Page 24
‘No,’ Noémi replied simply, trying not to think of the sorrowful events that had halted her joy of baking.
‘Shame,’ said Lisa. ‘I was a big fan of your peanut butter blossoms with those melt-in-the-mouth chocolate Rolos on top. Or your spiced orange crumble flavour, oozing with marmalade goodness. Ooh, or those ginger cheesecake ones …’
Noémi’s stomach would have chosen that moment to rumble.
‘Things have come on a bit since the days of a rich tea biscuit,’ Judith mused.
‘The soft, chewy dough of a cookie is a whole other world,’ Noémi heard herself say. She shook her head. ‘Or not. A rich tea is perfectly nice.’ It had been much easier not to think about cookies when people didn’t keep mentioning them. ‘I’m all about the books now. Come in for a browse! Plenty of Christmas shopping options.’
‘Right.’ Lisa pulled a face and went back to inspecting her nails.
Noémi nestled into her bed that evening, a pot of Christmas tea on the bedside table next to her, a festive candle infusing the air with the scent of nutmeg and cloves, its woody wick crackling. A fluffy hot water bottle warmed her feet far more efficiently than any man – and wouldn’t disturb her later with idle chatter when she wanted to read. Better still, it wouldn’t judge her festive patchwork bedspread with the little reindeer and Santa faces, like one rude ex-boyfriend once had.
In fact, all her exes, before she’d sworn herself off love, had been disasters. Heath, with his Heathcliff-esque name, rugged looks, and essence of brooding hero had been sexy in the short-term, but the reality of a jealous grump had speedily worn off. And the big oaf hadn’t even heard of Wuthering Heights. What could they ever have had in common? Then there had been Clyde – whom Daniel reckoned she’d chosen for his likeness to Jane Eyre’s Mr Rochester. But he’d been a disappointing two-timer. And she didn’t have the energy to think about how often she’d stupidly swooned over a Jay Gatsby.
There was only one person she wanted to talk to right then. The one man who would always say something wise, deep, or amusing. Whom she could reach out to on quiet evenings for a bit of company and then switch off when she was done.
Book Girl:
Do you think it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all? (Asking for a friend.)
Fantasy Man:
I see you’re keeping it nice and light again this evening, Book Girl. I can always count on you for some superficial chat. ;-)
Not to sound like twatty poem guy, but Alfred, Lord Tennyson seemed to think so when he wrote In Memoriam A. H. H. Have you read it? It probably won’t cheer you up. Sounds to me like the poor bloke spent seventeen years writing it and feeling a bit miserable. (And that was just about losing one of his mates.) Love in real life seems like a rough ride to me.
Which is why I’m here with you. Ending my day with a smile. Imagining you with your Christmas tea and your kind heart. Does that sound stupid?
What are your thoughts on love? (Also asking for a friend.)
Book Girl:
Avoid it! It’s lovely in a fairy tale. Sweeping in a romantic novel. Perfect in a Hallmark Christmas movie. But far too painful in real life.
Thank you for being my fantasy escape, without the real-life strings.
What are your thoughts on festive bedding?
Fantasy Man:
Now you’re surely trying to woo me! I can’t say I’ve ever thought deeply about having rocking robins on my duvet cover, but I promise I’ll bear it in mind. (And if festive bedding is your thing, you should own it. Can’t beat a bit of Christmas adornment.)
Chapter 14
21 days until Christmas
Noémi pushed around old boxes in the storeroom, wondering if she would ever find what she was looking for – or if it had been a figment of her mother’s imagination.
‘I’m not sure about a Mère Noël costume,’ Noémi said to herself, blowing her fringe out of her eyes and disturbing at least three cobwebs. ‘But this dusty room would be perfect for Halloween.’
Her mum had come alive when she’d spoken about the Mrs Claus costume the day before, and it did ring a vague bell with Noémi. Not that she would be taking a leaf out of her neighbour’s book and dressing up in all manner of wings and halos. But still. It felt almost disrespectful not to investigate the almost-forgotten outfit now Élisabeth’s failing memory had conjured it up.
‘Are you all right in here?’ asked Felix, his head appearing around the doorway. Today’s festive Rudolph bow tie flashed with tiny red lights under his chin, making a small disco across his Nordic jumper.
Daniel was busy in the front of the shop, packing books for a small flurry of online orders. The artfully arranged book photos had got a surprising amount of love on social media, which had translated into website sales. It was impressive what you could do with Barbara’s old stuffed badger and a tatty pair of spectacles. Noémi had been hoping for more in-person customers as well as virtual ones – people she could talk to about books and stories – but it was a promising start. A tiny flicker of hope that perhaps she could save her treasured home and bookshop if she kept taking brave new steps. She had to avoid losing everything and putting them all at risk of another abysmal Christmas.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Noémi replied, straightening herself and brushing dust from her knees. ‘Do you remember mum having some sort of Christmassy outfit that she used to wear in the shop?’
