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

by Karen Clarke

  ‘We don’t want to upset the chef,’ said Ryan. The remnants of our conversation hovered between us, and there was an unexpected twinkle in his eyes. ‘We’d better do as we’re told.’

  I didn’t need telling twice and dug my spoon in, closing my eyes in bliss as the creamy softness melted on my tongue, wondering whether Dolly could replicate the recipe for the café – or just for me.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

  My eyes jumped open. ‘Perfection,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

  Sixteen

  Fifteen minutes later, I was standing on the snow-covered beach, where the moon had lit a shimmering path of light across the sea. I’d decided to take the longer route to the café, partly to digest Ryan’s bombshell – and the meal – and to take some photos as the ones I’d taken before hadn’t come out well; the beautiful vista reduced to a murky black.

  As if by mutual consent, we hadn’t returned to the subject of Nicole or the children –we’d finished eating, declined coffee and requested the bill, which, it turned out, Dolly had paid upfront – but my mind kept circling back, groping for clues. From the start, Charlie had held back from spilling the details about Ryan’s break-up and Dolly must have assumed I knew, which was why she kept trying to push us together.

  I laughed softly to myself, even as I wondered what it meant – what difference it would make. That I could like him now?

  ‘What was happening with you and the waiter?’ I said, when Ryan caught up, heart quickening at the sight of him in his winter coat, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

  ‘He’d apparently read my book and had a copy he wanted me to sign.’

  ‘Get you, Mr Famous Author.’

  ‘He advised me to kill off the parrot, he doesn’t like birds.’

  I laughed and Ryan joined in, our breath mingling on the cold air. ‘Everyone’s a critic,’ he said. ‘You have to develop a thick skin.’

  My teeth were starting to chatter as the cold burrowed through my coat, and he fell into step beside me as we began walking back to the café. ‘I bet most people are impressed when you tell them you’re a writer.’

  ‘I still think my dad would have preferred me to become an architect, but I’ve compromised by making Grace’s dad one in The Midnight Hour.’

  ‘It’s good that you’re writing again.’

  He hesitated, as though working out how to define ‘writing’. ‘I’ve had a few new ideas,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Like what?’

  I felt his eyes on me. ‘I’m not being rude, but I don’t like to talk about the story until the book’s finished.’

  ‘You’re not going to kill Grace off, though?’

  His tone was apologetic. ‘Like I said…’

  ‘You don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I know it sounds pompous, but trying to explain the story tends to kill creativity,’ he said. ‘For me, anyway.’

  ‘You’re right, that does sound pompous,’ I joked.

  ‘You can punch me if you like.’

  ‘Didn’t I mention, I’m stronger than I look?’

  ‘You did,’ he said. ‘In that case have mercy, mademoiselle.’

  His impression of the waiter at the restaurant made me giggle. ‘So, Gérard and Madame Bisset, eh?’ I decided to keep the conversation light.

  He gave a low laugh, and there was a rustle of material as he dipped his hands in his coat pockets. ‘I couldn’t believe it when she appeared like a ghost in that sheet.’

  ‘I was more interested in your love affair with Delphine.’

  ‘I can’t help it if I’m irresistible to felines.’

  ‘Thanks for keeping Jacqueline chatting outside, by the way.’

  ‘I’m not sure she was convinced by my story.’ Ryan shortened his stride to match mine and I noticed the toes of our boots were covered in snow. ‘Apparently, Gérard doesn’t bolt his door when she’s over here so she can let herself in with her key.’

  ‘I hope he’s smoothed things over with her.’

  We briefly bumped elbows before pulling apart as we left the beach and crunched over the snowy cobbles past the harbour, where the boats jostled on the lapping water. The air was still and clear, everything bathed bright by the moon, and the lights on the tree in the café twinkled like a beacon.

  ‘The travel blog you mentioned,’ Ryan said, out of the blue. ‘If you don’t want to do it, don’t.’

  He made it sound so simple. ‘I think I have to give it a try.’

  ‘Why, if your heart’s not in it?’

  ‘It might be, once I get going.’

