The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane: The perfect cosy and uplifting Christmas romance to curl up with!

by Jaimie Admans

  He shakes it and watches, mesmerised, as the snow and glitter float down around the miniature snow-covered branches of the tree, still as perfect today as the day my granddad gave it to me when I was seven years old.

  ‘Okay, even I can admit that’s kind of special.’ He puts it down gently and his long fingers trail across the top of the glass dome. ‘For a Christmas decoration.’

  I narrow my eyes at him when he looks up and smiles.

  ‘Your house is amazing.’ He looks around with a soft kind of awestruck look on his face. ‘It’s so warm and inviting. This is what a house should be like. It’s like coming home.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I have a flat over in Melksham.’ He points in the general direction of the area. ‘About half an hour in the car, but near my parents and the office. It’s not like this. This is a real home. I still have boxes I haven’t unpacked from when I moved in four years ago.’

  ‘I moved in with my grandma when I was a teenager and then looked after her when she got older, and she left the cottage to me when she died a few years ago, so I’ve lived here for a really long time. And accumulated enough Christmas decorations to show for it.’ I indicate the army of nutcracker soldiers on the window ledge, and he looks at them again and his eyes shift to the warm yellow glow coming from the scented candle in the warmer.

  ‘It even smells like Christmas.’ He takes a deep breath and as he breathes out, his tummy lets out a loud rumble, and his face instantly glows adorably red.

  I can’t help giggling as I point to the coffee table in front of the sofa. ‘Help yourself to biscuits and chocolate.’

  His eyes go wide as he spots the tub of chocolates and the biscuit selection box on the low rectangular table. ‘You have chocolate and biscuits just there for the taking?’

  ‘It’s Christmas. You have to have a tub of chocolates and a biscuit selection box.’

  ‘It’s December the 2nd.’

  ‘Exactly. Only three weeks to work my way through as many as possible. And they’re all on offer at this time of year – it’d be rude not to.’

  His smile is so wide as he goes across and tears the lid off the tub of Roses and picks out a hazel-in-caramel. He makes a noise of pleasure as he rips the wrapper off and puts it in his mouth and I watch his shoulders droop in contentment as he sucks it. Then I realise that standing in the doorway and watching him enjoy a chocolate is probably weird, so I nod towards the sofa. ‘Sit. Help yourself. Put your feet up on the table if it’s comfier. That’s what it’s there for. Food won’t be long now.’

  He’s barely swallowed before he takes a strawberry cream and tears into it, and I kind of like that he’s gone for my favourites. We might not have a love of Christmas in common, but at least we can appreciate the same chocolate.

  ‘Is there room for me with all the festive cushions?’ he says with his mouth full.

  ‘You can use them to get your ribs comfortable. Pack them around yourself or chuck them off if they don’t help.’

  He pulls a red-and-white knitted Fair Isle cushion aside and sinks down with a sigh of relief, sounding as tired as he looks. He plonks first one leg and then the other up onto the coffee table with a heavy clunk and settles back, letting his head rest against the back and closing his eyes. He goes to speak but all that comes out is a giant yawn.

  Thankfully the kettle chooses that moment to click off and I back away to the kitchen rather than getting caught up in how nice it is not to come home alone or how good he looks sitting there. ‘I’ll make us a cuppa.’

  ‘Can I just have two sugars this time?’ He calls after me. ‘Not sixty-two like last time?’

  ‘You’re hilarious,’ I call back as I get two Christmas mugs out of the cupboard and throw a teabag into each. ‘The remote’s on the table in front of you. Choose something to watch. You’ve got a choice between Christmas music or Christmas movies. We may as well start your un-Grinching straightaway.’

  ‘Don’t I get tortured enough with Christmas music twenty-four hours a day at the lane?’

  ‘Movies it is, then,’ I call out. ‘I recorded Elf last night. You’ll like that one.’

  ‘There has never been and never will be a Christmas movie that I’ll enjoy.’

  ‘You’ll love How the Grinch Stole Christmas!’

