Читать книгу Love and Lies at The Village Christmas Shop: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for Christmas 2018 - Portia MacIntosh, Portia MacIntosh - Страница 11

Today I did not sleep in, nor did I forgo getting dressed before opening up the shop so, despite the usual lack of custom, I’m already having a great day.

I have adjusted the countdown to Christmas (it’s 23 days, in case you were wondering), turned up the Christmas music (we’re kicking things off with Michael Bublé’s cover of ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’, which is much better for morale than yesterday’s offering), made myself a cinnamon latte and I’m currently reading my book and tucking into a slice of pistachio panettone that I bought from the deli in town. As mornings go, this isn’t a bad start.

I’m not so deep in my book that I don’t notice a customer walk in today. As I hear the door, I snap my book shut and place it on the counter.

‘Good morning,’ I say brightly, snapping into professional mode.

As I look up I realise that it isn’t just any customer, it’s Seb, here again. He’s wearing a grey suit with a long black coat and a black scarf. He’s a snappy dresser, with a really stylish, cosmopolitan look that I appreciate.

‘Good morning,’ the man replies. ‘Oh, you’re dressed today.’

‘I am,’ I reply. ‘And you’re here again – twice in two days – are you after another a snow globe?’

He laughs. ‘I am not.’

What is he after then? If he’s not here to buy something…is he here for me? He’s not…he’s not here to ask me out, is he? I mean, I’m flattered, he’s obviously good-looking, rich and successful, but I’m not after a fleeting encounter with a tourist.

‘I’m just having another look around,’ he says. ‘Don’t let me distract you from your book.’

‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I assure him.

‘You a big romance fan?’ he asks, eyeballing the cover.

‘I’m not just into romance, I’m into a bit of everything,’ I reply.

As I watch Seb’s eyebrows shoot up I realise that what I just said didn’t sound exactly as I intended it.

‘I mean as far as reading goes,’ I clarify.

‘I see.’ He laughs again. ‘I dated a girl who was obsessed with the Fifty Shades books. I didn’t see the fascination with those.’

An awkward silence follows.

‘Do you read?’ I ask him.

‘I don’t,’ he replies. ‘But I’m hoping that will change. I’ve always been so busy so, now, I’m looking for somewhere to settle down, run a small, easy business, where I’ll have more free time.’

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I reply. ‘Where are you thinking of moving?’

‘Here,’ he replies.

‘Oh really?’ I reply.

Suddenly, Seb isn’t just a tourist. The fact that he might be moving to Marram Bay changes everything. I’ve always thought I was too busy for relationships but there’s just something about Seb… Maybe he’s worth breaking my self-imposed man ban for. Business is pretty quiet at the moment, and other than hanging out with my sister’s kids, I have almost nothing going on in my life. Maybe I should go on a date with him and see what happens…even though it’s been so long since I went on a date, I don’t really remember what’s supposed to happen on them. As far as I remember, you just make awkward conversation before feeling largely disappointed, and going home alone. I’m pretty sure that’s right.

Seb’s phone rings, interrupting our conversation.

‘I’m sorry, I really need to take this,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe I’ll pop back in and see you later?’

‘I’d like that,’ I call after him.

‘Great,’ he replies. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

That sounds ominous… Then again, I did offer to show him the sights, so perhaps he just wants the benefit of my local knowledge.

I try not to think about it – although my mind is racing – busying myself with a few little jobs before grabbing my book again while it’s quiet. Just as the story starts to pick up, I hear the door again. It’s another familiar face: my landlord.

‘Ivy, hello,’ he says. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ I say, coming back down to earth as I wonder how long I’ve been lost in a combination of my thoughts and my book. ‘How are you, Mr Andrews?’

‘Can’t complain,’ he says before clearing his throat. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Oh?’ is about all I can reply. Suddenly, I’m terrified, racking my brains to figure out when the last time I sent him a rent cheque was, and if it might have bounced.

My mum may have owned the business, but she has always rented the shop and the flat above it from Mr Andrews. So, when my mum died, I didn’t just take over the shop, I took over paying the rent too.

‘You know Sean, my son?’

I nod.

‘Well, he and his family live in Australia and, my wife and I, we’re getting on a bit now and, well, we want to join them over there for our retirement.’

‘That’s lovely,’ I reply.

The idea of packing up and starting again in another country is an idea that I can get on board with. Just wiping the slate clean and starting again in a new place with new adventures to be had, rather than spending day after day in the same small village, where one day blurs into the next because nothing ever really happens.

‘To do this, though, we need money, so we’ll be selling this place.’

‘Oh,’ I reply. ‘So, will I be getting a new landlord?’

‘That’s what I need to talk to you about,’ Mr Andrews replies. ‘You know how the shop is in quite a large plot, and, I don’t know if you know this, but planning permission is already approved here.’