  He puffed out a breath. ‘I’ve given Grace an adversary,’ he said. ‘Like you suggested.’

  I couldn’t help a grin spreading over my freezing face. ‘That’s great!’

  ‘You could say, you inspired me.’

  ‘Like a muse.’ I’d always fancied being one; had hoped I might unleash the frustrated artist in Scott, but it had never happened. ‘I’ve got plenty more ideas.’

  There was a smile in Ryan’s voice. ‘I’ll let you know if I get stuck again.’

  ‘Thanks for… listening to me about the letters and telling me about Jackson and Lulu.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you didn’t know.’

  ‘It’s quite funny, when you think about it.’

  ‘There was nothing funny about you looking at me as if you despised me.’

  ‘Despised is a bit strong.’ I didn’t switch on the light, grateful to be inside where it was warm as I stamped the snow off my boots. ‘Mild contempt, perhaps.’

  ‘I’d have deserved it,’ he said. ‘If I had walked out on my children.’

  It felt oddly intimate to be talking in the dark at the bottom of the stairs and I was suddenly aware of his proximity, and that we were alone in the apartment.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a coffee,’ said Ryan. ‘Fancy one?’

  ‘Upstairs?’ Idiot. My cheeks were probably glowing like plutonium.

  ‘Unless you want to tackle the coffee machine?’

  ‘Definitely not.’ Confused by the way my body was reacting, I practically threw myself upstairs and into the living room, where I busied myself with the tree lights, fumbling past the stack of presents for the switch. I accidentally set them to flash on and off, so it looked like there was a disco in progress by the time Ryan came in. I turned to watch him throw off his coat and ruffle his hair, and felt a tipping sensation – as if I’d landed in another life, where we were a couple returning from a night out.

  ‘So, what’s she like, this adversary of Grace’s?’ I said it more to fill the silence, wondering whether some music would be appropriate. I decided against it. Music unleashed emotions and, at that moment, I didn’t trust mine one bit. ‘OK, I get it, no more questions,’ I said, when Ryan gave a reproving shake of his head, and his smile filled me with such warmth I jerked forward, intending to straighten the pile of magazines by the sofa. Instead, I sent them flying and the bowl of fruit on top spilled across the floor.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Ryan’s amusement was mixed with concern as he stuck out a foot to halt a rolling satsuma. ‘How much wine did you have this evening?’

  ‘Hardly any,’ I said, though maybe I’d had more than I was used to. ‘I’ll just…’ I gestured to the mess I’d made, knowing I couldn’t leave it. ‘I’d better clear this up.’

  He nodded and took a step back. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ he said, and once he was in the kitchen, I became a whirlwind, tidying the magazines into a basket by the sofa, then gathering up the satsumas and placing them back in the bowl, which I positioned on the coffee table – once I’d gathered the books there and arranged them on the shelving in the alcove beside the fireplace, careful not to dislodge the tinsel along the edge. Once I was satisfied with how they looked, I straightened the ‘Merry Christmas’ letters on the wall above the mantelpiece, and couldn’t resist realigning the cards on top, moving a snow globe with a rob
in inside to sit beside a praying glass angel with a halo.

  Feeling calmer as my mind emptied out, I hummed as I tweaked the pine-studded garland and nudged the nativity scene into the centre of the hearth, and it was only after I’d turned the Christmas tree lights to static – all the flashing was giving me a headache – and whisked the acrylic polar bear off the table, intending to sit him under the tree, that I became aware of Ryan, watching my movements with interest from the kitchen doorway, just as Gérard had done at the cottage, but with less shock.

  ‘You look like you’re having fun,’ he observed.

  ‘Not really,’ I lied. ‘I’m making the place safe, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s thoughtful of you.’ A smile touched his eyes. ‘What were you humming?’

  My face warmed up. ‘What did it sound like?’

  ‘My musical tastes aren’t very current. I mostly listen to classical music.’ His forehead creased. ‘Something by Rihanna?’

  I sighed. ‘It was “Jingle Bells”.’

  He nodded, as if reconsidering. ‘Now you mention it…’

  ‘Don’t.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘I know I can’t carry a tune.’

