A Very Vintage Christmas: A Heartwarming Christmas Romance (An Unforgettable Christmas Book 1)

by Tilly Tennant

  For the next hour she refreshed her page every so often, but apart from exclamations of shock at seeing her online, and jokes about her having been replaced by an alien doppelganger, there was no new information about Margaret or George. Dodie supposed she couldn’t really expect things to happen that fast, and with an impatient sigh, decided that the old adage about a watched pot never boiling was probably a good one to take heed of right now as she shut the laptop down and got ready for bed. It had been a long day, and there was plenty more to do before the week was over.

  Chapter Ten

  It wasn’t often that the main phone in the shop rang. So the sound of it almost had Dodie leaving her seat as she sat behind the counter on Friday morning, staring dreamily out of the window, thinking of nothing in particular. The fact was that despite her early night she was still tired, and she began to wonder whether it wasn’t all these extra responsibilities she was piling on herself that were the cause rather than a single night out with one too many mulled wines.

  ‘Forget-Me-Not Vintage…’

  ‘Can I speak to Dodie please? Dodie Bright, that is.’

  ‘Gran?’ Dodie frowned. ‘Gran, is that you?’

  ‘Oh, it is. Hello, Dodie! I didn’t recognise your voice.’

  As she worked in the shop alone, it was hardly going to be anyone else answering the phone, but it was easier to let it pass than try and explain that to her gran.

  ‘Is everything OK? Did you need me for something?’

  ‘Oh, I’m absolutely fine; I’ve got woodworking in half an hour… I just wanted to tell you about your lady.’

  ‘Woodworking…?’ Dodie shook her head. ‘Never mind. What lady?’

  ‘Your Margaret from Wessex Road. Gloria popped over for a cup of tea and she said she’d asked her relatives and her aunt thought the name was Vincent… Margaret Vincent. She says she can’t be sure because her aunt’s memory isn’t what it used to be, and sometimes she can’t even remember that she’s not married to Bruce Forsyth when she sees him on the television, but that’s what she thinks. Is that any good?’

  ‘It’s something,’ Dodie smiled. ‘Thanks, Gran. And thanks for phoning me with it.’

  ‘I didn’t want to wait until I saw you next in case you needed it sooner.’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘Right…’ Gran said briskly. ‘I’ll pop in next week, shall I? See about that coat you’re getting for me…’

  ‘I haven’t actually found one for you yet.’

  ‘But you might have one by next week.’

  ‘It doesn’t work quite like that but maybe if something comes my way. But come in anyway for a chat – you know you’re always welcome.’

  ‘Alright then. Bye bye for now.’

  ‘Bye, Gran.’

  Dodie put the phone down and grabbed her laptop from the drawer beneath the desk where it lived when she was working. The easiest thing would be to edit her original Facebook post to add in the surname as a possible rather than write the whole thing again. It was then that she noticed the private message waiting to be read.

  Hi Dodie,

  My name is Sally Chandra and I’m a journalist for the Echo. A friend forwarded your Facebook message to me regarding your attempts to find a lady who lived on Wessex Road in 1944. Do you mind me asking what it is you want her for? I’m intrigued, and I think our readers would be too. They might also be able to help. If you can spare a moment I’d like very much to have a chat with you about it and perhaps feature your story in the paper. Let me know your thoughts.

  Regards, Sally

  ‘That didn’t take long,’ Dodie murmured as she clicked Sally’s photo to get more information about her. It seemed that whoever had once said that news never sleeps was speaking quite literally. Her profile seemed genuine enough and a story in the paper would be a great idea. Once again, Dodie was annoyed that she hadn’t thought of it herself, but then she probably wouldn’t have considered it likely that any newspaper reporter would be interested.

