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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2018

Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2018

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

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written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008301057

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008301040

Version: 2019-03-27

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author Note

Part One – Tantrums and Tinsel

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part Two – Desperately Seeking Santa

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

Part Three – Coming Home

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgements

Also by Zara Stoneley

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

For my lovely sister Lynn,

who is every bit as generous and kind as her namesake in the story.

Thank you so much for picking up a copy of this book. I hope it makes you smile, laugh, maybe shed a tear, and ultimately feel that warm and fuzzy festive feeling.

Like Sarah, in the story, I love everything about Christmas, but the best part of all is being able to share the season with my family and friends. There’s always that slightly sad moment when I think about the people who are no longer here to share it with – but I know I’m very lucky to be surrounded by so many special people.

I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, wherever you are and whoever you share it with.

Zara x

Part 1

Chapter 1

Dear Ms Hall,

I am not normally the type to complain, but (anybody who says this usually is the type to complain, and the but confirms it) on this occasion I feel compelled.

Over the years we have booked many holidays through your travel agency, and your aunt has always made sure we have had the very best. We have even swapped Christmas cards!

‘And whilst I do not wish to place the blame at your door. . . Ouch! Bloody hell, talk about passive aggressive.’ The voice in my ear makes me jump.

‘Don’t read it out, Sam! It’s bad enough just reading it in my head. Anyway, I thought you were busy booking that cruise for the Nifty Fifty’s Gin Drinkers Association?’

‘I was, but you’ve just ripped that drink coaster into shreds, so I reckoned something was up.’

‘It’s that bloody Will Armstrong again, at the Shooting Star Mountain Resort – I want to strangle him!’ We don’t often get customer complaints, but this particular destination, and its grumpy owner, have been attracting a fair few lately. And this particular complaint hurts more than most because it suggests I’m the one at fault, and I’m not. ‘He’s not happy just sabotaging his own bloody business, he wants to drag us down with him.’

‘Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad. This guy can’t actually damage Making Memories, can he?’

I stab at the screen but can’t trust myself to speak.

‘. . . we find ourselves at a loss at to why you should recommend The Shooting Star Mountain Resort, as it is very clearly overpriced and understaffed. Lynn has always ensured we have value for money, and a fantastic holiday to boot.’

‘To boot?’ Sam interrupts her reading. ‘Who says to boot?’

‘Somebody who isn’t happy at all. Keep reading.’

She does. Out loud, in an ‘irate of the Home Counties’ kind of way.

‘You sound a bit like your mum.’

She ignores me.

‘Quite frankly, our room was disgusting. The sheets whilst clean were unironed.’ Sam pauses again, mid outrage. ‘Unironed? What’s the man talking about? I can’t see how that makes it disgusting, can you? I never iron the sheets; it’s like socks or knickers, who has time to iron things that nobody else ever sees? Do you iron sheets?’

‘Doesn’t Jake see your sheets? And the other bits as well?’

‘Well, yes, but I mean, the wrinkles stretch out, don’t they?’

‘I iron everything. I always find crisp, flat knickers with a seam down the centre hold a certain sexy appeal.’

She stares at me, her mouth open.

I burst out laughing. ‘God, Sam, do you honestly think I iron anything? I was kidding. Carry on.’

She gives me a funny look, then clears her throat. ‘You don’t really iron knickers, do you?’

‘No, I really don’t. Come on, before somebody comes in.’

‘The food was of variable quality and lukewarm. The final straw was speaking to the manager, who was abrupt and surly to the point of rudeness and suggested we vacate our cabin if we were not enjoying our stay. How could we possibly enjoy our stay when one of his vicious huskies had attacked our daughter, Ruby? I am sure she will suffer long-term consequences as a result, and now screams whenever a dog (including our own little Pippin, who wouldn’t hurt a fly) approaches her. Little Pippin bit my wife as a result of Ruby’s scream, and is now having to undergo veterinary visits as she is now nervous and snappy, and Ruby is booked in for counselling. My wife, meanwhile, has a bandaged hand which makes playing the piano extremely tortuous – and she is a music teacher!’

‘I have always trusted your recommendations, but am wondering if your lack of experience—’

I squeak as she reads out this sentence, I can’t help myself. Sam and I stare at each other. ‘Lack of experience! I don’t know who I hate more, him or Will Armstrong.’

‘. . . is becoming evident.’

‘As we were unable to book an early flight back, and the nearby hotels were all fully booked, we had to endure the rest of our holiday under a heavy cloud and an even heavier blanket as the heating was woefully inadequate.’

‘Well, at least he gave them blankets!’

Sam always picks up on the positives. I roll my eyes, and gesture at the screen.

‘I am sure that ABTA and Watchdog would be more than happy to investigate my complaints. However, in a spirit of goodwill, I would like to give you the opportunity to offer us a full refund and compensation for the stress this has caused. Please find, itemised below, additional expenses incurred.’

‘I look forward to hearing from you by return post. If I receive no response within 7 working days I will instruct my solicitor.’

‘Yours faithfully,’

‘Stephen Latterby’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Sam’s dropped the ‘outraged of Basildon’ voice. ‘Shit, look at that Sarah!’ I look and wish I hadn’t. ‘Is that how much a dog psychologist charges? Wow, I think I need to retrain.’

‘Sam! Just look at that total he’s asking for!’ I feel slightly sick, and faint. ‘We can’t pay that, we’ll be bankrupt. Lynn will kill me!’

‘But it isn’t your fault. I’m going to pop across to Costa and get us a drink and chocolate brownie, this calls for a caffeine and sugar boost. Don’t do anything until I get back.’ She raises an eyebrow at me. ‘I mean it. Promise.’

‘Anything?’

‘Well you can breathe and stuff, but please don’t reply to that email. You need to think about this carefully.’ She knows how impulsive I can be. ‘And talk to Lynn. I mean, what if this guy does actually sue us? I’ll never hear the last of this from Mum if we end up on Watchdog.’

We do the staring at each other thing again. She’s probably thinking about dog psychology. I’m thinking about how much damage you can inflict on somebody without being arrested.

‘I won’t reply.’ Which leaves things nicely open. It doesn’t stop me firing both barrels at Mr Will Armstrong.

This is getting way more serious than advising him to stick some holly up and light the fires (which I have done several times – and been ignored).

I roll up my sleeves. Whatever this guy’s game is, he is not going to drag us down with him. If there’s any suing to be done it will be us, not Mr Latterby, or any of our other disgruntled customers.

We need to be seen to be acting. I glance at the photograph of Aunt Lynn on the wall. She looks happy, she looks inspiring, she looks like we all want to feel after a good holiday. We need to show we care.

Dear Mr Armstrong,

Please find attached a letter we have received from a valued customer.

What do I do now? I google the Dangerous Dogs Act.

I would like to draw your attention to the paragraph concerning your dog. I would be grateful if you could forward your risk assessment regarding the use of these animals. My understanding is that any dangerous dog should be muzzled, and that any contact should be supervised. It would appear, in this case, that neither applied, and this is of great concern as we (as do you) have a duty of care to our clients, and we would not expect dangerous animals to be roaming loose and unattended.

Secondly, our client has expressed concerns about the state of their cabin, and the quality of food served. I would like to refer you to the description in your brochure (and accompanying photographs) which promises ‘cosy and comfortable accommodation, roaring fires and a restaurant offering food and drink that will round off the perfect day’.

Finally, I am concerned about the attitude of staff at the resort. They have, in the past, always been warm and welcoming, but our client complains of rudeness. Your service reflects on ours and I feel that our business relationship is now reaching the stage of being untenable.

This is an extremely serious situation, and I would be grateful if you could respond as soon as possible, before I am forced to take legal advice.

Kind regards,

Sarah Hall

Making Memories, Travel Agents

I hit ‘send’ and stare out of the window. Now what? Will Armstrong never replies to my emails, not even the jokey ‘let’s sort this together’ ones. So why should he respond to a complaint like this? Maybe Sam is right, maybe I need to call Aunt Lynn. But I don’t want to, not this time. I need to handle this.

There is a ping, incoming email. My God, it’s from Shooting Star! Hell, if he’s replied that means this really is serious, that he agrees we need to take action. Oh bugger, we’re going to be ruined. Aunt Lynn will never forgive me.

Dear Ms Hall,

I do feel you are overreacting slightly. The Latterby family have no grounds for taking you to court or demanding a full refund for themselves or their dog (who quite frankly probably does need psychological support if this is what he has to put up with on a daily basis). At the risk of sounding unprofessional, I would classify Mr Latterby as a habitual complainer with over-inflated expectations.

Our husky, Rosie, was in her run at the time of the incident you mention. The Latterby’s child had insisted on going down and feeding the dogs table scraps (of the variable-quality, lukewarm variety) despite clear signage forbidding this, and further signage requesting that no visitors enter the area where the dogs are kennelled without a member of staff.

Rosie, who has recently had puppies, reacted to the intrusion by jumping at the fence and the Latterby child slipped, falling on her well-padded posterior and screaming the place down. No blood was spilled, although I was very tempted to rectify that, as the welfare of our animals is important to me.

As far as rudeness goes, it is hard to remain civil when in the company of clients whose expectations stretch to spa facilities and fine-dining when our brochures and website illustrate very clearly that this is not what is on offer. Further, if they come to Canada in the winter, are icy conditions not to be expected? Much as I would like to play God, I am unfortunately not in a position to alter the weather conditions.

I suggest you use your tact, diplomacy and people skills to suggest they head ‘Down Under’ next year. I am not prepared to offer any compensation or discount but can give you the name of a good solicitor if you so require.

Is that serious enough for you?

Regards,

Will Armstrong

‘Oh my God, what is he like?’

I hadn’t heard Sam sneak back in.

I’m not quite sure how to answer, as I really can’t decide what he’s like. ‘He doesn’t seem to get it at all.’

‘Well, he does seem to care about the dogs.’

‘I know.’ This bit makes me unhappy, not because he cares (who doesn’t like a man who loves and protects his pets?), but because he doesn’t seem to have a clue about where he’s going wrong. ‘But he’s not got the first idea about customer service, has he? I mean, I know clients can be a pain in the arse—’

‘You’re telling me.’ Sam rolls her eyes.

‘But he’s working in the service industry. Even if this complaint is a load of tosh,’ which I suspect it might be, ‘and this guy is pushing his luck, he still does have at least some grounds for complaints doesn’t he? I mean look at the reviews . . .’

‘It’s not me you have to convince, Sare.’

‘I know.’ I groan. ‘Maybe I should just send some of them his way, but I think he’ll bin them before he even reads them, let alone do anything constructive.’ Will is doing my head in, in a way he shouldn’t. He obviously does care about some things, and he does have a point. ‘Maybe he does get pissed off when people arrive expecting spa pampering treatments and ten different variety of gin, but why can’t he see it’s the little things that can make a difference? And,’ I wipe a hand over my eyes, suddenly feeling weary, ‘he doesn’t see what he’s doing to us. Does he? He could wipe our business out! And,’ I stare at the email, ‘he could at least be civil.’

