The Night Before Christmas
Scarlett Bailey
First published in the UK in 2011 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group Company
Copyright © 2011 Scarlett Bailey
With many thanks to Lizzy Kremer and Laura West for getting this ebook off the ground, and to Gillian Green
For Adam,
with love from me
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
About the Author
Prologue
4 December
Lydia Grant hadn’t meant to find the engagement ring intended for her, on that dank and drizzly December morning, but she had. Her boyfriend, Stephen, had got up long before the crack of dawn, leaving Lydia with the luxury of the middle of the bed. A rare treat that she relished by assuming the position of a starfish and tapping the snooze button on the alarm clock four times, dipping in and out of sleep with delicious, dozy abandon until 6.50 a.m., when she had sat bolt upright and remembered who she was.
By night, she was a serial romantic, taking every precious spare second she had to lose herself in the golden age of the Hollywood romances that she’d loved so much since she was a young girl. She could fall in love over and over again with Cary Grant or Trevor Howard; and even occasionally – but not quite so much recently – her own boyfriend.
But by day – a day that should have started at 6.30 sharp – she was Lydia Grant, Junior Barrister, a career-hungry, hard-as-nails crusader for justice. And, in just over an hour, she had to be in court representing a forty-six-year-old surgeon’s wife who stood accused of credit card fraud running into tens of thousands of pounds. Having only been handed her client’s brief at eight-thirty last night, Lydia needed to get a move on if she were to get to court in time to meet and talk over the case with the accused before the start of proceedings, and reassure Mrs Harris that everything would be all right. After all, if there was ever a barrister who could make a judge see that a woman needed two hundred pairs of designer shoes, it was surely Lydia Grant. Failing that, she’d go for diminished responsibility. Who hadn’t gone mad lusting over a pair of shoes they could ill afford at least once in their life?
Running dangerously late, Lydia thanked her lucky stars that Stephen’s Holborn flat – hers as well now, she reminded herself, though somehow, despite living together for the last six months, she couldn’t stop herself calling it ‘Stephen’s flat’ in her head – was only a fifteen-minute walk away from court. She leaped out of bed and allowed herself five minutes in the shower, before bundling her long, dark, chestnut-brown hair into a neat chignon with practised ease. Slipping into a smart white shirt and an authoritative black trouser suit that she’d set out before going to bed, she gave her lucky Gucci killer-heeled boots a quick polish. Taking a moment for a quick glance in the hall mirror – and pulling a face at her reflection – she told herself out loud that today she needed to be a strong, confident and capable woman; a woman who was never in doubt, not even for one second, that she’d show the judge and jury how ridiculous the charges were, and that her client was the true victim in this case, a victim of a wealthy husband who refused to buy her sufficient shoes.
It didn’t help that Lydia couldn’t find any black socks in the drawer Stephen had ceremoniously cleared out for her when he’d invited her to move in. ‘After all, Lydia,’ he’d told her when he’d casually handed her the key to his flat, ‘it’s about time we moved things along, don’t you think?’ Perhaps it hadn’t been the most romantic moment in Lydia’s life, but it was a benchmark, nevertheless. A step towards commitment that, until quite recently, she would never have thought possible, even if it was commitment that afforded her just one drawer.
She could find training socks, pop socks, a pair of pink glittery socks that her eleven-year-old step-sister, from her father’s third marriage, had got her for her birthday, plus a quantity of tights all tangled up in one big bundle, but no suitable socks to go under her lucky boots. Verging precariously on the edge of acceptable lateness, Lydia had done what any strong, capable, confident woman would. She’d decided to borrow a pair of her boyfriend’s socks, yanking open his top drawer only to find the shock of her life sitting there, right on top of his neatly paired socks, blatantly out in the open, without even a minimal effort to hide it.
It was a small, square box in unmistakable pale greenish turquoise, with the words Tiffany & Co printed in black on the lid.
Without even thinking about what it might mean, Lydia grabbed the box and opened it, like a greedy child ripping open a packet of sweets. And there it was, winking at her in the electric light required on the dark, winter morning.
A one-carat, platinum-set, Tiffany Bezet princess-cut diamond engagement ring. Lydia sucked in a long breath. It was perfect. It was beautiful. And most importantly, it was exactly the ring she’d always dreamed of, chosen by a man who had taken some considerable time and care to discover her taste exactly. A man who knew that she always carried a battered and dog-eared copy of Breakfast at Tiffany’s in her briefcase, and that since her early teens, her idea of the pinnacle of romance was to receive just such a ring, presented in that wonderfully distinctive box. It was a ring chosen by a man who cared enough about her to get it exactly right. By a man Lydia was now certain must love her very much to get it so right, and who knew that proposing to her at this special time of year would make another dream come true for her, because finally Lydia would get to have her own happy Christmas.
Which was why the second thought to pop into Lydia Grant’s head that morning, as she stared at the ring, was rather surprising.
Lydia Grant wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to get married.
Chapter One
21 December
Lydia glanced sideways at Stephen, who had been finger tapping the steering wheel since the last service station.
