Joe and Clara’s Christmas Countdown

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017

Copyright © Katey Lovell 2017

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © Books Covered 2017

Katey Lovell 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.

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Source ISBN: 9780008260644

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008260637

Version: 2017-10-24

For Zachary. Thank you for brightening my world.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Clara

The Countdown

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Epilogue

Joe

Katey’s Advent Calendar of Thanks

About the Author

Also by Katey Lovell

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Clara

Sunday, June 25th 2017

The beauty of a signature scent is also its danger. Everyone associates it with you. And Bella’s overbearing perfume had clung to Dean’s clothes the way a baby being left for the first time clings desperately to its mother.

Clara had been suspicious for months, but her stomach still churned as she told the tale. It felt like history repeating itself. ‘When I confronted him about it he didn’t lie. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. No one wants to be lied to, but no one wants to feel replaceable either, do they?’

‘He’s a scumbag,’ Deirdre replied. ‘A complete and utter scumbag. Cheating on you with his masseuse? It’s such a cliché. Especially after you introduced them.’ She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘I said it all along, he’s got no class, that one.’

‘Physio,’ Clara corrected absentmindedly, before finding herself adding, ‘He’s not a bad person’. Why she was defending Dean to her boss when she’d spent the previous night alternating between hurling abuse at him and crying for the relationship they’d once had, she couldn’t say. Things hadn’t been perfect for a long time – Dean had seemed distant, and Clara herself had been exhausted, carrying the pressures of work home with her – but why Bella? Clara couldn’t see the attraction.

‘He sure as hell isn’t a good one. He told you he was having a sports massage when all the time he was having a shag! It’s shameless. You should sell your story to the press. I can see the headline now, “Rovers player in Physio Romp”. I’m sure there’d be some money in it for you,’ she added, with a worldly-wise nod of her head.

If it wasn’t so tragic, Clara would have laughed. ‘I don’t think so. A former Man United youth teamer, who now plays semi-professionally for the local team? There’s no story in that.’

Deirdre was having none of it. ‘There’s always the women’s magazines. They’d be all over this. There was a double-page spread in one about a woman who wanted to marry her cat. Her cat! Your story busts that crap right out of the water.’

‘Why did you read it if it was crap?’ Clara asked, tongue firmly in her cheek. She knew full well how much Deirdre loved the weekly women’s magazines. She had a stash of them secretly shoved in her desk drawer.

‘I was at the hairdresser’s this morning,’ she replied haughtily, patting her softly permed locks to plump up the fresh waves. ‘It was practically thrust into my hands as I was sat under the lamps.’

‘Your hair looks good,’ Clara observed, noticing her boss’s hair had also turned a soft shade of ash blonde rather than its usual salt-and-pepper flecks.

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Deirdre smiled with pride. ‘Hey, maybe you should go for a new look too. Reinvent yourself. It might help you get over Dean.’

‘It’ll take more than a new hairdo to do that. I’m beginning to think humans aren’t cut out for monogamy. I should have learned from Mum’s mistakes.’

‘Not all men are dirty dogs.’

‘Dean is, though. And my dad was too.’ An acrid taste filled Clara’s mouth.

‘I still can’t believe Dean actually thought he’d get away with cheating on you right under your nose.’

‘The worst part is knowing I’m going to have to see her again. She helps our next-door neighbour with the exercises for her arthritis. Her and her perfume will be getting right up my nose.’

Deirdre laughed. ‘Good one. Nice to see you’ve not lost your sense of humour.’

‘If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry.’

‘And you’re sure you’ll be up to speaking in front of everyone tonight?’

Clara hoped so – the kids at the youth club had been talking about the talent show for weeks. They’d been diligently practising their dance routines and comedy sketches. One ambitious twelve-year-old had been keen to juggle knives whilst riding his unicycle until Deirdre had put a stop to it on health and safety grounds. He was reluctantly settling for using bean bags instead of blades.

‘Yep, I’ve set the chairs out for the audience and the microphone’s rigged up. I’ve taken the iPod dock through for any acts that need music and prepared a welcome speech for the parents. Oh, and I’ve got a bucket ready for collecting donations. Hopefully it’ll get people putting their hands in their pockets.’

‘As long as they take them out again with a fistful of notes,’ Deirdre said with a sigh. ‘The waiting list keeps on growing. What annoys me the most is that we’ve got the space, but can’t take any more kids on unless we employ more staff. Fat chance of that, looking at the finances.’

‘It’s tough times for everyone,’ Clara pointed out. ‘Even the big charities are struggling. But things will work out in the end. They always do.’