‘Well, he does sound pissed off, but it’s not exactly rude, is it? More frustrated? Or just assertive. Maybe he’s not used to getting it wrong.’ Sam squeezes my shoulder, and hands me a coffee and a massive blueberry muffin. ‘I wouldn’t want to mess with him, would you?’

‘I’ve got a horrible feeling I’ve got no choice.’ Maybe, when you’ve got a pissed-off man, who thinks he’s always in the right, then the only way to tackle him is head on and show him the error of his ways.

Chapter 2

Dear Mr Armstrong,

It is with regret that I am emailing to inform you that you really are the proverbial pain in the arse. Burying your head in the sand isn’t big and it isn’t clever. If you really are the Anti-Christmas then go ahead and ruin your own Christmas, but grow a pair and think about other people for once. Ditch the attitude, mate. You’re happy to take our clients’ money, so forget your ‘bah humbug’ – deck your flaming halls with jolly holly and answer my frigging emails!

Love and festive kisses, Sarah xxx

Making Memories, Travel Agents

I hit the final ‘x’ with a flourish and sit back. My hand makes contact with something soft and squishy that shouldn’t be there, and there’s a yelp.

‘Ouch!’ Sam has her hand over her nose, and a pained expression on her face.

‘What on earth are you doing, peering over my shoulder?’

She ignores the question and starts to rub her nose, which makes her words come out all funny. ‘You can’t send that, Sarah!’

‘Why not? I’m starting to hate the man.’ Following hot on the heels of the threat of legal action yesterday, I have arrived at work to a second disaster. Will Armstrong might not have been prepared to take me seriously yesterday, but I want to make sure he will today. Even if my approach is not quite as professional as it should be.

‘But you still can’t—’

‘You think I should have put ass instead of arse? Is arse too British? I was a bit worried about that bit.’

‘Bloody hell, Sarah. You can’t say arse or ass. What would Lynn say? Delete it! All of it! Now!’ She’s gone a bit squeaky.

‘Stop pulling my wheelie chair.’ I hang on to the edge of the desk by my fingertips. If I let go now I might whizz across the office and end up in the potted plant. It’s happened before. ‘Do you think it’s too much?’

‘Far too much.’ She’s given up on trying to move me away from my desk and is nodding her head vigorously and rubbing her nose at the same time.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Sure.’ It comes out as ‘dure’. ‘I was fine until you threw your arms out in a finale and hit me in the face with your elbow.’

‘Did I?’

‘You always fling your arms about when you’re pleased with yourself.’

‘Do I?’ I’m pretty sure I don’t, but as I’ve just squashed my best mate’s nose it doesn’t seem the right time to argue about it. ‘But you were snooping. You get more like your mum every day!’ I love Sam’s mum, and she knows I do. But we both know that Ruth is a total expert when it comes to creeping up like a ninja, so she can listen in on private stuff.

‘No, I do not! She listens to stuff that’s none of her business. This is my business. This is work, and you can’t send that. What the hell has happened now?’

She’s right. This is work. She’s also probably got a good point as far as the email goes.

‘You’re right. And there are too many kisses, I hardly know the man.’ I delete one and am careful not to throw my arms in the air. ‘Not through want of trying, mind you. We’d have a flourishing relationship by now if he replied to my calls; instead I can’t even get past first base. Idiot.’

Sam giggles and backs off to her own desk so there’s a safe arm’s-length distance between us. ‘Very funny, but you know I didn’t mean that!’

Even though she’s known me a few years now, Sam, my best friend and lovely workmate, takes me far too seriously. She’s gullible. Or wise. It could be that she’s actually very, very wise and knows that my twitchy fingertips are actually dying to hit ‘send’ on this email, even though it might look like I’m just messing around.

What she doesn’t know is why he’s upset me so much. I’m trying to be cool about this, to laugh it off, but inside it hurts. Inside it feels like a little bit of me is being destroyed, and last night in bed I decided I wasn’t going to let him, a complete stranger, do this to me. To us.

Sam pushes a packet of Hobnobs in my direction. ‘He’s probably scared of you.’

I realise I’m clenching my teeth. It’s what I do when I’m upset. My shrink said it’s important not to do that when I talk, or it will make me sound angry. She also said it’s better to express how I feel. So how does that work? I feel angry, I’m expressing it through clenched teeth. I’m beginning to think most of what she said was bollocks.

I take a deep breath and unclench everything, then take my frustration out on a crunchy biscuit. ‘I am not scary. Real men appreciate the direct approach.’ I try and blow the crumbs out of the keyboard. The letter ‘T’ is already a bit dodgy; if this ruins W and A I’ll have lost one of my favourite words.

‘He might actually be quite nice. I’m going to look on their website. What’s he called again?’ Sam pokes me in the ribs when I don’t immediately answer.

‘Armstrong.’

‘Armstrong, what?’

‘William.’ I sigh, I can’t help myself.

Sam swings round on her chair so she’s facing her own computer again and does some rapid key-tapping.

It stops, and I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming next.

‘Oh wow. He’s . . .’ She pauses, her head tilted as she stares at the screen. Then rests her chin on her hand. There’s a long silence.

‘I can tell you’re struggling.’

‘No, I’m not.’ She flashes me her best headmistressy stare. ‘Have you seen him? I mean look! If I didn’t already have Jake I would be straight over there myself, to hell with crap reviews about his place. Look!’

‘I’ve seen.’ I try and act bored, but the truth is I’ve looked at William Armstrong’s photograph more than once. The man confuses me, because when I first rang him (after seeing that photo on the resort website) I thought he’d be nice, charming. But he wasn’t. He was curt, rude, and muttered something that sounded like ‘I’m going to string him up by his baubles for this’ before putting the phone down on me.

‘But he does look quite sexy, admit it.’

‘Are you for real?’ I’m not going to admit it, even though he does have a certain something about him. ‘Not my type I’m afraid.’

‘Aw, come on, he’s not that different to that guy you went out with before Callum.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Exactly. He looks a lightweight.’ I stare at the image. ‘And smug, like he thinks a lot of himself.’ That guy before Callum spent a hell of a lot of time staring at himself in the mirror and it’s kind of put me off the well-groomed look. I mean, have you ever known a man to be checking himself out while you’re having sex?

I thought he was reciting the alphabet backwards in his head or something, to try and delay the inevitable; turned out he was checking out if his hair gel was holding up. That was it for me. End of.

‘He’s good-looking, so cute!’

‘And he knows it.’

‘Rubbish, how can you tell that from a photo? He reminds me of that guy in The Mentalist.’ She’s staring at her screen and has moved in closer, as though she’s going to start licking it any moment.

‘Mental’s the right word. Who are you talking about now?’

‘You know, I know you do. What’s he called?’ She does some more googling. ‘There you go, Simon Baker. All twinkly-eyed and cute, but a bit naughty.’ We both stare at the images.

‘Pfft.’

‘He’s cute.’ I think she’s back to our Mr Armstrong now, but who knows? ‘Look at those dimples. I bet he’s fun.’ I don’t know which set of dimples she’s going on about, but it doesn’t matter.

‘I am not interested in his dimples, or his cuteness. He is duplicitous.’

‘That’s a very long word.’ I can tell by Sam’s twitching fingers that the online dictionary is about to get interrogated, so I pull her and her wheelie chair away from the desk. Very handy these chairs, a good investment.

‘Well, he is.’ I can’t believe that somebody could portray themselves as so – well, fun and carefree, when in fact they’re rude and curt. ‘His face contravenes the Trade Descriptions Act.’

‘His face?’

‘His face. He is definitely not nice, however cute he looks in that picture. In fact, I bet that’s not even him, or it was taken years ago, and he’s gone all mean and bitter in his old age.’

‘Maybe he’s having a mid-life crisis and realises that his life is meaningless.’ Sam sighs, rests her chin on one hand again and reaches for another biscuit with the other. I roll my eyes. Not at the biscuit, but her fantasy.

‘Running a business is not meaningless.’

‘It is if you always wanted to swim with dolphins, or ride a camel, or drive to Monte Carlo in a Ferrari.’

‘Sam, that’s your bucket list, not his. Do you honestly think he looks like he wants to swim with dolphins?’

‘Maybe not, but you don’t know, do you?’

‘And I don’t care, to be honest. Look, he is taking our clients’ money, giving them a shit Christmas in return, and refuses to talk to me about it properly.’ I don’t know what annoys me most, the fact that he’s totally, single-handedly, ruined what used to be our most popular festive location, or the fact that he is refusing to take my calls, to discuss it. ‘Whatever happened to the customer is always right? He’s just plain rude.’

We’re on the build-up to the festive season, and it’s not just the nasty email that came yesterday: bookings at the Shooting Star Mountain Resort are spinning into reverse. Which is so not how it should be. I mean, it should be the perfect place to spend Christmas. Crackling log fires, massive mug of hot chocolate, sled rides with a pack of huskies and some ho ho ho from Santa as you shove carrots at his real-life reindeer. Not to mention all that après-ski to warm you up after a day rolling about in the snow (I can’t ski, all I can do is roll and face-plant).

‘It should be fan-bloody-tastic. The brochure and website make it look like total magic.’

‘Maybe they’re a bit out of date?’ Sam is looking worried. And I was beginning to think the same. ‘But you don’t need to send him an email like that.’

‘I flaming do! It’s not just that Latterby guy threatening to sue, it’s worse. You know the Wilsons who came in the other day?’

‘Oh yeah, they were lovely. They were so excited about going even though it’s nowhere near Christmas yet, and they were SO loved up.’ Sam has got that dreamy look on her face. She’s pretty loved up herself, with the lovely Jake, and I think she’s subconsciously started to plan the wedding of the decade. ‘Getting married in a winter wonderland, can you imagine?’

I can imagine. ‘Wedding in a Winter Wonderland’ was already on a mental poster I was going to stick in the window after they’d sent me some of the photos. They’d be swathed in rugs, surrounded by presents on the prettiest reindeer-pulled-sledge imaginable. Kissing. All the best bits of Christmas and weddings rolled into one.

They’d be curled up together in front of a roaring log fire, sipping a shared hot chocolate as the snow fell softly outside, and the whole scene would be bathed in candlelight that bounced off the bauble and tinsel-laden Christmas tree.

And they’d be surrounded by friends and family, swapping presents, then gathered round a food-laden table as they tucked into a mammoth Christmas dinner that had absolutely everything. Even the bits you don’t like.

‘Well.’ I blink, and the image disappears. ‘They’re not.’

‘What do you mean, not? They were so perfect together, he was—’

‘Oh, the wedding is still on, just not at Shooting Star. They cancelled first thing and have already rebooked at another resort online.’

‘What?’

‘This.’ I switch screens on the computer and open the video link they sent me. ‘Matt Wilson was looking at reviews and found this online on The Worst Christmas Ever blog. It’s from last Christmas.’

It’s quite a professional video, actually, with captions and music, specifically ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’, which says it all.

I have already watched it several times; it’s like one of those horror films that you know is going to scare you to death, but you can’t help yourself. You have to see it, even though you keep half turning away and squinting. Then you have to watch the worst bits on a loop.