  ‘But you’re exceptionally good at making a room look ten times more attractive.’

  ‘I see the potential, that’s all, I can’t help it.’ I looked at my efforts. ‘If there are things packed away that should be on display, bringing pleasure to the owners, I like to bring them out and show them off.’ His gaze was unnerving me. ‘Or, just rearrange a room so it’s nicer to be in, if that makes sense.’

  ‘Perfect sense.’ His smile was steady. ‘It’s a lovely thing to do.’

  ‘That’s how I found the letters,’ I said. ‘You never know what you might find.’

  ‘And sometimes wish you hadn’t.’

  ‘I don’t wish I hadn’t found them,’ I said. ‘I just wish…’ but I didn’t know what I wished so I let the words trail off.

  ‘I know,’ he said gently.

  As his gaze held mine, the air between us seemed to come alive, and something I couldn’t put a name to flowed between us. I heard myself swallow and the sound of my heart, beating too fast in my ears. It felt as if the heating had been turned up and I needed to whip off my jumper. And my skirt.

  ‘I’ve made coffee,’ he said, and from the way his voice caught and the look in his eyes, I could tell he too felt whatever it was. ‘I’ll fetch it through.’

  But, before he could move, the ringtone I’d heard during dinner with Dolly and Frank began chiming from his back pocket and reality rushed back in.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get that?’

  He lowered his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and the room temperature seemed to dip as he got out his phone and checked the screen with obvious reluctance.

  I could see him wrestle with himself, his teeth clamped over his bottom lip, and knew it was Nicole. ‘You should take it,’ I said, backing away as though he was holding a grenade. ‘I’m tired anyway. I should go to bed.’

  ‘Nina—’

  ‘Goodnight, Ryan.’

  I closed the door behind me and heard the ringtone cut off, but couldn’t tell whether he’d answered the call or ended it. Either way, it was a reminder that Ryan had unresolved issues with Nicole, and, as I crossed the landing, I gave myself a warning.

  Do not get involved.

  Seventeen

  I woke early the next morning from a restless sleep – probably due to all the rich food I’d eaten – and met Elle’s eyes in the photo on the bedside cabinet. ‘It’s OK for you,’ I said, throwing off the duvet. ‘Your life’s sorted, now you’ve met my cousin.’ I opened the curtains, heart lifting at the sight of the pale blue sky and view across the harbour.

  Climbing back into bed, I picked up my phone and saw a message from Ben.

  Mum’s decided the donkeys should be in the Christmas play and is ‘training’ them for their role.

  I giggled, remembering last year’s nativity play, when six-year old Chloe – the granddaughter of one of Mum’s friends – was cuddling Baby Jesus and the doll’s head fell off and rolled under a chair, causing stifled laughter from the audience. Taking umbrage, Chloe had snatched up the head and slapped it round the face, prompting a telling-off from her embarrassed mum, and then the ‘starry-night’ backdrop had fallen down.

  Hasn’t she learnt not to work with children or animals?

  Neither donkey looks keen.

  Gran had loved the yearly play, even when things went wrong, as they invariably had, and it was painful to think of her not seeing it this year.

  Let me know how it goes x

  If I can bear to watch x

  Still smiling, I grabbed my pen and notepad off the bedside table, eyes grazing the drawer with the letters inside. I would return them to Gérard, I decided, to do whatever he wanted with them. There was no point me holding onto them now, and I didn’t want to risk Dolly coming across them.

  I determinedly opened my notepad at a fresh page. There was something inspiring about a blank sheet, waiting to be written on, and I felt I ought to bless it with a sonnet, or some sort of declaration. Instead, I wrote my name in capitals, as though I was ten years old, then drew a picture of a flower with giant petals. Then I doodled a horse’s head, wishing the horse-whispering course, as Charlie had called it, had been a bit more successful. I’d thought I might fancy an outdoor life after working indoors for several years – as long as it wasn’t farming – and that being used to animals would give me an advantage. Instead, I’d discovered I had no affinity with the equine world at all.

