The most wonderful time of the year!

Ever since tragedy struck a few years ago, television presenter Kirstie Harrison has hated Christmas – but she didn’t intend to tell the whole country live on air! She needs to lie low for a few weeks, so she’s finally coming home for the holidays, determined that this Christmas will be different…

Staying at the family pub, The Dancing Duck, means it’s impossible not to get caught up in the little village of Cranbury’s festive traditions. And it’s equally impossible to avoid her ex, Josh Turner! Kirstie is torn between making this the best Christmas yet and knowing that she can’t stay forever.

Maybe it’s time to make a holiday wish of her own…?

A wonderfully festive romantic read to curl up with this Christmas. Perfect for fans of Christie Barlow, Debbie Johnson and Cathy Bramley.

Also from Daisy James

The Runaway Bridesmaid

If the Dress Fits

When Only Cupcakes Will Do

There’s Something about Cornwall

Sunshine after the Rain

Christmas at the Dancing Duck

Daisy James

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Also from Daisy James

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

DAISY JAMES is a Yorkshire girl transplanted to the north-east of England. She loves writing stories with strong heroines and swift-flowing plotlines. She has written six novels: The Runaway Bridesmaid, If the Dress Fits, When Only Cupcakes Will Do, There’s Something about Cornwall, Sunshine after the Rain, and Christmas at the Dancing Duck – all contemporary romances with a dash of humour. When not scribbling away in her peppermint-and-green summerhouse (garden shed), she spends her time sifting flour and sprinkling sugar and edible glitter. She loves gossiping with friends over a glass of something pink and fizzy or indulging in a spot of afternoon tea – china plates and teacups are a must!

Daisy would love to hear from readers via her Facebook page or you can follow her on Twitter @daisyjamesbooks.

A huge thank you to Rachel Matthews of the

award-winning The Dancing Duck Brewery

(www.dancingduckbrewery.com) for her kind permission to use her name.

To all my family and friends who ensure that Christmas is filled with love and laughter every year.

Chapter 1

‘Going live in sixty seconds!’

Kirstie Harrison scuttled across the set and took up her usual position behind the instantly recognizable kitchen counter from which she presented her daily episode of Kirstie’s Kitchen for the FMTV network.

‘Keep still – unless you actually want to look like a Christmas clown,’ said Bridget as she leaned towards Kirstie to touch up her lipstick before reaching for her magic mascara. ‘Boy, I wish I could swap places with you today. Those mince pies look amazing! Hurry up and finish the show so we can move on to the taste-testing part!’

‘You say that every day.’ Kirstie laughed at the FMTV make-up girl, whose hazel eyes had widened as she took in the samples. ‘But you know what? For once, I’d actually love to switch places with you.’

‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Between you and me and the sound guy, I’m not the biggest fan of Christmas bakes.’

‘Pphh, you must be the only one. Everybody loves Christmas treats.’

‘Not me. I loathe gingerbread, the smell of cinnamon and cloves makes me come out in hives, but most of all I absolutely detest mince pies.’ She eyed the huge china plate, decorated around the rim with reindeers, piled high with the disgusting things.

Bridget giggled. ‘Shame they’re the focus of the whole show this morning then!’

‘Ten seconds, five … four … three … two … one … and we’re live!’

‘Good morning, everyone, and welcome to Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen. It’s great to have you with us today. Well, I’m sure you’ve all noticed that Christmas is only a few weeks away, so every morning this week we’ll be handing our studio kitchen over to a selection of our most loved chefs. I hope they will inspire you to dust off your aprons and break out your mixing bowls and cookie cutters as they share with us their suggestions for reinventing the old classics.

‘Later on this week we will be experimenting with a kaleidoscope of Christmas-themed cupcakes and delicious gingerbread recipes that will make you go rushing to your store cupboard, but today we start with one of my all-time favourites – the humble mince pie. I’m delighted to say that joining us this morning is the amazingly talented celebrity chef Tom Carrington, who is going to show us his unique twist on this Christmas staple.

‘Hi, Tom. Welcome to Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen.’

‘Hi, Kirstie. It’s great to be here.’