‘Looks like we’re going to beat the worst of the weather, anyway,’ she said, briefly squinting out of the car window at the voluminous leaden clouds, hanging low over the horizon, pregnant with the promise of snow. ‘The forecast said dangerous driving conditions, snow, snow and more snow – but look, it’s only just started to come down.’ Lydia nodded at the windscreen, where the first few delicate flakes of snow that had begun to waft down were settling briefly before being brutally wiped away in an instant.
Stephen said nothing in reply.
‘So are you going to sulk about this for the whole three hundred miles?’ Lydia asked him impatiently. ‘God, I said I’d pay the toll on the M6.’
‘It’s not that and you know it,’ Stephen said, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘This is our first Christmas.’
‘No, it’s not.’ Lydia sighed. ‘It’s our second Christmas, or wasn’t that you drunk and wearing a Santa hat at my mum’s last year?’
Lydia grimaced as she remembered their actual first Christmas together, her mother, who had started on the Bailey’s at breakfast, sitting on her step-father’s lap, chewing his face off while the Queen gave a speech in the background and S
tephen worked his way through an overcooked turkey and undercooked potatoes.
‘It is, it was, going to be our first Christmas alone,’ Stephen said. ‘No family this year, you said. No trekking from Kent to Birmingham in the space of forty-eight hours just to make sure that you see all of your various parents and multitude of step-siblings. This year, I distinctly remember you saying, we’re going to do as we please, by which you obviously meant do as you please. Silly me.’
‘Various parents?’ Lydia complained. ‘You make me sound like a Mormon or the child of some sort of hippy commune. It’s called a blended family these days, Stephen, which you of all people should know, Mr Family Law.’
‘You know what I mean. What was it last year? Your mum and Greg on Christmas Day, practically having sex on your gran’s reclining easy-up chair. And then we had to get up first thing on Boxing Day to make it to your dad and Janie’s in time for lunch, where you have so many half siblings, and half-half siblings, it’s like visiting a crèche. I mean, how old is your dad? How does he have the energy?’
‘I don’t know, perhaps you should ask him,’ Lydia muttered under her breath. ‘You know what my family’s like.’
Lydia’s childhood had been far from perfect, something she’d been at pains to express to Stephen since they’d first started getting serious, knowing that sooner or later he’d have to meet them. And love them as she did – most of the time – they weren’t exactly the sort of family a girl looked forward to introducing to her most serious boyfriend ever.
Her parents had had a whirlwind courtship – marrying a month after they’d first met, and only discovering once they’d conceived Lydia that they hated each other’s guts. The Christmases of her childhood were far removed from her beloved screen versions, where it always snowed, everyone always loved each other and it always turned out all right in the end. Lydia’s childhood Christmases had a nightmare soundtrack of angry words, bitter recriminations and slammed doors, until Lydia was twelve and her father had walked out on her and her mum for good on Christmas Day. It had easily been the worst out of a lifetime of disappointing Christmases, and for the next few years she’d become a bargaining chip in the increasingly spiteful war between her parents, alternating holidays between the two of them and not feeling at home anywhere. Since then, her mother had remarried, perhaps a little too happily for Lydia’s liking, given the incident last Christmas, and her father seemed to be competing in some world record challenge for most-married man.
‘Dad’s got issues. He’s been having a midlife crisis all his life. At least you met him in the Janie phase. I actually quite like her. His second wife was a proper cow. She always used to call me “the girl”. Never used my name, just “the girl”, with a sort of bad smell expression. I used to dread it when it was their turn to have me for Christmas …’
Lydia always did her best not to blame her dad for the Karen years – for leaving her alone in the living room in front of the telly for Christmas lunch, for never remembering to get her a gift, even though he always spent every penny he didn’t have on Karen. And for agreeing, as soon as Karen demanded it, that Lydia did not have to come at Christmas at all, or Easter, or at any time, for that matter. Lydia resolved not to blame her dad for letting Karen edge her almost completely out of his life, because after all, he had left the witch before it was too late. And after that, he’d made a token effort to rebuild their relationship. At least he had until he’d taken up with the very buxom, though far more personable, Janie. Either way, Lydia was glad that Karen was gone. Janie made her dad happy, and she always remembered to get her some smellies from Lush, which was something.
Noticing Stephen’s expression softening slightly, Lydia reached over and rested her hand on his thigh for a moment. ‘Anyway, it’s not as if we’re doing family, is it? We’re not trekking from Broadstairs to Birmingham. We are having a proper grown-up Christmas in the stunning surrounds of the Lake District, just the two of us.’
‘Just the two of us and all of your friends,’ Stephen muttered. ‘I told my mum we weren’t going to hers this year because we were doing our own thing, because …’ Stephen stopped himself from saying more, and Lydia, hearing alarm bells in the vicinity of her heart, thought it best not to press him further. Having met his mother on a number of occasions now, she could honestly say that she’d rather gouge out her own eyes with a rusty nail than have to endure any more of the those ‘you’ll-never-be good-enough-for-my-only-son’ looks again, something that would be tricky if she married Stephen. Mentally, Lydia added ‘Stephen’s Mum’ to her list of pros and cons for marrying him, slotting it very firmly under ‘con’. His dad was nice, though, in that quiet, unassuming, had-all-the-life-and-joy-sucked-out-of-him-by-the-cow-he’d married sort of way, which, all things considered, Lydia didn’t think could be counted as a ‘pro’.
