Love and Lies at The Village Christmas Shop: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for Christmas 2018
About the Author
PORTIA MACINTOSH has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock chick phase or, most recently, whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales.
After years working as a music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels instead.
Bestseller Portia writes hilarious romcoms, drawing on her real life experiences to show what it’s really like being a woman today – especially one who doesn’t quite have her life together yet.
Also by Portia MacIntosh
Between A Rockstar and A Hard Place
How Not to Be Starstruck
Bad Bridesmaid
Drive Me Crazy
Truth or Date
It’s Not You, It’s Them
The Accidental Honeymoon
How Not to Be a Bride
Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli
Love and Lies at the Village Christmas Shop
PORTIA MACINTOSH
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Portia MacIntosh 2018
Portia MacIntosh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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 e-book 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.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without
the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
E-book Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008297725
Version: 2018-09-25
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Portia MacIntosh
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue – 1998
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
Dear Reader,
About the Publisher
Dedication
For
J K J A J P
B T D
Prologue – 1998
‘Holly Jones, what have you done?’ I hear my mum ask through gritted teeth, with enough volume to show that she’s angry, but not so much that the shop full of customers can hear her.
I remove my nose from my copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone to see what exactly my sister has done now. I wouldn’t usually jump to conclusions, but this is Holly, and Holly will do anything if it has enough shock value.
We went our separate ways at the school gates no more than a couple of hours ago. Holly wanted to go into town with her mates for a while before tea, but I wanted to come here and read my book, sitting on my stool behind the counter of my mum’s Christmas shop. I always enjoy spending time here but now that it’s December – and actually Christmas time – the place feels all the more magical.
This afternoon the shop is overflowing with tourists, who have travelled from all over to check out Marram Bay’s open-year-round Christmas shop. Christmas Every Day is so much more than just a shop though, it’s like a magical Santa’s workshop, with wall-to-wall Christmas decorations and gifts, with glitter and twinkly lights everywhere you look. Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ is pumping out through speakers around the shop. It’s such an infectious song, which you can’t help but love and sing along to. I’m not even sure I can name another Mariah Carey song, but this one is a Christmas classic.
Despite the trees in the shop being artificial (they do have to stay up all year round, after all), my mum has these special pine air fresheners which, combined with the locally made gingerbread she’s selling at the counter at the moment, give the place a real, irresistible Christmassy smell that I can’t get enough of. Perhaps my favourite part of all – and a favourite feature of many of the customers who visit the shop – is the steam train that runs on a track around the shop, over bridges, through tunnels and even around the shop Christmas tree that stays up all year.
From the second you walk through the door there’s just this magical feeling in the air. That warm, hopeful, festive feeling you only get at Christmas time. It makes you want to eat gingerbread, sing carols and be happy with your loved ones – and I get to experience it all year round.
But while I might share my mum’s love and passion for all things festive, my twin sister Holly absolutely does not. In fact, she has such a strong dislike for the most wonderful time of year that she always acts up around the holidays. And now, here she is, like clockwork, on 1st December, with a drastic new hairstyle that my mum did not sign off on.
Holly’s previously shoulder-length blonde hair, along with her hairline and most of her neck, is now bright red.
‘It’s just like Lisa Scott-Lee’s,’ my sister says, running both (stained red) hands through her hair, by way of an explanation. I think it’s safe to say that her obsession with Steps has reached its peak.
‘You’re my 14-year-old daughter, you’re not Lisa Scott-Lee,’ my mum reminds her as she serves a customer. When the shop is so busy, my mum is forced to parent around working – or work around parenting, whichever needs to take priority at the time.
I laugh quietly to myself, although not quietly enough.
‘Oh, should I want to be a wizard when I grow up, like Ivy does?’ she says mockingly.
I clutch my book to my chest self-consciously.
The customer my mum is serving laughs as she watches our little family drama play out in front of her.
‘Sisters, huh?’ she says to my mum politely, like perhaps she has daughters of her own, and she knows exactly how tricky they can be.
‘Would you believe they’re twins?’ my mum replies. ‘Non-identical, in both appearance and interests. Fascinating really. Can I get you anything else?’
‘No, that’s great, thanks.’
‘Have a very merry Christmas,’ my mum says brightly as she hands over a receipt, before turning her attention back to Holly. ‘Who did that for you?’
