He takes the screw out of his mouth and pushes it in, holding it carefully between the fingers of his left hand as the electric screwdriver in his right hand whirrs into life and he drives the screw into place. ‘It’s so much fuss for one day that always ends up being a complete let-down. I don’t like all the expectation that hinges on this one “Big Day” being perfect. You’re expected to be full of joy and cheer, and certain people’ – he side-eyes me pointedly – ‘act like there’s something wrong with you if you’re not.’
‘Oi, you asked me to help you find some Christmas spirit.’ I pick up the next set of planks, ready for another screw. ‘I was quite happy to leave you in your non-Christmas-jumper-wearing misery. And just for the record, I have never thought there was anything wrong with you.’
He looks up and meets my eyes and his mouth tips slowly into a smile, and I get so lost in his Disney prince eyes that I don’t realise I’ve reached out to touch him until the boards I was holding clatter to the floor and make us both jump.
‘It’s not about the “Big Day” itself – everyone knows that.’ My cheeks flare red as I pick the boards up and try to get them back into the same position. ‘It’s about the build-up. This is the fun part of Christmas. It’s nothing to do with the day itself. That’s always full of stress and a total let-down. It’s about this – this exact time of year when everything’s bright and twinkly and people are just a little bit kinder than usual.’
‘Kinder? People are rattier and more stressed and tired than usual.’
I ignore him. ‘Don’t you love getting boxes of decorations out and experiencing the nostalgia of going through all these gorgeous things you haven’t seen for a year? I decorated my tree last night. I have miniature wreaths that my great-grandmother made. It feels special to still have decorations from a family member I never even got to meet. Doesn’t your family have decorations passed down through the generations?’
He looks at me with one eyebrow up and one eyebrow down, like he can’t work out what I’m talking about. ‘No. I’ve never decorated a Christmas tree.’
‘Never?’ I can’t hide the shock in my voice. ‘What kind of tree did you have when you were a kid?’
‘One of those pre-lit, pre-decorated fibre-optic ones that come out of a nice neat box from the attic on Christmas Eve and goes straight back into it on Boxing Day.’
I shake my head. ‘That’s just wrong. Don’t your parents run a Christmas business?’
His eyes widen for just a second and then he looks down. ‘Exactly. It’s the busiest time of year.’
‘Didn’t you have any build-up at all?’
‘Yeah – work.’
‘I mean when you were young.’
‘Schoolwork.’
I narrow my eyes at him because he’s being deliberately obtuse now. ‘How about writing cards?’
‘You mean killing the environment and destroying trees for the privilege of wasting money on postage stamps for someone you check in with once a year because neither of you can think of a polite way to stop?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Buying presents?’
‘Spending money you don’t have on things people don’t want that will be returned in January, regifted, or stuffed into the loft until they think they’re safe from you asking about them and can get away with chucking them out.’
‘Wrapping presents?’
‘Sticking yourself up with approximately seventeen thousand metres of Sellotape on non-recyclable wrapping paper that no one even looks at, which is just as well, because everything I’ve ever wrapped ends up looking like I’ve drunk three bottles of gin and broken both arms.’
It makes me howl with laughter and he’s grinning at me when I’ve recovered enough to look at him without giggling. That I can believe. ‘What about food you can only get at this time of year?’
‘Yeah, except the supermarkets put it out in September so you can get it for at least four months. Your three hundredth mince pie of the year kind of loses its sparkle.’
‘Festive baking?’
‘Firstly, you can buy boxes of mince pies for £1.50 in the supermarket so there’s no point, and secondly, you don’t want to know what happened the last time I tried to cook something. They’re still replastering the kitchen wall.’
I laugh again because he’s got a way of saying things that’s impossible not to laugh at even though I’m not quite sure if he’s joking or not.
‘And what’s the deal with Christmas fruitcake?’ he continues before I can counteract him. ‘Who would ruin a perfectly good cake with fruit? The only exception to the fruit in cake rule is the jam in a Victoria sponge.’
