A Swedish Christmas Fairy Tale

by A. E. Radley

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  I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading A Swedish Christmas Fairytale.

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  About the Author

  A.E. Radley had no desire to be a writer but accidentally turned into an award-winning, best-selling author.

  She has recently given up her marketing career and position as Managing Director in order to make stuff up for a living instead. She claims the similarities are startling.

  She describes herself as a Wife. Traveller. Tea Drinker. Biscuit Eater. Animal Lover. Master Pragmatist. Annoying Procrastinator. Theme Park Fan. Movie Buff.

  Connect with A.E. Radley

  www.aeradley.com

  Also by A.E. Radley

  Climbing the Ladder

  Chloe Dixon has landed her dream job, working for Europe’s top lesbian magazine: Honey.

  The magazine, under the leadership of the impressive Helen Featherstone, shaped Chloe’s life and all she wants to do is give something back.

  When she trusts the wrong person, she finds herself in the middle of a PR storm.

  Join Chloe for her first week at Honey and experience the multiple office romances, unrequited crushes, and captivating characters that make up the Honey team. And find out if Chloe will survive her first week.

  If you like laugh-out-loud romantic comedies, witty dialogue, and characters you’ll fall in love with, then you’ll love Climbing the Ladder.

  Climbing the Ladder | Preview

  By A.E. Radley

  Chloe Dixon held onto the handrail above her head. She looked out of the train window at the dark tunnels of the London Underground. A book hung loosely from her free hand. It hadn’t managed to hold her interest, or stop her from fretting about her new job, as she had hoped.

  She turned away from the window and surveyed her fellow commuters. It had been a while since she’d commuted into Central London for work. She felt as if she had rejoined an exclusive club. A club where getting up hideously early, paying an arm and a leg to travel under the city streets, and wearing uncomfortable work outfits was the price of membership.

  Despite the shocking cost of a monthly travel card, she was ecstatic to be back in London. Or, in the rat race, as her dad had called it. As per usual, it had taken her parents around fifteen seconds to turn good news into bad.

  Her celebration over getting a new job, working for a company she had dreamed of, was soon extinguished under their barrage of questions. What time would she have to get up for work? How much was the cost of travel? How many extra hours would she be away from home due to commuting?

  Chloe shook her head to dispel her parents’ negativity. They were good people, just overly practical. She loved them both fiercely, but she was also aware of their pessimistic attitudes. She, on the other hand, tried hard to find the silver lining and keep cheerful. She had a lot to be cheerful about.

  She didn’t know if it was a result of her getting older, or if the world had turned into a more negative place in recent years. She wondered if curmudgeonly old people had always been grouchy or if it was something that happened to many people as they aged.

  Whatever the case, Chloe had decided years ago that she would maintain a positive attitude. No matter what life threw at her, she would smile through it.

  The commuter train rattled into a station. The platform was packed with commuters desperate to get on the already-bursting-at-the-steams train. Chloe squeezed herself into a corner as people pushed into the carriage.

  Five million souls used the London Underground every day. Or so her dad had told her.

  It was getting ridiculously hot and crowded. More people pushed their way on board. A signal beeped, indicating that the doors would soon attempt to close. Everyone took a simultaneous deep breath, as if attempting to squeeze into a pair of jeans from the previous summer. The doors started to close, hitting a tall, bald man on the head. He didn’t care, as if this were a daily occurrence and being smashed in the side of the head by an automated door was the price one paid for using public transport.

  People leaned over her to grab at handrails, leaving Chloe to stare at a stranger’s armpit. The train started to move, causing everyone to lean into the gravitational forces.

  Her enthusiasm for joining the morning commuters was already starting to fade. She brought up a mental image of the Tube map. She was close enough to the office to be able to walk if she got off at the next stop. If she could get off at the next stop.

  She shuddered at the memory of the poor woman who had tried to get off at Green Park. She’d been so engrossed in her newspaper that she hadn’t realised it was her stop until the train doors had opened. She’d tried to fight against the tide of people trying to board the train. It wasn’t pretty.

  Trying to squeeze her way off of the train and then walking at ground level was definitely preferable to being crushed into the wall of the carriage. Next to a man with an unhealthy-sounding cough. And a woman who had forgotten to shower that morning.

  Chloe angled her face away from one armpit and found another straight away.

  Definitely getting off at the next stop, she told herself.

  On her way through Soho, Chloe opened the door to the newsagent. Before she had a chance to enter the shop, a man walked in front of her.

  “You’re welcome,” she mumbled under her breath.

  Hot Monday mornings in London were rapidly losing their charm. Everyone was overheated and miserable to be going back to work after a weekend in the sun. But Chloe was doing her best to stay cheerful. Today was going to be a great day, she could feel it.