‘Right,’ I reply.

‘So, that actually makes this place quite valuable to me, but less so with a tenant. Most people who want to buy the place want to knock it down and build something new. I mean, this place has seen better days, hasn’t it?’

I feel hurt on behalf of my shop and my home. Sure, the windows maybe need replacing, because as soon as there’s a bit of wind they whistle and let cold air in, and maybe the place is a bit tatty, but in a shabby chic, country cottage kind of way.

‘OK.’

‘I’ve found a buyer for the place, Ivy, and…well, someone has made me an offer I’d be crazy to refuse, but the offer is on the understanding that I sell the place without a tenant.’

‘You want me to leave?’ I squeak.

‘I don’t want you to leave, I need you to leave,’ he clarifies. ‘Believe me, if there was some other way, I’d take it. You and your mum have both been excellent tenants. You’ve always paid on time, never caused me any problems.’

‘I don’t want to leave,’ I tell him firmly. ‘I won’t leave, in fact. I have rights, you can’t just kick me out.’

‘Actually, I can,’ he replies. ‘Your mum’s tenancy agreement ran out a long time ago and, well, it’s a small place, we all trust each other. We just had a handshake deal. We never renewed anything. I always intended to, and then she passed away and you took over and…it was just an oversight.’

‘So, you’re telling me I have no rights? And that you’re just going to kick me out?’

‘Ivy, it sounds awful when you put it like that. But this is the only way I can move closer to my family,’ he stresses. ‘You’re close with your family, you must understand.’

I do, but I don’t. How can he do this to me?

‘So who is buying the place?’ I ask. ‘And what are they going to do with it?’

‘Perhaps you should have a meeting with the buyer?’ he suggests. ‘The plans really are something special, and they do have the town in mind.’

‘The town, bar one,’ I point out.

‘Ivy, I’m sorry, but I really need the money if I’m going to emigrate,’ Mr Andrews insists. He does sound apologetic, but that doesn’t change anything.

‘Can’t you sell it to me?’

‘Can you afford it?’ he asks.

‘How much is it?’

Mr Andrews takes a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me.

‘This is the offer the buyer just made.’

I raise my eyebrows as I look at the astronomically high number.

‘How long have I got?’ I ask.

‘Until you have to leave?’

I was going to say to raise the money, but I suppose the answer to both questions is the same.

‘The buyer has a few checks he wants to make but I’m ready to sell when they are ready to buy. I’m going to Australia tomorrow, to look at some houses.’

‘What if you held off, until you got back?’ I suggest. ‘Maybe I can sort something out and you can sell it to me instead.’

‘You know I’d rather sell it to you,’ Mr Andrews says. He scratches his head. ‘Look, I need someone to assist the buyer while I’m away. If you do that, I won’t sell until I’m back. If you have the money, I’ll sell to you, OK?’

There’s something about Mr Andrews’ voice – I don’t think he thinks I’ll be able to get the money together, but he doesn’t want to quash my hope. But it doesn’t matter if he believes me or not; all that matters is that he agrees. Maybe it’s a long shot, but maybe I can get the money together in time. If I can increase business, get a mortgage… There must be lots of options.

‘So, assisting the buyer,’ I start.

‘Just, make them feel welcome, help them take measurements, or do whatever is needed. Answer questions. I’ll be back before Christmas. Can you do that?’

‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘I’m a professional.’

‘Your mum would be proud of you,’ Mr Andrews says. ‘I’ll give him your number, and tell him that you’ll be here, so he can come and talk to you about his plans.’

‘OK,’ I reply, with faux positivity. ‘Have a nice time in Australia.’

Once Mr Andrews is gone, I sit down on my stool and place my hands over my face. I take a few, calming deep breaths. Conscious breathing – that’s what Holly calls it. Holly is a big fan of conscious breathing, and always recommends it to me when I’m feeling stressed. Further proof that my sister and I are polar opposites: the reason Holly likes it is the reason I don’t. Focusing on your breathing is supposed to remind you that you are breathing, that you’re alive. It only reminds me how fragile we are though. I watched my mum take her final breath and then she was gone. I don’t like to think about how life hinges on our ability to take a breath. It fills me with panic.

Over the years, this shop has become as important to me as breathing. It’s my reason for getting up in the morning, it’s my livelihood, it’s my way of making sure my mum lives on. And, what, some man in a suit is just going to come in and knock it down? I’ll be jobless, homeless… He must not know that, otherwise I’m sure he wouldn’t be going through with it. Maybe, if I explain to this buyer, he’ll go find somewhere else and, if not, well, I suppose I have until Christmas to try and get the money together. Otherwise…I don’t know what I’ll do.