‘Oh, come on. It’s not Christmas in Britain until you’ve had a leaden brick of fruitcake that you don’t like and wouldn’t touch with a bargepole at any other time of year, covered with an inch-thick layer of marzipan and an even thicker layer of dried-up white icing. It’s all part of the fun.’
He makes a face and it sets me off giggling again. ‘The music?’
He points at the phone on the counter, currently playing Ellie Goulding’s cover of “River”. ‘Same old nonsense every year. You’re onto a winner here because I’ve never heard this before, but honestly, it’s the 10th of December and I’ve heard “Driving Home For Christmas” at least 78,472 times, and no one even is driving home for Christmas yet; it’s far too early.’
I can’t help giggling at his literal interpretation. ‘Films? I know you like Christmas movies now.’
‘There are these weird shiny round disc things called DVDs, and there’s no law against watching Christmas films at any time of year.’
‘Yes there is because if I watch them in July, I’ll get too excited about it and then be too disappointed that it’s still months away. Besides, you cannot watch festive movies when it’s thirty degrees and sunny outside. You have to watch them on a dark winter’s night with a mug of hot chocolate and a cosy blanket … Just like with festive books.’
‘Also, oddly, available all year round.’
‘What about seeing family?’
‘Family you happily won’t see again for another year?’ He bites his lip as if trying to let me know he’s only half-joking. ‘And there’s this really weird thing where if you want to see people, you can actually go at any time of year. Isn’t that an amazing invention?’
I give him a sarcastic grin. ‘Memories? Christmas is such a nostalgic time that makes you think of years gone by …’
‘Yeah, I just love thinking about that time Dad got drunk over the paperwork, Mum fell down the stairs, and for a real change of pace for the special dinner, we put the microwave meal in the oven, and when it came out, it was so charcoaled that if you chiselled it hard enough, there’d have been diamonds inside.’
‘Scented candles?’ I’m really clutching at straws now.
‘Fire hazards.’
‘What about the novelty clothing? Christmas jumpers, hats, and jewellery?’
‘They’re ridiculous.’
‘No, they’re not – they’re fun. I love people who aren’t afraid of looking daft and really throw themselves into it and embrace the silliness of the season. Christmas is all about walking around with poinsettia flower headbands, jingling reindeer antlers, and Santa hats on your head.’
‘All at the same time?’ He pulls a face.
‘Why not? There’s no such thing as overkill at Christmas.’ The grin I give him is tight and wary. There’s something about his humorous way of talking that makes me unsure if he’s only saying it to wind me up or if he’s serious. And if he is serious, it gives me a sobering pause for thought. He hates everything I like. If he really thinks this way, he’s never going to change. ‘You are the most cheerful miserable person I’ve ever met.’
‘Thank you.’ He lets out an unexpected laugh and puts his hand on his chest and ducks his head in what probably would’ve been a proper bow if he didn’t have broken ribs.
The song chooses that minute to change and �
�Deck the Halls” comes on. ‘One of my favourites!’ I grab his hand and tug him into the middle of the empty shop floor, the tables pushed aside to give us space to construct the shelves. I grab a nutcracker from one of the tables and hold it out to him like a microphone. ‘Come on, sing along!’ I try again, even though he’s refused every time I’ve tried to make him so far. ‘Go on, what are you afraid of?’
‘Nutcracker Lane’s double-glazing repair bill after I’ve shattered every piece of glass in the building.’
‘It’s stood here for forty years, I’m sure it can cope with a bit of “troll the ancient yuletide carol-ing” too.’ I sigh. ‘You said you were stressed out with work the other night, but I haven’t seen you relax once since then. Your shoulders are so tense, they must be holding every muscle taut and making your injuries hurt more. You need to relax and let go of yourself.’
‘Fa-la-la-ing’s not going to help, is it?’
‘How will you know if you don’t give it a try?’
He looks between my face and the nutcracker I’m still holding out as a microphone. ‘Fine. Fa la la la la,’ he says in a totally deadpan voice. ‘Happy now?’
