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And I love the traditions (even if guys aren’t mean to say that). The carols and the candles, the turkey with at least three types of potato. Jumbo boxes of chocolates (that are gone before Christmas Eve, other than those weird coconut ones). Getting out the good biscuits. (My mother, not me. And nobody should dare to open the second layer before the first one is finished.)

As for flavours, I don’t think marzipan gets enough credit. (It’s always the best bit about my mum’s Christmas cake. The icing will break your teeth.) And last year I tried peppermint bark (against my will – blame a nephew). I was expecting it to be something foraged from a tree and smothered in Colgate. But though I didn’t publicly admit it, it was surprisingly nice.

How about you, Book Girl? I know we can’t be too specific, but I hope you won’t be alone this Christmas. I hope you will have wild friends and loved ones, many tins of the ‘good biscuits’, and somebody to make Christmas leftover sandwiches with. (Pigs in blankets, cranberry sauce, sausage stuffing. So I hear. Healthier options are available. Don’t let me tempt you.)

Noémi hugged the small tablet screen to her chest. Fantasy Man was her kind of person. Better still, he came with no real-life complications. If you never met your fantasy, it couldn’t disappoint you. If you did meet, you risked the perfect illusion being smashed to smithereens. And what more could a girl want than a daydream?

As she pondered this, it reminded her of the second thing she wanted to do that night. It had been on her mind since earlier that day, when she’d bought the items in question and had promptly nearly lost them to a goat. No self-respecting baked goods deserved that torturous ending.

Not that she was going to bring their indulgent existence to an end. She would simply consider sniffing them. Surely there was not harm in that? No guilt. No sense that she was going back on any promises to herself not to dabble in wild ideas.

She put down her screen and shimmied open her bedside drawer. And then part of the decision was made. There was no deciding whether you’d inhale the flavours when they were rich enough to instantly hit you. These mitten-shaped Christmas cookies were triple chocolate with a caramel swirl, and being shut inside her drawer had intensified their fragrance. She could almost smell each perfect ingredient. It was all but criminal to keep them locked up, and her fingers were already opening the box.

Alllll the chocolate. She could smell white dancing with milk chocolate and swirling with dark. And Shay. She shook her head. Shay? Well, he did sometimes smell a bit chocolatey, even if she couldn’t picture him eating it, between his protein drinks and pec workouts. But this was no time to start thinking about him. She let her thoughts drift back to Fantasy Man, and his talk of Christmas flavours. Suddenly she was imagining peppermint bark cookies with smooth dark chocolate, peppermint extract, whipping cream …

And she couldn’t help thinking of the wadges of printouts of the New York Times annual Christmas cookie lists that were hiding at the bottom of her drawer, together with all manner of other inspiring recipes to guide her through the seasons. Those perfect foodie photos and the mouth-watering flavours that she would take inspiration from but with her own delicious twists.

Honour your memories. And make new ones. She shook her head again. Where had that come from? Her fingers skimmed across the top of the chocolate cookies. Maybe the smells were unlocking something. Wasn’t that what the therapist had said, back then? After the accident with Asher. After Daniel’s husband had fallen, when he’d been carrying her cookies. Survivor’s guilt. It had no real logic. She hadn’t caused Asher to die – she knew that. But should she get to go on celebrating life by filling hers decadently with baking, big dreams, and wild adventures? The backs of her eyes began stinging and she pulled out a tissue.

But it had been two years. Punishing herself for no reason was pointless. While she was in no way ready to embark on madcap voyages, what was the harm in breathing in a bit of chocolatey cookie dough? If she made new, positive memories, could she start to let go of unhelpful ones?

Talk about it. Process it. It helps. More words from that therapist. And she had done some of that. Yet here she was. Sitting on her bed, alone, almost sobbing over a box of cookies that she hadn’t even made and didn’t dare eat. She looked around her. Books. Lots of them. A screen, through which she could communicate with her Fantasy Man. She wasn’t quite alone.

Book Girl:

Have you ever lost someone? And how did you get past it?

Fantasy Man:

Not exactly, though I nearly lost myself once. I hope you’re OK. I’m always here if you need to talk.