Sam and I watch in silence. The family are wearing party hats, which is a handy clue, or you really wouldn’t know it was Christmas at all. They are also wearing coats. And scarves. With tinsel over the top.

One solitary marshmallow floats on the top of what might or might not be a mug of hot chocolate, and a vat of mulled wine is poked about in vigorously until a single clove studded orange bobs to the surface.

A child drops a sprout, which bounces across the table like a frog on steroids, and is pounced on by a cat.

The fire looks like it stopped ‘crackling’ two days earlier, and the turkey looks like it’s been on a diet.

And the tree. I don’t want to talk about the tree. Christmas trees should be glorious. They should be the biggest tree you can carry home, and they should have every single decoration on that you can find (I need to stress that you can never have too many). This one is like the orphan of Christmas. It is the tree Christmas forgot.

It has been starved of attention, it is practically naked apart from a strand of scraggy tinsel and a job lot of candy canes.

‘Wow, have you seen all those candy canes.’ Sam points, unnecessarily. ‘Have you ever seen so many?’

‘Nope. And I never, ever want to see that many again.’

The video pans to the window where the snow is falling, and there’s an unmissable sign taped to the glass Boxing Day Party Cancelled.

I close the video down and we both stare at my email. ‘This is so bad. The only people who are actually going to book are the ones that don’t know how to use Google. I don’t want to give up on the Shooting Star Mountain Resort, and strike it off our list, but honestly Sam, what the hell are we supposed to do? We can’t let them book a holiday that we know is going to be shit.’ How could the man be so good-looking, but so totally bah-humbug? What a waste.

‘I know, but, maybe it’s got better since last Christmas?’ I love Sam for her optimism. ‘He might have bought some new decorations?’

I position the cursor over the ‘send’ button and hold my finger up high over the mouse theatrically. Just to see the look of horror on Sam’s face.

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Sam, the man hates Christmas, he is Scrooge with knobs on!’

Sam is not like me; she is a bit dippy, but she is also kind, logical and sensible. I am not often accused of any of those things. And I am mad, as in very cross. Mr Armstrong is driving me nuts, which is quite an achievement seeing as I’ve never even met the man.

He is upsetting our clients but, more importantly, he is upsetting Auntie Lynn. She was so agitated yesterday when she heard about the latest complaint (I had to tell her, no way can I lie or hide things from Aunt Lynn, though I avoided mentioning a lawsuit), that she cleaned the oven. This is unheard of. That is why Mr Armstrong needs sorting. He’s also upsetting me, but we don’t need to go into that. ‘Do you really dare me?’

‘No, no, I take that back. I didn’t mean it, no dare, just don’t!’ Sam knows that I will rise to any dare, that saying the word ‘dare’ to me is like saying the words ‘hot chocolate fudge cake’ to her. Irresistible.

‘That man needs a kick up the butt. Has he any idea how much commission we’re losing on this? It’s all me, me, me with some people.’

She giggles and waves a biscuit in front of my face. ‘Ha ha, instead of you, you, you? You’re just taking this all too seriously, it’s not personal. Have a Hobnob, they’re chocolate ones.’

I do take it seriously. This travel agency on the high street is my Aunt Lynn’s business, and knowing exactly where our clients are going is our USP. We have gone for small, friendly, and special. Boutique. Auntie Lynn was a bit of a hippy (from what I can gather) when she was younger. As in what I call her pre-me era. The time before she took me in and took the place of my mother.

She loved to travel, to explore the world. Live life in a way that most people only manage through reading books.

She thinks the rest of the world is special.

She thinks holidays are special.

We are, she says, selling dreams, so we have a responsibility to stop them turning into nightmares. Our edge is that we care about our customers; we know that we’re selling a holiday that will suit somebody to a tee.

Except it’s all gone wrong with Will Armstrong.

I used to love hearing about how much people enjoyed their holiday in this place, how much it meant to them. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, as though I was somehow responsible. Aunt Lynn and I would share a secret smile as we read the reviews together. And now Mr Armstrong has buggered it up, and it’s pissing me off.

‘It is personal.’ I narrow my eyes and stare at the screen. ‘This place is one of the first that Auntie Lynn visited and fell in love with. He’s screwing up her happy memories as well as our reputation.’

When my aunt set this business up, it was to promote the places she’d been to. Places she loved and wanted to share. Then, as it grew, she made a point of visiting every location. Experiencing for herself what they had to offer, and more often than not she had taken me along with her. She said we were the two musketeers, though I did sometimes wonder if it would have been better for her if she’d been able to add a third.

Anyway, back to Mr Pain-in-the-arse Armstrong. To give in to temptation and hit send on this email, would be to admit that he has got to me. That he has made me forget my professionalism. It would be easier to just find another, much better resort to recommend.

Except it isn’t that simple.

The lovely log cabins with roaring fires, lashings of hot chocolate and deep white snow outside had sent our customers flocking to the Canadian Rockies for a cosy Christmas. Once upon a time, this place had created memories that could never be replaced. And sometimes we all need memories to hold onto the good times.

‘It’s bloody annoying,’ I know I sound a bit like a spoiled child, but I’m peeved, ‘that place was perfect, not commercialised, and everyone who had stayed there thought the same. They all came back starry-eyed, saying how it had been the best ever Christmas. Until Mr Festivity-bypass got his hands on it.’

Last Christmas had been a bit sparse on the old festive spirit, and even the holidaymakers who’d gone for the ski-ing and snowboarding had written terrible reviews about the equipment and facilities. As an outdoor resort it was pretty bad: as a festive resort it was the pits.

‘To be fair,’ Sam always tries to be fair, ‘it has definitely been slipping the last couple of years; last winter somebody said the huskies kept stopping for a pee instead of pulling the sled, and the mistletoe was plastic.’ She does have a point; the sparkle has been wearing off for a while now. ‘Faded plastic.’

Plastic mistletoe has to be the pits, but faded old plastic mistletoe? I ask you, who’s going to pucker up under that?

She shrugs. ‘We can suggest people go to Lapland instead, or to see the Northern Lights, they’re popular. I wouldn’t mind going there myself. Do you want this last biscuit, or not?’

‘Yes, seeing as you’ve had the rest.’ I reach out. ‘Shit.’ I had wanted the last biscuit, but now I don’t, I really don’t. ‘Holy crap. How did that happen?’ Oh God, why did I position the cursor there? Why was my stupid bloody mouse right where I could catch it with my elbow? Why do biscuits even exist?

‘What?’

‘Shit. Bugger. I am sooooooo dead. I hit send!’ I cover my eyes with my hands, and peep through. Sent. Gone for ever. Even if I delete it from my sent box, I will know I did it. Aunt Lynn will kill me. ‘It’s fine, fine.’ Take a deep breath, Sarah. ‘He won’t read it anyway. He usually never reads my emails.’ Only he did yesterday. I nibble on the biscuit frantically, like a demented hamster.

‘You idiot.’ A packet of Oreo’s appears on her desk as if by magic. ‘Emergency supplies, to treat shock.’

‘Oh nooooooo!’

‘I thought you liked . . .’

Her voice tails off, probably because I’m pointing at my screen. This can’t be happening, I need gin, not Oreos. ‘I’ve got a reply!’

‘It will be auto generated, out of office, or something. Nobody types that quick.’

It isn’t.

Apparently, some people can type quickly.

Chapter 3

Dear Sarah,

Thank you for your recent correspondence. How nice to hear from you again! (I suspect this is sarcasm.) Unfortunately, in this part of the world there is no sand to bury one’s head in, therefore one has to use snow, which rather freezes the brain and leaves one temporarily incapacitated and thus incapable of carrying out simple tasks such as responding to phone calls.

I am currently reviewing our ‘flaming halls’ and other client requirements, though as far as I am aware ‘growing a pair’ has never featured on any feedback form.

Many thanks for your interest in our resort, and we look forward to welcoming you here in the future.

Regards. Will Armstrong (The Anti-Christmas).

Shooting Star Mountain Resort

‘Well at least he’s got a sense of humour.’

‘Hilarious.’ Dry I think they call it. I’m busy typing as I speak. What a cheek! Welcoming, huh, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

Dear Mr Armstrong,

Many thanks for your prompt response. If you are not currently suffering from brain freeze it would be very helpful if you could spare the time to pick up the phone so we can discuss our requirements.

Our clients have reported a far-from-warm welcome – in fact, it has been coined ‘frosty’ in one instance – and there has been little in the way of flaming recently, in fireplaces or halls. The only feature in your brochure that you seem to provide, is snow. Maybe a new, more specific, feedback form would be in order?

‘You can’t send that!’ Sam is back peering over my shoulder, dropping crumbs down my cleavage.

‘You said that before.’ I drum my fingers on the desk, well away from the danger zone of the mouse, and wriggle the crumbs out of my bra. ‘You know what I’m seriously tempted to do, though?’

Sam raises on eyebrow, and surreptitiously nudges the mouse out of my reach. ‘I don’t like the sound it, whatever it is.’

‘Go.’

‘What do you mean, go?’

‘Go there. To the resort. He said he’d look forward to welcoming me in the future, so maybe that’s the answer. I mean, he can’t ignore me if I’m standing in front of him, can he?’ I minimise the email screen and log on to the booking system. ‘I could see for myself just how welcoming Mr Brain-freeze is and whether there’s any hope of salvaging some magic. And if there’s not, I’ll cancel all the bookings our clients have made and move them.’

‘No! You can’t just go, we’re busy, you’re busy!’ Sam is staring at me. ‘Anyhow, all the good resorts are booked up now, so you can’t move people if it really is that crap. It’s too late.’

‘Well, I’ll think of something.’

‘You have got to be kidding!’ Sam frowns, then bites the side of her thumb. ‘Have you totally lost your marbles this time?’

She might have a point. But not one I intend to concede to. ‘I could be the undercover hotel inspector, poking about in his dark corners and uncovering the truth. I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a sleuth.’

‘You said you wanted to stand in front of him, so he can’t ignore you.’

The girl has a point. ‘Stop being picky. Anyway, that’s after I’ve poked about and written a witty and scathing piece about the state of his ski-lifts and skirting boards.’

‘Skirting boards?’

‘That’s where the dust gathers, apparently.’ Not that I’d know; I’m not a big-on-dusting kind of girl.

‘Do log cabins have skirting boards?’

‘Sam!’

‘Sorry, just trying to help.’

‘Anyway, I’d get a staff discount.’ Always look on the bright side, as my Aunt Lynn likes to say, and the one very bright side to working in her travel agency is that I get to travel on the cheap.

‘They should be paying you to go there.’ Sam taps a few buttons on her computer, then draws a deep breath. ‘Listen.’ I don’t really need to listen, I know the crap reviews off by heart, but she’s going to read them out to me anyway. ‘The worst Christmas we have ever had. The only good bit was the hot chocolate—’

‘– until they ran out of marshmallows.’ I finish the review for her. ‘But I could always take some with me.’

She ignores me. ‘I mean, who runs out of marshmallows? It’s like . . . like . . .’

‘Running out of wine?’