‘Everyone loves a mince pie, don’t they? In fact, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a batch of them cooling on the wire rack. But they can be a little unexciting. So, you’re going to share with us a few other ideas we can try in order to get our festive fix that will have our taste buds zinging.’

‘I sure am. Mince pies don’t have to be boring. Over here, for example, I’ve got mince pies topped with a crunched walnut crust, and these have a layer of custard on the bottom, a generous dollop of sweet mince, and then they’re sprinkled with crumble. On this plate, we have shortbread squares sandwiched together with mincemeat. But my absolutely favourite for a real quirky twist has to be these mince pie wantons and spring rolls made with filo pastry.’

‘Sounds delicious, Tom. I’m especially looking forward to trying out your mince pie wantons.’ Kirstie laughed. ‘But today you are going to show us how to make St Clement’s mince pies – is that right?’

She took a step back so Tom could reach the countertop and to allow the cameraman to zoom in for a close-up shot of him rolling out his clementine-and-lemon-zest shortbread pastry as he detailed the ingredients and method. She made herself busy stirring a pan of cranberries, grated apple, and her worst culinary nightmare, candied peel.

‘For our viewers at home, I really wish someone had invented AromaVision. The fragrance of warm cloves and cinnamon with vanilla is just wonderful. And what’s that top-note I can detect, Tom?’

Tom laughed as he placed perfect circles of his pastry in the hollows of the baking tray and reached for the pan. His bushy blond eyebrows, the colour of honey, framed his blue eyes handsomely and he gifted her with his signature smile. ‘That, Kirstie, is the best bit. A generous glug of brandy.’

‘Mmm. Now, how long in the oven?’

‘About fifteen minutes should do the trick.’

‘What’s next on the agenda?’

Tom slid the tray into the oven and returned to the workstation. He beamed into the camera as he launched into the story of how his family’s love of Chinese cuisine had inspired him to create the mincemeat-filled wantons and spring rolls.

‘They are certainly an unusual twist.’

‘Wait until you taste my mincemeat samosas.’ Tom laughed. ‘I’m sure they’ll become a firm favourite in your house once you’ve tried them.’

Kirstie nodded enthusiastically and smiled sweetly at Tom. She doubted it very much. In fact, just the smell of the concoction of warm Christmas spices was starting to make her come over all queasy. Fortunately, Tom mistook her glazed look for olfactory rapture.

‘Ah, yes, just take a deep breath and inhale that special bouquet. It’s the very essence of Christmas, don’t you think? If only I could bottle it, I’d be a millionaire.’

Again, thought Kirstie. She had read in her research notes that Tom Carrington had recently upgraded his yacht, currently moored in Antibes, and added another thoroughbred to his stables in Cheshire. He also had a finger in lots of culinary pies, so to speak. From bakeware to crockery, from oven gloves to personalized aprons, as well as a range of flavoured olive oils.

Tom had finished making the spring rolls. He strode back to the oven to remove the St Clement’s mince pies and slide in the wantons. As he wafted his hand over the pies, an intense spicy scent invaded the air. He removed them carefully from the tray with a metal spatula and set them to cool on a wire rack.

‘They look absolutely delicious!’ said Kirstie, turning on the enthusiasm.

‘So, Kirstie, you can be the first to try one.’ Tom selected one of the exquisite tartlets and held it up to her lips, holding his cupped palm under her chin to catch any stray crumbs.

Oh God, the things she had to do to further her career, thought Kirstie, suppressing another surge of revulsion. She was going to have to draw on every ounce of her acting ability to present a delighted façade. She opened her mouth to take the tiniest taste of the buttery pastry to avoid having to eat the filling, but Tom shoved the pie into her mouth and she was forced to take a huge bite.

‘Well, what do you think?’

Kirstie chewed and swallowed quickly, just about managing to conceal the involuntary grimace with a bright smile. The flavours crashed around her taste buds and sent receptors to her brain telling the rest of her body to recoil.

‘Mmmm, amazing!’

Tom smiled to camera, raising his slug-like eyebrows, as if to say, ‘well, of course’, whilst Kirstie took the chance to swallow down the last morsel. Yet the taste of the dreaded peel lingered at the back of her throat. Ever the professional, she dredged up her best smile.