  Hi Sally,

  I’m trying to track either of them, or their relatives, because I have a love letter from George to Margaret written while he was serving in France during the war. I run a vintage shop in town and I found the letter in a second-hand coat I got at auction (I’m guessing the coat belonged to Margaret, but I don’t know for sure). I’d like to return the letter to Margaret herself if I can as I now think George is dead, or their relatives if I can’t. I think a newspaper story would be very helpful and I’d be happy to talk to you. I would struggle coming to your offices as I run the shop alone and I have to be here during working hours, but you’re welcome to come and see me at my premises whenever you like.

  Dodie

  Dodie closed the message window and went on to alter her status so that it now contained the new information about Margaret’s surname possibly being Vincent. Then she dialled Ed’s number. He’d be pleased, she was sure, by the contact from the newspaper, and if he hadn’t suggested social media it would never have happened.

  ‘You’ll never believe it!’ Dodie squeaked as he picked up. ‘We’ve got newspaper interest!’

  ‘Dodie… what…?’ Ed sounded dazed. Dodie faltered.

  ‘Oh… did I ring you at a bad time? You sound—’

  ‘No. No, it’s fine. I had a bad night… Was just getting a bit of catch-up shut-eye. Of course, it’s fine, you wouldn’t have known.’

  ‘I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to wake you. I could call you later… it’s no problem.’

  ‘Yeah… that would be good. Speak to me later…’

  He ended the call before Dodie had the chance to say goodbye. She raked her teeth over her bottom lip thoughtfully as she put her phone away. She hadn’t been expecting quite such a brusque dismissal. Was that his way of saying sod off, or was he genuinely half asleep? The day she could read that man would be the day she’d keel over from the shock. More perplexing still, why did she keep trying, and why did it matter so much?

  She was spared any further ruminating on the subject by the sound of the bell over the door announcing the arrival of customers. Painting on a smile, she put her mind to her job and pushed Ed Willoughby and his funny moods firmly from it.

  Late-afternoon drizzle had done a good job of keeping customers out of the town for the rest of the day, and so Dodie’s afternoon had been quiet. It had given her plenty of time to get small jobs done around the shop, but days like this had her on edge, worrying about takings and anxious for a busier than usual end to the week to make the money up. She’d spent the previous hour staring out of the window as the odd shopper hurried by, fighting with umbrellas or huddled in hooded coats, and cars hissed through the spray on the road. The one highlight of the afternoon was another message from her journalist, followed by a phone call. Sally Chandra sounded amiable and very interested, and they arranged to meet in Dodie’s shop so Sally could get more information and some photos. When Dodie had briefly outlined her efforts so far, Ed’s name had come up along with a brief explanation of his involvement. Sally sounded keen to involve him too, for a bit of colour, and although Dodie said tentatively that she’d ask him, there was no way of telling what his reaction might be. It all depended on which Ed she got at the time, but as he’d told her to phone him later to fill him in on the latest developments, she’d do just that and ask; for better or worse.

  At five to five she’d had enough of staring out of the window and if she missed a vintage-hungry horde of customers by closing five minutes early, then so be it. It was as she turned the shop sign from open to closed that she saw a man running across the road towards the door. Raising her eyebrows in surprise, she opened up to him.

  ‘I didn’t know if I’d catch you,’ Ed panted. ‘I must have got some right looks running through town. And I’d forgotten where the street was because… well, we were a bit drunk last time I was up here.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Huh? Oh yeah… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. You
know, for being so rude on the phone earlier. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘I know – I didn’t think you did.’ Dodie closed the door behind him and locked it. ‘Just in case any customers decide to come in,’ she replied to his silent question. ‘I was about to close up anyway.’

  There was an awkward pause. Dodie wondered why Ed had felt the need to come all this way to apologise when a text or phone call would have done just as well. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked, not knowing what else she was supposed to say and feeling obliged to offer something in return for his trek over.

  He nodded. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Is tea OK?’ she said, beckoning him to take a spare chair behind the counter. It was strange, but she wasn’t quite sure how an invitation up to the flat would look and it felt somehow safer to offer him a seat in the shop, in full view of the windows. Not that she was afraid of him, though when she really thought about it she wasn’t quite sure what she was afraid of. Perhaps she was more afraid of some new feeling lurking inside her, something she couldn’t yet identify but felt the presence of just the same. ‘I don’t have any coffee, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m northern – tea is always OK,’ he said as he took a seat. ‘I like your shop,’ he added, looking around with interest. ‘Last time I was up here it was dark and we were a bit worse for wear. And, as I recall, you didn’t let me in.’

