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 13

I have come to a shocking and saddening realisation. It has occurred to me, in light of recent circumstances, that I don’t have a life. I suppose I already knew it, at the back of mind – maybe not even the back of my mind, perhaps it was obvious – that I didn’t have much going on other than my work. A love life, a social life, a family… These are all things that have taken a back seat to business. Sure, I have a best friend in my sister, but if I think too hard about it, I feel like that’s maybe just by default. We shared a womb, of course we’re best friends. Taking joint second place on my list of friends are my niece and nephew and then, I suppose, Pete the postman takes the bronze.

That’s sad, isn’t it? I don’t get invited anywhere, apart from my sister’s, and I don’t really do anything but work, read, or watch TV. If I lose the shop I’ll lose my home, my income, my mum’s legacy and my reason to get up of a morning all at once, in an instant, gone before the New Year.

The first thing I need to do is increase the number of customers, and the amount of stock they are buying. That’s why I’ve spent the past two hours making glitter-covered signs letting people know that we’ve got a big, pre-Christmas sale on. I’ve also been going around with a pad of little white stickers too, reducing the price of almost everything.

I’m not crazy, I know that knocking a couple of quid off snow globes isn’t going to save the shop, but if I can improve things just a little, maybe it will help me secure a mortgage. With the way business is at the moment, the banks aren’t exactly going to be fighting over me.

I examine the sparkly ‘sale now on’ sign I made to place in the window before securing it in place. As I do this, I notice a couple of men outside, standing at the end of the front garden.

‘Can I help you?’ I ask them, the similarity between myself and Tubbs from League of Gentlemen making me feel both uneasy and amused.

‘Don’t worry, Ivy, they’re with me,’ I hear a familiar voice say.

That’s when I notice Seb is with them, and that they’re spraying paint all over the ground.

‘What are they doing?’ I ask.

It looks a little like they’re holding a handheld vacuum cleaner, like my mum used to have.

‘They’re checking for unexploded bombs underground,’ Seb replies.

I feel my eyebrows shoot up around the same time I hear the men sniggering quietly. A joke. Wonderful.

‘They’re tracing the utilities in the road, so we can work out where to connect services to the new buildings.’

‘You’ve not even bought the place yet,’ I point out.

‘I know.’ He laughs. ‘But I will. I’m just making sure everything is right first.’

I glance down at the spray paint on the ground.

‘Don’t worry, it washes off,’ he says with a smile.

I bite my lip, the way I always do when I’m thinking.

‘Nice hands,’ he says and laughs again. ‘Very festive.’

I glance down at my hands, which are covered in glitter.

‘I’ve been making signs,’ I explain. ‘Don’t worry, it washes off. Do you want to come in for a drink?’ I ask, quickly clarifying what I mean. ‘A tea or a coffee.’

‘That would be great, thank you,’ he says. ‘Boys, tea break.’

Oh, I actually meant just Seb, and I’m not being nice, I’m on a fishing expedition. If I know what his plans are, maybe I can work out a way to put a stop to this.

‘OK,’ I say, gesturing towards the door.

The three men follow me inside the shop. I take drinks orders before popping into the kitchen and making them. I place the drinks on a tray, along with a few of my homemade gingerbread men – why am I snapping into hostess mode?

‘Here we are,’ I say, setting the tray down on the counter where Seb is waiting.

‘Does the train work?’ one of the men calls over.

‘It doesn’t,’ I reply. ‘It needs repairing.’

‘I’ve got a screwdriver in the van,’ he starts, but I stop him.

‘That’s very kind of you, thank you, but it requires some kind of vintage model train expert, and an expensive repair. It was my mum’s so, when I’ve got some spare money, I’ll get it done.’

‘No worries,’ he calls back.

‘I know a train guy,’ Seb tells me. ‘He’s pretty cool, actually. He’s famous for making the smallest running train sets you can get.’

‘Doesn’t sound cool.’ The workman laughs, grabbing a gingerbread man before biting his head off.

‘This is Barry and Paul,’ Seb tells me. ‘Do not, under any circumstances, make a Chuckle Brothers joke, because they will not laugh.’ Seb’s cheeks dimple at his own joke. ‘Boys, this is Ivy.’

