Page 88

A van. Was it his?

Noémi pushed her face close to the glass, barely daring to breathe again in case the glass fogged and her view disappeared. Her mind sped forward to scenes of running out to him, arms wrapping around him, him twirling her and laughing, their mouths meeting. Yes, this.

She squinted and hoped. But no. The van didn’t look familiar. Not green. No flower stickers. No driver in a wild, festive outfit. Probably just a delivery on its way to the square. She exhaled sharply, massaging her breastbone where her chest felt tight.

In one recent cross moment, she’d considered trading in her own small van for one like Shay’s and driving away from all this. Maybe there was something to be said for not laying down roots. Things hurt less when you weren’t connected. When you could shake off your feathers and fly, not caring what you’d left behind.

But then she’d had a firm word with herself – which was exactly what she was going to do right then.

Because she did care about the life she’d created here. As much as she might have fallen dangerously for Shay, she wasn’t dependant on any one person to make her heart tick. She had a whole community of friends she cared deeply about. Daniel had been doing his best to keep her smiling. The locals had been popping in with food and drinks for today’s events, sharing their excitement, insisting they’d help in every way. She was looking forward to seeing her mum and Felix, who’d be arriving with Judith. And this shop, these books, the memories that were woven in here.

This day was their chance to bring everyone together and make sure their street stayed firmly back on the map. No more ‘fancy village square’ versus ‘dog’s armpit’. Just everybody mucking in to make the day gloriously, messily wonderful – from the mismatched chairs to the mashup of traditions, from the dinde aux marrons that was already slowly roasting, to Prisha’s Christmas pudding samosas and Texan Jim’s bacon-infused eggnog. Jasper was bringing pecan pie, learned from his days in a New York bakery. There would be all manner of festive cookies, and no doubt brandy cream would appear. This time was about togetherness – and she was not giving up on that.

Perhaps Christmas, like life, was a moving feast. People came and went. Things changed. All you could do was treasure life’s gifts and hope for a sprinkle of la magie de Noël.

Noémi tugged at her sleeve, wondering again if Prisha had sewn one of her fabled wishes into it. Or maybe sometimes you had to make your own magic. A small smile teased her lips, because she did still have one secret up her sleeve. If she could find the courage. But for now, that would have to wait.

There was festive joy to create. And she could do this.

It wasn’t long before people were knocking on the shop door and bustling in, arms filled with edible treats.

‘Smoked salmon blinis!’ Crochet Catherine said proudly, holding her tray in the air as she negotiated her way through the small crowd. ‘Well, I didn’t actually have blinis, whatever they are. But Google suggested rice cakes, so I’m sure they’ll do.’

‘Of course,’ said Noémi, accepting them gratefully, trying not to giggle at Carrie’s bleurgh face behind her.

‘Haggis bonbons,’ Carrie offered triumphantly, clapping her own tray down on the counter. ‘Now, these will put hairs on your chest.’

‘Quite,’ said Daniel, eyeing the breadcrumb-covered savoury spheres with suspicion and passing them to Tommaso, who mumbled something about just having had his waxed.

The trays, plates, and bottles kept arriving, and at least this bunch would keep Noémi entertained.

Prisha, who would surely give birth any minute judging by her impressive bump, busied herself with dressing the large U-shaped collection of tables with red-patterned tablecloths – to ‘hide imminent sauce stains’. Spirit, having traded in her usual dungarees and bomber-jacket look for a vintage Fifties tea dress, bobbed around adding fresh spruce greenery anywhere it would fit.

Noémi thanked them and tried her best to feel organized, while she juggled her many lists. And somewhere amid the busyness of it all, the once hollow space beneath her ribcage slowly filled with warmth.

‘Heave-ho,’ Barbara yelled to Brian as they dragged in a suit of armour dressed as a Nutcracker, even though there really wasn’t space.

Crafters from the Kooky Craft Emporium were adding more ornaments to the already drooping Christmas tree, and the Tequila Jammers had arrived with more jam that they probably hadn’t made. Betty Boo was inexplicably trying to plug in an electric guitar, while Catherine was persuading Reverend Godbee to part with his tambourine. If Noémi had found a minute to wonder if their jamming was musical, it was unlikely they would spill.

Pushchair mums arrived with children, who were bedecked in all varieties of fancy dress and excited for their dinosaur-themed performance.

‘I’ll walk around with the heart-charity donations bucket,’ said Mr Ham, pleased as always to be involved in the street’s activities again. ‘I could do with the steps.’ He waved his wrist to show his new fitness watch, though Noémi absolutely wasn’t thinking about Shay.

Daniel and Tommaso were busy serving last-minute shoppers at the till, and Noémi was flitting in and out of the kitchen to check her cooking, while trying not to taste test too many cherry chocolate cookies.

By the time they were ready to eat, the shop was full to bursting.

‘Maman, you can sit here,’ Noémi said gently to her mother, as she settled her down in one of the old armchairs next to Felix, covering her knees with a blanket and placing a lap tray down for her.

‘Yes, yes,’ Élisabeth agreed. ‘Busy, busy!’

Noémi was relieved that her mum seemed happy, and Felix was too; he seemed pleased to be spending more time with her.

‘Yes, that table is a bit of a rickety squeeze,’ Felix agreed, accepting a lap tray for himself. ‘We’ll sit quietly by this radiator. Much safer than a fire.’

Children sat around the Christmas tree on a picnic blanket with their own little buffet of delights – including the obligatory sprouts. People perched on random chairs and sofas. Catherine and Jim had dressed as festive waiters to bring out platters, jugs of cranberry sauce and gravy. Noémi had even encouraged Mrs Jingleman in from the street and offered her a comfy seat near Felix, even though the older woman had initially scowled and pretended she had more important jobs.

Though the French Christmas Eve dinner would usually be eaten late in the evening, their own tradition was to start at midday – because there was so much more to fit in. As the clock marked twelve and plates began to fill, Noémi had the strange sense that the air was once again shifting. And although the shop was full, something was still missing.