‘I did it myself,’ she says proudly. ‘Only 99p from Boots.’
‘Will it come out?’
‘Yeah, well, in three washes,’ she admits.
‘Can you go and get started on the first wash now then, please,’ my mum asks gently.
‘I thought you’d like it,’ Holly persists. ‘Red is festive.’
My mum laughs wildly. ‘You’re not going to convince me you did this in tribute to Christmas – you hate Christmas.’ We all know Holly hates Christmas; she’s not exactly shy about it.
Right on cue, Wizzard’s ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ starts playing. Holly rolls her eyes.
‘OK, fine,’ she whines.
‘Oh, Holly,’ my mum calls after her. ‘Ivy was looking for her boot-cut jeans. Have you taken them?’
‘No, burglars broke in, and only stole Ivy’s jeans,’ she replies sarcastically as she disappears up the stairs.
‘Never have teenagers,’ my mum tells me once Holly has stormed upstairs. I blink at her. ‘You don’t count; you’re not like a teenager. You’re an angel.’
I smile.
‘Holly doesn’t think Christmas is cool,’ I tell her. It’s not a very good explanation, but it’s all I have.
‘Not cool like Steps.’ My mum laughs. ‘She’s going to be mortified, when she’s in her thirties and someone reminds her she used to wear a cowboy hat.’
With a moment of calm at the till between customers, my mum takes my natural long blonde hair in her hands, combing it with her fingers.
‘It’s no surprise your sister is sick of Christmas,’ my mum reasons. ‘She does live in a Christmas shop that’s open all year round. You’re lucky you love it as much as I do. For her, it must be torture.’
I replace my bookmark and close my book, setting it down to one side.
‘Have you always loved Christmas?’ I ask, because I realise I haven’t actually asked her that question before.
‘I have,’ my mum says with a smile. ‘This shop is my dream come true. Like now, in December, it’s so wonderful to see people coming in, all excited for the holidays, looking for quirky decorations to hang on their trees, or unique little gifts to give their loved ones. I love it in the summer too, though, when tourists come in from the baking-hot sun, usually after a day catching rays on the beach – they literally step into Christmas and that pleasantly baffled look on their faces is one I never grow tired of.’
‘I can’t wait to work here,’ I tell her. Ever since I was little, all I’ve wanted to do is help out in the shop. My mum sometimes gives me little jobs to do, so that I think I’m working here, but now that I’m a teenager, I’m hoping she’ll let me work here properly one day soon.
‘And I can’t wait for you to help out, but you need to finish school first,’ my mum insists.
I smile as I watch a dad lifting up a little girl so she can choose a bauble from the tree. She delicately removes a glass bauble with a white feather inside – a great choice; I’ve always loved that one. We have the exact same one on our tree in the living room upstairs.
I feel my smile drop as I think about my own dad. It doesn’t matter how many Christmases go by since he passed away, I still miss him now more than ever. They say these things get easier with time but every time I see something that belonged to him, someone mentions his name, or I see a happy child playing with their dad, it gets me. I miss him so much.
‘You know, apart from you and your sister, this shop is the thing I’m the most proud of. It’s practically like one of my kids.’ She laughs. ‘It’s taken a lot more raising than you – probably less than Holly, but don’t tell her that.’
I giggle.
‘I like to think about when you and Holly are grown up, happily married, with kids of your own. I imagine you bringing them here and then, after I’m gone, I don’t know… I imagine the shop being in the family for years, generation after generation. That’s silly, isn’t it?’
‘That’s not silly,’ I reassure her.
‘You’re a sweetheart, Ivy Jones, but you know I’d never expect either of you to work here. I’m sure you’ve got your own big ideas for the future.’
‘Mum, I mean it. We’ll keep the shop going forever.’
‘That’s my girl,’ she says, squeezing my hand before turning to serve yet another smiling customer, delighted by the armful of Christmas decorations they have selected.
I’m not sure whether or not she believes me, or if she’s just humouring me, but I’m serious. I know how much this shop means to my mum. I’ll always be here to help.
I hear thudding on the floor upstairs – most likely Holly working on her routine to ‘5, 6, 7, 8’. Holly might not care about Christmas or the shop, but I do. I know how important this shop is to my mum and I’ll always do whatever it takes to keep it going.
