by Mandy Baggot
Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Mandy Baggot
Title Page
One: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill, London
Two
Three: The Royale, Hyde Park, London
Four: Notting Hill, London
Five: Breekers London, Canary Wharf
Six: The Royale, Hyde Park
Seven: Breekers London, Canary Wharf
Eight: Westbourne Grove, Notting Hill
Nine: Sugar High, Westbourne Grove, Notting Hill
Ten
Eleven: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Twelve: The Royale, Hyde Park
Thirteen: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Fourteen: En-route to Canary Wharf
Fifteen: Breekers London, Canary Wharf
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen: Portobello Market, Notting Hill
Nineteen: Breekers London, Canary Wharf
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven: The Royale, Hyde Park
Twenty-Eight: Notting Hill
Twenty-Nine: Breekers London, Canary Wharf
Thirty: The Tower of London
Thirty-One: Madame Tussauds
Thirty-Two: Notting Hill
Thirty-Three: Diwali
Thirty-Four: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Thirty-Five: The Royale, Hyde Park
Thirty-Six: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Thirty-Seven: Electric Cinema, Portobello Road, Notting Hill
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four: Larkspur Gardens, Notting Hill
Forty-Five: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Forty-Six: The Royale, Hyde Park
Forty-Seven: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Forty-Eight: Canary Wharf
Forty-Nine
Fifty: Portobello Road, Notting Hill
Fifty-One: Breekers London, Canary Wharf
Fifty-Two: Portobello Flowers, Portobello Road, Notting Hill
Fifty-Three: Westminster Bridge
Fifty-Four: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty: Breekers London, Canary Wharf
Sixty-One: Enfield
Sixty-Two: Life Start Community Centre, Notting Hill
Sixty-Three: Oxford Street
Sixty-Four: Larkspur Gardens
Sixty-Five: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Sixty-Six: London Eye, Westminster Bridge Road
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Seventy-One: Breekers London, Canary Wharf
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three: Life Start Community Centre
Seventy-Four: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six: The Royale, Hyde Park
Seventy-Seven: Breekers London, Canary Wharf
Seventy-Eight: Holland Park
Seventy-Nine: Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Eighty: Sugar High, Portobello Road
Eighty-One: Beaumont Square
Eighty-Two: Breekers London Christmas Party, Life Start Community Centre
Eighty-Three
Epilogue: Christmas Day, Beaumont Square, Notting Hill
Copyright
About the Book
Imagine the perfect Christmas Kiss…
His strong arms around her waist, her hands on his face, the snow slowly starts to fall…
It’s enough to make Isla Winters cringe! While her sister can’t get enough of this – increasingly common – sight on the streets of London, Isla’s too busy trying to stop Hannah’s wheelchair from slipping on the ice, and making sure she’s not too late to her dream job at Breekers International.
But everything changes with the arrival of Chase Bryan, fresh from the New York office. He’s eager to learn everything about Isla’s beloved Notting Hill, but as the nights get colder, will cosying up to him come at a price?
About the Author
Mandy Baggot is an award-winning romance writer. She loves the Greek island of Corfu, white wine, country music and handbags. Also a singer, she has taken part in ITV1’s Who Dares Sings and The X Factor.
Mandy is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Society of Authors and lives near Salisbury, Wiltshire, UK with her husband and two daughters.
Also by Mandy Baggot
Single for the Summer
One
Beaumont Square, Notting Hill, London
BANG! CRASH! RATTLE!
Isla Winters’ eyes snapped open and she fought to push the sheaves of auburn bed-hair off her face. It was still dark, no light at all coming from behind the curtains … and there were noises coming from downstairs. Shuffling and drawer-opening and … was that the fridge door being thumped shut? What time was it? What day was it? She opened her eyes wider, hoping it would somehow help her hear better. Pieces of glitter fell from her hair and on to her face, then the pillow, then the sheets … those do-it-yourself Christmas cards had a lot to answer for.
Swinging her legs out of bed, she then groped about on the chair beside her dressing table for the long cherry-red jumper she had taken off last night. It was freezing and she shivered, pulling the wool item over her chemise-clad body. She liked winter, she needed to remind herself of that. It was the season to be jolly, it snowed (well, sometimes), the shops were stacked with festive chocs and novelty present suggestions that should never have been invented. It was party season! Life sparkled! But she did prefer it when the central heating had kicked in and she was wrapped up and two macchiatos down. She caught sight of the alarm clock on her nightstand: 5 a.m. Hannah was never up at 5 a.m.
Drawers were definitely being opened downstairs. But she wasn’t going to panic. It had to be Hannah, didn’t it? Although she hadn’t heard her disabled sister’s stairlift. She always heard the stairlift. Sometimes she even woke because she thought she’d heard the stairlift. No one had told her subconscious to stop being overprotective.
Creeping out on to the landing, Isla tip-toed as ballet-dancer elegant and mouse-like quiet as she could manage on the chilly wood floor towards Hannah’s room and gently pushed the door. It opened a crack, but not enough to confirm an occupant in the bed. Isla pushed a little more forcefully, and the hinges let out the kind of noise you would expect to emanate from a hyena trapped in the mouth of a lion.
