I'll Be Home for Christmas: A heartwarming feel good romantic comedy

by Karen Clarke

  I took a couple of pictures through the window and imagined posting them with the caption Plenty to do in Chamillon, even when it’s snowing! Would anyone care? If they wanted to come to Chamillon, wouldn’t they just look online? Or was I self-sabotaging – finding reasons not to pursue the travel blog idea in case it failed?

  I didn’t want to think about that right now. The café was warm and snug, the hum of chit-chat and laughter soothing, and I propped my chin on my hand, tuning in to a conversation at a neighbouring table. I could just make out that the occupants were discussing the weather, remarking how unusual it was to see snow. It was almost like being in England – except that they sounded delighted. I smiled to myself and felt an expansion inside, as if my organs had shifted slightly and made themselves more comfortable. Outside, one of the children caught my eye and waved, and I waved back and drew a smiley face in the condensation blooming across the window.

  My coffee arrived the traditional French way: treacle dark in a bowl, topped with creamy milk, accompanied by a warm pain au chocolat that smelt like being inside a chocolate fountain and I concentrated on my breakfast, savouring every mouthful.

  I was dabbing at pastry flakes with my fingertip, when I felt something nudge my leg beneath the table and looked down to see Hamish, wagging his pointy tail. ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ I stooped to rub my cheek on his wiry head. ‘I love your little legs, and your beard’s fantastic,’ I fussed, tugging at the straggly fur around his muzzle. ‘You could give any hipster a run for his money with this.’

  Hamish looked quietly pleased by the compliment and I kissed his nose before lifting my head to look for his owner, trying to remember the man’s name. Gérard, that was it. He was easing himself down at a nearby table, propping up a wooden walking stick that I hadn’t noticed yesterday. Not that I’d noticed much, beyond the extravagant Christmas décor.

  Seeing me looking, he lifted a hand in acknowledgement, and I threw him a smile and gently prodded Hamish in his direction. ‘Go and look after your master,’ I said, but the dog settled down at my feet and rested his head on my boots.

  Gérard gave an extravagant shrug, as if to say what can you do? before turning to greet the staff. I felt ridiculously flattered that Hamish had chosen to stay, his head pleasantly heavy on my feet. There was a cat on the premises too, extravagantly furry and ginger, curled on the lap of an elderly woman wearing vivid lipstick, and I guessed it was the cat that had escaped upstairs, the one Ryan had almost sat on.

  I relaxed back in my chair and sipped the last of my coffee, and jumped when Charlie breezed in and sat down opposite me, snowflakes melting in his hair.

  ‘It’s snowing again,’ he announced.

  ‘Really?’ I eyed the top of his head. ‘I thought you’d got dandruff.’

  ‘Hilarious.’ He rubbed his hair with both hands. ‘Listen, I wanted to give you a heads-up,’ he said, unzipping his padded coat as he leaned closer. ‘Mum might be up to her matchmaking tricks, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  I groaned. ‘Ryan, I suppose.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What?’

  Charlie sat back, face bright with cold. ‘What made you think of Ryan?’

  ‘I don’t… I didn’t…’ I stuttered. ‘I just thought… yesterday, she seemed to be… the way she was looking at us, it seemed…’

  Charlie started laughing. ‘Just winding you up. Of course I’m talking about Ryan,’ he said. ‘She can’t help herself, and we both know that nothing will stop her from trying.’

  ‘It won’t work.’ It came out forcefully. ‘This isn’t one of those films where we start out hating each other, then end up passionately kissing and falling in love.’ My face fired up as the word love seemed to hover between us in flashing neon pink letters surrounded by golden stars.

  ‘I’m sorry he was such a jerk earlier,’ Charlie said. ‘You were right to call him out. It’s not an excuse but he’s been through—’

  Hamish interrupted what he had been about to say by springing onto Charlie’s lap.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ I pushed aside my plate, then moved it back again, trying to hold Charlie’s gaze. ‘I’m sure now we’ve cleared the air, we’ll get on just fine.’

  ‘Look, I’m hardly expecting romance to blossom, even if Mum is.’ He sounded vaguely disappointed, and I hoped it was because his friend had been so rude about me.

