Thank you so much to Lor Bingham at Calico Bespoke Gifts (https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/CalicoBespokeGifts) for her endless patience and kindness in answering my questions about her gorgeous crafts and decorations to make sure Nia knew what she was talking about!
Bill, Toby, Cathie – thank you for always being supportive and enthusiastic!
An extra special thank you to Bev for always taking the time to write to me, and for always being so encouraging and supportive and kind!
Thank you, Charlotte McFall, for always being a tireless cheerleader and brilliant friend.
Thank you, Jayne Lloyd, for being such a good friend through hard times. Fingers crossed that 2021 will be a better year!
The lovely and talented fellow HQ authors – I don’t know what I’d do without all of you!
All the lovely authors and bloggers I know online. You’ve all been so supportive since the very first book, and I want to mention you all by name, but I know I’ll forget someone and I don’t want to leave anyone out, so to everyone I chat to on Twitter or Facebook – thank you.
The little writing group that doesn’t have a name – Sharon Sant, Sharon Atkinson, Dan Thompson, Jack Croxall, Holly Martin, Jane Yates. I can always turn to you guys!
Thank you to all the team at HQ and especially my fabulous editor, Belinda Toor – thank you for not laughing when I pitched an idea about magical nutcrackers!
And finally, a massive thank you to you for reading!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm …
Chapter 1
I am never drinking again.
Please tell me that pounding, throbbing sound is not coming from inside my own head. I peel one eye open and severely consider not bothering to open the other one.
I’m slumped on the living-room floor and propped upright by the coffee table, with my face smooshed against the keyboard of my open laptop. My movement jogs the mouse and the dark screen comes back to life, and my eyes hurt at the sudden brightness. I wince and push myself away, instantly regretting it when my stomach rolls at the movement.
When I can bring myself to peer blearily at the screen, there are loads of new emails in my inbox – and most of the subject lines say ‘congratulations’. More spam, no doubt. ‘Congratulations, you’re the sole benefactor of a millionaire Nigerian prince. Give us your bank details and we’ll pop a million dollars straight into your account. Totally legit, honest.’
There are three empty bottles of Prosecco beside me, and my phone is worryingly nearby. Why do I remember squealing ‘thank you, luffly robot voice, we’re moving to Scotland!’ into the phone at some unmentionable hour of the night? While sitting on the living-room floor? With my computer? And my phone? I glance at the empty bottles again.
Oh God, Steve. On the desk in his office. With Lucia from accounting. That’s why I’d broken out the emergency Prosecco. And then the emergency emergency Prosecco. That bare bum thrusting in among the spreadsheets was enough to drive anyone to drink. I’d never seen it from that angle before. There in all its spotty, hairy glory. And all that grunting. Did he ever grunt like that with me? I’d always thought it was sexy, but when you walk into your boss’s office and find him humping your colleague on the desk, it sounds more along the lines of ‘stuck pig’. Which, conveniently, is exactly the way I described Steve yesterday, with a few choice swearwords thrown in for good measure, as I clambered onto a filing cabinet and announced to the whole office what had been going on, quit my job, and stormed out with a satisfying door slam. I’d then sat in the fire escape stairwell and let the tears fall, hurt and annoyed at myself for trusting him. I hadn’t, at first. I knew he flirted with everyone and didn’t really believe he liked me, but he was so charming, so believable, and I’d let myself be taken in. Why did I ever think it would be a good idea to get into a relationship with my boss? Why did I ignore the rumours that circulated the office about him? Why did I drink three bottles of Prosecco last night? Why … wait, why does that email say ‘receipt for your payment’? I must’ve gone on eBay and bought another pair of shoes that look pretty but, in retrospect, were obviously designed for women much younger than me and with much slimmer feet and more attractive legs than mine, who also possess some ability to walk in heels, which I do not.
I squint and move closer to the screen. That email’s from an estate agent. Scottish Pine Properties. I recognise the name because I’ve been daydreaming about their listing for a Christmas tree farm all week …
I sit bolt upright, ignoring the spinning room and thumping head as I click on the email.
I didn’t … did I?
Dear Miss Griffiths,
I’m pleased to congratulate you on your purchase of Peppermint Branches Christmas Tree Farm. Thank you for your fast payment. I look forward to meeting with you to show you around your new property and hand over the keys. Please give my office a ring at your earliest convenience to arrange a meeting.
I did, didn’t I?
It suddenly comes back in a flood. Oh God, what have I done? Why did I think looking at the online auction for a Christmas tree farm that I’ve been fantasising about since the first moment I saw it was a good idea after so much Prosecco?
Why do I remember shouting ‘Hah! Up yours R-five-hyphens-81, it’s mine!’ at some ungodly hour of the morning, probably scaring a passing cat?