And how did I get past it? By living life to the full. (Whatever that means to you.) X

Right then, it meant baked goods – however odd that may seem. But just a sniff. She lifted the box to her face, her eyelids fluttering closed as she let the smells captivate her. Sweet, rich, and soothing, almost nutty, with a hint of butter. Intoxicating. How she’d missed getting lost in it, like it was a whole other world.

It wasn’t long before she felt sleepy. Exhausted by her thoughts. She placed the box, lid open, on her bedside table next to her latest festive novel. Then she fell deeply asleep, dreaming of chocolate cookies.

And it must have been a dream that suddenly she was baking in the bookshop’s small downstairs kitchen. Breaking and melting chocolate. Creaming butter and brown sugar, beating eggs. Sifting and folding. There was peppermint bark, smelling nothing like toothpaste and everything like Christmas – sweet and herbaceous, like Christmas trees mixed with candy canes and chocolate. Chocolate. Her stomach was rumbling and suddenly it was all she could smell. Noémi wasn’t sure if she was awake now or still sleeping. But she couldn’t be responsible for what happened in her dreams. She couldn’t feel guilty. She didn’t deserve to.

Her hands were reaching out in the semi-darkness, which was pierced with starbursts of fairy lights. She was sitting up a little, her fingers finding the softness of baked dough. And her eyes slid closed, if they’d ever been open. The chocolate cookie reached her mouth, resting warmly on her tongue, its flavours infusing. She barely had to chew because it was almost melting. Becoming part of her. Oh, how she’d missed this taste. How she’d secretly craved it, and everything involved in its making. The love she’d put into it. The love she’d felt afraid to feel again. Why had she made herself forgo this? What else had she been forcing herself to live without?

The chocolate cookie tasted good. But a small part of her brain was already trying to work out how she might do it better.

Chapter 20

20 days until Christmas

What a mess. What on earth had she been thinking, scoffing cookies in the middle of the night and getting thick smears of melty chocolate all over her white pillows? Not to mention that her beautiful patchwork bedspread might need to go to the dry cleaners to get the stains off Santa’s beard. Noémi sighed. She’d been half-asleep and probably half-dreaming, so there was no point in beating herself up about it. Santa would probably scrub up OK with a bit of Fairy liquid, and then she could forget her moment of weakness had ever happened.

Not that there was anything terrible about eating festive-themed sugary delights at 3 a.m. It was just that eating cookies might lead to baking cookies, fantasizing about selling cookies, toying with old dust sheets and dormant dreams … And right then, she could barely run a financially stable bookshop. There was enough to be getting on with.

That morning, she would go to the care home for breakfast with her mum. Noémi didn’t think she’d ever grow out of needing her, and even if Élisabeth rarely seemed to grasp the conversation these days, just having her there to listen and hold her hand was something. Noémi needed that quiet reassurance before her busy day. Because that day, people would be gathering in the bookshop for their first book club planning meeting.

Noémi took a deep breath to steady her nerves. As a bookish introvert, she still felt a little overwhelmed at the prospect of too many people descending on the bookshop, or just too much chaos. But her cherished shop needed this if it was going to survive, and the village was hardly Piccadilly Circus. Noémi had invited as many people as she could – without going wild. As Felix had promised refreshments, she’d paid Chai to provide warm cafetières of coffee with an array of festive syrups and frothy milks, and she’d bought a ginormous fruity Christmas cake from the deli up in the square.

They would sit around the toasty log fire talking about the books they loved, deciding future reading choices, making plans. She could even ask any parents or carers if they’d bring children to a story time or two. And she would do her best to step into her element and sell books – not that it was ever just about that. She loved helping people to discover new fictional adventures. And if they sold things, she could keep her home and treasured staff safe. And her mum would keep a nice, stable roof over her head at Happy Hedges – which was exactly where she was heading once she’d cleaned up this cookie-related pickle.

Noémi sat at a table for two by the window with Élisabeth, looking out over the care home gardens. Élisabeth had always been an early riser and still managed it, even though the carers often mentioned her 4 a.m. strolls of the corridors, apparently in search of a boulangerie. But the staff here were patient and kind, and Noémi didn’t know what she’d do without this sanctuary.