‘Like a margarita without the salt round the rim.’

‘Serious stuff, then.’

‘Well, you’d feel cheated, wouldn’t you? And how about this one? Cosy this place is not – unless you’re related to a polar bear, it was warmer out than in.’ Sam glances up to check I’m still listening. ‘The website promises husky-drawn sleds, and the nearest we got was being allowed to take the dog a walk. Aw, I quite like the idea of that. Jake’s thinking about teaching Harry to pull a sled, but there’s never any snow here, is there?’ I refrain from commenting. Cute as her boyfriend’s dog Harry is, I’m pretty sure sled dogs are usually twice his size. ‘And this one’s from last Christmas, Guide refused to take us ski-ing because it was snowing! Cheese fondue was ace, let down by untidy dining room and rude waitress. Amazing place, just a shame the new owners have let standards slip. A magical Christmas this was not.’

‘So, I should go, shouldn’t I? Look, that place used to be the best on our books; it was magical, fabulous, festive – you know, all those F words.’ I’ve run out, but she knows what I mean.

‘And now it’s a flop, Sarah, but it’s not our job to put places right, is it? We just recommend somewhere else. You don’t have to actually go there.’

‘Aunt Lynn used to.’ I think I might be sounding a bit sulky.

‘To check places out, see if they were holidays she wanted to sell. Not put them right. Oh Sarah, why not just drop it, find somewhere better?’

‘Because . . .’ Well, partly because I’m stubborn and don’t like to admit defeat. ‘It’s not just Auntie Lynn that loved it.’ I take a deep breath as the prickly heat of tears in my eyes takes me completely by surprise. I mess around with the paperclips on my desk so that I don’t have to look at her. ‘It was where she and I spent our first Christmas together.’ There’s a lump in my throat that shouldn’t be there, and I’m blinking faster than the lights on a faulty pelican crossing. I swallow, hard. ‘I want to thump Will Armstrong.’

‘Oh hell. Why didn’t you say? Not the thump bit, the Christmas bit, I mean.’ Sam squeezes my hand and I pull away slightly, because sympathy always does me in. I don’t want to end up in tears, not here, not at work. Well, not anywhere, really. Crying is something I learned not to do a long time ago. It’s pointless.

Our first Christmas at the Shooting Star resort had been magical. Which I suppose is what Auntie Lynn intended.

She’d never been that close to her sister, my mum, they’d been too different. Camembert and brie, as Lynn liked to say, and the subtle differences had run deep. Mum had married young, had me, taken me off on magical mystery tours in a camper van. Lynn was single, resolutely childless and loved to spend time in unexplored corners of the world. They both had wanderlust, but their lust and their wandering had taken them in very different directions.

Up until then, I’d hardly known Aunt Lynn; our paths had never really crossed until that Christmas.

The Christmas when she’d been there to try and save my little family, and instead had been left with me when my parents had left. Without me. For a ‘spot of adult time’ as Mum had laughingly put it, and I’d never seen them again. That jokey comment and her tinkling laugh are the last I remember of her.

She didn’t wear perfume, so there was no lingering smell of lavender or Chanel N°5 to give me a part of her back. She didn’t even leave a discarded jumper, or treasured trinket. Life isn’t always like they tell it in the movies. There was nothing; no part of her for me to hold on to, except for the sound of her laughter and a hazy memory of her big, green eyes.

It had been my last Christmas with Mum and Dad, my first with Auntie Lynn.

We’d spent another week there. Just the two of us. I’d been bewildered, feeling lost, waiting for my parents to appear at the door and for everything to go back to normal. They didn’t.

Mum would never be able to go back anywhere now, she was sleeping with the stars. And Dad? Well, as far as I was concerned, my dad no longer existed.

That Christmas we’d spent our days building snowmen, walking in the snow, patting the huskies and feeding the reindeer. And in the evenings we’d curl up together in the log cabin, staring into the flames and making wishes. The same wishes I’d carried on making for years afterwards. Until I realised wishes never come true anyway.

I blink away the past and ignore the one tiny tear that manages to squeeze its way past my defences.

‘It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point, is it?’

Sam is frowning at me and doesn’t look convinced, so I ignore her and tap away on my keyboard, which means I can brush away the dampness on my cheek without her noticing.

‘But what about Lynn? You always spend Christmas together.’

Sam is right again. Ever since that one in the Shooting Star Mountain Resort, Aunt Lynn and I have spent every Christmas together. She’s my family, my whole family, the only one I’ve got, and she’s amazing.

I love Auntie Lynn. Totally. If it hadn’t been for her my life would have worked out totally differently. I would be an insecure, unloved mess and I would also be totally boring and bored. Auntie Lynn has brought me up with cuddles and creativity, and she has taught me that being the only guardian at parents’ evening with striped hair and questions about what I thought rather than what the teacher thought is something to be celebrated, not be ashamed of.

‘But I’m not going for actual Christmas.’ No way do I want to spend Christmas there ever again. Even if the place had still been perfect (which it certainly isn’t), I don’t think I could face that. ‘I’ll go just before, or after. Actually, now might be a good time.’ No time like the present. ‘I could try and get some of it sorted before he has chance to ruin Christmas for another load of people. One more bad Christmas could finish the place off for good. I am not going to let him screw up like this: no one cancels Christmas!’

‘But you can’t just up and leave me!’

‘I’m not leaving you on your own. I’ll have to clear it with Aunt Lynn, but she did say a while ago that she thought maybe we should start to visit places again. She’s thinking of taking a temp on to cover here, so that we can get out more. You’d get to go to places too.’ I give her a sideways glance. ‘She knows you want to travel.’

Sam goes bright red. She thinks she’s hidden the way she feels, but she is one of those people who just can’t hide their feelings – they’re written all over her face. She’s changed in a good way, lately, especially after she got over her tosspot two-timing ex, and met her dishy boyfriend Jake. It’s been obvious that she’s come out stronger. She’s still the funny girl I love, but she’s now much more determined to live the life she wants. And she wants more than just sitting in a goldfish bowl in the high street.

‘Lynn doesn’t want to lose you, Sam. I don’t either.’ I can’t imagine life without Sam. We’re totally different, but we just get on. She’s giving me a look, like she might hug me, and I can’t cope with hugs right now. ‘Hang on, this will timeout if I don’t complete the booking.’

‘Leave it.’ She tugs at my chair again so that I can’t reach the keyboard. ‘Come on, they aren’t exactly going to get booked up if you leave it a few minutes, are they? And don’t you need to check dates first?’

‘I can provisionally book.’ Not that there is much need – there is availability on every date I look at. ‘Then I can call Aunt Lynn.’ Sam doesn’t like the impulsive side of my character, it makes her uncomfortable. She likes to know where she stands, whereas I – with my wobbly past – tend to view each day as a new challenge. And right now, locking horns with Mr Armstrong in the Canadian Rockies sounds like a good diversion.

‘Why don’t you call her now?’

‘Okay, okay, I’ll talk to her first if it makes you happy.’ Sam does have a point, but it’s a quiet time and I’m sure my aunt will be more than happy to cover for me for a few days; she likes to ‘keep her finger on the pulse’, as she puts it.

‘It does make me happy.’

So I dial out on the office phone and put it on speakerphone so that Sam will be in no doubt at all to Lynn’s response – even though I know she will like this idea. She says travel broadens the mind and shrinks the butt. She will definitely like this idea.

‘Aunt Lynn?’

‘Oh, I’m glad you rang, dear.’ She says this as though we never talk, whereas we talk at least once a day. ‘I wanted a little chat.’

Sam raises an eyebrow, and I half wish I hadn’t put Lynn on speakerphone.

‘I’m a bit tied up at the moment,’ she does sound distracted, ‘but come for a spot of coffee and cake.’ I stare at the phone, then glance at Sam, who is doing an ‘I haven’t a clue’ gesture.

‘Er, fine. It’s just I wanted to—’

‘Will it keep until Wednesday, dear?’

She sounds as if she’s not really listening anyway, so I nod, even though she can’t see me. ‘Sure.’ What difference will a couple of days make? ‘Or tomorrow?’

‘Oh no dear, I’ve got Hedgehog Rescue tomorrow, had you forgotten?’

There’s the tiniest note of reproach in her voice. How could I forget Hedgehog Rescue? Not to mention Purrfect Cat Rescue, Sanitary Towels for the Homeless, and Baby in a Box. That last one did worry me a bit, until I researched and found out it was a care pack for newborns. The image in my head hasn’t changed, though: the perfect next day delivery service for the childless.

Aunt Lynn believes in paying it forward, and because she is so nice people shower her with little acts of kindness. There is, therefore, a lot of paying forward to be done.

‘It’s the big weigh in, followed by a hog roast.’

‘That sounds vaguely inappropriate.’

She laughs, a hearty belly laugh. ‘Oh, get you! We can have a good catch up, and I’ll tell you all about my plans.’

‘Plans?’ That sounds ominous.

‘Shall we say three o’clock, then?’

She is obviously not going to enlighten me. Although with Aunt Lynn there is never a need to rush, and she is the least inquisitive person I know. If somebody says they’ve got something to tell me, I will mull it over, dissect the tone of their voice, list all the possible reasons, worry. Lynn will forget about it. ‘Sure, if you can’t—’

‘Rushed off my feet, darling! Oh dear, oh dear, I really have to go.’

‘Shall I bring cake?’

‘No, no.’

‘It’s no bother, I can grab some from the café across the road?’

‘Just bring yourself, dear. Take the afternoon off, I’m sure Sammy can cope. Now, I really am going to have to rush, Lionel is dangling from the chandelier, he’s so adventurous!’

Sam splutters biscuit crumbs in all directions, and I shout ‘bye’ and slam a finger hard on the end call button, as though it will disconnect it quicker.

‘Clean that dirty mind of yours.’ I stare at Sam disapprovingly. ‘Lionel is her neighbour’s cat.’

‘Ah.’ She’s grinning, and I can’t help it, I have to grin back. We know we’re both thinking the same thing (as she does know my Aunt Lynn quite well), and Lionel could quite easily have been a man she’d picked up. Qualifying for a bus pass hasn’t slowed her down at all.

We sit in silence for a moment, savouring the image that has sprung into our minds. It’s Sam who shakes the thought out of her head first. ‘Do you think it’s okay? The cat?’

‘Oh yeah, he’s done it before. He waits until she’s halfway up the stepladder then lets go and stalks off.’

‘Oh. That’s good.’ The look of relief turns to a little frown. ‘That was a bit weird, the cake and coffee thing. She never asks you round for cake and coffee.’

It is weird (even weirder than the Lionel thing) and worrying on many counts.

‘I know.’ Lynn doesn’t really do ‘coffee’, I might pop in for a chat, or she sometimes calls by my place and stops for a drink, or even a meal. But we don’t invite each other round for coffee. And definitely not for cake and coffee. The whole conversation is out of character. Something is off kilter. This feels like bad news and has made me feel all uneasy and icky inside.

What does she need to talk about that means I won’t be up to work afterwards? Is she selling up? Is she ill? My God, is she getting married?