‘Go on …’
He rolls his eyes but his mouth quirks up into a smile this time, and his face softens at the exact moment he gives in.
I push the nutcracker-microphone into his hand and grab another one for myself and I can’t get the grin off my face when he joins in the sing-along because it’s amazing to see him let go and relax, and judging by the impossibly wide smile and the way his eyes are shining, even enjoy himself. He’s always uptight and self-aware, and even though he wears casual clothes to work now, he still seems as taut as if he was wearing a smart suit. For a while, I put it down to the injuries, but it seems to be more than that, almost like he’s constantly looking over his shoulder for something.
‘I love that I can be silly with you and you don’t judge me for it,’ he says when the song ends and his eyes are glinting like a tiger’s eye gemstone when you move it under the light so it reflects different colours.
I know the feeling. It’s been a long time since I let myself go in front of someone, and the only person I’ve ever sung in front of before is Stacey, but it doesn’t seem to matter with him. ‘Everyone needs a dose of silliness sometimes. I think we all get caught up in the stresses of life and forget that far too often.’
The opening bars of “A Winter’s Tale” by David Essex start playing, and James takes the nutcracker out of my hand and puts them both down on the completed empty shelf behind him.
‘C’mere,’ he murmurs.
When I step towards him, his right arm slides around my waist and he pulls me against him, and his left arm rests around my shoulder, touching at the elbow above his cast. We start doing some sort of slow dance, mainly just stepping around the room to the sweet, melodic tune, occasionally stepping on each other’s toes and murmuring an apology.
My head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck and his chin rests on my head, the first hint of his dark stubble catching on my hair. I let out a breath against his collarbone and sort of snuggle into his chest. I’m unsure of where to touch him that isn’t going to hurt and one hand goes around his hip to rub gently at the right side of his spine and the other drifts up to his left shoulder, letting my fingers trail over the back of his neck.
He makes a noise and I still instantly. ‘Am I hurting you?’ I whisper, because everything feels so quiet and peaceful that talking at a normal volume would break the spell.
‘The opposite.’ His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer, and it must be hurting, I must be pressing against some of his bruises, but he whispers, ‘This is the most comfortable I’ve ever been.’
I don’t need to look up at his face to hear the blissed-out tone in his voice or tell that his eyes are closed or feel the way his shoulders droop as he exhales against my hair.
It would be so easy to tilt my head and kiss his jaw. He seems so quiet and relaxed and I wish there was a bit of mistletoe nearby to give me an excuse. I can’t kiss him for no reason. I don’t even want to kiss him. I just want to see if what I felt yesterday when he kissed my cheek was a one-off brought on by hysteria at granting wishes again, or proximity to too many nutcrackers or something. That’s all. It was some weird sort of nervous system malfunction. Nothing more.
‘This is such a lovely song. So romantic.’ He says it so quietly that I’m not sure if I’ve heard the words so much as felt the vibration of them through his chest. ‘Why have I never heard this before?’
‘Because you close your heart to Christmas and decide you don’t like things without giving them a chance.’
He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes me tighter and I let the fingers around his shoulder trail up to play with the hair at the back of his neck, carding through it and drifting up and down to the collar of his jumper and back, and I feel the shiver that goes down his spine, and I have no doubt that it’s the good kind of shiver. Maybe I’m not the only one who felt something under that mistletoe the other day.
We slow-dance aimlessly around the room, listening to David Essex sing his 1980s tale of failed love.
‘Sorry, I dance like I’m made of wood.’
I stiffen in his embrace. I’m a hundred per cent sure he isn’t a nutcracker come to life, and then every so often, he’ll say something that makes me think … is he? ‘You dance like you’ve got broken bones and severe bruising and should be sitting down with your feet up.’ It’s the end of a long day, and although he’s clearly trying not to show it, there’s a tautness around his eyes and a wince at certain movements that suggest he’s already overdone things.
‘Nia, I need to tell you …’ He lifts his head and looks me in the eyes, his pupils wide. The look is so intense that it makes my knees turn to jelly, which must be something to do with the earth’s magnetic field and not just from looking at him. Maybe we’re due an earthquake. They’re not exactly common in Wiltshire, but it’s possible.