‘Well, that’s all we have time for today on Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen. A huge thank you to our guest, Tom Carrington, for sharing his amazing recipes and ideas with us. I hope you have all been inspired to try something different. Join us tomorrow for advice on how to liven up your gingerbread recipes. Not only will we be making a battalion of gingerbread men sporting another seasonal icon, the Christmas sweater, but we’ll also be baking Christmas tree decorations and a whole village of gingerbread houses. So, it’s goodbye from Tom, and goodbye from me.’

Kirstie held her smile for a few seconds, until the camera panned back, and then turned to Tom.

‘Thanks, Tom. That was great. Really informative.’

‘No problem, Kirstie. It’s always a pleasure to be a guest on Kirstie’s Kitchen, especially for one of the Christmas episodes. But why don’t you tell me what you really thought of my mince pies?’ He laughed.

‘Ah, you noticed, eh? It’s nothing to do with your baking skills, which of course are legendary! I just hate everything to do with Christmas culinary treats – gingerbread – yuk, Christmas pudding – yuk. I also detest panettone and stollen – in fact anything that relies on heavy doses of nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon, and ginger. But my all-time pet hate has to be mince pies.’

Kirstie was on a roll and it felt good to confess her aversion to someone, especially a fellow chef who would understand what that meant. Apart from the enforced contact with spice-filled pastries, she loved her daily twenty-minute segment on daytime TV. It was her perfect job and one she had never dared dream of landing when she was slogging her way through drama school. Daytime TV Presenter, her résumé said, and she adored the title.

However, she also loved her new life in London. From the moment she jumped into the back seat of her chauffeur-driven lift to the studios, often before the sun had even poked its head above the horizon, her day was filled with frenzied activity. Meetings with stylists to select the perfect outfit to wear that day, uploading the photographs to her Instagram account to keep the show’s fans happy, then filming before spending the afternoon brainstorming ideas for the following week’s show.

Her day wasn’t over when she left the building either, because there was always an event to attend in the evening – a product launch or a book signing or a celebratory dinner – not to mention the occasional red carpet appearance at the national TV awards.

She had to admit that occasionally she felt as though she was living in a dream world. Bridget had gleefully informed her earlier that morning that one of her Twitter followers had labelled Kirstie Harrison a national treasure. A national treasure! Just like Mary Berry, or Nigella Lawson, or Delia Smith! She had refused to believe Bridget until she showed her the tweet. It was true that she was as passionate about food as those talented chefs, and brimming with enthusiasm to showcase the wonderful and quirky recipes from around the country, and around the world, to FMTV’s loyal viewers.

Nevertheless, she had known that she would struggle with this particular week’s profusion of Christmas bakes. She wasn’t a fan of all things festive, but the food was the worst. It evoked so many painful memories and she had tried to persuade the show’s producer, Brad Baxter, to do something different during the lead-up to the big celebration – such as Pan-Asian alternatives to the standard Christmas fayre – but he had looked at her askance, as though she had just told him that Santa Claus wasn’t real and suggested he cancel Christmas altogether.

‘I also loathe chocolate yule logs, those little marzipan figures dressed as Father Christmas, iced cinnamon rolls …’

‘Gosh, don’t hold back, Kirstie.’ Tom laughed, holding up his palms in mock horror.

‘Sherry trifle, brandy butter, Christmas cookies …’

‘Okay, I get the picture!’

‘Sorry, Tom. I should have told you. It’s just that I …’

‘Kirstie! Kirstie! Oh my God! Kirstie!’

‘What’s the matter?’ She swung round to see Brad rushing across the studio floor towards her, waving his arms in the air, his eyes wild, his silver hair more bouffant than ever and his usually tanned face the colour of overworked pastry.

‘Brad? What … what’s going on?’

‘You’ve just regaled the whole of the Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen audience with a monologue on how much Kirstie flipping Harrison hates Christmas!’

‘I don’t know what you …’

Kirstie’s stomach clenched and a surge of nausea swept up from her chest into her throat.

