What Happens at Christmas

by Evonne Wareham

  Lori surveyed the pile of Secret Santa gifts heaped precariously on her desk. The company’s way of doing Secret Santa, where everyone bought an anonymous gift for everyone else, worked really well too. Expensive – Lori grimaced at the thought of the dent in her credit card – but a big part of that Christmas fun. Lots of laughter, a few surprises, and no one got stuck just with the really difficult person to buy for, like Mike the accountant – which was so frustrating, when you’d found the perfect gift for someone else. Even Mike had got a lot easier though, since someone had discovered his passion for obscure brands of beer. His desk now held a proud row of exotically named products from local micro brewers.

  There were always a few unusual choices too. Samantha, the receptionist, was going to be trying to find out who gave her the huge stuffed squirrel, and why, for months to come. Lori snickered. It had been a complete nightmare to wrap, and Sam was never going to figure out why, because I don’t know myself. Just that as soon as she’d seen it sitting cosily on the shelf in the gift shop, she’d known exactly who it was meant for.

  Lori’s own pile was fairly predictable, but very welcome. It had been nice to have so many presents to unwrap. She’d followed her mother’s instructions – over a crackling phone line from Greece – to open the parcel from John Lewis as soon as it arrived, ‘to make sure that it fits’. And her sister Lark … Well, she might get a card from L.A., or Mauritius, or the Seychelles or the Bahamas.

  Lori picked up one of her two new notebooks – this one had a gorgeous sparkly, multicoloured cover. The other was a posh leather affair that she suspected might have come from Thom, the boss. There was an assortment of pens, one with a fluffy pink bird perched on the top, a dictionary of baby names, which had left a lot of people around the table puzzled, but which was quite an inspired choice and one that was going to be really useful when it came to naming new characters. A large china mug threatened dire things to anyone who interrupted her while she was writing and a slim paperback offered advice on how to write erotic fiction. That one had to be from Dean, one of the fitters, who was convinced she was writing the next red, hot, sexy bonk-buster. Or ought to be.

  She began to gather the gifts into a carrier bag. Around her other people were packing up, exchanging handshakes and kisses and wishing each other ‘Merry Christmas’. The office would be closed until the sixth of January. No one needed an emergency home office at this time of the year, and if they did, Thom would have his phone on and would deal with it. They’d completed their ‘in time for Christmas’ orders yesterday.

  Stowing the last parcel, a pamper pack with ‘For that big date’ optimistically printed on the label, Lori looked up, to see Sam weaving, slightly unsteadily, through the desks towards her. Lori was pretty sure that the pamper pack had come from her. Happily married, with nine-year-old twin boys, she was tenacious about everyone else having their own slice of domestic bliss.

  Yeah, well. One day. Maybe.

  ‘And how are you going to be spending the holiday?’ Sam made a scribbling gesture, of someone writing in the air. ‘As if I couldn’t guess.’

  ‘That,’ Lori agreed. ‘And this.’ She mimed painting a wall, laughing when Sam’s brow crinkled in puzzlement. ‘I have the builders in – once they’ve finished, I’ll be decorating,’ she explained.

  ‘Builders.’ Sam shook her head. ‘But Lori, it’s Christmas!’

  ‘And that’s totally why I have the builders in – Paulie’s done me a special deal because no one else wants them at this time of the year.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Sam pouted, before her face lightened. ‘Paulie – big shoulders, washboard abs, dimples?’ Sam’s husband had big shoulders, washboard abs and dimples.

  ‘All of the above,’ Lori agreed. ‘And a fiancée, and I don’t think she’s into sharing.’

  ‘Oh well.’ Sam shrugged, then another thought occurred to her. ‘Builders – are they doing the stuff for the insurance? Lori, are they taking off the roof?’

  ‘Yep.’ Lori nodded. ‘But it’s okay. I’m staying at the B&B in the village until the worst is over. They’ve agreed to take me and Griff.’ After a bit of persuasion.