I feel more than uneasy now. I feel sick.

I take a deep breath. It can’t be that urgent if it can wait until Wednesday and be lower priority than Hedgehog Rescue. Surely?

But even though Wednesdays are quiet, she knows that leaving Sam running the place single-handedly could be an issue.

Sam is ace at selling holidays to people who aren’t sure they want them, but she tends to get distracted. And press the wrong buttons on the computer (unlike me of course, ha ha). So why would Lynn suggest I take time off, unless she has something major to tell me, something that can’t be discussed on the phone?

And secondly, Auntie Lynn definitely doesn’t bake cakes. Her occasional spontaneous baking sessions in the past have resulted in deconstructed scones and melt-in-the-middle Madeira cake. Yes, she knows there is no such thing, but that is what usually happens. And you know those recipes that are impossible to mess up? Well, I’ve got news for you, Mr Super-chef.

When I was little I thought they were the most amazing creations ever – nobody else had smashed banana and crisp sandwiches with a side of pancake pieces in their lunch box. I was special.

The fact that we are meeting at her home and not in a café, where cake is provided and guaranteed to pass health and safety requirements, is even more worrying.

‘You don’t think it upset her, talking about booking to go to that place?’

I shake my head. ‘I didn’t even get that far, did I? It wasn’t my plans she was interested in, it was hers. She said she’d tell me all about her plans.’ This is the third, and most unsettling part of it all. What plans? Lynn doesn’t plan things, she does things. And she doesn’t save things up to tell me about later, we fill each other in as we go along.

Sam and I both frown together. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. She just wants a chat with you, that’s all.’ Sam doesn’t sound convinced, and nor am I.

What hasn’t Lynn been telling me?

Chapter 4

Auntie Lynn’s house is warm and welcoming, and smells of fresh baking. I lived with her until I was twenty, at which point we both agreed that it might be better if I moved out. Lynn is more free-love than I am, and it was getting awkward and, to be honest, a bit embarrassing to bump into her lovers wandering about in the nude. Especially as some of them seemed a damned sight sexier than the men I brought back. And more interesting. And even, on one memorable occasion, younger.

‘Now dear.’ She pushes the plate of tarts in front of me; they’re a bit of a strange colour, with weird stripes that look like petrified goldfish immobilised in a sea of strangely translucent custard. ‘Lemon curd and marmalade – I ran out of lemon, but oranges and lemons go together perfectly, don’t they?’

I take a tentative bite. A sour sweetness explodes in my mouth, along with a chewy bit that could be orange rind, and my tongue goes kind of numb. I think my eyes are wide and watering, and I seem to have developed lockjaw.

‘I’ve got a bit of news.’ She is smiling, but watching my face closely, slightly nervous – as if she’s expecting me to keel over any second. ‘It’s all been a bit last minute, but I wanted to have a chat about it and explain.’ This obviously isn’t about her cooking. This is about ‘her plans’. The reason I’m here.

There is a long pause. I don’t like pauses, they come before bad news. I’m also not keen on the word ‘explain’. I put the rest of the tart down.

‘I’m going away for Christmas.’

My locked jaw is suddenly slack and I understand her nervousness now. This isn’t about her culinary skills. ‘But we never go away for Christmas, we always have it here.’ We have the biggest tree we can find, too much glitter, and pretend cotton-wool snow if the real stuff doesn’t appear. We make mulled wine and weird-shaped mince pies, we go to midnight mass in our wellies and swap a special present just before we go to bed. We help feed the homeless and then walk the dogs in the shelter, and then we watch the Queen’s speech and play Monopoly.

‘I know, love. But this year,’ she sighs, ‘I’m afraid I have to go and see Ralph.’ She stresses the ‘I’, which I realise I’d missed before. I as in her, not us. Not me. There’s a hollow pang of emptiness inside me, and my heart is racing away as though it knows I need to run and hide. It’s that feeling I remember from school, when I knew I wasn’t going to get picked by anybody to be on their team.

‘You’re spending Christmas without me?’

She leans forward and squeezes my hand, and I realise I sound like a five-year-old child, not the independent woman I insist to the rest of the world that I am. Except Aunt Lynn isn’t the rest of the world. ‘You’re leaving me on my own?’

‘Only for a few days.’

‘And who’s Ralph?’ Is Ralph a dog? Why have I never heard of Ralph before?

‘He’s in Australia.’

‘Australia?’ I do realise I’m just repeating everything, but she’s saying all the wrong things.

‘I need to do this on my own, darling.’ Lynn sits back, and I watch mesmerised, as she stirs her mug of tea and the words swirl round inside me. ‘He’s an old friend,’ the way she says ‘friend’ makes me look up, into her eyes, ‘and he’s dying. This will be his last Christmas, and I’d really like to spend it with him. You knew I was in Australia just before you came to live with me?’

I nod. I have some vague recollection of being told, but I was little more than a toddler back then, and all I remember is the strangeness. Aunt Lynn was strangely brown and wore odd, flamboyant clothes, all bright and swirly. Big skirts that swished as she walked, big beads that jingled together, that I played with as I sat on her knee.

Her house smelled different to my old one, all scented and smoky. She smelled different, all warm and inviting. She’d hug me to her chest and sing to me, and even her hugs were different to all the ones I’d had before. Only Aunt Lynn hugged me that way, as though she’d never let me go.

A silly lump is lodged in my throat, and I sit and blink like an owl at her.

Christmas has always been about the two of us being together. How does Christmas work without her?

Oh God, I can’t spend Christmas all alone, I haven’t even got a cat for company!

I know, I’ll take Callum up on his offer. He texted this morning asking if I wanted to spend the day at his parents’ house with him, and I’d been horrified. I’d nearly rushed round there and then to say no, to explain I had to be with Aunt Lynn. That’s we always spend the day together. But something had stopped me. I blink some more. I don’t want to be with Callum. If I say yes now, it will be for all the wrong reasons. I’ll be using him.

‘I came back for you, Sarah, and I left Ralph behind. But now it’s time to go and see him. One last time.’ She squeezes my hand again and her voice is gentle as she studies my face with eyes that used to be piercing blue but are now softened with age, and the sadness of life. ‘I am so sorry, love. I know what Christmas together means to you, it’s important to me as well. But you can come with me if you like? Ralph won’t mind at all. I just didn’t think you’d want to share Christmas in a strange place with a man you don’t know who’s dying, and I know it won’t be the same as Christmas here, but . . .’

‘It’s all right. Honest.’ I’d rather have Christmas anywhere if it meant being with her, than being at home without her, but I can see that this is something that really can’t be shared. Ralph needs her. And I’ve got a feeling she needs him.

‘He’s only got a few weeks left; he might not be here to see the new year in, so it’s all been a bit rushed, you see. It was the earliest flight I could get – the silly idiot had put off telling me until now.’ There’s real anguish, mixed with tears in her strangled voice. ‘I just hope I’m not too late.’

I’ve never thought of her as old, or sad before, but now the mist of my own selfishness is breaking up and I realise she’s more than just my Auntie Lynn. She’s a woman with a past of her own.

Aunt Lynn has never said much about her other life. Her pre-me life. Before my parents disappeared. But as I grew up, and studied the photographs, the discarded rucksack shoved to the back of her wardrobe, and the small mementoes of different places and people that adorned every shelf, nook and cranny in her house, I pieced together her real life as best as I could. And I saw a carefree, happy, hippy lifestyle that she’d willingly abandoned, and that she made sure I never felt guilty about.

How can I not be happy for her if she has a chance now to go back to that life? I am all grown up, and she can be free again. I swallow down my desire to shout ‘don’t leave me’, ashamed that I’m struggling. ‘Tell me about Ralph.’

So she does. And all the time she speaks about him she has a wistful smile on her face, her voice soft and sing-song, her mind miles away from the life she and I have been sharing.

‘You shouldn’t have left him.’

‘I had you, love, and besides, the time was right. Are those a bit tart? I was worried the orange rind would go chewy, but I only had the thick-cut marmalade. Would you like a bit of flapjack? It’s a bit crunchy – I didn’t know whether to smash it up and call it granola.’

I can’t think about granola now. I’m thinking about Aunt Lynn being sad and putting a brave face on things. And spending Christmas on my own.

Lynn smiles, a bit uncertainly.

‘Actually, I’ve got plans myself.’ What am I saying? ‘I’m going away.’ I’m what? How could I say that?

‘You are?’

‘I am.’ I nod. Confidently. And feel slightly sick, but now I’ve started this, I can’t stop, can I? ‘I’m going to Canada!’ That’s it! That will show her! I’m all grown up now, I can do Christmas on my own. Spending Christmas with Callum would definitely be wrong. In my heart I’ve known for a long time that things aren’t quite perfect between us, that we’ve been running out of time. Oh no, I’m not going to spend Christmas with him. I’m going to see this as an opportunity and fix Will Armstrong once and for all.

‘Canada?’ She’s got a puzzled frown on her face, which isn’t surprising. Inside I’m a bit confused too.

‘I’m going to sort out the mess at the Shooting Star Mountain Resort. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, I’ve already made a provisional booking; all I need to do is confirm.’

‘The Shooting Star resort? The one where . . .’

I nod, less confidently now, feeling even more queasy.

‘Well, that is a surprise. Good for you, darling. Going back and—’

‘I’m only going back because of all the crap reviews, and the fact the jerk that’s running it seems to be determined to totally wreck the place and get us sued in the process.’

‘Sued?’

I think I might have got carried away and said things I shouldn’t. I’m not sure flapping my arms in the air in what I thought was a nonchalant gesture is removing the frown from her face, but it’s worth a try. ‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, just empty threats.’ She doesn’t look convinced. ‘But that’s why I’m going.’

‘The Shooting Star resort?’

I nod.

‘And you’ll be all right on your own?’ She’s looking even more worried now, and I don’t think it’s anything to do with being sued.

‘Definitely. I’m a big girl, now.’ But feel like a tiny, abandoned toddler inside. Man up, Sarah, you can do this.

‘I’d come with you, but I need to do this for Ralph – and for me, if I’m honest. He needs me, Sarah.’ That is Aunt Lynn all over: she is there if people need her, like she’s always been there for me. ‘Why not wait until the new year and we can go together?’

‘Honestly, I’ll be fine.’ And why spend Christmas on my own, when I can be with Mr ruin-it-all Armstrong? ‘It needs sorting now.’ I think I might be trying to reassure myself here, convince myself I’ve made the right decision.

What am I thinking? It’s not only Mr Scrooge himself that I’ll be tackling. I’ll be back there. The place where it all went wrong, when I found out just how little I meant to the two people who’d meant everything to me. My world.

Aunt Lynn is right. I won’t be all right on my own. I want her there, holding my hand. I don’t want to pull warm mittens on all alone, to look at the spot where we built the biggest snowman ever without her at my side.

I don’t want to curl up on a rug, looking at the flickering flames, and see my parents wave goodbye in my mind.

I can’t go back alone to the place that broke my heart. In fact, I swore I’d never go back. I’d closed that door forever.