‘What are you talking about …’ She narrowed her eyes in the direction of their sound man. ‘Oh, no, don’t tell me … don’t say it …’

‘Martin forgot to cut the mic!’

Chapter 2

Kirstie stared at Brad. His lips were moving but she had no idea what he was saying. She watched him turn to Tom and shake his hand, picking up the words ‘thank you’ and ‘great show’. Before she could gather her senses, she felt Brad grab her elbow and, with a false smile pinned on his face, guide her swiftly from the studio. She could feel the camera crew’s eyes following her every step. When they reached the corridor, Bridget came running towards them, her make-up apron flapping at her waist.

‘Oh, my God, Kirstie, I’m so sorry …’

But Brad was in no mood to pause to receive sympathetic overtures from anyone.

Once they were in his office, he indicated for Kirstie to sit before sinking into his own desk chair. She watched him drop his face into his palms, massage his temples for a few moments, then raise his head to meet her gaze. Her heart pounded out a cacophony of anxiety when she saw his expression.

‘What on earth was all that about? “I hate everything to do with Christmas culinary treats …”’

‘I’m so sorry, Brad. I had no idea the mic was still on …’

‘Clearly. And yes, you don’t have to say it. Martin is a complete and utter moron and you can rest assured that I’ll be speaking to him after I’ve spoken to you. It’s not the first time his incompetence has dropped us in it, but it’ll certainly be the last.’

Kirstie watched the muscles in Brad’s chiselled jaw tighten as he struggled to maintain his composure. But Brad Baxter was a seasoned professional. She knew he had seen and heard everything that could go wrong on a live TV stage in his twenty-five years with FMTV and he would also know what had to be done to put things right.

‘But accusations and disciplinary procedures will have to wait. What’s important is for us to minimize the damage his error has caused as quickly as possible and reduce the impact on the rest of the Christmas Kitchen series.’

‘I’m sorry. I wish there was some way I could take back everything I said to Tom. I shouldn’t have …’

‘It’s not your fault, Kirstie, but you have to understand that our viewers will be bound to be upset about what they heard you say off camera. What on earth possessed you to say those things?’

Kirstie opened her mouth to launch into an explanation, but before she could utter a word the door to Brad’s office flew open and in stalked Brad’s boss, Lionel Grant.

‘What the f …’ Lionel stopped himself from swearing just in time, but his fury was etched clearly in his expression. ‘For Christ’s sake, Brad, it’s an absolute fiasco. The fifty-second segment has already gone viral and #KirstiesKitchenCalamity is trending on Twitter. Believe it or not, Kirstie, my dear, you are the new Christmas Grinch. Our competitors are loving this and I can’t wait to hear what our sponsors have to say about it. I hope you have a damage limitation plan up your sleeve, Brad, because I’m holding you responsible.’

Kirstie couldn’t let Brad take the rap for her blunder so she found her voice at last, although her throat was dry and the words came out as though she was a twenty-a-day smoker.

‘Lionel, I’m so sorry. This is completely my fault. I had no idea the mic was still on. But even so, I should never have said those things in the first place. I messed up. I’ll make a personal apology before tomorrow’s show and then we can move on …’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Erm, no, I …’

‘How can you present a show about Christmas culinary delights when everyone and their dog knows you hate them? The word hypocrite springs to mind! Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen now has a serious image problem to rectify and I can’t let you go back on screen until it’s sorted, one way or another.’

The last four words sent the bottom of Kirstie’s stomach plunging to her toes before it bounced back up again to lodge uncomfortably in her chest like a slab of concrete. The implied threat lingered in the air between them.

‘But, Lionel, I’m sure we can …’ began Brad.

‘Let me read you some of the headlines. “Kirstie drops Christmas Clanger!”, “Kirstie’s Festive Farce!” And don’t get me started on the two thousand retweets under the KirstiesKitchenCalamity hashtag.’

A curl of nausea made its insidious journey through Kirstie’s veins as the enormity of what had happened started to seep through the shock and crystallize.

‘If we continue with Kirstie as the presenter we’ll be a laughing stock and you know I can’t let that happen. I’ve already put a call in to Flora Swift who’s agreed to be our guest presenter until Christmas is over and done with. Everyone knows she adores Christmas after that travel piece she did from Santa’s grotto in Lapland last week. At least that way we’ll be able to salvage some of our reputation.’

