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Likely I’ll be here for Christmas, and I’m not sure of my plans after that. Long story. Sorry. Me not you.

Long story? Well, that was an insult. Long stories were literally her favourite thing, and yet he couldn’t be arsed to pick up the phone and explain himself. And the whole ‘it’s me not you’ excuse was such a crappy cliché that it didn’t even deserve a response. Merry bloody Christmas.

Chapter 50

The rest of the day went by in a blur, with Noémi carrying out her jobs like a furious little whirlwind. She suddenly resented having to prepare for that evening’s singles mingling, where customers would sit merrily reading books, scoping out their next love interest as though life was sodding superb-u-lous. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to stomach people flirting with a view to falling for each other, when falling brought nothing more than an imminent crash-landing.

Noémi pressed send on the email she’d just indignantly hammered out, letting people know that all events were still going ahead, contrary to any errant rumours. She just hoped folk read their emails so close to Christmas and that her efforts didn’t land in spam. This event had to be a book-buying, cookie-selling success – or come Boxing Day, she’d be flogging her stock at rock-bottom prices and living in the shop’s old van, like a certain flighty man. Most likely with her poor, dear mother, if Noémi couldn’t pay her care home fees. Wouldn’t that be cosy?

Urgh. Noémi pondered her singles night again, because it was never just about the money, as desperate as things felt. In theory, striking up friendships – or more – based on a shared love of books made sense. Bookish friends were often the very best types, and if you’d grown up loving the same stories, perhaps you had the same values. The same hopes and dreams of secret gardens and magical wardrobes.

Maybe that’s where she’d gone wrong with Shay. He’d never really shared the same adoration of books. Though her online Fantasy Man had – but that pointless illusion had fizzled out too. Perhaps books were for disappearing into, not sharing. Though she would somehow have to get through the Merry Singles Mingle without screaming Save yourself! All the best boyfriends should stay inside books.

‘Any sign of Shay?’ asked Spirit, arriving through the door in her bomber jacket, her dungarees a bit muddy. She’d taken to dropping in to buy classic children’s books, which she’d pore over in her plant shop when things were quiet. ‘His shop’s still shut.’

‘No,’ Noémi said, for at least the fifteenth time that afternoon, trying not to sound snappy. If there was something you didn’t want to talk about in this village, you could be sure people wouldn’t stop going on about it. She ought to get a ‘Be quiet’ sign and start shushing people like an old-school librarian.

‘Gone to Ireland,’ said Daniel, pulling his best wide-eyed, sore-subject face. ‘Not sure of his intentions.’

‘That’s a shame. I’m not a big people person, but Shay was all right.’

Noémi fought the urge to yell that his stupid, jolly, ‘top o’ the morning’, angel-wing-wearing persona was a load of people-pleasing nonsense, and that he went around snogging nice ladies in his flowery sex van, seducing them with talk of staying before promptly breaking their hearts. Not to mention ripping off landlords, letting down kindly granddads, and making people feel spectacularly wonderful before swerving out of town in a silly green hunk of metal and never coming back.

She wasn’t sure how much of that was actually true, but right then, she was seething. Though it wasn’t polite to slag people off when they weren’t there to defend themselves, and who would believe her? Everyone loved Shay. And nobody else had been foolish enough to let themselves dream he was doing anything more than passing through.

Noémi could see Daniel making a neck-swiping motion, as though signalling to Spirit to cut the Shay chat. Daniel had been on the receiving end of several cross remarks about it since Noémi had stormed back from The Tipsy Squirrel, her head all but steaming. She’d used the words gone, forgotten, and case closed enough times to make her point. Though her best friend was wise enough to know she was far from over it, and chances were, she’d soon need him there for the sobs and the boyfriend bonfire.

But first, Noémi would need to get through Christmas with a feigned grin and not ruin it for everyone else. She’d promised Daniel this wouldn’t be another rubbish one, and she would have to find the strength not to let him down.

Spirit bought a copy of Treasure Island and Noémi smiled politely, not mentioning that it was a tale of treachery and deception – and that Jim Hawkins should have stayed at home. When Spirit left and Catherine came in asking the same question and looking disappointed that Shay wasn’t there to accept the crochet leprechaun earmuffs she’d made for him, Noémi had to leave the bookshop floor before she exploded with frustration.

She put in her headphones and tried to distract herself with the audiobook she’d started earlier. Her annoying mind wanted to think up solutions, like calling Shay to discuss things, or flying to Ireland in some sweeping, gallant move to declare her painfully inconvenient love.

But he’d opted not to take her last call, and she had no desire to make a fool of herself by repeating it. As for flying to Ireland – she had no idea where his parents lived – other than County Kerry. She’d once had romantic notions of everyone knowing everyone, like a bigger version of their village. Though when she’d sort of accidentally googled the number of inhabitants, it exceeded 156,000. Which was why it was better to lose herself in a story and stop being ridiculous. Shay might not even be with his parents. He had various sisters, or for all she knew, three secret wives and eleven billion children. Maybe that was why he’d turned his nose up at her amorous advances.

Though for some reason, not even a lovely audiobook could hold her attention. Had Shay ruined all of her pleasures? She found herself moving to the kitchen, in the desperate hope that making coconut snowball cookies would distract her. When she sank into the flow of measuring and stirring, the sweet smells enveloping her, surely she’d switch off from everything else.

Though even after making three batches – and eating more than she’d meant to – no part of her soul felt soothed, and her mind was still racing.

‘I need a walk,’ she heard herself say.

And it would not be inspired by anything she’d experienced with Shay. No ludicrous outfits. No snowshoes. She’d take a bracing march to Happy Hedges, because the fresh air would do her good. Perhaps she’d pace with a paperback, even if a certain person had once rudely suggested she’d see more of life if she got her head out of her book. Well, that plan had turned to goat poop.

Noémi soon found herself striding up the lane through the wintery hazel trees, towards the village square and the care home beyond. It was just her luck that everyone she passed was keen to know Shay’s whereabouts and why his shop was shut. Word was spreading fast, as it always did.

‘I heard he’s posted the shop keys back to his landlord,’ said Texan Jim, while attempting to soothe Goatrude. ‘You’ll miss him won’t ya, little darlin’?’

Noémi returned the best smile she could muster, trusting Jim meant the goat would do the missing, and not her.

‘Word has it he’s gone back to the North Pole for elf duties,’ Jim’s mother Mary Lou added, as she bustled out of the deli, balancing a large box of eggs in her hands. ‘Ain’t no grass growin’ under his feet.’

Clearly village gossip had got carried away with elf matters, but Mary Lou wasn’t wrong that Shay didn’t stick around long enough for turf to take root. Noémi was relieved when she made it to Happy Hedges, though she had to put her hood up to get past Lisa on reception, so she didn’t have to hear the word DILF. Maybe Shay was someone’s dad. Who knew. Though Noémi was determined to never again dream about ILFing him.

If Noémi thought she’d be able to sit quietly with her mum, she was mistaken. Élisabeth took to saying the word Shay like the most unwelcome mantra, while smiling wistfully and jingling an elf hat which looked suspiciously like Shay’s. If she dared to look towards the wooded area, she might see hints of the hazel trees he’d planted, even if the roots had probably frozen with all that snow.

Gah. It was as though Shay Cassidy had installed himself into every part of her life before cruelly extracting himself with an Irish Goodbye.

By the time she got back to the bookshop, Noémi had another reason to gasp.