I can feel the hurt bubbling up in my throat. Threatening to break out in a babble of words, saying I can’t do it, that it won’t work, that I’ll never ever be able to go back there again.

But it doesn’t.

I can’t expect Aunt Lynn to be there, watching my back, forever. This is my battle now, not hers.

And anyway, this isn’t about the past, about me. I’m going because of the business, and I’m going because I need to prove to Lynn and myself that I’m all grown up now.

I blink hard, shut out the image of a husky dog licking my fingers, tickling my face with its fur until I giggle, until Mum laughs and swings me up in the air.

‘I want to go.’ Swallowing hard clears my throat and digging my nails into the palms of my hands helps the lie. ‘If I don’t go now, it’ll be too late.’

‘Okay.’ It’s long and drawn out. ‘Well, if that’s the case, I’m going to shut the agency over the holiday period, so that you don’t have to worry and can have some fun.’ She stands up abruptly, as though she’s made a sudden decision, and walks over to the dresser. ‘And I’ve got a little surprise for you too. Consider it an early Christmas present!’

Chapter 5

Aunt Lynn and I have one thing in common with the royal family. I’m pretty sure it will only be the one thing, but who knows? Anyway, we decided many years ago to go for inexpensive gifts that will make us laugh. We have a strict spending limit and it’s all about trying to get something that will make the other person chuckle, but something that they’ll love and cherish because it’s so ‘them’.

Aunt Lynn has always collected knick-knacks from her travels, but says that each item, however seemingly worthless, has a memory attached and means something to her. And that, she says, is the important thing. What’s the point in spending lots of money on something that is emotionally worthless?

It took me quite a while to get my head round this (and she did bend the rules rather a lot when I was little), but as I got older, the gifts she gave me started to mean more, which meant I treasured them. I don’t keep much; I’m not a ‘stuff’ type of person, but each gift she has given me has captured a memory, a place or a feeling, and I’ve kept them all. My emotional me is spelled out on my dressing table, if anybody ever takes the time to study the weird assortment of items and work it out.

These days we laugh as we rip the wrapping paper off, but behind the laughter there is a shared ‘knowing’. An anticipation. Our flippant gifts prove how much we know about each other, how closely our lives are meshed.

Today, though, this feels wrong, and is making my heart twinge with dread. It is not Christmas morning, and the envelope she has just fished out of the drawer does not look funny, or cheap. It looks ominous. It feels like something terrible is about to happen, that the one tradition we’ve stuck to, the one certainty in my life, is about to explode and shatter into little pieces.

‘I’ll keep it until—’ I’m not usually a wimp, or melodramatic, but I don’t like this at all. The reality that we’re not spending Christmas Day together is still sinking in. I don’t want any more shocks. Changes.

‘Open it now, love.’ She doesn’t let go of her end, as though she knows I’ll stuff it in my bag if she does. There’s a little tussle between us, until my gaze meets hers dead on and she knows I’ll do what she’s asked. ‘It’s not a proper present really, more like a promise.’

‘A promise?’ The envelope is burning the tips of my fingers.

I don’t want to open it now, but I know she isn’t going to give me a choice. For all the hippy-chick free love-living and happiness vibe she gives out, on the inside Lynn is tough. And determined. Appearances can be deceptive.

The envelope isn’t even sealed, the flap is just tucked in, but it seems to take an age for my clumsy fingers to find a way inside it.

To drag out the slip of paper.

‘Oh.’ It isn’t at all what I expect. Not that I know what I’d expected. You can’t cram Christmas with all the festive trimmings into an envelope, can you?

‘But . . .’ It doesn’t make any sense at all. This isn’t like our normal presents, this isn’t about making new memories. This is terrible.

My world wobbles. Coffee and cake at Lynn’s had seemed weird, but this is starting to feel like it should be happening to somebody else. ‘Why?’ The single syllable rocks me. She hasn’t tried to cram Christmas into an envelope: she’s tried to cram responsibility in, commitment. The future. She’s not just leaving me for Christmas, she’s leaving me for ever.

Oh shit. ‘You’re,’ the words are choking me, ‘you’re staying there? In Australia? Or you’re ill?’

‘Oh Sarah, don’t be ridiculous! I might be getting a bit old in the tooth, but I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not about to pop my clogs any day soon.’

‘But you’re getting rid of—’

‘I’m not getting rid of anything. In fact, this is all about giving me some time to let my hair down before it all falls out. I didn’t have time to sort out all the legalities, but I’ll do it before I go and then we’re straight for when I get back. A new year, a new us, eh?’

‘But, I can’t—’

She shifts the sheet of paper so that it’s between us on the table, then puts an arm round my shoulders. ‘This isn’t about me leaving you, Sarah. This is about sharing, about the future.’

I stare at the sheet of paper. Flatten it out with fingers that seem to have an agenda of their own. A wobbly one.

I am now – well, soon will be, joint owner of Making Memories Travel Agents. My initial 50 per cent share will rise gradually over the next five years until I take full control.

My bottom lip is now as wobbly as my fingers and I feel very stupid. ‘I thought it meant . . . Oh God, I’m sorry Auntie Lynn.’ I throw my arms round her, trying not to rub my runny nose on her shoulder. ‘This is so nice of you, so . . .’ I wipe the back of my hand across my face, and resist wiping it down my jeans like a child. There’s this massive blockage in my throat that physically hurts, but my brain can’t work out what to say next.

My eyes sting with the burning tears that are trying to explode from my eyes. But I don’t want to be all emo and pathetic, and blubbering. Though to be honest, I’m not sure what I want to be. This is massive. Giving me a job was one thing, but an actual share in the company? It’s generous, it’s kind, it’s trusting, it’s . . . madness.

I’ve never been responsible for so much as a potted plant before, let alone a business. Well actually, I’m lying. Somebody gave me a poinsettia one year and it didn’t go well. Let’s just say that by Christmas lunch it was looking even more worse for wear than I was. And that’s saying something. I think I’m more of a cactus person. Minimum nurturing and commitment. This is forever! This is bigger than a five-year plan. Callum would think it was hilarious.

Oh God, how am I going to do this? A business! Aunt Lynn’s business. Letting her down would be the worst possible thing in the world. I can’t say no or scream for help.

So, I smile. Hope it comes across as confident and not manic. I’ll work out how to handle this later, when I’m alone and can talk to myself in private.

She puts a finger under my chin, and looks me straight in the eye, like she used to do when I’d come home after a shit day at school. ‘Who else could I trust with our little business, Sarah? We set this up together, and I’ve always expected you to take over one day.’ She suddenly smiles and looks lighter than she has since I arrived. ‘Actually, you going to the Shooting Star is a fabulous idea, Sarah. I was going to suggest you started to visit some of our resorts and searched out some new ones as well. We need to shake things up a bit! Going back there is a splendid idea.’

‘It is?’ I’m glad at least one of us thinks so.

‘Oh yes. And now is the perfect time to make your peace with the past, isn’t it? Before you sail into the future.’ She waves a hand.

‘Is it?’ Making my peace with the past isn’t on my agenda. That would involve accepting things, facing up to my dad, forgiving them both for what they did. I’m not sure I will ever be ready for that.

Her voice is soft and seems to come from a long way away, ‘I think it’s the perfect time, don’t you? I think it’s something you need to do, isn’t it? Go back?’

‘I’m going to sort all the problems out, make it perfect again.’ Even I can hear the defensive note in my voice.

‘Oh Sarah, this isn’t really about the problems with the place, is it love?’ Her voice is so gentle it brings silly prickly sensations to my eyes. ‘This is about you. The past.’

‘I don’t do the past, I do the future.’ Looking back has never helped me. Just hurt me.

‘Sometimes, love, you can’t find a future until you’ve found peace with the past.’

I’ve never really got what that means. Peace with the past? I mean, how can you stop those feelings of anger? There’s no on-off switch for something like this.

How can you say, yeah, fine, it was a great idea to dump your kid and do a runner, to not come back. To cause fucking havoc in her life and mess with her head. To make her feel useless and cast aside like some coat you didn’t want any more.

Talk about a dog being for life and not just for Christmas! Just thinking about it is stirring up all the anger and resentment in my chest, all the emotion I try and keep squashed down. I don’t feel self-pity any more, I just try and block it out. And when I can’t do that, I seethe. Maybe that’s what ‘peace’ means for me.

‘I have found peace.’ I say it anyway, to reassure her, ‘I’ve got you, work, everything.’ My life works. I like it. I’m busy and the people that surround me are there because they want to be. And if I ever suspect they don’t want to be, then I move on.

I don’t let my parents mess with my head any more. They’re old news. I’m done with them and all that.

Going to the Shooting Star is about the future, not the past.

Aunt Lynn smiles and pats my hand. ‘Good, well that’s fine then. You know what you’re doing and this can be your first trip representing the agency!’

Oh God, now I’ve got added pressure. I’m not just going to shout at Will Armstrong and inspect his dusty crevices, this is my future well and truly at stake. I need to be even more professional than I was going to be.

‘And while I’m out of your hair seems like the perfect time for an adventure. I’m being a bit selfish as well: that place means a lot to me and I don’t want us to strike it off our list and walk away on a sour note.’ Her voice has regained its normal briskness.

I stare at the sheet of paper again. There is no choice now. I need to go the Shooting Star resort, this is my business at risk.

All I need now is a booking for one, all inclusive. I will experience all the horrors our clients have told us about, a frosty Will Armstrong and a draughty cabin. I will make an objective, professional judgement about whether our clients deserve somewhere better.

The moment I get back to the office that provisional booking is being confirmed.

I’d said to Sam that I’d go, sort out all the issues, confront Will Armstrong, but I hadn’t meant for Christmas. No way. I had never intended to go back for the festive season, to stir up the memories of a time that broke my heart and changed my world. Those bits of me needed to be left untouched, so that I could pick out the nice bits in my head, remember just the happiness and plaster over the hurt.

I’m not sure how this is going to work, how I’m going to feel if I relive that Christmas again. Except I know it will be different. I’ve got to prove to Lynn that I can cope with anything, and I suppose I’ve got to prove that to myself, too. And I’ve got to sort Will Armstrong out once and for all. Whatever Sam said before, this is personal now. Nobody is going to mess up my business. (I quite like the sound of that, my business.)

‘You can do it, love. I know you can.’ Lynn squeezes my hand. ‘Do you remember what it was like? That little log cabin? It was lovely, wasn’t it?’ Her wistful smile is reflected in her voice. ‘And that very nice couple who ran it then, you won’t remember them.’

‘I do. They were like Mother and Father Christmas.’ Warm, cuddly, ever smiling. I’d felt like I’d been wrapped in a blanket of love and protection, and even back then, so young and confused, I’d clung to their kindness.

‘They were sweethearts, but getting on a bit even then. They sold the place a few years ago, to two brothers. It seemed to be much the same for a long time – the younger boy, Ed he was called, was running it. I had some lovely chats with him, but then something happened and his brother took charge.’

‘Will.’ I’m not really listening to her, all I can think about is the last day I was there, at the resort. When I hadn’t wanted to walk away, because how would Mum and Dad know where to find me if I left with Auntie Lynn?