Lionel gave Kirstie a scorching look that caused her to sink even deeper into her chair. She felt like she had just been slapped in the face. Heat burned in her cheeks, and whilst a maelstrom of thoughts churned through her brain she couldn’t put them into any kind of order to argue her case to be allowed to stay. Tears pressed against her eyelids but she squeezed her fists in her lap to prevent the tears from falling. She had to keep her integrity intact in case Lionel decided to cancel her show altogether.

‘I’ll get Flora to call you, Brad. I want all this sorted by tomorrow morning.’

And with that Lionel stalked from the room, his stacked heels click-clacking down the corridor like an out-of-sync metronome. Kirstie met Brad’s dark pewter eyes and was grateful to see them filled with sympathy.

‘I’m sorry, Kirstie. You have to understand that the network has no other option. Social media will have a field day with this, but it will blow over – everything does. We’ll get Flora to do the Christmas episodes and then start afresh in the new year, perhaps focusing on the best cuisines available for the January dieters and detoxers. Why don’t you lie low for a couple of weeks, use the time to research something amazing for the healthy food episodes and which chefs you want to make a guest appearance? I’m thinking Japanese cuisine will be a popular choice, and the Mediterranean diet is another one.’

Brad held her eyes. There was not a hint of anger or disappointment, just kindness and compassion, which only served to make Kirstie feel worse. Guilt now mingled with mortification and embarrassment to make a very uncomfortable concoction rolling around her abdomen.

‘I’m sorry, Brad, I really am …’

‘I know you are, Kirstie.’ Brad reached across the desk to squeeze her hand. ‘And again, it wasn’t your fault. You are one of our most diligent presenters. You always read the research; you’re on time, well prepared, and all our celebrity chefs really enjoy working with you and, of course, our viewers love you. But you do work far too hard, so it’s no wonder that occasionally your emotions get the better of you. I know you won’t like me saying this but, despite Bridget’s best efforts, I can see the stress lines starting to deepen around your eyes. Why don’t you turn this nightmare into an opportunity to spend some time with your family? When was the last time you took a trip down to see your sister and baby nephew?’

‘Erm, I saw Olivia in July when Ethan was born.’

‘Exactly, that was five months ago. Don’t you want to see how much Ethan has grown? I know Martha is always nagging me to go with her when she visits Rosie. There’s something special about your first grandchild, I’m told. I wish I had this chance to indulge in some family time.’

Kirstie seriously doubted the veracity of Brad’s last sentence. He was as much of a workaholic as she was – perhaps even more so – although for very different reasons.

‘Go home, spend Christmas with your sister at that gorgeous country pub of hers. What is it called?’

‘The Dancing Duck,’ she mumbled.

‘Such a fabulous name. I’m sure it’s the busiest time of the year and Olivia wouldn’t turn down the offer of an extra pair of hands, especially now she has the baby to care for on top of everything else.’

Brad’s kind concern was too much for Kirstie. She gulped in a quick lungful of air in an attempt to calm her raging emotions.

‘I suppose so.’

She didn’t think it was the right time to go into the fact that the pub her parents had lavished all their time and effort on for decades – her childhood home, in fact – was in the process of being sold.

‘Exactly. By the time you get back, this unfortunate incident will be ancient history. I suggest you leave straight away. Use the rear exit, though. I don’t have to be psychic to predict the paparazzi will be gathering like ravenous vultures at the front door already. Don’t worry, Kirstie. Just go home and find that elusive Christmas spirit!’

Kirstie stood up. The only Christmas spirit she would be acquainting herself with was the kind you found at the bottom of a bottle marked Gordon’s.

Chapter 3

After a short journey through the teeming streets of London, Kirstie shot from the warmth of the monosyllabic driver’s black cab into Waterloo station and scoured the flashing departures board, grateful the train that would take her to Winchester, the closest station to Cranbury, was waiting at platform five.