  ‘Griff?’ Sam looked puzzled again. ‘Oh, your cat.’ A frown replaced the puzzlement. ‘Will there be other people at the B&B – celebrations and stuff?’

  ‘No, only me. They don’t usually open in the winter. But I will be fine, honestly and it will be a relief to get the work done.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Sam still wasn’t happy. ‘You could have come to ours for Christmas Day, at least, but we’re going to the in-laws in Northampton.’

  ‘I know, and you will have a great time.’ Lori picked up her bags, leaning over to kiss Sam’s cheek, and preparing to distribute goodbyes and good wishes at the other desks between her and the door.

  Then, after a weekend of clearing the house and getting the last of her stuff into storage, she was free. Free to forget about being an office manager and instead to be a would-be author, with nothing to do but write.

  Bliss.

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  Chapter Four

  18 December 11.59 p.m.

  Somewhere in the depths of the house, a clock was chiming.

  Drew leaned back on his chair and counted. ‘Ten … eleven … twelve.’ He stretched his arms above his head, working out the kinks in his shoulders. Midnight, and the book was finally, definitely, irrevocably finished.

  At last.

  He closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

  The scene on the roof of the train hadn’t turned out the way it was supposed to. And we all know why that was. A dozen attempts, and no cigar. The ending wasn’t the one he’d planned, either, but that happened when you were writing. Things sort of shifted, and the words crept up on you when you weren’t watching them. He’d had his doubts about that ending, but it had seemed to work out. What the hell – it’s done.

  He opened his eyes, clicked on his e-mail and typed a covering note, attaching the manuscript. For a second his hand hesitated over the keyboard. Then he pressed send, and it was gone, winging its way to Geri and his editor. Just in time for Christmas.

  He scrubbed the heels of his hands over his face, blinking blearily at the screensaver on the computer screen – a shot of a high cliff, a strand of pale sand and a whirl of swooping sea birds that he’d taken on a remote island, off the coast of Scotland. He lowered his hands and exhaled. With the book, and the charity thing which was coming up fast, he’d done nothing about his usual holiday get-away. Maybe there was still time to find somewhere suitably isolated – well away from anything festive.

  Christmas.

  There was a chill gathering in his chest. He pushed away the coldness and the swirling flashes of memory – a wind-swept railway station, the hunched and silent crowd, sick and scared like him, waiting for news.

  And then – the bleak-faced official.

  And the massive engulfing shock of total loss …

  A shiver ran through Drew’s body, shaking the dark images lose. He exhaled.

  Don’t remember. Plan.

  If it was too late to organise a get-away he’d hunker down in the London flat with maps and guides and a good single malt, disconnect the phone and plan his next trip.

  He leaned back in the chair, aware of the stiffness in his neck and shoulders, turning to stare out of the un-curtained window. The study was at the top of the house and the view in daylight was stunning. In darkness it was just that – darkness. At this time in the morning the unrelieved black of a cloud-filled night was unbroken by even a glimmer of light.

  He might be alone on the planet.

  The house, on the edge of the Peak District, had been the perfect retreat to finish a book that had got decidedly sticky in the middle. Now it was done he’d have been happy to spend Christmas here. Alone. Unfortunately he had to give it back. He squinted at his watch, abandoned on the desk beside the computer.

  In about twelve hours’ time.

 
; The friends who had lent it to him while they made a trip to the States would be home this afternoon, and he would be gone before then, avoiding any invitations to stay for Christmas. House returned, with grateful thanks.

  Actually he couldn’t have stayed. Tomorrow night he had his date with a gang of kidnappers. And how crazy is that? He wasn’t regretting it exactly, but it still felt weird. Geraldine’s office had handled the arrangements – her latest assistant – a dark-haired girl with intense eyes. Adele? Ada? No, it was Aveline. Aveline had done the work with Philmore’s people. All he had to do was show up. He’d been out of the media loop for weeks, head buried in the book, with no idea if the details of what was going down had leaked out. Not exactly a surprise if they had, with so many people involved. Not your problem.