It wasn’t until later that I realised one of them would never be able to look for me, and the other didn’t care.

‘Will, that’s right. Well, he’s a totally different kettle of fish to Ed.’

‘Cold fish rather than kettle I’d say,’ I mutter, but I’m pretty sure she’s heard because she’s giving me her ‘look’. ‘And he’s ruined the place.’

‘Well, we don’t know all the facts, do we, love? And from the brief emails we’ve swapped I’d say there’s more to him than meets the eye.’

Oh God. Emails! Has he said anything to Aunt Lynn about those? Oh shit. What exactly did I say to him? What’s Auntie Lynn said to him?

‘Sarah, are you all right, love? You don’t usually gobble up my cakes like that.’

I swallow hard, and I mean hard – this pastry is quite a challenge. I hadn’t realised I’d been shoving food in my mouth as a stress-reliever. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

How do I put this, without making her snatch my early Christmas present away before it’s made legal?

‘After you saw all those horrible reviews, that made you clean the oven, I emailed the resort.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t cleaning the oven because of the reviews, love. I did it for some thinking time, to work out what to do about Christmas.’

‘Oh. But I thought . . . Well, it is important to you?’

‘Of course, it is. I’ll never forget that first Christmas, Sarah, but it’s all,’ she taps her forehead, ‘up here. I have the trinkets we brought back, and I have you.’ She smiles. ‘The biggest trinket of all. But places change, and we can’t expect a stranger to preserve our memories for us, can we?’

I shake my head.

‘But it was a lovely place, and very popular with clients, so I’m sure if you can chat to this Will and sort it out, it will be wonderful. Otherwise we’ll have to start sending people to see the Northern Lights, won’t we?’ She stands up. ‘Now, I don’t want to be rude, love, but I promised to bake some cakes for the homeless, so I’ll talk to you tomorrow, shall I?’ She’s already handing me my bag. ‘Lots to do before I go away. And I’m so pleased you’re keen to go back to the Shooting Star, Sarah. I think it means you’re ready to move on, don’t you?’

In my heart I know what she wants me to do. The thing she’s gently hinted at over the years, the thing the shrink less gently hinted at. She wants me to talk about what happened to Mum, to ask all the questions, to forgive her last actions. And she wants me to talk about Dad. To talk to Dad. To stop harbouring the hate, the mistrust; the feeling in my heart that it’s always my fault, that I can never be quite good enough. That it’s always better to move on before people find out that I’m not the person they were hoping I was and leave me.

She wants me to stop picking boyfriends that I know from the start aren’t within a million miles of being ‘the one’ and to think about the future. Live in the moment has always been my motto. I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with all this responsibility and dealing with the past shit.

If anybody else was asking, I’d be out of here. But this is Lynn. And Aunt Lynn wants me to do some adulting stuff, so I guess it’s time to try.

It’s as she pushes the door firmly shut behind me that I realise that I never got to explain to her what I actually said in my emails to Will. And she has no idea how rude and impossible Will Armstrong is, and that he thinks I’m the most unprofessional travel agent ever. She is clueless about the fact that I’m heading towards the worst Christmas ever.

And that, before I go, I have to burn another of my bridges.

Chapter 6

‘It’s blue.’ Callum is propped up on one elbow staring at me. Well, when I say me, I mean my hair. He seems to be mentally circling me, like a sheepdog.

‘Callum, are you listening?’ It’s taken me ages to work out the best way to break the news, and now he’s not even listening.

‘It’s blue!’

‘Yes, I know. I—’

‘It was blonde, shoulder-length and had pink bits last time I saw you.’ He’s frowning now and looking a bit miffed. ‘And that was only two days ago.’

‘Pink hair is so old hat.’

His text yesterday morning had made me uneasy, and then my chat with Auntie Lynn had decided it for me, even though in my heart I’d known for a while that we were running out of time.

After I’d left Lynn I’d called my friend Liz, who also happens to be my hairdresser. It was time for a change and I always find it easier to deal with moving on if I’ve done something different. It’s an outward sign of the inner feeling. Or at least, that’s what the shrink said after the teenage me had screamed ‘you’re not my mother’ once too often, and Aunt Lynn had declared we needed professional help.

‘But it’s black and blue, and . . .’ Callum leans around to see better, ‘short.’

‘Don’t you like it?’ To be honest, it doesn’t really make much difference if he does or not, because the deed has been done now and there is no going back. And I like it. But it would still be nice if he did, too.

‘Is that a green streak?’ He’s now pulling at it as though we’re monkeys having a grooming session.

‘It might be. So, you don’t like it?’ He’s obviously not going to listen to what I really need to say to him until we’re got the hair thing over with.

‘I didn’t say that. It’s er, just a shock. Hang on. I need to check if the carpet matches the drapes, don’t I?’

I put a hand out to stop him, because there is a sensible discussion we need to have, but he’s already lifting the sheet with a grin on his face, shaking his head.

Callum is my toyboy, the cocktail shaker I picked up in a bar, the guy who I love to shock and who likes to be shocked.

I grin back as he dives under the covers and wait for the yell – or shocked silence. I never quite know how he’ll react. Which is half the fun.

In a way, we’re perfect for each other. Or we were. Until that text.

Until he asked me over to his parent’s house for Christmas Day.

This means he has mentally crossed a line that I never intended going anywhere near – he’s strayed into ‘meet the family’ territory.

Meet the family is scary shit. They will see the things he’s hasn’t: that I will never be the perfect girlfriend, that I am a million miles from daughter-in-law material. I have blue hair (which was pink) and wear unsuitable clothes. I carelessly lost my parents and haven’t a clue where they went. I get over-excited. I am older than he is. I do not have a five-year (or even a five-minute) plan.

See? It’s not going to go well, is it?

Callum and I are a good fit now because he’s young and a post-grad student with a sparkling career ahead in astrophysics. One day, when he’s a bit more grown up, he will want the family I can’t give him. He will realise this and then dump me.

And if he doesn’t realise, his parents will. And they’ll tell him to dump me.

It is much better to realise that we are approaching the end of the road before we get there. While it’s still fun.

I’ve been practising in my head what to say to him, and I’m still struggling. No bloody wonder, really, when I hadn’t planned on doing this in bed. How was I to know that he’d greet me at the door stark-bollock naked with a battered gladiolus clenched between his buttocks (he said it had been a healthy specimen at the start but had been harder to hold than he’d thought and had taken several tries)?

Anyway, that was then, and this is post-then.

It’s not you, it’s me.

No, no, no. I can’t say that. Totally not. It’s so wrong on so many levels. I mean it is me, but just as it takes two to make a relationship, it takes two to break it, doesn’t it? The other person might not realise it at the time, they might not realise they’re not the perfectly fitting jigsaw piece. But when they’re told, they’ll feel like the damaged bit, the piece that the dog chewed. And Callum is not damaged, he’s just not the fit I thought he was.

Which brings me back to me.

It always starts out so well, so full of promise, and then I find I can’t live with it. Whatever it is.

Although it, in this case, is definitely linked to commitment. I mean, Christmas Day? That’s the start of the end. The start of getting serious, which always wrecks things.

We really hardly know each other. We share fun, pizza, movies, our bodies. We don’t do ‘meet the family’, and Christmas. Even thinking about it now is making me hyperventilate.

Christmas is for sharing with loved ones. And my loved one is Aunt Lynn, not some cute guy who makes me laugh and orgasm.

I could just say I have to spend the day with Aunt Lynn and leave it at that. But that wouldn’t be fair. And it would be a lie. He asked a question that is far more complicated and loaded than it appears, and now there is no un-asking.

Getting serious spoils things, doesn’t it? Everything becomes about settling down. If you’re not serious, then you can’t be horrifically dumped. I’m not ready for serious; in fact, I’m not sure I ever will be.

‘Holy Moley!’ Don’t ask where he gets language like that from, but I like it. I have a rather weird turn of phrase myself, apparently. He resurfaces, and his eyes are wide. ‘That looks more like a no entry sign than a landing strip.’

Freud would have a field day with me. And so would a masseur – I didn’t half get a crick in my neck (and a bit bog-eyed) giving ‘down there’ a makeover. ‘Callum, we need to talk.’

Callum sighs, drops the bed sheet and edges back up so that his head is at pillow level. His gaze drifts to my hair, then back to my eyes. ‘Is the whole hair change thing symbolic, then?’

Callum isn’t daft; he is a star astrophysics student. I will be insulting both our intelligences if I do the glib get-out.

I can at least try and keep it light and jokey though.

He picks the bedsheet up again, for another look, and gives a low whistle, which helps. ‘Is this because I asked you over for Christmas? You’re moving on, aren’t you?’ He doesn’t look me in the eye, he’s studying our naked bodies under the sheets, but not in a lustful way.

‘I’m going to Canada.’ I blurt it out.

‘You’re moving to Canada? Wow, that’s a bit extreme, even for you.’

‘Not moving. Just going for Christmas.’

‘Oh.’

‘And . . .’ I shake my head. Callum is sweet, and we’ve had loads of fun. He’s been up for anything, and he’s always seemed to get me – until now. ‘Well, to be totally honest,’ I need to be, ‘if Auntie Lynn had been at home, then I’d want to spend Christmas Day with her. Look Callum, you’re brilliant, but I can’t do the whole settling down, meet the parents, thing.’

‘Cool.’ He shrugs. ‘No problem, there’s plenty of time. There’s always next year.’ The grin is a bit lopsided, but totally sweet, totally Callum. ‘Or I could come to Canada? They won’t mind.’

I hate myself.

‘No, I need to go on my own, it’s work, and,’ I take a deep breath, put my hand over his and do my best to look him in the eye. ‘Who knows what I’ll be doing next year? I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, Callum.’ I go back to studying his neat finger nails. ‘You need a nice, sweet girl you can marry, have kids with, and I’m not that person.’

He opens his mouth to object, and I put my fingers to his lips.

‘Not now, maybe, but one day. You’re wasting your time with me.’ I shrug. ‘Settling down isn’t my thing.’

I hate doing this to him. To us. I hate to chase the happiness away. But I can’t help it.

When I look up, he’s shaking his head in denial, but I can see it in his eyes. He does know. He knows me well enough. ‘You’ve already decided, haven’t you? The hair, everything. You’re not going to change your mind.’

‘I have.’

‘Sah, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.’ From the look on his face, I think I probably will. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I do love you, and you’re fab, and a total laugh, and daring but . . .’

‘But?’ It’s my turn to wait for the ‘but’.

He squeezes my hand. ‘You do need to get your shit together you know, you can’t keep running away from people.’

‘I don’t run away.’ I can hear the indignation in my voice – and the hurt – as I pull my hand away from his.

‘Forget I said it, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t – let’s drink to Canada, shall we?’ He’s already out of bed, and dragging his jeans on over his naked, toned butt, and pouring vodka shots out before I’ve even got my T-shirt over my head.

We perch on the edge of the bed and drink in silence, punctuated by awkward attempts at conversation. The link is gone. Broken. We aren’t the same any more. We aren’t a couple.