‘Your name is Ivy and you run a Christmas shop,’ Barry points out.

‘My sister is called Holly,’ I tell him. ‘My mum loved Christmas – that’s why she opened this shop.’

‘Why are you selling it?’ he asks.

‘I, erm, I’m not,’ I tell him. ‘My landlord is. I’m being kicked out.’

‘You’re kicking her out of her family’s business before Christmas?’ Barry asks, shocked.

‘And my home,’ I tell him. ‘I live upstairs.’

‘Mate,’ Barry says.

Seb raises his eyebrows at him, I’d imagine to subtly remind Barry who he works for.

‘So, when are you hoping to knock this place down?’ I ask, trying to work out how much time I have.

‘You said in the New Year, did you, gaffer?’ Paul offers, helpfully.

‘Yes,’ Seb replies, seeming ever so slightly annoyed that Paul has answered. ‘It’s not set in stone – we’ll see.’

‘And then you’ll start on the new building?’

‘Buildings,’ Paul points out.

‘Oh, there’s going to be more than one building then?’

‘Paul, thank you,’ Seb says. ‘Why don’t you lads go finish up if you’ve finished your drinks?’

‘Sure, gaffer,’ Barry says, taking the hint.

‘I like them,’ I say, once we’re alone. ‘They’re chatty.’

‘Too chatty,’ Seb replies with a smile.

‘Tell me a bit about you,’ I say, hugging my mug with my hands to keep warm. I’m wondering what kind of person can happily move to a new town and kick someone out of their home.

‘About me?’ he replies, sounding surprised. ‘OK. Well, I’m from Oxford.’

That explains the accent. Seb has a very BBC newsreader kind of way with words and it makes me feel a little self-conscious about my Yorkshire accent.

‘How did you get into this line of work?’ I ask. What I really mean is, how did he get into knocking down people’s childhood homes, but I’m too polite to say that.

‘I was all set to play professional cricket,’ he tells me. ‘And life just…I don’t know, it did its own thing. I went from one business venture to the next – I’ve been living in Dublin for the past four years.’

Well, I suppose I can relate to that. I was a chef, before life changed my plans. ‘So, what, you just decided you wanted to move to the Yorkshire coast?’

‘I decided I wanted to move out of the city,’ he says. ‘And I knew I’d need to make a living.’

I nod thoughtfully.

‘I’m sorry for the way this is playing out,’ he says. ‘I’m a little surprised you’re not fighting it…’

I am fighting it; he just doesn’t know it yet.

‘And I appreciate you telling Mr Andrews you’d look after me while he’s away,’ he adds.

I didn’t, well, not really. Not by choice.

I just smile. I’m not taking it well at all, but I’m not taking it lying down either. Sure, let Seb come here with his workmen and do his tests. It will all be for nothing when I swoop in and buy the shop first.

‘I suppose I just expected a little more resistance, when I realised you were being made to leave against your will,’ he persists.

‘It’s the rest of the locals you need to worry about,’ I tell him. ‘You’re not the first southerner to come here and try to open up a business.’

‘Oh?’

‘A few things the people of Marram Bay don’t take too kindly to: outsiders, big businesses, any threat to local business – I imagine your venture is an unwelcome mix of all three.’

‘It sounds like it.’ He laughs.

Seb laughs so much, he’s just so easy-going. It’s like nothing worries him – perhaps that’s an easy confidence that comes with having a lot of money. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness obviously never had a failing business and impending homelessness hanging over them.

‘I have a meeting with the board,’ he tells me.

‘The Nation of Shopkeepers?’

‘That’s the one. I’m told that if I can sway them, I’m a shoo-in.’

‘I’d say that was about right,’ I reply.

‘Your accent amuses me.’ He laughs. ‘Say that again.’

‘No.’

‘Nooo,’ he repeats, in what I’d imagine is his attempt at a strong Yorkshire accent.

Unimpressed, I furrow my brow.

‘So, what happened with the last southerner who tried to start a business here? Did they let her open it?’

‘They did,’ I admit.

‘There we go then. I’ll see you tonight,’ he says, taking the last gingerbread man from the plate.

‘You will,’ I reply.

‘Wish me luck,’ he says as he heads for the door.

‘Good luck,’ I call after him.

He’s going to need it.