A blast of arctic December air whipped the breath from her lips, lifting her corkscrew auburn curls from her shoulders and slapping them across her face. Goose pimples rippled over every inch of her skin and her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Why hadn’t she dressed more warmly? However, the question was a rhetorical one because she didn’t actually own a winter coat. One of the perks of working for FMTV was that they paid all her travel expenses so, if the company car wasn’t available, she usually took a taxi to work. As a committed workaholic, she didn’t need an extensive outdoor wardrobe for the weekend. Cue the reason she hadn’t dated for the last six months either.

She squirmed when she thought back to the lecture Max had given her when he ended their relationship in June, citing abandonment and boredom, but failing to mention his dalliance with a certain minor royal.

At the end of a whirlwind week she was usually too exhausted to be the life and soul of the party and preferred to stay in with a takeaway and a bottle of Chianti. When Kirstie did find the energy to socialize, she, along with her neighbour Poppy and occasionally Bridget when she wasn’t out on one of her internet dates, would saunter down two flights of stairs to the wine bar beneath their studio apartments.

It was a solitary life, but it was the only way she could keep her demons at bay. Being constantly busy meant they had no chance to poke their ugly faces above the parapet and insist on a public airing.

As Kirstie made her way to platform five, she realized she was attracting curious glances from her fellow travellers trying to place her, probably after seeing her on-screen faux pas. She had watched it on YouTube so many times she could recite her cringe-inducing monologue backwards, the images curling around her brain as if on non-stop ticker tape.

She had also tortured herself by scrolling through the countless showbiz gossip columns, which usually stuck to sartorial criticism but had decided, on this occasion, to stretch themselves to cover her fall from grace under the overly dramatic heading Breaking News! Our Kirstie Curses Christmas! Whilst #KirstiesKitchenCalamity was no longer trending on Twitter, so-called Facebook friends were still posting comments about her outburst. Lionel had been right – she was the new Christmas Grinch and it hurt tremendously.

She hitched the woven handles of her overnight bag over her shoulder, ducked her head low, and hurried onto the train. She selected a window seat and slumped into the corner, rubbing her palms on her thighs and blowing on her fingers in an effort to warm up.

A cup of hot chocolate from the trolley was the best thing that had happened to her that day, until her freezing fingertips misjudged her grasp and she sent the contents flowing across the table towards the ample lap of a snoring, besuited gentleman sporting an impressive Gandalf-style beard. She dabbed furiously at the brown river before it cascaded into his groin and delivered a rude awakening.

She had telephoned her sister the night before and poured out every last excruciating detail of the humiliation she had endured. Of course, Olivia had been sympathetic and had said all the right things to soothe her ragged nerves but she couldn’t disguise her delight that Kirstie’s misfortune meant she was coming to Cranbury to spend Christmas at the Dancing Duck with her, Harry, and Ethan.

Before Kirstie had the chance to warn her that she did not intend to stay for the whole two weeks leading up to the big day, Olivia had promised to send Harry to collect her from the train and zoomed off to answer a hungry wail from Ethan who was demanding his next bottle of milk.

The emotional exhaustion of the previous day crept up on her as the warm carriage lulled and lurched southwest and she decided to close her eyes for a few moments. Thirty minutes later a crackling announcement broke into her slumber to advise passengers that they would soon be arriving at Winchester and to ensure they had all their luggage with them when they disembarked.

An obliging commuter helped her to lift her luggage down from the train to the platform and she smarted at the amusement in his eyes. Yet it was her own fault she was dressed for a day out at the beach.

‘I’d put a coat on if I were you, love.’

Kirstie rolled her eyes at him for stating the obvious. She wrapped the sides of her ivory cotton cardigan around her chest and sprinted for the waiting room. She lunged into the tiny room, mumbling to herself as she dusted her knees and shins free of the globules of melted snow and shook out her curls. She unzipped her bag and grabbed another cardigan, shivering like a newborn lamb. Then she heard the dulcet tones of her mobile from the depths of her handbag. With numb fingers, she scrambled around to find it.

‘Hello?’

‘Kirstie! It’s Livie. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last hour. Where exactly are you?’

‘In the waiting room at Winchester train station. Why?’