‘Are you talking about the staffing issue or are you back to talking about relationships?’

‘Staff,’ Clara said firmly.

Deirdre tutted. ‘It’s such a shame. A lovely girl like you shouldn’t be sat on the shelf.’

‘I’m twenty-seven and split up with my fiancé yesterday. That’s hardly on the shelf.’

‘Still, you don’t want to be on your own too long,’ Deirdre replied. ‘I’m sure we can find you a nice young man who treats you well and keeps his pants on around other women.’

‘Deirdre!’

A cheeky glint sparkled in the older woman’s eyes. ‘Who knows, maybe there’ll be someone at the talent show to put a spring in your step.’

‘Don’t start,’ Clara warned. ‘I don’t need a man.’

‘Oh, I know you don’t need one,’ Deirdre replied. ‘But everyone enjoys a good seeing to once in a while, don’t they?’

Clara wasn’t sure how to reply to that. Instead, she nodded, smiled and made her way to the youth club’s main hall. She’d fiddle with the speakers again, double check they were set up properly. She’d go and unblock the sink in the boy’s loos that was forever emitting an eggy odour. Anything rather than stay here, because she sure to goodness didn’t want to listen to her boss discussing the ins and outs, quite literally, of her sex life.

* * *

Clara peeped from behind the red velvet curtain that flanked the stage.

There was quite a crowd gathering in the hall. The additional emergency chairs that were usually stacked high in the broom cupboard and only brought out on rare occasions had been filled, and it looked as though it was standing room only at the back.

Her stomach fluttered at the prospect of welcoming the parents. Despite her apparent confident demeanour, Clara had never been a natural when it came to public speaking. She put it down to the time she fluffed her line in the nativity play at infant school. Her mum had tried to assure her that no one had noticed, but Clara hadn’t believed her then and she certainly didn’t believe her now. She’d been dressed head to toe in white, with cotton-wool balls sewn over the t-shirt to make it obvious to everyone she was a sheep, yet when it reached her turn to take centre stage, Clara had panicked. The only thing she’d managed to say was ‘moo’. A mooing sheep. No wonder everyone had laughed.

But there’d be no mistakes like that tonight; Clara had come prepared. She’d written notes on crisp white index cards to ensure she remained sharp and to the point.

Gulping down her nerves, she smoothed her hands over the rough fabric of her denim mini dress and stepped out onto the stage.

‘Good evening everyone, and welcome to The Club on the Corner’s annual talent show. This never fails to be anything other than a brilliant evening, where we get the opportunity to celebrate the talents of our wonderful members, so please whoop, holler, clap and cheer to show them your support.’ Clara paused as she looked out into the sea of faces, before quickly refocusing on her cards. She didn’t want to be thrown off her stride. ‘However, as many of you know, this is one of our main fundraising events of the year. We are committed to keeping our subs at the lowest possible level to ensure as many children and young people as possible can access all that we offer. However, demand is currently so high that although we have the space to accommodate new members, we don’t have the staff to supervise them. Our hope is that your donations will make a real difference, to both the club and the community as a whole, by enabling us to employ an additional member of staff. We’ve always made it our mission to work closely with other local groups, particularly the food bank and the hospital, as well as supporting local events such as the church summer fete and Christmas lantern march. Please dig deep so that the club you know and love can continue to thrive.’

A lump lodged in Clara’s throat. This place meant so much to so many, not least Deirdre. The club was her boss’s baby, the children who attended the closest she had to a family of her own. And not only the children – she was like a second mother to Clara too, never anything less than protective, supporting and mildly embarrassing.

‘But now, without further ado, I’d like to introduce our first act. Tonight Cally, Tiffany, Phoebe and Simone are The Club on the Corner’s cheerleading squad. Let’s give them a big round of applause!’

Clara initiated the clapping as the girls bounded on to the stage, waving fluffy red and white pompoms high over their heads. They looked full of pep and vim, and the audience clapped along to the rhythm of the cheesy music, encouraged by the energetic teens.

The temperamental sound system was working. That was a weight off Clara’s shoulders.

The night continued with a varied programme of acts. There were some fabulous dance routines showcased, some less than hilarious comedy acts and a surprisingly brilliant solo rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’ by a normally gobby girl called Shannon. There hadn’t been a dry eye in the house.

But it was Ted’s beautiful acoustic guitar-playing that ended up winning fair and square. The concentration etched on his face as he moved his fingers into the correct chord positions on the fretboard was endearing, and his delight when he made it to the end of the performance earned him the loudest cheer of all.