  ‘Anyway, moving on,’ I said. ‘Have you got any tips for places I can photograph for my blog?’

  ‘You’re in the best place already.’ He looked around the bustling café. ‘But if you insist on going elsewhere,’ he said, smiling as he did a dramatic eye roll, ‘you should try eating at Chez Phillipe. It’s the best restaurant in Chamillon. Plus, I can show you round the island sometime if you like – if Mum can spare me.’

  Dolly was behind the counter, craning her neck in our direction. Her fringe had separated – a sign she was working too hard. ‘I don’t think she can,’ I said.

  Charlie looked round. ‘It’s probably time for Stefan’s break.’ He put Hamish down and rose, picking up my empty coffee bowl and plate. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go out and explore on my own,’ I said, infusing the words with a determination I didn’t quite feel. ‘My blog’s not going to start itself.’

  He looked at me for a moment, as if weighing up how to respond, then a customer caught his attention. He gave me a quick smile and said, ‘I’m so happy you’re here, Nina,’ and hurried away.

  I stood up, preparing to leave, and saw Gérard beckon me over with a jerk of his head.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I said, drawing up to his table as he reached for his stick and began struggling to his feet. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Gérard, be careful!’ Dolly materialised, as if she’d sensed him struggling, and pressed him gently down. He submitted with a resigned shake of his head. ‘He shouldn’t be here at all when his leg’s playing up,’ she said to me. ‘It’s an old injury that flares up now and then.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, as though it was my fault.

  ‘It’s a shame, as he normally walks Hamish along the beach on his way home.’

  Hearing his name, Hamish sat up and cocked his head and Gérard spoke in French, waving his hands as he protested that he was perfectly capable of walking his dog.

  ‘Doesn’t he have any family?’ I said, careful to include Gérard. There was nothing worse than being talked about as if you weren’t there.

  ‘His wife died a few years ago, and his son and family live in Scotland,’ said Dolly, before he could speak. ‘It’s just him and the dog at home.’

  ‘I suppose it won’t do him any harm to miss a walk for a day. The dog, I mean.’

  Dolly looked down at Gérard’s leg, sticking out an angle. His flannel trousers had ridden up, revealing a strip of red-and-blue stripy sock. ‘I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘I guess I could take him for a walk. Hamish, I mean.’ The words were out before I could stop them and three pairs of eyes swivelled hopefully towards me.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Dolly said to Gérard. ‘My niece has offered to walk Hamish.’

  ‘C’est très gentil.’ He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and passed it over his eyes. ‘Very kind.’ He reached out a veiny hand and wrapped it around mine. ‘I cannot thank you enough.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ I said, surprised by his strong reaction. Maybe he wasn’t used to people doing him favours. ‘I’ll just go and get my coat.’

  ‘Hurry,’ said Dolly, and three minutes later, I found myself outside the café, an icy wind blasting my cheeks and a little black dog straining at the end of a lead.

  Six

  Hamish was keen to get going, practically dragging me along. The cold was a shock after the warmth of the café, and although it was no longer snowing, I was glad of my furry coat.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, breath fanning out in a puff of white as I tugged on the blue woolly hat that Doll
y had pushed into my hand as I left the café.

  Gérard had explained that Hamish knew the route and would lead me back to his cottage, so I let the dog direct me round the back of the café to a lane that wound down to the beach, where I remembered hanging out on my last visit.

  It wasn’t long after Dolly had bought the café before Charlie came out to join her, and I’d felt a bit lost as Scott was supposed to have been with me, but insisted on staying behind to deal with a problem at the gallery (or so he’d said).

  The weather had been glorious then; brightly-coloured hollyhocks clustered along the lane, the stretch of beach littered with visitors wearing shorts and flip-flops. Today, my boots crunched along snow-covered ground and the flowers had drooped beneath a thick white blanket. On the beach, the sparse tufts of seagrass among the low-lying dunes were tipped ice-white, and the sand looked as if it had been replaced with icing sugar.