  Even he laughs at that, and I have to admit I’m impressed when the sound of the TV comes on and it sounds like he’s following instructions. I make the two cups of tea and set out two china bowls with a pattern of holly heaves and red berries weaved across them.

  ‘Are you actually going to watch all these?’ he asks, muffled around another chocolate. ‘I’m going through your DVR box and I’ve lost count of how many Christmas movies you’ve got recorded. I’m not a mathematician but I’m pretty sure there aren’t this many hours in the day between now and next August and that’s not taking into account things like working and sleeping.’

  ‘I don’t like to miss any,’ I say, half-annoyed because surely commenting on the contents of someone else’s TV box isn’t good etiquette and on the other hand, half-impressed that he’s comfortable enough to do so. ‘In January, I’ll delete any that I don’t get around to.’

  ‘At least you’re optimistic.’

  I turn off the cooker and dole out two bowlfuls of the veggie hotpot and position chunky cheesy dumplings around the edge, and finish off the teas with a splash of milk. By the time I carry his into the living room, he’s got Elf ready to play and he hands me the remote, and I put the snowy robin tray holding the bowl and mug onto his lap.

  ‘Christmas mugs and Christmas bowls and a Christmas tray. I’m not even horrified anymore, I’m intrigued by what other Christmassy things you’re going to bring out, like a never-ending Generation Game conveyor belt.’

  I put the remote on the arm of one of the chairs and go to fetch my own food.

  ‘Nia, thank you,’ he says when I come back in. ‘Seriously. Tonight is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. I couldn’t have chosen a better person to nearly pass out on in the storeroom.’

  It makes me laugh again. ‘You’re welcome. Next time you need to keel over on a random stranger, you know where I am.’

  He smiles and doesn’t drop his gaze from mine as I sit down in the armchair opposite him and fold my legs up underneath me. His teeth pull his lower lip into his mouth and I get the feeling he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. ‘This looks amazing.’

  I blush, even though he has no idea how it tastes yet. Looks can be deceiving, especially when it comes to my cooking. This could be the epitome of that glossy turkey in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation when Chevy Chase cuts into it and it bursts apart with a puff of air and shrivels to gristle.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re making me watch a Christmas movie,’ he says as I press play and the credits fill the blue screen. ‘I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie. It’s not going to make me laugh, is it?’

  Oops. I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Er, no. Elf is absolutely the unfunniest Christmas movie ever. No laughter guaranteed.’

  By the time we get to the scene of Will Ferrell trying to go up an escalator, James has realised I was being sarcastic. There are tears of laughter running down his cheeks – or possibly tears of pain – and he’s got a cushion held against his side by his elbow to give his ribs some padding.

  ‘I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this,’ he croaks out. ‘If I hadn’t taken enough painkillers to bring down a donkey, I’d hate you for this. If it was possible to hate someone who had just cooked me the best thing I’ve ever eaten.’

  I go to brush the compliment off, but he stops me. ‘Seriously, Nia. This is so good. When I remember it tomorrow, I’m going to think I hallucinated it.’

  He seems to know exactly what to say. I don’t cook for many people and it’s nice to hear that, in the same way I don’t have many people over to the house apart from Stacey, Lily when I babysit, and Mum occ
asionally, and there’s something about seeing him so at home here. Since Brad, keeping relationships at arm’s length has meant I’ve not invited anyone into my heart, let alone my house or let anyone try my cooking, and seeing him enjoy it has done a better job of warming me up than the log fire has.

  I also love that he’s clearly enjoying Elf. I’ve seen it enough times to be able to quote it word for word but I concentrate intently on it as a way of stopping myself watching him and the way crow’s feet crinkle around his eyes as they dance with laughter when Buddy and Jovie sing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”, and the way I can feel his eyes on me too, and every time I look over, he smiles and it makes something unclench in my stomach and warmth fill my chest.

  He even looks disappointed when I pause the film to go and cut a slice of Yule Log each for afters, and he’s so much of a gentleman that he offers to do the washing up afterwards, which I refuse because he still looks so tired that a stiff breeze would finish him off.