‘Nights like this make it worthwhile.’ Deirdre shook her collection bucket loudly as the crowds dispersed, making sure everyone was clear that a donation was expected. The families she knew best didn’t dare throw in loose change, instead pulling crinkled notes out of their wallets and back pockets. They knew that to give any less would be to face Deirdre’s wrath. It wasn’t worth the hassle. Far easier to cough up their hard-earned cash instead. ‘People want the club to succeed.’

‘We’ve got something special,’ Clara agreed. ‘There’s not enough in here to get close to what we’d need to employ a new member of staff, though, even in the short-term,’ she added glumly, looking at the smattering of money in the bottom of her bucket.

‘There’s got to be another way,’ Deirdre said. ‘It’s a shame Lynsey isn’t able to help out as often since she had the baby. An extra pair of hands made all the difference. Maybe we could ask about volunteers again? Some of the parents might help out if we can get a rota going.’

‘We didn’t get any interest last time,’ Clara reminded her. She was aware of coming across as the queen of doom and gloom, but it was true. ‘Part of the reason they like the kids coming here is so they get a bit of peace and quiet. They’re not likely to want to give up their time to spend it somewhere as loud and crazy as this.’

‘You never know,’ Deirdre said optimistically, as a generous grandfather dropped a twenty-pound note into her collection bucket. ‘We might fall lucky and find someone willing to give up a few hours for the cause.’

Simone, one of the enthusiastic cheerleading troupe who also happened to be the smiliest sixteen-year-old Clara had ever seen, appeared as though from nowhere, her tight, dark curls bobbing in bunches either side of her head.

‘Thank you for organising the talent show,’ she gushed. ‘It was fun, even though we didn’t win.’

‘Yeah, thanks Deirdre. Thanks Clara,’ added Tiffany, before chewing on her gum and blowing a large pink bubble. She was always chewing and popping, chewing and popping. Clara was amazed she’d gone without gum long enough to complete the cheerleading routine. Tiff could have been subtly chewing the whole time, she supposed, even though she most definitely hadn’t been popping. She wouldn’t mention that possibility to Deirdre, though. She was, quite rightly, big on following health and safety regulations to the letter.

‘You’re welcome,’ Deirdre said. ‘And I loved that routine. Those high kicks were brilliant, and when you ended with the splits it took me right back to my youth.’

‘You used to be able to do the splits?’ Tiff gawped, then chewed, then popped.

‘I was quite the gymnast back in the day,’ Deirdre said, a wistful smile passing over her face. ‘Splits, cartwheels, backflips – I could do the lot. I’d have given Olga Korbut a run for her money.’

The girls looked back at her in disbelief. Deirdre looked about as far from a gymnast as you could get, with her bulky build and the crutch she used whenever she had to stand for any length of time propping her up. Her dodgy knee had been giving her gip recently. Probably all those years of acrobatics finally catching up with her, Clara thought with a smile.

‘I’ve not always been this old, you know,’ Deirdre added.

And here was I thinking you were born old,’ Clara teased.

‘Ha-ha,’ Deirdre replied with a roll of her eyes. ‘Very funny.’ She turned her attention back to Simone. ‘Are your parents still here?’

‘They’re in the kitchen, washing the pots,’ Simone explained. ‘We thought it’d save you two a job.’

‘Oh, that’s so kind!’ Clara exclaimed. She didn’t add she was pleased that she might get home in time to watch the season finale of the drama she’d been glued to for the past month. It started at ten, and with a bit of luck, and the help of the families chipping in, she’d be back, showered and in her pyjamas by then. ‘I’ll grab a tea towel and start drying, if you’re alright hanging around here, Deirdre? You’re better at asking people for money than I am.’

She peered into Deirdre’s bucket, which held a healthy layer of notes with a shimmer of pound coins twinkling through the gaps. Clara’s bucket contained mainly copper and silver, where people had felt obliged to give something – anything – so pulled out whatever was lurking in their coat pockets. The fluff balls and sticky sweet wrappers mingled in with the coins attested to that.

‘You go and give them a hand,’ Deirdre said. ‘I’ll finish off here, and if Tiffany and Simone help me stack the chairs we’ll all get home sooner. It takes me a bit longer these days,’ she added, gesturing to the crutch. ‘Is that alright with you, girls?’

Simone set straight to it, putting one brown chair on top of the other and moving them to the corner of the room when they were stacked five high. Tiff was less enthusiastic, but begrudgingly assisted her friend.