‘What’s happened? Isla?’
Hannah tried to sit bolt upright. It took her three or four moves, arms hitting the string of fairy lights and Christmas-themed bunting she had tied above her bed. By the time she’d managed to make it to a sitting position Isla was inside the room, her fingers to her lips.
‘Sshh.’
Hannah smiled, sleep-coated eyes blinking, short crop of light brown hair looking the same as when she had gone to bed. ‘Is it Christmas yet? Is Father Christmas here?’ The joke had been started around mid-November.
‘No,’ Isla replied. ‘But someone is.’
‘What?’ Hannah asked, more responsive now. ‘Someone’s downstairs? What time is it?’
‘Five o’clock,’ Isla reached for the phone on her sister
’s bedside table, knocking off a pile of loom bands and baubles in her haste. ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘Wait,’ Hannah said, hand reaching out and catching Isla’s. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘Hannah! Someone is in our kitchen!’
‘I know,’ Hannah said. ‘But Mrs Edwards hasn’t been sleeping lately and she’ll be awake and that means she’ll see the police coming and the last time the police came they were here for Mr Edwards … you know … when they thought he’d died in suspicious circumstances.’ Hannah raised her eyes. ‘With the pestle and mortar.’
‘Hannah, right now, Mrs Edwards’ disposition isn’t at the forefront of my mind. Didn’t you hear me? There’s someone in our kitchen!’
‘Okay,’ Hannah said, breathing deeply. ‘Give me a second to get in the chair … or help me down on to the floor and I’ll crawl to the stairlift. Crawling will take less time and be much quieter.’ She sniffed. ‘We should have hung those really loud jangly old Christmas bells of Mum and Dad’s over all the doors. They’re perfect burglar alarms, you know.’
Isla raised her eyes. ‘The bells wake us up every year if there’s even a draught. And you know I absolutely hate you crawling.’
‘Pah!’ Hannah said, waving a hand in front of her face. ‘It’s the twenty-first century, get over the feeling-sorry-for-people-who-can’t-walk vibe, already.’ She grinned. ‘Actually, crawling is surprisingly liberating. You get to feel a deep empathy for snails and, last time, I found a little black top under my bed I thought I’d left at Creepy Neil’s.’
A crash from downstairs had them both refocusing. Now was the time to panic. What was immediately to hand that she could wallop an intruder with? Isla swapped the phone she held for a pottery Hugh Grant that one of Hannah’s regular customers at the florists had thrown for her. It was twelve inches tall, solid as a brick and Hugh’s nose could definitely be used to gouge out an eye if necessary.
‘What are you doing with Hugh?’ Hannah exclaimed.
‘I thought it might scare away whoever’s downstairs.’
‘It’s actually a very good likeness, and don’t be so mean about Valerie’s artistic skills. She’s still waiting for her carpal tunnel operation, you know.’ Hannah shifted closer to the edge of the bed and put on a pathetic-looking face. ‘Help me get down and crawl.’
‘No,’ Isla said, turning towards the door. ‘You stay in bed and … if I don’t say I’m okay within five minutes, you call the police, whether it’s going to upset Mrs Edwards or not. Got it?’
Hannah nodded. ‘Got it.’ She sniffed. ‘Isla …’
‘Yes.’
‘Be careful. I don’t know what I’d do without … Hugh.’ She stifled a laugh against her bird-print bedspread.
Isla shook her head and made for the landing. Sometimes she wondered if Hannah’s spine wasn’t the only thing that had been injured in the accident. She seemed to be completely blasé about the possibility of an intruder in their home. Okay, so whoever it was was not being very ninja in their style and, to her, that ruled out serial killer. But she was worried that by the time she got downstairs the would-be thief could be gone with her MacBook … or, if it was a surprise makeover team, the whole kitchen could be painted the colour of liver.
Holding her breath, Isla slid each bare foot down on to the oriental-patterned carpet runner that tracked up the centre of the stairs. Avoiding the creaky seventh step from the top, Isla strained to listen to where the noises were coming from. Crockery chinked, cutlery rattled. Was that the coffee machine? Who broke into someone’s home and made an espresso?
Feeling slightly less afraid of a robber with a taste for her Krups, the weighty Hugh Grant gripped in her left hand, Isla moved softly down the hall towards the kitchen at the back of the house.
She paused at the door and looked into the dark. The blue illuminated ring on top of the coffee machine provided the only light. Someone was there. Someone her height, wearing what looked like a cap and a thick coat. What to do? Speak? Let Hugh Grant do the talking? She could put on the lights. If she quietly stuck out her right hand she could reach the switch on the wall just inside the kitchen door. She inched forward, the clay model raised, other hand snaking across the wall and then, she hit the button …
BAM! The spotlights in the ceiling flooded the room with brightness and, adrenalin pumping, Isla lunged with Hugh Grant like she was holding a sabre.
‘Waaaaa!’
‘Argggh! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! It’s me! It’s just me, bro!’