  ‘Isn’t it pretty?’ I said to Hamish, but he’d paused to snuffle about and didn’t reply as I looked around, breathing in the salted scent of the sea. Above, the sky was a clear, denim-blue that coordinated with the sea, where a breeze was pushing frilly-edged waves to the shoreline. ‘Bit cold for a paddle,’ I concluded, recalling how I’d wandered for miles at the water’s edge last time, the sea washing over my feet, and ended up with sunburn. No chance of that today.

  I dug my phone out of my coat pocket and awkwardly framed the scene one-handed, wishing it didn’t look so ordinary through the lens. A filter would make it stand out, I decided, snapping away, trying to avoid a cluster of fighting seagulls at the water’s edge.

  As I tucked my phone away, Hamish darted forward all of a sudden, almost yanking my arm from its socket, and although Gérard had maintained he could be let off the lead, I decided not to. I didn’t want him running off, or starting a fight with another dog, however friendly he seemed.

  There were a few people about; a bunch of teenagers trying to walk in each other’s footprints and taking selfies; a family in matching scarves cycling the path alongside the beach; a woman with a little boy, attempting to build a snowman and another dog walker, huddled into a Sherpa-style coat with his head down, hands thrust into his pockets, coming towards us. The small white dog trotting neatly at his side was barely visible against the snow, and exceptionally well-behaved compared to Hamish, who’d begun pulling at his lead and barking with excitement.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I ordered, without much conviction, while he jumped up and down as though his legs were spring-loaded. Crouching, I tried to draw him to my side, willing the dog walker to pass quickly before there was a scene, but Hamish squirmed out of my grasp and shot forward, dragging me flat on my stomach. ‘For God’s sake!’

  Still gripping his lead (how could he be this strong?), I managed to scramble to my hands and knees and crawl forwards, ice-cold wetness seeping through my jeans, to where Hamish was now cavorting – there was no other word for it – with the little white dog. It was on its hind legs, pawing the air in front of Hamish’s face, its tongue startlingly pink against all the whiteness, giving it a smiley expression that Hamish seemed to like.

  My gaze shifted to the boots beside the dog; dull, black leather, the toes gritty with snow and sand, the laces not fastened properly, and I stared for a moment, hoping they’d move away and leave me to my humiliation. They stayed put, and I realised with a sag that I was going to have to get up and take control – especially as the canine cavorting had taken on a flirty quality, with bottom-sniffing and yelping from both parties.

  ‘Hamish!’ I implored, tugging his lead – it was far too long; how did Gérard cope? – remembering this sort of caper was why my parents preferred to follow the female bloodline with the sheepdogs at the farm. Hamish flicked me a look that suggested he’d forgotten my presence, before resuming his ungentlemanly behaviour. ‘Could you please call off your dog?’ I said as I pushed to my feet, brushing snow off my coat, wondering why the owner was just standing there doing nothing – though, to be fair, his dog was now sitting down, seeming faintly amused by Hamish’s antics. ‘Appelez votre chien, s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘Nina!’

  My head jerked up. ‘Ryan!’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I gawped, as if I’d spotted an octopus. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, adjusting my hat, which had slipped over my brow, and wishing he hadn’t seen me lying at his feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ Outdoors and fully dressed, I nearly added, clocking the dark jeans and jumper beneath his coat. ‘You look like you should be leading an expedition up Everest.’

  ‘I was bored, so thought I’d come out and steal a dog.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’ I couldn’t take my eyes off him, despite the fact that Hamish’s prancing was jerking my arm around. ‘You look…’ really good. His beard had been drastically pruned so the outline of his jaw was visible, as were his lips, which were… nice. Very nice. The sort an author might describe as luscious. ‘You look different,’ I said, more aggressively than I’d intended. ‘Better, I mean. Than before.’

  ‘Thank you for that amazingly generous compliment.’ He looked self-conscious, as if he’d rather I hadn’t said anything at all.

  ‘I take it you don’t go for the tortured-writer look?’

  ‘Judging me on my appearance?’