  ‘I didn’t not let you in,’ Dodie laughed. ‘You just didn’t come in. I expect you were being gentlemanly or something.’

  ‘That’s deeply out of character,’ he said. ‘Are you sure that was me?’

  Dodie grinned. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll get those teas.’

  He nodded and Dodie headed up to make their drinks. As she waited for the kettle to boil she could hear his footsteps downstairs. He must have been inspecting the shop. Perhaps it was a bit too trusting to leave him alone down there but she guessed she could be fairly confident by now that he wasn’t planning to run out with armfuls of psychedelic shirts. At least he was here, so she could tell him about Sally Chandra’s proposition properly. A face-to-face conversation might have a much better chance of success than a short, easily refused text request. She’d even break out the biscuits too, and that way he couldn’t possibly say no.

  ‘Sorry, Dodie, it’s just not going to happen.’ Ed shook his head vehemently, just to emphasise exactly how unlikely the happening was. She could understand why he wouldn’t want to, but she’d hoped for a different answer.

  ‘I thought you might say that. I asked only because the journalist said it would be a great angle, to see how we’d met while I was on the hunt for my letter writer and we’d teamed up. She probably thought it made us sound like Scooby Doo’s gang or something.’

  ‘I get where she’s coming from, but I’d really rather avoid my mug being in the paper.’

  ‘But you’ve done so much towards it; I think it would be nice for you to take some credit. Can she at least print your name and say you’ve helped?’

  He was thoughtful for a moment, his gaze trained on a cinema poster for Casablanca hanging over a rack of shirts. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  He turned to her. ‘I bet you haven’t told your boyfriend about us spending Wednesday evening together, have you?’

  Dodie frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘That means you haven’t. I bet you haven’t said a single word about me.’

  ‘Well, no, I haven’t, but—’

  ‘Did you ever intend to?’

  ‘I don’t see that I need to. Quite frankly I don’t see how it’s relevant either.’

  ‘So the first he’ll hear of it is to see my name mentioned in the paper and to read how we’ve been doing our Scooby Doo detecting together, and he’ll be pretty pissed off, won’t he?’

  ‘Well…’ Dodie said, exasperation creeping into her tone, ‘I’ll tell him first, before the paper is out.’

  ‘But he’ll still wonder why you didn’t tell him straightaway. And believe me from someone who knows, it’ll look bad.’

  Dodie opened her mouth to argue, but then clamped it shut again. He was right, and she could see how right he was now that he’d said it. Every word of Ed’s reasoning made perfect sense. She should have been straight with Ryan from the start – transparent and frank – given him a reason to trust instead of reasons to suspect. She didn’t even know why she had been so reluctant to tell him about Ed, because Ryan wasn’t usually the jealous type and she had nothing to hide. Unless she did have something to hide, a budding sense of guilt about something that she didn’t even know herself yet. None of it made any sense.

  ‘Ryan’s not like that,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Every man’s like that. It might have escaped your attention, but I’m one, so I should know.’

  She gave a vague shrug. ‘To be honest I haven’t even told him about the letter yet, so it will all be a surprise.’

  ‘You haven’t?’ Ed stared at her.

  ‘I know; I don’t know why either. He thinks my vintage obsessions are silly and I knew he’d think this was silly. I suppose I felt stupid explaining it to him.’

  ‘You should never have to feel stupid sharing the things that matter to you with the people you love. And you should never have to apologise for them. I don’t see how he can think your love of vintage is silly when you’ve built a business from it.’