‘Hey, I do like the hair. Blue is good.’ He kisses me on the nose as we stand at his front door, both knowing our lives are about to head off in different directions. ‘But don’t forget your pink side, will you?’ His voice has a wistful edge that makes me feel like a naughty child.

‘I just needed a change.’ I run my fingers through my cropped hair.

‘One day a lucky guy will come along who you don’t mind being pink for, and,’ there’s a long pause, ‘who you want to spend Christmas with. I’ll miss you, you mad mare.’

‘I’ll miss you too, Callum.’

And then he winks and opens the door wide for me, shoves his hands in his pockets, and that is that.

Chapter 7

‘Sugar.’ Sam is pounding the keyboard of her computer frantically when I get in to work. Luckily there are no clients (or Aunt Lynn) around to witness the abuse. Although it does occur to me that the keyboard will soon be my property. My responsibility. Shit, all this responsibility could be totally weird. The nearest I’ve come to commitment before has been to book a flight more than four weeks in advance. Now I’ve got a boulder-sized slab of obligation hanging over me and I’m not quite sure how I feel. They say love and hate are close buddies, don’t they? Well, so are petrified and proud. Right now, it’s anybody’s guess which one will win the day. I’m either going to end up crushed or feeling like I’ve done Aunt Lynn proud and shown her what I’m made of.

I’m not Spiderman, though, I haven’t got great power, just responsibility. I wish I was Spiderman, actually, I’m sure he could sort this out in a jiffy. He could whizz over and truss up Mr Armstrong in a super-strong web, and he wouldn’t care a fig that the one person he loves isn’t going to spend Christmas with him.

‘You’re frowning.’ Sam has stopped pounding.

‘No, I’m not.’ I force my face into what I hope is a chilled expression. But is probably just looking down my nose pop-eyed. ‘What’s up?’

‘I just accidentally booked my mum on a non-refundable last-minute deal to Kenya.’

‘And she doesn’t want it?’ Sam’s mum is funny. She’s one of those mothers who is so well-meaning it gets embarrassing, if you know what I mean. But she is lovely, and totally means well. Like mother, like daughter.

‘Does she buggery.’ Which figures. She is more big-hat hunter than big-game hunter. ‘She wants to go to Lapland, not bloody Kenya.’ Sam goes back to abusing my assets.

‘You can’t actually undo what you’ve done just by typing fast you know.’ I sit down and push her wheelie chair, and her, to one side. You see? This is what I meant when I thought it was weird Aunt Lynn leaving Sam on her own. At least this is a family booking cock-up, and not a customer. ‘Pressing delete doesn’t work when it isn’t on the screen any more.’

‘I know that.’ She suddenly smiles. ‘Actually, maybe that’s the best idea I’ve ever had, and my brain just hasn’t realised. Sending Mum off on her own would solve all kinds of problems.’ The frantic typing stops. ‘Christmas can be such hard work if we’re all together. A few days with just me and Jake on our own would be ace.’

She’s got a dreamy look in her eyes, and for a moment I feel a pang of jealousy. Sam has got a lovely boyfriend, a wonderful family and she’s all set for the perfect Christmas. Unlike me. I’m just about to book a ticket to hell. This was not a good idea at all. Me and my big mouth. Why can’t I think before I speak? Just once would be nice. I think they call it ‘filtered’, whereas I’m more another f word.

And I so like Christmas. What have I done?

Sam frowns. ‘Unless she gets eaten by a giraffe or something.’

‘What?’

‘Mum, in Kenya!’

‘Aren’t they vegetarian? They eat leaves and stuff.’

‘Well, a lion. Or what if a rhino tramples them? I mean, you know how she likes to be centre stage, she’ll be throwing her arms around and projecting!’ Sam’s mum is into amateur dramatics and sees herself as the next Dame Judi Dench. ‘How good is the health and safety at these places? They must do risk assessments, yeah?’

‘Yeah, of course they do! They have to, and you don’t often hear of tourists getting chewed up or trampled to death, do you?’

‘Well no, not often but there was that alligator—’

‘That was in the swamps, and that drunken twat decided to use it as a paddleboard. I don’t think your mum will be trying anything like that, will she?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘They’ll be far more careful than Will Armstrong, anyway; he probably wouldn’t know a risk assessment if he fell over one.’ Oh God, I can’t get that stupid man out of my head. All roads lead to Will. Literally. Sam looks alarmed – even though she doesn’t know the chaos that’s going around in my head at the moment. Honestly, I’d rather be in Kenya being trampled by wildebeest, right now.

My face must have done something it wasn’t supposed to, because her attention zooms in on me.

‘Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought you had the day off?’

‘I just thought I’d check you were okay.’ Maybe popping into work, on the pretence of checking everything was okay, was a mistake. But the truth of the matter is I couldn’t face being at home on my own today. I now have no Callum, and no Christmas. ‘And I need to stalk Will Armstrong.’

‘You’ve already googled him.’ Sam grins. ‘You just want to stare at that photo don’t you? Go on, admit it, you think he’s cute.’

‘It doesn’t matter how cute he is—’

‘Ha! I knew you did!’

‘This is business, I need to google him better. The Wi-Fi is better here than at home, and,’ I pull out my chair and do a quick spin on it, cracking my knuckles as I go to show I mean business, ‘I also need to book my Christmas break.’

‘Christmas break?’ Sam is frowning and has stopped her attempts to unbook her mother’s wildlife trip. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Canada.’ I watch while it sinks in. ‘To see Will Armstrong.’

‘But I thought . . .’

‘There’s been a change of plan.’

‘Christmas! Wow, you’re going for actual Christmas with Lynn? Is that what she suggested when you told her about what’s been going on? Gosh, the pair of you together will soon sort him out.’ Sam claps her hands, looking so happy it seems a shame to put a downer on things.

‘Not the pair of us, just me.’ I stop my googling and look at Sam. I think it might be time to mention the cakes, and Ralph. And the business. Which is the really awkward one. I mean, we’re mates, we work together and in the new year it could all turn a bit weird if I’ve kind of become her boss, and don’t do this properly.

‘And Callum?’

‘No, not Callum. Callum and his buttock-clenching gladioli have gone.’

‘Buttock clenching?’

‘Later. But it was a good job he hadn’t decided to say it with roses.’ Thorns do not bear thinking about.

‘So why are you going to Canada for Christmas, then? I don’t get it.’

Nor do I.

‘Tell.’

‘Pass the Hobnobs first, my stomach needs reminding what food should taste like. Lynn’s cakes were a bit . . .’ I pull a face and rub my stomach, and Sam laughs. ‘Lemon curd and marmalade.’

‘They sound okay; my mum does lemon curd tarts, sometimes.’

‘Lemon curd and marmalade together.’

‘I think you need a Jaffa cake.’

Sam plunders the supplies, then she watches intently as I nibble the chocolate off, then remove the sponge, and finally savour the orange bit.

‘Wow, I needed that.’ This could be the closest I get to orgasm for a while. I take another. Sam can’t bear the suspense and snatches the box away.

‘So, what was so urgent? She’s okay is she? Not ill or . . .’

‘She’s fine. More than fine.’

‘Oh God, she didn’t find out about that nasty email you sent to Shooting Star?’ She clasps her hand to her mouth.

I shake my head. ‘Not quite.’

‘What do you mean, not quite? Tell me, woman!’

I haven’t quite worked out how I feel about this yet, which is why I suppose I’ve been reluctant to say it. Because once it’s out there, then there’s no going back. ‘Aunt Lynn has sprung a surprise. She’s got to go to Australia to see her old mate Ralph.’

‘But . . .’

‘He’s dying. Might not last until the new year.’

‘Oh.’

We both take a moment, and another Jaffa cake.

‘So why aren’t you going to Australia? I mean, Australia’s nice. You could have Christmas on the beach!’

‘I don’t want to be a gooseberry, or kiwi, and she needs to be on her own with him. So, I said I was going to see Mr Brain-freeze Will Armstrong. I kind of jumped in without thinking about it, so she wouldn’t feel bad.’

‘Aw, that’s so nice.’

‘Look out world, Saint Sarah is coming.’

‘Well,’ there’s a heavy undertone of doubt, ‘you did want to go, I suppose. But, not on your own, not at Christmas.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘I know! I can come!’

‘You’ve got Jake and your family. And I’ll be fine, Sam.’

‘But, on your own?’

‘I’ll meet people, you know I’m good at that. And I am working, remember?’

She stares at me. ‘But for actual Christmas?’ I nod. ‘And you deffo can’t take Callum?’

‘Nope, I dumped him last night.’

‘Ah, so that’s why your hair’s blue.’ She knows me well.

‘It might have a bearing.’

She raises an eyebrow and ploughs on. ‘But you can’t spend Christmas all on your own.’

‘Well, I won’t be completely alone. Mr Armstrong hasn’t frightened off all his guests – yet.’

‘You know what I mean. You’re not going with Lynn, or anybody?’

I shake my head, not wanting to voice the fact that there isn’t an ‘anybody’, and instead grab another Jaffa cake. I need sugar.

‘Well that explains why she rang and told me she was shutting up shop for two weeks over Christmas, then.’ She gets up and puts the kettle on. ‘Paid leave!’ She smiles. ‘How generous is that?’

So, Sam gets paid leave and I get a fully inclusive break in a snowbound, rundown holiday resort with the Anti-Christmas.

And he’s already decided I’m an idiot.

‘There’s more.’

‘More?’

I hand her the slip of paper and watch the emotions flicker across her open features. If it was me, there’d be a hell of a lot of conflict going on there. Fear, doubt, envy, disbelief. Sam just grins.

‘Bloody hell, Sare, this means you’ve got a five-year plan! That is so—’

‘Not me?’ Sam know what I’m like. She knows I always like an escape route. That I can’t even commit to a hair colour, let alone a man or a job.

‘So amazing! It’s brilliant.’

‘It is? Sorry, I mean it is.’ I try and sound positive.

‘You love working here, and you’ll be able to look at new places, and redecorate.’ I raise an eyebrow; she’s getting carried away. ‘And tell Will Armstrong where to get off. It’s ace!’

‘I’ve never thought about even a five-day plan before. Five years is a bit . . . well, a bit somebody else, not me.’

‘You don’t have to think of it like that, though, do you? I mean, you were never going to just up and bugger off and leave Lynn and me in the lurch, were you?’

She has a point. ‘Well, no, but—’

‘This is just kind of giving you more power!’

I stop my self-indulgent worrying and give her a big hug. ‘Oh Sam, where would I be without you?’

‘Buggered, which means you can’t sack me!’

‘I’d never sack you.’

Her eyes are twinkling. ‘But you are going to sort Will Armstrong out?’

I take a deep breath, disentangle myself and turn back to my computer. ‘Yep, my first priority as,’ I pause; it seems a bit out-there to say it, ‘a company director.’

I click a button on the keyboard, my fingers crossed under the desk.

Booking confirmed.

‘All done, an all-inclusive break at the Shooting Star Mountain Resort. Watch out, Will, here I come.’

Bugger, what have I done?

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