  I prickled at the reference to our conversation this morning, deciding not to mention that he looked a bit like Jon Snow from Game of Thrones, but without a massive fur hanging around his shoulders. ‘I suppose I was.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ A glimmer of warmth entered his eyes, which appeared greener in daylight, probably due to the snow around us highlighting all the colours. Everything about him seemed brighter and more detailed: the texture of his hair, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, which suggested he smiled a lot – though I’d yet to see the evidence – and even his skin looked less pale, a trace of colour on his cheeks from the bracing air. ‘Dolly told me I was starting to look like Hagrid from Harry Potter, so I thought it was time for a trim,’ he said, as if compelled to explain as he ran a hand over his chin.

  ‘And did she also tell you to buy a pet?’

  His mouth turned up as he started to smile. ‘This is Bon-Bon.’ He eyed the dog at his feet rather warily. ‘She’s a girl and she’s not mine. I’m walking her as a favour.’

  ‘Bon-Bon?’ I smirked. ‘No wonder you weren’t keen to call her off.’ I squatted to stroke her silky head. ‘A favour for whom?’

  ‘Whom?’ Ryan’s voice was lightly mocking. ‘Get you, grammar girl.’

  ‘Get you, walking a dog called Bon-Bon,’ I hit back.

  Ryan squatted, his jean-clad leg knee brushing mine. ‘She belongs to a woman in the village. Her usual dog walker’s away today and she asked Dolly if anyone could help.’

  ‘And she suggested you?’

  ‘Yup.’ He nodded, and I caught a whiff of whatever he’d used in the shower and that same, warm skin scent from the day before. ‘That was quite a tumble you took.’ He gave up trying to pat Hamish, who was only interested in trying to get Bon-Bon back on her feet. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ I said, wishing he hadn’t brought it up. ‘This is Hamish, by the way. He’s a boy and I’m also walking him as a favour.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘One of the customers.’ I was determined not to smile, unwilling to draw him in. ‘An old leg injury flared up, so Dolly volunteered me for dog walking services.’

  ‘Nice of her.’

  ‘Of me, you mean.’

  ‘I mean, it was nice of Dolly to volunteer our services this morning.’

  Catching something in his tone, I shot him a look. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  I recalled Dolly hustling me out of the café, almost as if there was somewhere I needed to be. ‘You think she intended us to bump into each other?’

  He lifted his eyes to meet mine. ‘Let’
s just say, she knew what time Bon-Bon was being dropped off this morning.’

  ‘Right.’ I wasn’t even surprised. Hadn’t Charlie warned me his mum was on the matchmaking trail? Mum had warned me too, and it had been clear when Dolly had caught us together the day before, she’d been imagining us as a couple. ‘I think it’s just something she does,’ I said, embarrassed that Ryan had noticed it too as it meant that – however briefly and unwillingly – he must have considered my potential partner qualities, and found them as lacking as I’d found his. ‘Don’t take it personally.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he promised, returning his hands to his pockets as he straightened.

  ‘Good. Well… I’d better go,’ I said, just as Hamish sat down with a frustrated sigh. ‘I’ve got stuff to do.’

  ‘Of course you have.’ I couldn’t work out whether he was being sarcastic or not. Perhaps he thought I had endless time at my disposal, while I worked my way through a trust fund. He gave a low whistle to attract Bon-Bon’s attention and she sprang to her feet, giving him an adoring look. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I tried to restrain Hamish, who was keen to follow his four-legged friend, but before I could make the first move, Ryan turned and hurried along the beach towards the café with little more than a nod in my direction. Either he really needed to warm up, or couldn’t wait to escape.

  Hamish looked dejected as he watched them go, but swiftly rallied when the little boy further down the beach gave up on his collapsing snowman, and ran over to make a fuss of him. Ten minutes later, we were outside a row of fishermen’s cottages and Gérard was waiting on the doorstep to greet us.

  Seven

  I watched Gérard lead the way inside after Hamish, who’d bolted straight to his water bowl in the kitchen, no doubt dehydrated from the exercise – and from drooling over Bon-Bon.

  ‘How’s your leg?’ I asked, wondering whether Dolly had invented the ‘old injury’ story to get me out of the café and close to Ryan. Would Gérard have gone along with it? It seemed a bit unlikely, and I felt guilty for doubting him when I spotted his pronounced limp. (Too pronounced?)