‘Look, I’m sorry I said yes to Christmas at Katy and Jim’s without exactly running it past you,’ Lydia apologised, not for the first time. ‘The thing is, when Katy phoned, she was all over the place. It’s been six months since she and Jim and the kids bought the hotel, and … well, reading between the lines, I think it’s been a bit of a money pit. I don’t know what possessed them … After all, Jim used to be an investment banker, and the nearest Katy’s ever previously come to running a boutique hotel in the middle of nowhere is making us all toast after a big night out when we were students. They’ve poured every single penny they have into Heron’s Pike. If it doesn’t work out, they’re stuffed. Katy said that they’re fully booked for New Year’s Eve and she needs to practise on someone. Who better than her three oldest friends and their lovely, handsome, sexy men?’
Stephen said nothing, keeping his eyes on the road as the falling snow began to thicken. Lydia turned to look out of the window, a shiver of anticipation running down her spine as she thought of the photos of the house Katy had sent her. Heron’s Pike looked like the setting for a perfect Christmas. ‘Besides, think of it, Stephen,’ she continued, ‘it’s the Lake District, and Heron’s Pike is a beautiful Victorian manor house, a stone’s throw from Derwentwater Lake. It’s got its own little boathouse and Katy says the village down the road looks like a picture postcard.’ Lydia sighed. ‘It will be just like the bit in Holiday Inn when Bing sings “White Christmas” and I always cry. And, look – it’s going to be a white Christmas, too, a real one with snow, and open fires, and food, and wine, and people that actually like each other, for once. I, for one, can’t wait to spend it with you and my best friends. I just wish you loved them as much as I do.’
‘It’s not that I don’t like your friends,’ Stephen began, carefully. ‘Alex is great, although she is quite possibly the most frightening woman I’ve ever met, especially now she’s pregnant. And David’s okay if you don’t mind talking about Romans or Normans, or whatever it is he lectures in. I’ve only met Katy and Jim at Alex’s wedding, and I didn’t get to talk to them too much because – if you remember – Katy got over-excited by the free champagne, burst into tears and then passed out in her dessert. But I’m sure they are a lovely couple. Just as I’m certain that their kids and their grandparents are charming. But Christmas with Joanna Summers? The queen of TV shopping? I’m sorry, Lydia, that is so low down my Christmas wish list that it comes below being stranded on a desert island and forced to eat my own legs to survive.’
‘Harsh!’ Lydia chuckled, despite herself. ‘I know Joanna is an acquired taste, but the four of us have been friends since we met at university, and she’s been a good friend to me, the best.’ The four girls had met in the first week of their first term, thrown into the random mix of being on the same corridor in their hall of residence. And sharing a house in their final two years – through boys, exams, assorted family dramas and one very real tragedy – had cemented their friendships for life. ‘Besides,’ added Lydia now, ‘if Joanna hadn’t let me live with her rent free while I was studying for the bar, then I’d have been sunk.’
‘She’s just so up hersel
f, strutting around like she owns the place.’
‘That’s her TV image, not what she’s really like. She’s had to be tough.’ Of all of them, Joanna had found it easiest to adapt to student life and living away from home for the first time. She might joke about having been raised by wolves but, in truth, she’d been dumped by her parents in various boarding schools from the age of seven. She’d had to cope. ‘You need a lot of guts to do her job. All that drama and confidence, that’s more about keeping up a front than anything else.’
‘She’s so superficial,’ Stephen snapped back. ‘She sells cheap tat to people who can’t afford it on a shopping channel, Lydia,’ he added. ‘How does blathering on incessantly about how you can own a genuine fake diamond ring for forty-nine ninety-nine, in two easy instalments, require guts?’
‘God, you are such a snob,’ Lydia retorted as the snow began to fall in earnest, and the last motorway sign flashed up a new fifty mile per hour speed limit. ‘Not everyone can charge about saving the world like you, you know.’
‘No, but some people could do a little more to try,’ Stephen said, glancing pointedly at Lydia. Lydia bit her lip. She did her best to keep up with him, his charity work, all the legal aid stuff and the weekend volunteering, but it never seemed to be enough to please him. He forgot that, while he was at a comfortable, secure stage in his career, she was really still only starting out in hers. She had to do the work that chambers gave her, when it came in, and that barely left her time to breathe let alone spend every spare minute doing good, in the relentless way Stephen did.
‘Besides’ – Lydia decided to ignore his jibe – ‘I’d like to you see present live TV. She has to think on her feet all the time. That’s why she’s the best at what she does, not just because she’s beautiful. Sometimes, if I’ve got a case I’m particularly nervous about, I think of her, and that gives me courage.’
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