‘Thanks, girls,’ Clara called from the kitchen as she grabbed a striped tea towel from the towel rail and started drying the mugs. They hadn’t been rinsed properly – bubbly suds clouding their glossy surfaces – but Clara was so grateful for the help that she didn’t feel she could complain. Simone’s family hadn’t wasted any time. The washing up was all but done.

‘Thanks, everyone,’ Clara said, passing the dried mugs to Simone’s mum to put away in the cupboard. ‘It makes things much easier for me and Deirdre if people lend a hand now and again.’

‘I’ll bet,’ Simone’s dad replied. He was the local vicar and a familiar face in the community. The strip-lighting was reflected off his shaved head as he grinned the same infectious grin as his daughter. ‘Don’t think the hard work you two put into this place goes unnoticed. We’re very grateful for everything you do for these kids.’

‘It’s worth it to see everyone enjoying themselves.’ Clara truly believed that, and loved being able to boost the confidence of the club members. There was a special atmosphere to the old place on showcase night, an almost palpable buzz of joy thronging through the building. ‘Plus, the kids are great, and it’s them we do it for.’

‘When I used to come here there was nowhere else for teenagers to go at this end of town,’ Simone’s brother added. ‘At least now there’s the indoor skate park, and the ice rink’s not bad since it’s been refurbished.’

‘They’re expensive, though,’ Clara pointed out. She’d been shocked at the cost of the tickets on a recent cinema trip with Deirdre, and that was before she’d splashed out on popcorn (sweet, naturally) and a large diet coke. By the time she was done she’d spent almost a day’s wages. ‘Not all the families around here can afford it. At least here they only have to find the money for subs once a term. Plus, some of the kids just want somewhere to hang around away from their parents.’

‘I suppose that’s what I did when I was a member. Me and my mates used to spend all our money in the tuck shop and then talk about music for a few hours in between stuffing our faces with strawberry laces.’

‘Strawberry laces. Good choice.’

‘We’d have competitions to see who could cram the most into their mouths,’ he laughed. ‘I managed forty-eight once.’

‘Wow. You must have a really big mouth.’ Clara clamped her lips together in embarrassment as she realised how insulting that sounded. ‘I didn’t mean any offence …’

‘None taken,’ he said with a shrug as he plunged the last mug into the soapy water and rubbed it with a battered scourer. ‘There,’ he proclaimed, placing the mug on the draining board. Suds slithered down its side. ‘We’re done.’

‘Thank you,’ Clara said genuinely. ‘You’ve been a great help, all of you. I’ll finish off here, though, if you want to get home. It’s getting late.’

The clock read half-past nine. She’d have to get a wiggle on if she was going to make it back home in time for her programme.

‘If you’re sure?’ Simone’s mum replied, reaching for her large straw sunhat. She was well presented, as though dressed for an event. Mind you, she always looked smart. Part of the role of being a vicar’s wife, Clara supposed.

‘Absolutely. There’s not much to do now, you’ve done most of it already. You go,’ she smiled. ‘And thanks again.’

‘It was a brilliant evening,’ the vicar added. ‘A real celebration of everyone’s talents. I’m glad I came.’

‘It was fun,’ Simone’s brother said. ‘I thought the girl who did Riverdance should have won, though. She was amazing.’

‘She was great, wasn’t she? She’s got dreams of dancing on the stage one day. She’ll probably make it too, she’s a hard worker.’

‘You are too, by the look of it,’ he said, sliding into his leather jacket.

‘Well, there’s no point doing anything half-heartedly. My work’s important to me.’

‘It shows. It’s nice to finally meet you, Clara. Simone talks about you all the time at home. And Deirdre too, of course.’

‘Nice to meet you too …’

Clara paused, realising she didn’t know his name.

‘Joe,’ he said, extending his hand to invite a handshake. ‘Joe Smith.’

Clara

Thursday, November 30th 2017

Clara had always loved everything about Christmas, and although Advent hadn’t yet started she was fully prepared for the season. She’d retrieved her collection of knitted Christmas jumpers from the back of her wardrobe (they were now hanging prominently from the picture rail in her bedroom so she could admire them in all their hideously gaudy beauty), and already done the majority of her shopping. Her cards were written and stamped, ready to go into the post box at the end of the road on the first day of December. And now she was trying to persuade Deirdre to let her decorate the youth club with spangly decorations galore.

‘There’s no way you’re putting them up today, Clara. Not a chance. It’s still November!’ Deirdre shook her head with such vigour that her monstrous clip-on earrings threatened to fly off. ‘The ones at home don’t go up until at least the middle of the month. If they were up any earlier I’d get bored. I’m gagging to take them down by Boxing Day as it is.’