  She entered the cramped shop and started to look at the magazine rack. Despite the store being so small, the selection was extensive. Fishing, photography, crafts, pets, and the oddly titled ‘women’s interests.’ Women mainly appeared to be interested in knitting and getting rid of cellulite.

  She couldn’t find what she was looking for, and so she started to look behind some of the magazines. She stood on her tiptoes and looked at the top shelf. Her eyebrow rose, and she quickly lowered her gaze again. While most of the covers were now obscured, she still got an eyeful of some of the more moderate covers that were allowed to be on display. She swallowed and pushed down the desire to flip through the article about losing cellulite.

  She crouched down and started to look at the back of the bottom shelf.

  The man who had barged past her to get into the shop physically stepped over her to get out again. He sighed in annoyance that Chloe seemed to continually be in his way. She shook her head at his behaviour and wondered what super important job he must have to act like that.

  She returned to looking at the magazines on the bottom shelf, moving some out of the way to see what lurked behind.

  Nothing.

  She stood and grabbed a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. She approached the counter and put the drink down.

  “Excuse me,” she said, trying to get the attention of the bored man operating the till.

  He glanced up at her. An eyebrow rose, but nothing else was forthcoming.

  “Do you have any copies of Honey Magazine?”

  “Honey? Have you checked in cooking? Or women’s interests?” He scanned the orange juice. “Three pounds.”

  “It’s not a cooking magazine. It’s a lesbian magazine.” Chloe handed him a five-pound note.

  “Oh, right.” He seemed unfazed. He put the note in the till and handed her back the change. “Not heard of it. I can order it in for you, if you want?”

  “No, I want a copy now. I work there. Well, I’m starting work there today. I’ve not read this month’s issue because it came out on Friday and I was away this weekend…” She stopped as she realised he was
n’t interested in her life history. “You really don’t stock it? It’s, like, the biggest lesbian magazine in the UK. And Europe.”

  “Never heard of it,” he said. “No one has ever asked for it.”

  Chloe’s heart sank. She was in a busy newsagent in Soho and no one had ever asked for a copy of Honey Magazine?

  “Try the internet? Or get one from work?” he suggested.

  “I don’t want to look like I haven’t read it,” she said.

  “Well, you haven’t.”

  “I know that, I don’t want them to know that. Are you sure you don’t have it?”

  “I’m sure, I order all the magazines in myself. We don’t have it. As I say, I can order it for you?”

  A cough behind her indicated that she was in the way. It was a busy Monday morning and people were in a rush to get to work. Most eager to get into air conditioning and out of the blazing early morning sun. She was surprised someone hadn’t climbed over her to be served yet.

  She grabbed her orange juice and left the shop. She wandered along the street deep in thought. She didn’t expect Honey to be one of the shop’s best-sellers. But she didn’t expect it to be missing in action either.

  She’d read Honey religiously since she was a teenager. She’d never been in a shop and bought a copy, preferring to have it delivered instead. But her subscription was still being delivered to her parents’ house and she’d moved out three months before.

  Being at her parents’ house for six months while she got back on her feet had been demeaning and exhausting. She thought the break-up had been bad, but the aftermath had been worse. She’d temped and worked all the hours she could during those six months. Partly to make as much money as possible to scrape together a deposit for her own place, and partly to only be at home when it was time to sleep.

  Today was the day her life started to get back on track. She was in her own room in a house share in south London, she was starting a well-paid job in digital for a company she had adored for the last fifteen years. No more temporary positions, no more working all the hours she could. It had taken nearly a year, but she felt like she was in a good place again.

  She smothered a yawn. Last night had been a sleepless one. She’d tossed and turned for hours as she worried about her first day. Especially meeting all of her new work colleagues. She desperately hoped that she would fit in and maybe even make friends.

  The day hadn’t been off to the best start. She was sleep-deprived and felt like she could still smell the sweaty odour of the Tube ride. The various armpits she’d stared into would no doubt haunt her dreams that evening.

  Not being able to get her hands on the latest copy of Honey before work was another blow.

  She stopped dead in the middle of the street. She stared down at the orange juice in her hand.

  “THREE POUNDS? What a rip-off!”

  Also by A.E. Radley

  Bring Holly Home

  She's lost everything. Can one woman bring her home?

  Leading fashion magazine editor Victoria Hastings always thought that her trusted assistant quit her job and abandoned her in Paris.

  A year later, she discovers that Holly Carter was injured in an accident. Brain trauma led to amnesia and Holly cannot remember anything about her life.

  Guilt causes Victoria to bring Holly home and into her life to aid her in recovery. But when guilt turns into something else, what will she do?

  Bring Holly Home | Preview

  By A.E. Radley

  Louise took a deep breath and quickly started to recite the schedule to her boss.

  “So, as you know, the gala is tonight. The table plan is in your room for final approval as you requested. Your car arrives tomorrow at ten o'clock to take you to Charles de Gaulle. I'll be checking out of the hotel earlier to get the Guerlain samples that you requested for your sister, so I'll meet you at the airport at quarter to eleven.”