  Geri and her PR people would spin it. That was probably what she’d been thinking, some free publicity for the new hardback, in time for the Christmas trade. She’d been pretty keen for him to be part of it …

  His stomach gave a loud, disconcerting rumble, surprising him into a bark of laughter. Leaning forward, he closed down the computer. He couldn’t actually remember when he’d last eaten a proper meal. There was an empty packet that had once held chocolate biscuits on the desk. He shook the wrapper hopefully, but there were only crumbs. Three coffee mugs stood in a group, two empty, one half full and stone-cold. He drank it anyway, grimacing, gathered up the debris and headed down through the dark house, to the kitchen.

  Hauling out bread, cheese, a pot of home-made chutney and a celebratory beer, he slumped at the kitchen table to wolf down a doorstep sandwich. He stifled a yawn. Was it late supper, or very early breakfast? Whatever it was, it had hit the spot.

  He savoured the beer – brewed locally especially for Christmas, according to the label, which was liberally illustrated with snowmen and reindeer – and looked idly around the dimly lit kitchen. It was big and warm and homely. And probably very expensive, he concluded, swinging back in his chair. Deceptively simple grey painted units, granite surfaces, carefully placed lighting, most of which he hadn’t bothered to turn on, under-floor heating. Tranquil and comfortable.

  He really needed to get himself a place like this. Not so big, or so lavish, but somewhere more remote than Chelsea. Even being around the corner from the Physic Garden, it hardly matched the kind of books he wrote. He took a sip of beer, pondering. The flat was convenient. And paid for, thanks to a couple of film deals. And as he was rarely there, it was really all he needed. He didn’t see much of his neighbours, but Kaz and Devlin were in the next street, if he wanted company. They’d be at home at Christmas. Kaz had invited him to a drinks party they were giving on Christmas Eve. Drew grinned. It might be worth sticking around for the holiday, just to see how Devlin, the original ice man, coped with the concept of ‘party’. Flawlessly, of course, like everything he does.

  Drew shook his head, and finished the beer. In the New Year, he’d start house hunting. Maybe. Do you really need anything more than the flat you have now? A small space to store his books and clothes and occasionally to sleep. For the rest of the time he was on the road for one thing or another – research, promotion or just plain old restlessness.

  What are you running from, Drew?

  The voice in his head whispered, and the dark memories flickered again, just for a second. Echoes from a long, long way back. A place he really didn’t visit any more, in his head, or out of it.

  He rose abruptly, dropping his plate and knife into the sink and the empty bottle into the recycling bin. After a moment’s thought, he fished the bottle out, rinsed it and dropped it in again. Then he headed for his bed.

  By lunchtime he’d be on his way back to London.

  Chapter Five

  20 December, 9.30 p.m.

  The air in the hotel conference room hummed with excited anticipation.

  The audience had filed in just over two hours ago, to find a tote bag bulging with goodies on each seat – including, Drew noted wryly, a new novella from Brandon Phipps. Signed, of course. Aveline from Geri’s office had been around earlier, checking that each bag contained one, but she’d disappeared as soon as they’d opened the doors.

  The arts journalist who was hosting the event had made a short speech, explaining the change in the running order and the added entertainment for the evening, pointing out the TV screens and cameras, which had already attracted some nudging and whispering from a few of the audience, and offering anyone who did not wish to take part the chance to leave, with a full refund.

  And they got to keep the goodie bag.

  No one had taken up the offer.

  Drew had signed a shedload of books – mostly, it seemed, to be given as Christmas presents – being careful to add the date. Maybe in years to come they’d be classed as collector’s items. They’d done an edited version of the question and answer session, in amongst watching celebrity kidnappings going down to order on the big screens. Philmore had scored a coup to kick things off – five members of a boy band who’d topped the charts for six weeks in the summer with the theme tune to a blockbuster thriller. He’d scooped them up at a ‘secret’ gig in a room behind a pub somewhere in Islington. A well choreographed chase had ended in all five being rounded up and dragged away from screaming, sobbing ‘fans’. The American actor had been grabbed leaving the theatre after a ‘special’ technical rehearsal. They’d set up a creepy Dickensian looking scene, in a narrow passage-way beside the stage door, with dark-cloaked figures materialising out of the shadows. They’d even managed to create an atmospheric fog, swirling at ankle level. The footballer had been intercepted by three men in a fast car when he arrived for a ‘Christmas party’ at his club’s home ground.