  There’s a point at the end of Elf that always makes me cry – when Jovie starts singing “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” and the crowd in Central Park join in – and when I risk a glance across the room at him, trying to hide my tears so he won’t laugh at my sappiness when it comes to Christmas movies, he’s fallen asleep. I squeeze my reindeer cushion tighter and watch the last five minutes of the film, and then turn it off as quietly as possible.

  I get up and take the plates out to the kitchen and slip them into the sink a millimetre at a time. The last thing I want to do is clatter around and wake him up. I tiptoe back into the living room and gently lift the biscuit selection tin from his lap. His broken arm is still across his chest and his good arm is propped up on a snowman cushion, while the pile of cushions stacked around him is keeping him upright. His head is leaning back against the sofa and his breathing is shallow and even, his hair has flopped over his forehead again, thick and straight, and I wish I could risk tucking it back into the rest of his mussed soft hair.

  There’s a red fleece throw with a pattern of white holly leaves and mistletoe berries over the back of the sofa and I tug it down and unfold it, and carefully pull it across until it’s covering him. I inch it up gently to his neck so at least his broken arm and ribs will be warm. He looks like he’s gone for the night, and maybe it’s weird to have a stranger sleeping in your house, but he seemed so tired today that there is no part of me that would even consider waking him.

  I creep up to bed, painstakingly avoiding every creaky stair, and wonder if I should be concerned that it doesn’t feel weird at all. James falling asleep on my sofa seems like exactly the way this night was supposed to end.

  Chapter 5

  My alarm goes off as usual at seven-thirty and I hit the snooze button and roll over, stretching out with a groan and pulling the duvet tighter around myself, feeling the pleasant ache of having had a really good night’s sleep. Even though it was late by the time the film finished, I’d usually have gone out to the bright lights of the garden shed and worked for a couple of hours, but I couldn’t risk waking—

  ‘James!’ I say loudly as I sit bolt upright and the events of last night come flooding back.

  I scramble out of bed, shove my arms into my blue penguin-patterned dressing gown and fight with the door handle, stiff after not being used for so long. There’s no need to close a bedroom door when you live alone, but I didn’t want to risk James waking up and looking for the bathroom only to accidentally come across me snoring and drooling into my pillow. He’s traumatised enough from the accident.

  I fly down the stairs. ‘James, are you—’

  Gone. The living room is empty. The blanket is folded neatly in the space where he was, and my keys are on the doormat where he’s let himself out, locked up, and put them back through the letterbox. He’s found my stack of Post-it Notes by the landline phone because there’s a neon-yellow square stuck to the coffee table, with “Thank you. ~ J” written on it in scrawled handwriting. When I go in the kitchen, the washing up is done and stacked neatly on the draining board, and I can’t help smiling as I pull my dressing gown tighter and huddle into it. Even Prince Charming never did the washing up.

  I can’t help the spike of disappointment that bursts through me too. I was looking forward to seeing him this morning. I imagined coming downstairs to find him still sleeping, going to the kitchen to make breakfast and putting the coffee machine on, waking him up with the smell of fresh-ground coffee and waffles from the ill-advised waffle maker my mum got me for Christmas last year, despite the fact I’ve never eaten a waffle in my life, and never managed to successfully make one in it since. In my fantasy of this morning, it produced soft and fluffy buttery waffles, and not the crumbled pieces of charcoal it actually produces.

  Maybe it’s a good thing. The sight of me first thing in the morning is enough to terrify anyone, and James has suffered enough lately. But having him here was nice. Not being alone was nice. Having someone to chat to, and eat with, and watch a film with was nice.

  I can smell his cinnamony cologne on the throw when I put it back where it came from and it definitely doesn’t make my knees go weak. I wonder when he woke up, when he left, if he went to the lane or back home. It must’ve been a few hours ago. I’m pretty sure the biscuit tin has moved from where I left it last night and I kind of love the idea of him helping himself to biscuits for breakfast.

