‘Oh, I think It’s a Wonderful Life might have to become one of our Christmas Eve traditions too.’ Leo leans over and kisses my cheek. ‘It’s more than just a Christmas film. I think it’s brought a little magic into all our lives.’
* * *
The frosty grass of the verge crunches underfoot as we lean on the lower part of the wall and look out at the river racing along, reflecting the icicles hanging down from the underside of the bridge as they glisten in the moonlight.
Leo’s arm is around me, one hand resting on the back of my neck and rubbing absentmindedly, the other intert
wined with my fingers, his head leaning against mine. Dad and Maggie are chatting quietly, Casey’s texting her new crush and the fact she’s even bothering speaks volumes about how much she likes him, Mary and Patrick are holding hands, and Bernard looks happy and relaxed as he takes it all in.
The stars twinkling in the sky make me think of Leo’s dad and my mum. Memories always feel closer at this time of year, but tonight it’s like they’re here with us, smiling down on Oakbarrow.
‘It’s another wonderful night,’ Leo whispers in my ear. ‘I seem to have had a lot of those since I met you.’
I look up at him and smile. ‘It’s the most perfect Christmas Eve I’ve ever had.’
He kisses me again as the church bell chimes for midnight and I wonder if maybe the sound of a bell ringing doesn’t just mean that angels get their wings – maybe it means that people get their wishes too.
Acknowledgements
Mum, this line never changes because you’re always there for me. Thank you for the constant patience, support, encouragement, and for always believing in me. Love you lots.
Bill, Toby, Cathie – thank you for always being supportive and enthusiastic.
An extra special thank you to Bev for always being so kind and encouraging, and for all the lovely letters this year.
Special thanks to two great friends and supportive cheerleaders – Charlotte McFall and Marie Landry.
The lovely and talented fellow HQ authors – I don’t know what I’d do without all of you.
All the lovely authors and bloggers I know on Twitter. You’ve all been so supportive since the very first book, and I want to mention you all by name, but I know I’ll forget someone and I don’t want to leave anyone out, so to everyone I chat to on Twitter or Facebook – thank you.
The little writing group that doesn’t have a name – Sharon Sant, Sharon Atkinson, Dan Thompson, Jack Croxall, Holly Martin, Jane Yates. I can always turn to you guys!
Thank you to Josh, the happiest guy I know, whose unflinching honesty inspired Leo.
Thank you to the team at HQ and especially my fantastic editor, Charlotte Mursell, for all the hard work and support, and for never complaining no matter how bad my first drafts are!
And finally, a massive thank you to you for reading!
Turn the page for an exclusive extract from The Little Wedding Island, another charmingly romantic read from Jaimie Admans…
Chapter 1
‘Bonnie, you can’t argue with people on Twitter just because you don’t agree with something they say.’ My boss, Oliver, pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to stifle his fortieth headache since I got into his office five minutes ago.
I sigh. I knew I was going to get in trouble for this. ‘But did you see what he said about that lovely couple’s beautiful wedding? I couldn’t ignore his delusional twuntery – someone had to say something.’
‘He works for The Man Land. We’re in direct competition with them and you know it. By arguing with him, you’ve given him more publicity. Thanks to that little stunt on Twitter over the weekend, he’s gained another few thousand followers who are all laughing at his column with him while laughing at you and our magazine.’
‘Someone needed to call him out. He can’t just go around writing such horrible things about people’s wedding days.’
‘But not someone who works for the other magazine in this battle of the mags thing that Hambridge Publishing have got us embroiled in. Everyone knows it’s them versus us, but it’s meant to be in a professional way. It’s not meant to degenerate into petty insults and name-calling. How you conduct yourself online, even outside of work, reflects back on our magazine.’
‘I use an icon on Twitter. No one knows it’s me.’
Oliver rubs his temples. ‘You use a random photo of a wedding dress, your real name, and your bio says you write for Two Gold Rings magazine.’
‘It’s not a random photo – it’ll be my wedding dress one day,’ I mutter.
I don’t know why I’m trying to defend myself. He’s right. I love writing for a bridal magazine and I do mention it in my Twitter bio. The thousands of people who retweeted my argument with Mr R.C. Art over the weekend know exactly who I work for and the very public battle between us and The Man Land.
I try again. ‘He called the bride a 21-year-old sentient boob job fake-tanned to the colour of an overcooked Wotsit and the groom a 70-year-old walking bank account sponsored by Viagra!’
Oliver lets out a snort and I frown at him. ‘It’s not funny. He has no right to make fun of their wedding day and publicly humiliate them online. He called it the unholy union of a cross-dressing scarecrow and a taffeta loo roll holder, and I’m still not sure which one was which. It was totally unfair. It looked like a beautiful wedding.’ I scroll through my phone and hold it out to show him a picture. ‘See?’