  Drew checked his watch. Any minute now three heavies would burst in, and after some token resistance would hustle him out to the limo parked in the alley behind the hotel. Then it would be across London for champagne in the green room that had been set up at another very new, very up-market hotel. The bidding war would take place in front of a live audience in the hotel ballroom. Drew shifted in his seat. Everyone who’d lined up to have books signed had promised to bid for him, but that boy band was going to take some beating.

  Wow! Afraid you’re going to come bottom of the list after all, Mr Best-Selling Author?

  The questions from the audience had dwindled to expectant silence, the atmosphere tense with anticipation. Everyone was waiting, just as he was. He glanced around the room. Collection buckets for his chosen charity had been strategically placed in the aisle between the rows of seats, and were gratifyingly full. He heaved a sigh, maybe …

  A shot of a building flashed up on the big screen on the side wall. The building they were in. Inside the room the cameras were rolling. Drew took a deep breath and stood up. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to thank you for coming here this evening and for your generous—’

  Even though he was expecting it, he still jumped as the door smashed open and three black-clad, hooded figures tumbled into the room, waving realistic looking guns and threatening reprisals to anyone who moved. From his vantage point on the dais Drew could see staff from the hotel crowding the corridor, craning to get a look.

  A tall guy at the front of the audience jumped up. Clearly a big fan, he was wearing a well-washed Stren Rules T-shirt that had to be five or six years old – the last book that had featured tortured superhero Stren in more than a walk-on part was at least that long ago. Making a play to get in on the action, he was promptly invited to resume his seat with a threatening wave of the nearest gun. Drew caught a glimpse of the images on the TV screen at the end of the room, which was showing a live feed, out of sight of the cameras.

  And how surreal is that, watching yourself getting kidnapped on TV?

  Drew jerked himself back into the moment. He had a part to act in this. The images on the screen were looking good.

  So there’s no way you are screwing it up.

  Two of the men had stationed themselves on oppo
site sides of the room, covering the audience. The third was advancing towards him. Drew slid into his role, looking frantically round for a way out, spotting the fire exit and heading for it. Absurdly, his heart was beating fast and his mouth had gone dry. It’s only an act.

  As he dived for the exit he saw himself again on the monitor, diving for the exit.

  You and how many thousand TV viewers?

  He was less than a foot away from the door when the third guy reached him. They scuffled, as per the script. Two women in the front row squealed and fluttered and Drew’s breath hissed out as a misplaced boot caught him on the shin. Several people were filming on their phones.

  Well, hey, at least that’s gonna look real.

  Shifting his weight, Drew got his balance, feinting to the right and trying to figure out if he knew the guy under the hood. Had they hung out together in a tree, somewhere in the Welsh mountains, during a survival course? He couldn’t tell.

  Feinting, and feinting again, he took off to the left, aiming for the door. The assailant barrelled forward. Drew went down, hard, back against the wall.

  Shit, and that. Tomorrow there will be bruises on your ass.

  He was still struggling to regain his breath as his captor hauled him unceremoniously to his feet. His mate sprinted forward to grab Drew’s other arm, and together they dragged him through the fire exit and into the bleak concrete walled corridor beyond. The door banged behind them, cutting off a babble of excited voices, as the third man brought up the rear.

  Drew ducked, trying to regain a stable footing. They were half dragging him along. ‘Hey, fellas—’

  ‘Don’t talk, just keep moving.’

  Drew swivelled his head to check the walls. Were there cameras still operating here? The grip on his arms wasn’t lessening. The guy on the right matched him in height, with massive shoulders and a thick neck. The eyes behind the swathe of fabric, on a level with his, were cold and flat. Drew’s heart unexpectedly ratcheted up a notch.