Heart racing like Mo Farah on the home straight, Isla stopped, staring into the face – well, the hands across the face – of twenty-something Raj, their postman. He nudged the kitchen cupboard door with his elbow and two Christmas cards Isla had stuck on last night fell to the worktop.
‘Raj!’ Isla exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’ She slid Hugh Grant on to the kitchen worktop, a hand clutching her chest, determined to keep her heart where it should be.
‘Just making coffee … just coffee,’ he stammered, blowing out terrified breaths. ‘Hannah, she said it would be all right. She gave me a key, innit.’
Isla leant her body against the countertop. Her sister had given their postman a key to their house … and not said a word. She shook her head then stopped. That was typical of Hannah.
‘She didn’t tell you,’ Raj guessed, holding his hands up. ‘I’m sorry. I was just moaning ’bout the coffee at the sorting office last week and how I’s got to start even earlier now it’s December, you know – cards, parcels, all that stuff Yodel can’t do for Amazon – and Hannah said, if I had time … if I was this way, I could, like, come in your crib and make a coffee before I start my round.’
Total Hannah. Despite being the one that everyone wanted to protect, her sister had a penchant for taking people under her wing. Sometimes it was endearing, other times it was annoying, like now, when their postman had trodden dirty slush from the last snowfall over the kitchen tiles and woken them up.
‘I’ll go,’ Raj said, taking a step towards the back door, hands pulling his cap further down over his head. ‘I’ll get coffee from that new café. It’s Moroccan, innit, infused with orange blossom … and that’s no bad shit, man.’
‘Raj …’ Isla began, now feeling a little mean.
‘It’s okay, we’re sweet, bro,’ Raj said, backing away, eyes on the pottery statue, hands held up in surrender.
‘Raj! Don’t you go anywhere!’ It was Hannah’s voice at full volume. ‘I’m coming down!’
‘I should go,’ Raj said, directing the statement to Isla.
‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ And she would never hear the end of it from Hannah if she let him leave now. She could hear the whirr of the stairlift which meant her sister had crawled to the top of the stairs, dragged herself into the seat and was on her way down.
‘Let’s put some more water in the coffee machine, shall we?’ Isla suggested.
Two
‘I don’t think they is gonna last.’
‘No? But they’ve only been here about a month. I haven’t even had a chance to invite them over for dinner yet.’
‘I wouldn’t waste your pasta, Hannah. Always going at it, innit.’
‘Going at it? Like arguing?’
‘You is feeling me.’
While Isla put on her shoes in the lounge she watched Raj and her sister sitting in the cushioned area of the bay window that looked out over Beaumont Square, their little piece of Notting Hill. The soft plum chenille fabric seating with pearl-coloured fluffy cushions was the only place Hannah insisted on getting out of her wheelchair to relax on. It was her outside from the inside, an opportunity not to miss a thing that went on. Currently, the pair were scrutinising number eleven, whose new residents – a couple in their thirties – had only just moved into the street. So much for Raj starting his rounds early. It was almost seven thirty now and he had had three cups of coffee.
‘What does he do for a job do you
think?’ Hannah asked, sipping from her mug.
‘Insurance, innit,’ came Raj’s reply.
‘How do you know that?’ Hannah asked, with a giggle.
‘It’s the three-piece whistle.’
‘I know what that means!’ Hannah exclaimed in delight. ‘Whistle and flute – suit.’
‘You is bangin’ it now, girl.’
‘I is gettin’ your East End vibe.’
‘Hannah,’ Isla said. ‘Don’t you have to get ready for work?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Hannah responded. ‘In a bit.’
Isla checked her watch again. Seven thirty-four. She needed to leave soon to avoid the everyday Tube mayhem and get to the Breekers’ offices on time. Plus, there was a little shop on her walk to the station that had the most gorgeous white, feather and diamante Christmas tree in the window display. They had barely started on Christmas in the house, hadn’t got a Christmas tree yet and, even though this one was artificial, she loved it … and she knew Hannah was going to love it too. She would look at it again this morning, then maybe put a deposit down tonight and pick it up at the weekend. As clichéd as it might sound, the Winters Sisters did love this season!
‘Han, it’s just I have to go in a minute,’ Isla began. ‘I’ve got a client coming in at nine and then I’m spending all day trying to keep on top of the organisation of the big party.’
Now Hannah paid attention, her head snapping away from the window. ‘Can you tell me the theme yet?’
Isla smiled. ‘I can’t. It’s top secret, like always, until a week before, you know that.’
Hannah did in fact know that, but that didn’t stop her asking for insider information about Breekers Construction London’s Christmas party every single year.
‘James Bond?’ Hannah guessed.
‘We did that two years ago.’
‘Titanic?’
‘No.’ But that wasn’t a bad idea for next time. They could easily make a function room into a mock-up of the deck of the stricken vessel. Isla could already envisage a huge ice-coated wheelhouse for photo opportunities and vintage dress. Definitely one for the ideas mood board she’d created on Pinterest.
Hannah turned back to Raj. ‘Ooo, West Side Story with an East End twist … what’s the name of that gang you told me about the other day?’