Oliver glances at it and stifles a laugh. ‘Well, I’ve got to admit I admire the man for his way with words. He’s really hit the nail on the head this time.’
‘Their wedding day is their wedding day. Nothing about it has anything to do with him,’ I snap, yanking my phone back across the desk towards me.
‘Bonnie, you don’t even know these people. It’s not up to you to stick up for them. If they take offence at what he said, let them sue him for libel. Everyone knows this R.C. Art guy writes horrible stuff in his monthly column. It’s tongue in cheek, designed to get a laugh at someone else’s expense. He’s like the Katie Hopkins of weddings. He says controversial things to get a reaction out of the public. The Man Land don’t pay him for his writing, they pay him for the amount of press he gets them. The best thing anyone can do is ignore him, which is not what you did.’
‘He deserved putting in his place. It didn’t matter who he worked for.’
‘But you didn’t put him in his place. All you did was give him a petty, childish argument that he could use as an example of how crazed brides get.’
‘I’m not a bride.’
‘Well, for whatever reason, you have a picture of a wedding dress as your profile photo …’
‘Which is better than him. His profile photo is just two engagement rings with a big ‘no entry’ road sign over them.’
Oliver slams his hand down on the desk. ‘Bonnie, you don’t seem to realize how serious this is. I’ve had the owner of Hambridge Publishing on the phone this morning and to say he’s not impressed would be an understatement. It looks like you were deliberately baiting R.C. Art and trying to draw him into an argument so The Man Land would come off looking worse than us.’
‘That’s ridiculous. If anything, he did it on purpose to make me look bad. He screencapped my tweets and posted them for all to see, and conveniently cut off his original post where he thought it was okay to compare a bride’s make up to the zombies from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video and the wedding guests to Night of the Living Dead. He made it look like I was randomly attacking him by taking out what I was responding to.’
‘You shouldn’t be responding to anything in this situation. This thing between our magazines is a well-known publicity stunt and people are watching what we do.’ Oliver’s face is red and he looks like he’s one step away from banging his head, or more likely mine, on the desk. ‘I don’t care if you stood up for that couple with the best of intentions. You can’t keep fixating on other people’s weddings to detract from your own loneliness, and getting into a slanging match with The Man Land’s high-profile anti-marriage columnist is asking for trouble. Quoting his column and trying to incite your followers against him reflects badly on our whole magazine.’
‘I didn’t try to incite anyone! I just pointed out that there are some twats in the world and most of them have a Twitter account. And what about him? Have Hambridge been on the phone to his boss this morning yelling at him too? He posted screencaps of my tweets and told his followers that I’m the kind of idiot he has to deal with on a daily basis.’
‘So you react with dignity, poise, an
d silence. Trolls go away if you don’t feed them. You served him a seven-course meal with extra dessert. You may as well have called him a poo-poo head, blown a raspberry at him, and ran and told your favourite teddy bear. Actually, on second thoughts, that might have been a more mature way to deal with it.’
‘R.C. Art,’ I grumble. ‘What kind of a stupid pseudonym is that? It sounds like a school class, which is fitting given his level of maturity. He probably looks like the offspring of a flying monkey and Yoda. No wonder he hides behind a picture and uses an alias. He’s probably a bitter and twisted old man who’s so bitter and twisted because he’s too horrible to have ever found anyone to marry him. He wouldn’t be so nasty if anyone loved him, would he?’
Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose. Again. ‘Says the woman who has a wedding dress but doesn’t have a groom to go with it.’
‘I don’t have the wedding dress. I’ve only paid a deposit and it’s on hold for me at Snowdrop – you know the little bridal boutique tucked away near Marble Arch?’
‘No. I’ve been divorced for four years. Oddly enough, I have no knowledge of bridal shops and nor do I want any.’
‘You run a wedding magazine!’ I say, wondering why I expect anything different from a man who has the Ambrose Bierce quote ‘Love is a temporary insanity curable only by marriage’ printed on the wall above his desk.
‘I edit a wedding magazine. I rely on you and your colleagues to provide the content. I’m just counting down the days until I retire and never have to read another comparison between napkin rings or essay on wedding favours ever again. Only three years and ninety-three days to go now. What I really don’t need is to have to find another job at this time of my life if we lose Two Gold Rings, which we are going to at this rate.’
‘We won’t. The Man Land prints nothing but sexist, unfunny drivel. Two Gold Rings has been going for decades and thousands of brides have turned to us for all their wedding-planning needs. It’s good versus evil. Love versus misogynistic sarcasm. There’s no way they’re going to win.’
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