I take a step back in surprise and quickly think better of it and check behind me, lest we have another nutcracker-related disaster. ‘You hate Christmas?’ I shake my head in disbelief. Surely he’s winding me up? ‘You own a Christmas decoration shop in the most Christmassy place in the country.’
‘Exposure therapy?’
‘Are you serious?’
He laughs a sarcastic laugh, which quickly turns into a wince of pain. ‘I didn’t think it through, okay? I usually do an office job but I needed a change this year. I took a wrong turn and pulled into your car park to turn around and saw a “Help Wanted” sign. And it seemed like a sign. You know, from the universe. And a literal sign. So I don’t own it, I just work here.’
‘I didn’t know there had ever been a “Help Wanted” sign up …’ I rack my brain, trying to think of a sign I might’ve missed. I go to push further but I realise how weird I must sound and stop myself quickly. ‘Sorry, it’s just that you’re selling off Nutcracker Lane stock …’
‘Am I?’ He looks around, seeming surprised by this. ‘I collected my keys this morning from Santa who was rolling his own earwax into balls and flicking it at passers-by. I have never been so grateful for antibacterial hand gel.’
It makes me giggle again, even though with that Santa, I doubt he’s joking. ‘All this stuff used to decorate Nutcracker Lane. Where did you get this from?’
He shrugs again but I can tell he’s being careful this time because it’s a muted shrug, and I want to ask him if he’s okay again, but he doesn’t seem like he’s going to elaborate either way. ‘I don’t know, it’s nothing to do with me. All I’ve been told is that the new owner’s selling off stock and needed someone to man the shop.’
‘It’s not his to sell!’
‘Well, if he’s bought the place, technically it is his and he can do whatever he wants with it …’ He sounds cautious, like he’s waiting for me to yell at him.
‘Have you met him? Do you know who he is? He sounds like an absolute monster.’
‘No.’ He shrugs with a blank look on his face. ‘Like I said, I’ve just got a job here until after Christmas. I needed to get out of the office for a while.’
‘And you thought this was the ideal place for someone who hates Christmas?’
He pushes his floppy hair back again. ‘Look, I may not have thought it through properly, okay? I needed to do something different while I still can, and this came up and I grabbed it. It was only afterwards that I realised what I’d be doing and how festive it’d be.’ He pulls a face.
While he still can? It makes it sound like he’s dying … Or like he’s a magical nutcracker come to life for a limited time … No. I have to keep repeating it until I believe it myself – he is not a giant nutcracker come to life who’s going to turn back into a wooden soldier on Christmas Eve. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing. Forget I said anything. I think we shook hands for so long that I feel like I’ve known you for months, not minutes. Ignore me, I probably hit my head harder than I thought.’ He rubs his forehead at the spot where he clonked it on the shelf.
I smile because, despite hating the thing I love most, there’s something about him. Something that makes me wish we were still shaking hands. Something that makes it impossible to look away from his brown eyes and hesitant smile. He must be in his late thirties, probably a couple of years older than me, and he’s definitely from around here because he’s got a local Wiltshire accent that’s warm and animated.
‘It doesn’t seem right that you’re selling stuff that doesn’t belong to you. Nutcracker Lane is all about handmade goods and shop owners who really care about their products, make bespoke orders for customers, and put their heart and soul into every festive season.’
‘Well, I’ll put my heart and soul into getting rid of this festive tat. Does that help?’
‘It’s not festive tat.’
‘No? God help the person who sees that Macarena-ing Santa and thinks, “That’s it! That’s what’s been missing from my life!” and rushes in to throw money at me and then Macarenas all the way home with it.’
His sarcasm makes me laugh and I let out a very unflattering snort that makes him smile his Flynn Rider smile again, and I really do have to stop staring. I force myself to turn away and my eyes fall on the miniature mechanical nutcracker factory in the window. ‘That used to mark the spot between Nutcracker Lane and the factory next door, and now you’re selling it for £96. And that snow.’ I point upwards as another flake of fake snow floats down from an unseen machine in the ceiling. ‘Nutcracker Lane used to have a snow machine but it broke down.’
‘I know, I mended it.’
‘You mended it? I thought you only picked up your keys an hour ago.’
Something flashes across his face but it’s gone in the space of a blink. ‘I’m a fast worker.’
I’m not sure I believe him. It took him ten minutes to inch his way up off the floor, but he has been missing from the shop for ages; it’s not unfeasible that he could’ve been out the back mending a broken snow machine. One-handed.
I’m distracted from the line of thought as singing reaches my ears. ‘The carollers are back!’
James groans, but I rush to the open door to see them. One of my favourite things about Nutcracker Lane was always the carollers. A group of women and men in