‘Oh, Kirstie, I’m so sorry. Harry’s mother has just called. His father has been rushed to hospital – suspected heart attack – not sure he’s going to survive the night. She’s in a right state. Harry has promised her we’ll fly over to Dublin straight away in case … well, just in case.’

Kirstie heard her elder sister pause to gulp down her emotions. ‘Livie, I’m so sorry. Poor George, and Francesca must be frantic.’ Then she registered what her sister had said. ‘Did you say “we”?’

‘I’m so, so sorry, Kirstie. Harry wants us to go over together. It might be the last time …’

‘But what about the pub? Who’s going to run it while you’re away?’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ Oh, God, thought Kirstie. She could tell from Olivia’s tone that she wasn’t going to like what her sister said next. ‘Because this is the last Christmas for the Dancing Duck in its current guise, Harry and I have arranged a few weekend activities leading up to Christmas Day when there’s going to be a huge communal meal at the church hall, courtesy of Reverend Clarke and the Cranbury Residents’ Association.’

‘Activities? What sort of activities?’

‘Oh, just some Christmas-themed stuff in the Old Barn. You know, in addition to the annual barn dance, the Easter egg hunt, and the Cranbury summer fayre, something the community can enjoy together in the run-up to Christmas.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, Rachel has organized the annual Big Christmas Baking Bash, and Emma is helping with the Christmas Craft Contest; you know, wreath-making, glass-painting, and home-made crackers, and then there’s the … well, something else for the following Saturday, which will be New Year’s Eve, but we’ll be back for that I hope.’

‘But why have you gone to all that trouble when the pub is being sold in the new year? What’s the point?’

‘We just wanted to say a huge thank you to the villagers for all their support and friendship over the last thirty years. It’s what Mum and Dad would have wanted, don’t you think? The Dancing Duck is the beating heart of the community, after all. And well … you know how upset everyone is that we are having to sell up.’

‘But Miles Morgan assured us that he intends to run it as a pub.’

‘So he says,’ Olivia said darkly. ‘But he’s already talking about ripping out all the fixtures and fittings and replacing them with a glass and steel bar and marble columns with silver and bronze statues. It’s just village gossip, but I heard he’s got some famous Danish chef lined up to run the kitchen and turn it into a “destination gastropub”, whatever that is. He showed up last month with his architect and let slip that he’s applied for planning permission to turn the Old Barn into two cottages for weekend City escapees.’

Kirstie couldn’t fail to hear the pain in her sister’s voice. She knew how upset Olivia had been when their accountant had sat all three of them down shortly before Ethan had burst into the world to inform them that the business was on the verge of bankruptcy and the only way of avoiding that humiliation was to sell their beloved childhood home as soon as possible as a going concern.

Of course, Kirstie had been upset too, but she hadn’t been the one who had slaved eighteen hours a day to keep the Grand Old Duchess of Cranbury ticking over after their parents’ untimely death. To be truthful, she was surprised Olivia and Harry had hung on to it for so long, especially after they discovered Ethan was on his way. But Olivia adored the village and was devastated when she realized what had to be done to avoid the risk of the bankruptcy affecting Harry’s position as a local magistrate.

There hadn’t been a queue of potential purchasers eager to snap up the pub, but why did it have to be bought by a rich City lawyer with no idea how important the Dancing Duck was to the community of Cranbury? Kirstie had only met Miles Morgan once when she visited Olivia and Harry to meet Ethan for the first time. There was no denying how handsome he was in his designer suit and Jermyn Street shirt with cufflinks fashioned into pound signs. How crass. She had grimaced, even before he introduced her to the architect he had brought down from London and made a huge palaver about what ‘improvements’ he intended to make to ‘maximize potential revenue’.

She had urged Olivia to concentrate on the positives. Once the pub was sold she would be able to buy that dream cottage on the outskirts of the village she had been salivating over ever since old Mrs Darton had moved to live with her daughter in the next village. With its profusion of fragrant ivory roses round the door and a quaint old-fashioned garden, including an orchard, Ethan would be able to run around to his heart’s content – unlike where they lived now, in a tiny flat above the pub.