  I absently wrote TidyMinds in swirly letters on my pad, and underneath it Clutterfly – let your clutter fly. Bit obscure. The Fixer. Too Olivia Pope. ClearUp. Too crime-sceney. HomeHelp. Just… no. The House Whisperer… I smiled. That wasn’t bad.

  ‘Wait…’ I threw my pen down. Why was I thinking of ‘tidying-up’ names, instead of travel blog titles? Tidying up for a living wasn’t part of my plan and, even if it had been, I could hardly build a career based on a couple of room rearrangements, one of them accidental. OK, so it felt good that Gérard had reacted so well, but what if he’d just acted politely because I was Dolly’s niece – ditto Margot?

  Then I remembered the look on their faces. A gift, Gérard had said. Why hadn’t I been blessed with a gift for travel-blogging?

  If you don’t want to do it, don’t… if your heart’s not in it.

  Ryan’s words echoed in my head and, more confused than ever, I slammed the notepad shut and shuffled off the bed, tugging my dressing gown on over my pyjamas. I was desperate for a cup of tea and wondered whether he was up. I might have resolved not to get involved, but I didn’t want to be confined to my room, or forced to go down to the café for refreshments.

  His bedroom door was shut when I passed, and I was relieved when I entered the living room to find it empty, the bedding Charlie had used for the sofa bed neatly folded away. I hadn’t even heard him come home.

  I paused briefly to admire the room, which – thanks to my efforts – now looked classy and cosy, if over-the-top festive, and the tree looked pretty with its twinkling lights and glittering baubles.

  I made a cup of tea in the robin mug and sat down on the sofa, huddled into my dressing gown even though the room was toasty. It was still early, but from the sounds downstairs, there were plenty of customers already enjoying their breakfast. It was hard to imagine that this was a normal working day for most people, while I was lazing about with time on my hands.

  On impulse, I plucked a magazine from the tidy basket and flipped through. It was the latest issue of The Expats Guide to Living and Working in France, which Charlie’s friend Natalie wrote a column for. I supposed it wasn’t surprising, considering it was the December edition, that she’d chosen to write about Christmas customs in France.

  Within minutes, I’d learned that le Réveillon is the name of the Christmas Eve feast, that French children put their shoes near the firepla
ce so that Père Noël can find them and fill them with treats and that, traditionally, a Christmas tree is decorated with candies, nuts and small toys. At the end, she’d written, One of the things I noticed was how Christmas only starts to get going in December over here, which is refreshing after years of seeing Christmas cards and decorations in British stores as early as September.

  ‘Hallelujah to that,’ I said to the room.

  I put the paper away and sipped my tea, then crossed to the bookcase and scanned it for a copy of Ryan’s book, The Midnight Hour. I hadn’t spotted it during my tidying spree last night, but then I hadn’t been looking. I was certain that Charlie would have a copy, and sure enough, there it was, on the top shelf, nestled between a book about French fishing and a novel called The Girl and the Duke, which had to be one of Dolly’s. I remembered she was a fan of Regency romances.

  I pulled out The Midnight Hour and took it back to the sofa. Inside, he’d signed it To Charlie, you owe me £12.99, you bastard, which made me smile, but it was the bit about the author I was looking for. When I’d first read the book, I hadn’t been remotely interested in the writer, but now I was curious about whether Nicole had got a mention.

  I turned to the inside jacket at the back and studied the small black and white author photo. It looked like Ryan, but an edgier version. He was wearing a leather jacket, giving the photographer a challenging stare, as if he’d been coerced into posing and couldn’t wait to get away. I read the short paragraph underneath, but it only referenced his place of birth, and his previous career as an accountant, and when my eyes landed on the last line, I let out an incredulous laugh. When he’s not writing, Ryan enjoys a game of darts at his local pub. Darts? Gran had loved a game of darts. She’d installed a board at the farmhouse for family games, but whenever I’d played, I invariably missed the board altogether and once, almost pierced Ben’s ear.

  Smiling at the memory – Ben claimed it was why he was scared of needles – I slipped the book back on the shelf and was about to go and get dressed when I heard voices drifting up the stairs. Some sixth sense propelled me towards the door and I opened it a fraction, straining to hear who was speaking.