His fingers curl into my hip, five points of burning pressure where they touch my body. Bits of his straight hair have sprung forward around his ears and it’s like a magnet is pulling my fingers up to tuck them back, trailing down his jaw, feeling every speck of stubble with every line of my fingertips. His eyes drift closed and he lowers his head, and my heart is pounding so loud I’m sure people on a passing cruise liner in the North Sea can hear it.
I can already sense the delicious friction of his jaw against my skin, his soft lips that I felt on my cheek the other day against mine. My hand grips his shoulder as I stand on tiptoes, and I realise that I’m going to kiss him … And I jump back with such abruptness that it startles him and makes him wince in pain at my sudden movement.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. I can’t kiss him. I barely know him. Another relationship is the last thing I want. I can’t bear the thought of being cheated on again, and with him … it feels like it would matter. It didn’t matter with the previous couple of boyfriends because I held them at arm’s length so it wouldn’t hurt when they inevitably slept with someone else. James is already closer than I’ve let most of my previous relationships put together. The thought of him cheating on me is enough to make my throat close up and my nose start to burn, and we’re nowhere near dating yet. I can’t let it get that far because of how much it will hurt to lose him.
Every part of me feels wobbly, and my fingers curl into his good arm to keep myself upright because it’s like hugging him has cut off the blood flow to my brain and it takes a few seconds for awareness to come back.
‘The shelves!’ I yelp with such fervour that you’d think the future of the human race depended on us getting these shelves together.
He scratches his head awkwardly, looking like he can’t work out what just happened, and goes back over to position the next part of the frame for building up from the shelf we’ve just screwed together.
I thought it might be awkward after that … whatever that was between
us, but within a couple of purrs of the electric screwdriver, it’s like nothing ever happened.
‘Why did you stop making things?’ My fingers run over the sanded wood, smooth compared to the roughness of the chalky white paint on one of the sets, an experiment in distressed-look shabby chic. These are so beautiful, and they fit in so perfectly with our rustic style. If someone had told me to go out and buy shelving, I’d have chosen these.
‘I don’t have time. I made these when I was younger, when I had nothing but time. Now I just work. Trying to make my parents’ unprofitable company profitable again. It takes more … energy than it sounds like it does.’
I get the impression he’s talking about emotional energy instead of physical energy. ‘You can’t work all the time.’
The laugh he answers with is bitter and sarcastic, and leaves me in no doubt that he doesn’t want to talk about it. ‘I’m not creative like you. It’s impressive to be able to earn a living from something you make with your own hands.’
I’ve never thought of it like that before. ‘Most days, I’m just struggling to get by. It’s hard to find the motivation sometimes, especially when you’re working a part-time job as well. But it’s also my escape. I feel tense and weird inside if I haven’t made anything for a while, and that tension releases when I get out to my shed, put some music on, and disappear into my own little world for a while.’
‘But you don’t just make Christmas stuff, right?’ He pushes screws around a handmade wooden box as he searches for the right ones to secure the side supports.
‘No, of course not. That would be a terrible business model. Stace and I both do themed crafts for every time of year; you just happen to have come along in December. We do Valentine’s Day, spring, Easter, summer, autumn, Halloween, and everything in between, and we both have non-seasonal year-round products. But Christmas is the most popular and we make a huge effort for it.’
‘And you’ve never thought about a physical shop together until Nutcracker Lane?’
‘That would be a dream come true, but it’s way too big a commitment. You hear so many horror stories of high streets failing and shops closing down. Neither of us earn enough to stay afloat without a second job. Buying our van together was a huge investment. Buying or renting actual property seems doomed to fail and neither of us have got the money anyway. Somewhere with a guaranteed customer base like Nutcracker Lane that was open all year through would be perfect, but for now, our budgets are better spent on making more products and doing more online advertising.’
The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane: The perfect cosy and uplifting Christmas romance to curl up with! Page 18