  I suddenly can’t wait to get to work this morning to see him. I go back upstairs for a shower, and then return to shovel cereal down my throat and put away the plates from last night. I’m usually as slow as a turtle in the mornings, but today I’m dressed and ready faster than ever before, and I have to make myself pace inside the door for ten minutes before I walk out to meet Stacey on the corner.

  I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet by the time I spot her trudging up the frosty hill towards me.

  ‘You’re early.’ She checks for cars and then crosses my street to the corner. ‘You’re never early. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothi—’

  ‘And you’re smiling! You never smile at eight-thirty in the morning.’ She takes hold of my shoulders, turns me round to face her and peers at me, looking for clues. ‘What’s with the spring in your step?’

  ‘You know that guy? James from the shop opposite?’ I try to sound casual as I shrug myself out of her grip and we start walking up the hill.

  She’s not buying my casualness. ‘Oh, just that gorgeous guy you happen to think might be a nutcracker come to life …’

  I pull my scarf further up my face so it covers my mouth, muffling my words. ‘He kind of came home with me last night.’

  She grabs my arm, pulls me to a stop and looks all around, straining to see past the corner of my street. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He left early.’

  Stace narrows her eyes. ‘He didn’t leave when you woke up, did he? Literally a dream guy in all senses of the word?’

  ‘No, he left before I woke up. He was—’

  ‘A one-night stand!’ She shouts loud enough to attract the attention of a smart business-suited father and well-dressed mother packing their two impressionable young children into the back of the frightfully posh car in their driveway. They give us a suitably dirty look.

  ‘Nia Maddison!’ Stacey ignores them and carries on at a normal volume. ‘That’s not like you! Have you been at the festive spirit or what?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. He was hurt and tired and I wouldn’t let him drive … He even did the washing up, Stace.’

  ‘What’s that? A euphemism? A kinky sex position?’

  ‘No, the actual washing up. With one hand.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t sleep with him? Because Simon only does actual washing up in exchange for sexual favours.’

  ‘No, he’s just that much of a gent.’

  ‘Like the kind you wished for?’

  ‘No. Well, maybe. But it’s ridiculous. He couldn’t be.’

  ‘He couldn’t be a Christma
s decoration come to life or he couldn’t be an actual real-life man who just happens to have some prince-like qualities and isn’t as much of a wanker as the other guys you’ve dated in recent years?’

  ‘He hates my favourite time of year, Stace. He’s no prince,’ I mumble as she slots her arm through mine and makes me fill her in with as much info as possible in the five-minute walk to Nutcracker Lane.

  ‘His car’s gone,’ I say the instant the car park comes into view.

  ‘Did you expect it not to be?’ She pushes herself up on tiptoes to follow my gaze to the empty space under the lamppost.

  ‘No. I don’t know. I guess he’d go home to shower and change. I was just hoping …’ I can’t finish the sentence. What was I hoping? That he’d be there so I didn’t have to wait a moment longer to see him? ‘I just want to know he’s okay. He wasn’t in good shape last night.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She sounds like she isn’t sure which one of us I’m trying to convince either.

  ***

  ‘Nia, you’re blocking customers’ view of the goods – will you come away from that flipping window?’

  I jump when Stacey barks at me for not the first time this morning. ‘It’s half past ten and he isn’t in yet. Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know, but maybe if you stop watching his shop for three seconds, he’ll turn up.’

  I tidy the same display stand of Stacey’s earrings that I’ve tidied approximately seventy times so far this morning. Turning each backing card of tiny resin holly-leaf earrings so each point of the holly faces the exact same way. I should be working – using every opportunity when the shop’s not busy to be out the back, painting as much stock as possible to give us the most chance of outselling the other shops, but the fact James hasn’t come into work yet is at the forefront of my mind and I can’t concentrate on anything else.

  ‘What does it matter if he doesn’t open up anyway?’ Stacey says after she’s served a customer buying a glittery hand-painted set of standing snowmen ornaments. ‘It’s a good thing because we might get some of his customers. Why are you so worried?’