  ‘I know that.’ Dodie forced a smile. ‘And it’s probably just me; I expect he’d be more tolerant than I give him credit for. But really, he doesn’t even read the paper apart from the sports pages so I doubt he’ll see this story whatever. He probably wouldn’t even see if I was topless on page three.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Ed laughed. ‘I think someone might point it out to him, though!’

  Dodie giggled, the tension building between them dissipated by their laughter. ‘After they’d finished burning all the copies they could find.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Ed smiled, the laughter subsiding.

  And suddenly Dodie was aware of something shifting between them, something imperceptible and yet seismic.

  ‘You make me laugh,’ he said, but he wasn’t laughing at all as he held her in a gaze that seemed to appraise her soul. He wanted to say something and he was holding back, she could tell. Did she want to hear it anyway? She wasn’t sure she did at all.

  Heat rising to her face, for the first time she wondered whether she ought to be sitting alone with him like this.

  ‘Without meaning to, I expect,’ she mumbled, downing the last of her drink and making a fuss of collecting their mugs so she wouldn’t have to look at him. Bustling up to the flat to dump them in the sink, she returned a moment later to see he’d got his coat on.

  ‘I should go,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the drink, and sorry I can’t help with the newspaper thing.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Dodie forced what she hoped was a carefree smile. ‘You’ve done so much to help already.’

  ‘But you’ll let me know what happens?’ he asked, edging towards the door. She nodded.

  ‘Of course I will. Will you pop back in some time? To the shop, I mean? Stay for a cuppa?’

  ‘If I’m passing,’ he said. Was he suddenly feeling as awkward as she was? Aware of something in the air between them so tangible she could almost grab it? ‘See you around,’ he added as Dodie unlocked the door to let him step out onto the street. She smiled hesitantly and nodded, locking the door and watching through the glass as he walked away.

  She had no idea what she thought of Ed Willoughby, but she was beginning to recognise that she missed him whenever he wasn’t there.

  It wasn’t often Dodie met someone smaller than herself, but Sally Chandra made her feel positively titanic. What the reporter lacked in stature, however, she more than made up for in presence. Her personality seemed to fill the shop from the moment she walked in that Saturday aft
ernoon, having phoned ahead during the morning to say she was free and asking if she could pop by. Apparently, Sally was still as keen as her lightning-fast Facebook response suggested, explaining that she was supposed to be off work but found herself at a loose end and wanted to get the story into the paper by the following Wednesday if she could. She’d breezed into Forget-Me-Not Vintage, run an approving gaze over the interior of the shop and announced in a loud voice how quaint and charming it was before grasping Dodie firmly by the shoulders and kissing her lightly on both cheeks. Dodie had never been greeted quite so informally on a first meeting and had been slightly taken aback. It was hard not to get swept up in her enthusiasm, though, and she found herself taking an instant liking to the reporter.

  ‘So…’ Sally said as Dodie pulled out the spare seat for her. ‘Let’s hear all about your mysterious letter.’

  ‘Would you like to see it?’ Dodie asked. She didn’t particularly like sharing its contents but as Sally was very likely to ask, it seemed sensible to put her strange possessiveness firmly out of her mind and show her straight off.

  ‘I’d love to!’ Sally beamed. ‘I love a story with a romantic angle and we don’t get nearly enough.’

  ‘It is romantic,’ Dodie said, going to the drawer where she’d put the letter in readiness for Sally’s visit. ‘A little sad too, especially if I don’t manage to track anyone down. It doesn’t seem right that it sits in my flat and never gets back to people who might treasure it more than me. That’s really what this search is about.’

  ‘True love.’ Sally nodded. ‘A worthy cause. The one thing we’re all searching for.’ She eyed Dodie keenly. ‘Are you truly in love, Dodie? Or are you still searching for it?’

  ‘I… I have a boyfriend,’ Dodie replied hesitantly.

  ‘Well, I’m sure that’s yours all sorted then,’ Sally said briskly, but something about her manner threw Dodie momentarily. Instead of trying to find a reply, she removed the letter from the envelope and handed it to the reporter, who cast her eyes over it, a smile stretching her lips as she read.