  Louise knew this was an exercise in futility. Her boss knew the schedule back to front, and yet she felt the urgent need to fill the awkward silence that permeated the back of the limousine. She subtly turned her wrist in her lap to look at her watch.

  “Hm,” Victoria murmured.

  Louise looked up to see if her boss would say anything else.

  Victoria continued to look over the top of her glasses at the passing Parisian scenery.

  Louise debated if she should say something else. Maybe give another rundown on the first-class menu on offer on-board the flight from Paris to New York. Maybe attempt to get a tiny amount of kudos for having changed the red meat option from lamb for the entire cabin, simply because Victoria couldn’t abide the smell of lamb.

  Not that Victoria would ever acknowledge any of the backbreaking, soul-destroying work that Louise did on a daily basis for the impossible-to-please woman. But she lived in hope that a nugget of gratitude would work its way into Victoria’s conscience.

  Maybe enough to promote her from her role of assistant. Being an assistant to Victoria Hastings was certainly prestigious. Sadly, it didn’t pay the therapy bills that Louise would need if she managed to survive the role.

  Louise’s mobile phone rang, and she answered immediately. “Yes?”

  It was that awful French man from the gazette again. Blathering on about something or other and making little sense.

  “Look, I’ve told you before, Victoria will not be doing any interviews. If you wanted to speak to her then you should have called before she arrived in Paris for Fashion Week. Do you have any idea how busy she is? Of course you don’t.”

  The man continued talking hurriedly. Louise just shook her head, not even bothering to listen to what he was saying. She couldn’t believe the audacity of the man. Thinking that Victoria Hastings of all people would be able to drop everything and speak to some nobody. Did he have any idea who she was?

  “Absolutely not, and don’t call this number again!”

  Louise huffed, hung up the phone, and tossed it into her bag.

  “Damn French,” she mumbled under her breath.

  “Problem?”

  Louise looked up and realised that Victoria had turned to glance at her. Louise took pride in her appearance, checking her reflection at least every twenty minutes to ensure she was looking her best. But the second Victoria looked at her, she felt certain that she must appear a wreck.

  Victoria was the kind of woman who always looked perfect. She must have had a long conversation with Mother Nature in which she put her foot down and insisted she wasn’t going to age another minute. And so, forty-seven-year-old Victoria Hastings looked like a perfectly turned-out woman in her mid-thirties. Not a hair was out of place in her fashionable blonde bob. Her makeup was light but always on point, just enough to rouge her cheeks, plump her lips, and accentuate her steely green eyes. Nothing less could be expected of the editor of one of the world’s leading fashion magazines.

  Louise realised that she had been silent for too long. Her panic at potentially not looking her best under Victoria’s frosty glare had thrown her.

  “Um. No, no problem, Victoria. Just a journalist, some awful little French man. You know what journalists are like. I don’t even know why I bother sending out press guidelines. He has been calling me here and Claudia back in New York every single day… I… He…” Louise swallowed nervously.

  She’d said too much, she’d bothered Victoria with details that were of no interest to her.

  Victoria simply stared at her in silence. Slowly, she rolled her eyes. Louise was sure that Victoria was internally questioning the incompetence she was surrounded by. She usually did. Now it was just a matter of whether Victoria would deliver a softly spoken, but scathing, remark, or if she would ignore her. Louise held her breath while she waited for judgement to be passed.

  After a few more frosty seconds, Victoria turned and looked out of the car window again. The conversation was over.

  Louise released the breath she had been holding. Silently.

  Paris Fash
ion Week was everything she’d hoped it would be. The shows, the designers, the clothes, the city. But now it was drawing to a close. Three months of doing nothing but planning Victoria’s schedule had paid off. It had been a success. Not that anyone would know it from Victoria’s expression.

  From the moment they had landed in Paris, her boss has been quiet and detached. More so than usual. At the best of times, no one would ever accuse Victoria of being friendly or talkative. In fact, Victoria was famously known for destroying careers with a simple look.

  But the last few days had been worse than usual.

  Louise reminded herself that there was just one more night between her and her comfy bed back home in New York. And the next morning she would be getting to the airport bright and early and thankfully not travelling with Victoria.

  The elevator doors slid open, and Victoria put on her oversized Gucci sunglasses. She walked through the lobby of the Shangri-La Hotel, her heels tapping loudly on the marble flooring.

  She could sense the receptionists discreetly looking at her as she walked past them. She imagined that they were breathing a sigh of relief at her departure.

  The doorman, dressed in a top hat and a knee-length, forest green overcoat, opened the door as she approached. She breezed through and down the steps.

  She let out an audible sigh at the fact that her limousine wasn’t in place. She looked up with annoyance to see that the vehicle was on its way down the hotel’s driveway, just passing through the wrought iron gates.