R-five-hyphens-81. The other bidder in the online property auction – privacy maintained by the website only allowing you to see the first and last letters of your opponent’s name. The buzz of the auction last night. Watching with bated breath as they put in a bid with ten minutes to go on the countdown timer. So I put in a bid. Then they put in another. And I added another. We went round in circles until there were four seconds left on the clock. I hit the button one last time. And I won it.
Now there’s a multitude of emails in my inbox that say things like ‘Congratulations on your purchase’ and ‘receipt for your payment.’ The automated phone call from the bank, the robot voice asking me to confirm that it wasn’t a fraudulent transaction, that it was really me requesting to transfer the small sum of fifty grand to Scottish Pine Properties in Aberdeen.
I’ve actually done it. I’ve spent almost all of Mum and Dad’s money on a Christmas tree farm. In Scotland. What was I thinking?
I glance at the empty bottles again. That Prosecco has got a lot to answer for.
Note to self: change security questions. Must be something unable to answer when drunk. The origins of pi or long division or something. Unfortunately I still remember my mother’s maiden name and my first school even after three bottles of fizzy wine.
You know how you get overexcited at eBay auctions and you only want that skirt if it doesn’t go above £1.50 and you’re there right at the end and people are bidding and suddenly you’ve won the thing for £29.77 and you’re absolutely exhilarated until the invoice email comes through, and you realise you do actually have to pay £29.77 plus postage for someone’s manky old skirt that’s probably got moth-eaten holes in it and stitching coming out, and when you get it, it smells of stale cigarette smoke and clearly has never met a washing machine before? This is like that, but I’ve bought a Christmas tree farm. This is so far removed from anything I’d ever normally even consider doing. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like a mistake. That money has been sitting in a savings account, waiting for something to happen to it. I wanted to make something of it, to use the money from the sale of Mum and Dad’s house to honour their memory or make them proud or something. I’ve never known what. That’s why I haven’t touched it since it came through.
Dad grew up in Scotland and always talked about selling their house and buying a farm there in their retirement. He always wanted to return to his Scottish roots. He never got a chance to live that dream. And as I stared at my laptop last night, that auction suddenly seemed like the answer. It wasn’t just because I was slightly worse for wear. It was because, without that Prosecco, I’d ha
ve talked myself out of it and convinced myself to do the sensible thing and not buy a Christmas tree farm in Scotland.
I should be terrified. I should be getting onto the estate agents and begging for a refund on the grounds of diminished capacity. Obviously, this is a mistake. Of course I don’t actually want a Christmas tree farm in Scotland. I live in the tiniest flat known to mankind in the centre of London. What am I supposed to do with Peppermint Branches Christmas Tree Farm in the little village of Elffield in the northernmost corner of Aberdeenshire?
That’s what I expect myself to be doing. But the very small part of me that doesn’t feel completely sick from the hangover is fluttering with excitement. I don’t want a refund. I don’t want to back out. I saw that auction over a week ago and have daydreamed about it ever since. How amazing would it be to own a Christmas tree farm? I’ve spent hours picturing wide-open fields, rows of lush green trees, snowy ground, sleigh rides, and the scent of pine needles hanging in the air. Subconsciously, I knew exactly what time that auction ended. I didn’t inadvertently stumble across it just as it was ending, and accidentally enter a bidding war with the other anonymous bidder, driving the price up by a grand each time, until my final bid went in at £52,104. With estate agent fees and whatever other expenses will be added on, that leaves me with under £2,000 left in my savings account for whatever investment the tree farm needs. The price was so close to the amount I got from the sale of Mum and Dad’s house that it’s almost like fate.
It wasn’t a drunken mistake. I wanted it, and in the cold light of day, I still do.
And coffee. I definitely want coffee.
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Dear reader,
Thank you so much for reading The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane. I hope you enjoyed Nia and James’s story, and getting wrapped up in the festive magic of Nutcracker Lane!
I’ve always loved nutcrackers and have been collecting them for years, as well as loving the Christmas ballet, and I’ve wanted to somehow incorporate both of these into a book for years, and it’s never worked out … until now! Various versions of this story have been in mind for years, and when this idea popped into my head in December 2018, I knew it was ‘the one’, and I spent most of last year waiting to start writing it at Christmastime!
I really enjoyed writing about a traditional British Christmas and getting to relive so many of my own festive childhood memories – Argos catalogues, Monopoly, tins of Quality Street, and of course, Nineties foil decorations! Does anyone else really miss them?
If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review on Amazon. It only has to be a line or two, and it makes such a difference to helping other readers decide whether to pick up the book or not, and it would mean so much to me to know what you think! Did it make you smile, laugh, or cry? What would you wish for on a magical nutcracker? What shop would you most like to visit on Nutcracker Lane? It’s Carmen’s chocolate shop for me!
Thank you again for reading. If you want to get in touch, you can find me on Twitter – usually when I should be writing – @be_the_spark. I would love to hear from you!
Hope to see you again soon in a future book!
Lots of love,
Jaimie
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The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane Page 33