Chapter 1
I sit up in my bed and stare straight ahead, as though that might make my ears more efficient. Did I just hear something or was I dreaming?
After a few seconds I hear the noise that woke me again and realise it’s a knock at the door.
I grab my phone from next to me and look at the time. Uh-oh, it is 8.45, which means I’ve overslept – I never oversleep.
I grab my brown reindeer dressing gown (complete with antlers on the hood) and throw it on over my nightshirt before dashing downstairs to answer the door, combing my hair with my fingers and wiping sleep from my eyes as I hurry down the stairs.
As I approach the shop front door, I can just about see Pete, the postman, on the other side of the glass, which, now that I think about it, I maybe went a little too heavy on with the spray snow. The white, frosty edges frame his face, giving him this angelic white glow. I don’t suppose I look so festive from where he’s standing; all he’ll be able to see is me hurrying across the shop floor undressed, with my bed head hair, fumbling with my keys.
He waves at me, all smiles, as I unlock and open the door.
‘Hello, Ivy, sorry, did I wake you?’ he apologises as he clocks my dressing gown.
‘Hey, Pete. I’m glad you did,’ I admit. ‘I need to open the shop in 15 minutes.’
‘It’s not like you to sleep in,’ he says, handing me a parcel. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything is fine,’ I assure him. I don’t tell him that I was up late looking over my finances, worrying a few years’ worth of wrinkles onto my face until I finally dropped off some time after 3 a.m. ‘I was up late reading.’
‘Now that I believe.’ He laughs. ‘Is that what’s in there?’
Is there not some kind of law that prohibits postmen from asking you what’s in your parcel? There could be anything in this box – what if I’d ordered some super sexy lacy underwear or something? I mean, it is from Amazon, and it is book-shaped, but still. I’m not always so predictable (I am).
‘Yep, another book,’ I tell him. ‘Something to read while I’m working.’
‘Business still quiet?’ Pete asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say with a sigh. ‘It’s December 1st though, so things should pick up a little.’
‘I’ll be in for a few bits,’ he assures me.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sure I had something to tell you,’ he says, hovering outside the door. I appreciate that it must be uncomfortable, talking about my difficult livelihood – especially for the man who delivers my bills. I usually enjoy his friendly small talk, but today I just want to get back inside and get some clothes on.
Pete furrows his brow for a second, visibly racking his brain until he has a thought. The second it hits him his face relaxes again.
‘Oh, some gossip for you,’ he starts, setting his bag down on the floor and taking his phone from his pocket. ‘I saw a man in town today.’
‘A man?’ I gasp, faking shock.
Pete laughs. ‘No, like…a mysterious man. He isn’t a local, and he doesn’t look like a tourist. He’s walking around, wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase. Seems like he’s scoping the place out.’
‘Hmm. For what, I wonder.’
‘Indeed,’ Pete replies. ‘I snapped a photo of him, put it in the Facebook group. Just in case he’s one of those white-collar criminals – you know, in case he steals something or what have you.’
‘I don’t think a white-collar criminal is just a criminal in a suit,’ I point out with a laugh.
‘See,’ Pete says, holding up his phone to show me a photo of a man in a suit, eyeing up a building on Main Street. ‘He’s weird.’
He’s gorgeous – but I don’t say this out loud. I study the photo for a moment, as my head fills with fiction-worthy reasons why this mysterious man might be hanging around town. The eligible bachelors in this town are few and far between. All the good ones are taken. This guy is definitely not from round here – take it from a single girl who knows.
‘Weird,’ I say in agreement, pushing all fantasies of handsome, mysterious strangers from my mind. ‘Well, I’d better get on with opening up the shop.’
‘Yes, I suppose the post won’t deliver itself,’ he says. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
I don’t have the heart to point out that emails are pretty much that.
‘Same time tomorrow,’ he says as he walks off down the path.
‘Yeah, if I don’t sleep in,’ I joke. ‘Have a good day.’
I watch Pete head for his van before he drives off. My lonely little shop is his only stop here. The shop sits alone, on a quiet country road, outside the town. It’s an old, stone cottage, which used to be a big house, sitting smack bang in the middle of a massive, beautiful garden. Just like a house, it has a little gate at the bottom of the garden, and a cute little pathway that leads up to the shop doorway.