They had put in an offer for Bramble Cottage and old Mrs Darton had accepted it immediately, expressing her pleasure that a family would grow up within its four walls, and hoping they would be as happy there as she had been. Harry was as choked up about the decision to sell as his wife, but could see it was their only option, save for winning the lottery.

‘So, Kirstie, I’m relying on you to hold the fort while we’re in Dublin. In any case, everyone’s going to be so pleased to see you behind the bar again. It’ll be just like the old days.’

Kirstie groaned. She had actually been hoping to hole up in her sister’s flat and lick her wounds, only offering to help out with the cleaning and restocking when the doors were firmly closed, even agreeing to peel the potatoes in Leon’s kitchen – the frenzied domain of the Dancing Duck’s fiery French chef – if she had to. Did she dare to hope that the villagers were not avid fans of daytime TV and therefore unaware of the reason behind her impromptu visit home?

‘Livie, I …’

‘It’s your last chance to decide what you want to take from the pub, too. You’ve been promising to come down and help me with the packing for the last six weeks. I know it’ll be a traumatic experience but we’re signing the contracts at the end of December and the sale will complete in the new year. We have to make a start – Mum and Dad accumulated so much stuff over the years. Miles Morgan made it absolutely clear that what we don’t take with us will be going in the skip.’

‘The skip? Oh, my God …’

Olivia laughed for the first time. ‘I know. Dad would have been horrified to think of his collections of ancient tools being chucked away. All his wonderful treasures being reduced to landfill.’

‘Best place for them,’ murmured Kirstie, a weak smile appearing on her lips as she recalled with a stab of nostalgia her parents’ penchant for scouring the local auction houses and charity shops whenever they had a few hours off.

Don and Sue Harrison invariably came home with a carload of questionable antiques and ancient knick-knacks, which they proudly displayed around the walls and shelves of the pub and the Old Barn at the other side of the cobbled car park. Oil paintings, watercolours, pencil drawings, ceramics, horse brasses, Oriental vases, vintage drinking glasses, paperweights, not to mention the larger items such as wardrobes, chests of drawers, chairs, trestle tables, rugs, coat and umbrella stands, mirrors.

Every December a cornucopia of porcelain Santa Clauses, reindeers, antique fairies, and vintage glass baubles would appear as if by magic to clutter every spare nook and cranny alongside the largest fir tree Don could get his hands on, which would be draped in a proliferation of decorations, old and new. It had been her mother’s favourite time of the year, as well as her daughters’, until the tragedy two years ago when the world changed for ever.

Kirstie swallowed down hard as a surge of grief, always so close to the surface, threatened to overwhelm her in the deserted train station waiting room. She glanced out of the window and was relieved to see it had stopped snowing.

She made a decision – she had to allow Harry and Olivia to rush to George’s bedside without feeling guilty about leaving the pub at such a critical time. She would step into the breach with a beaming smile and a confident tilt of her chin just like she did every day when she faced the FMTV cameras. She would make the Dancing Duck’s last Christmas under the Harrison name the best one ever, and make her sister, and her parents as they looked down on her, the proudest they had been. It was her turn, after all.

‘No problem, Livie. Go to Ireland and tell George to get well soon from me. Don’t worry about the pub. Emma is the best barmaid ever, so together I’m sure we will manage to deliver the village of Cranbury the absolute ultimate in Christmas celebrations, one that everyone will remember for years to come. I won’t let you down.’

‘Thank you, Kirstie. I knew you would do it. Oh, and by the way, you’ll have the benefit of an extra pair of hands to help you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I haven’t had chance to tell you yet, but I’ve taken on a new bar manager to help out when I’m busy with Ethan.’

‘You did? Well, that’s a great …’

‘It’s Josh. Josh Turner.’

‘Oh, no, Livie, I …

‘Sorry, Kirstie, got to go. The taxi’s arrived to take us to the airport. If you make your way to the station car park Josh will be waiting to give you a lift home.’

‘Livie …’

But her sister had disconnected. Kirstie stood there, her phone still clamped to her ear, as memories ricocheted around her brain before crystallizing into a clear image of Josh Turner. Heat rushed through her veins and her heart hammered against her ribcage to the tune of ‘Last Christmas’.

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