When my mum took on the place, she converted the downstairs of the cottage into the shop, with a kitchen at the back, and the upstairs became our living space. It was strange, growing up above a shop when all my friends lived in big houses, but come summer time, when I had this massive garden to play in, I didn’t think twice about how cramped things were indoors.
I notice a bill, hiding under my package. I shove it in my dressing gown pocket, to be worried about at a later date – probably tonight, when I should be sleeping.
I unlock the fire exit at the back of the shop before flicking the switch that turns on every fairy light, every musical statue and snow machine. The things that make the shop seem alive, even when there’s no real people in it.
I check the shop floor to see if anything is out of place, or if any rubbish is lying around, before turning the sign around on the door to say that we’re open…for all the good it will do. I don’t tend to see any customers until the afternoon mid-week – usually tourists in the middle of a hike, or, at this time of year, the occasional local in need of some new decorations or wrapping paper.
I was only standing in the doorway chatting for ten minutes and I’m positively freezing. I’m almost always freezing, sometimes even in the heat of summer. I don’t know how long it has been since my last summer holiday, but I’m pretty sure it’s a double-digit number of years now. I don’t like to think about it; it makes me feel old.
What I need right now is a steaming-hot cinnamon latte, with a generous dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkling of tiny golden white chocolate stars, to make it extra festive. I’ll make myself a drink, warm up a little and then head upstairs to throw some clothes on before the lunchtime rush which, yesterday, was a whopping four people.
I plonk myself down on the stool behind the counter and fire up the usual Christmas playlist. The dulcet tones of Mud drift from the speakers, with ‘Lonely This Christmas’ – not exactly the vibe I need this morning.
I take my phone from my dressing gown pocket and load up the Marram Bay residents’ group on Facebook. It’s a private group, strictly for locals and businesses in Marram Bay and over on Hope Island, mostly used for selling things, announcements and a good old gossip. People in small towns just love to talk – mostly about each other.
Today’s gossip du jour is the ‘mysterious man’ Pete was telling me about. I see Pete’s paparazzi-style photo of a man wearing a suit, and carrying a briefcase, and otherwise not doing anything at all unusual other than being uncharacteristically good-looking. A glance at the comments tells me more about the man. He’s been spotted all over town this morning, driving around in his convertible Porsche – some reckon he’s a professional athlete buying one of the mansions that sits just outside town, someone else swore blind it was Henry Cavill, while someone else has corrected them that, no, it was in fact Jamie Dornan.
It’s only now that I’m thinking about it that I realise Henry and Jamie do actually look quite similar and the thought of this man being a hybrid of the two is, coincidentally, exactly what I asked Santa for this year – well, it would be, if I were remotely interested in having a man in my life.
Hmm, no, he’s definitely not a famous actor. I suppose he could be a sportsman. He’s got the build for it, but I don’t know nearly enough about sports to recognise anyone other than David Beckham.
Perhaps he’s a prince, visiting from a sexy European country, looking for a woman to be his queen, or maybe he’s a spy, deep under cover in Marram Bay for some Secret Service operation… Perhaps I’ve just read too many books.
Speaking of which, I unwrap my latest Amazon package to find a copy of Little White Lies, the latest Mia Valentina romcom. I do feel guilty, buying books when money isn’t exactly great, but the day I begrudge myself a £3.99 book (when reading is my favourite thing to do) is the day I really need to think about selling a kidney.
You can’t beat a good book, can you? The way it just drags you in, taking you into someone else’s life, into their home, their relationship – into their everything. It’s a sneak peek into something you don’t usually get to see, and I think that’s why I love it so much. Whether I’m walking through the streets in King’s Landing in A Game of Thrones or being a fly on the wall in Nick and Amy’s house in Gone Girl, people are living a million lives far more interesting than mine, and with books, I get to live them too.
I have my coffee, I have my book, I’m all snuggly and warm in my dressing gown. I know that I won’t have any customers until after lunch at least, because I never do, so there’s no harm in starting my book and enjoying my drink before I head back upstairs to get ready. One chapter turns into two, and before I know it my cup is empty and I’m almost four chapters deep. I’ll finish this one and then I’ll get back to reality.