‘Nutcracker Lane isn’t going anywhere, Nia. You’ve saved it. We’re coming back next year stronger than ever. That notebook you read yesterday was a blueprint of what this place needs straight from customers’ mouths. I wanted to know what people like and dislike, what’s been working and what hasn’t. Like I said, we’ll hire some proper wish-granters again and start doing charity drives and … everything. Everything like it used to be. Everything you’ve told me about since that night in the storeroom.’
‘And you’re going to give us the budget for all that, are you?’
‘Of course I am. One thing I’ve learnt from being here is that you get back what you put in. The more things are cut, the less people come. Look at this place in the past couple of weeks. People are talking about us all over social media because of what we did. If we put that kind of effort in all the time, more people would come.’
I’m crying again and I don’t know why. It sounds too good to be true, and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt recently, it’s that things that seem too good to be true always are. Even if you think they’re different this time. ‘How the hell can I ever trust you again, James?’
He doesn’t answer for a long while, so long that I think he might’ve managed to sneak away without me noticing. ‘I don’t know.’
And that’s all there is to say. The only thing I wanted from James was for him to be an honest, decent guy, and while I do think there’s some truth in everything he’s just said and he’s definitely decent, he’s very far from honest.
He’s quiet, but I hear the movement as he pushes himself up from the floor and hesitates, like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. His footsteps echo down the lane as he walks away. In the silence of the night, I hear the engine rumble of a car starting up and pulling out of the car park.
I don’t know how long I sit there for, but it takes me a while to wipe away the tears and get back to my feet.
I get up and collect my things, and walk home in the crisp, cold night air, every breath billowing in front of my face as pavement salt crunches under my shoes. I stop to look at the array of Christmas lights I pass. It’s two days until Christmas and I’ve never felt less festive.
Chapter 18
I’m woken up the next morning by a sharp hammering on the door. I bolt upright and stumble over the duvet cover that’s tangled around my legs. It was a restless night’s sleep and I feel like I’ve woken up every twenty minutes thinking about James, which on the positive side, has meant I’ve not spent the night panicking about the Christmas dinner I’ve got to cook tomorrow and instead how he won’t be here for it.
The hammering comes again and I scrub my hand over my face and rush down the stairs.
It’s half past seven. Who the hell …
My eyes are stinging in the brightness as I snap the hallway light on and drop the keys twice before I fumble one into the lock and throw the door open. I only realise I haven’t looked in the mirror when the courier takes a step back in alarm and then starts giggling to himself. ‘Woke you up, love. Sorry.’
I suspect he feels more sorry for himself at being faced with the sight of me first thing in the morning. At least it’s still dark out. A full daylight view would’ve probably turned him to stone, the poor man. At least the festive pyjamas are sure to have brightened his morning. It’s not every day a woman answers the door wearing much-loved, bobbled and faded flannel red-and-green check pyjamas with two giant candy canes on the front forming a heart shape. I’m probably one of those stories he’ll go back to the office and tell his colleagues about.
He hands me his machine and I scribble something that doesn’t even vaguely resemble my signature, and then he holds out a cardboard document envelope, takes his machine back, and wishes me a merry Christmas on his way down the path to his van.
I close the door behind him and accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. Wild Animal Control will probably be along any minute. I smooth my fringe down and shake my hair back so it only goes in four directions as opposed to the seventeen it’s currently sticking out in as I tear the strip off the document envelope, wondering who on earth is sending me documents on Christmas Eve.
And why they look so official.
My eyes scan over the sheet of paper I pull out, although it may as well be written in gobbledegook and I have to put it down and go to the kitchen to splash water on my face in an attempt to make my stinging eyes work again and to double-check I’m not dreaming.
I pick up the letter again and blink a few times because underneath the embossed official header and addresses, it can’t possibly say what I think it says.
Dear Miss Maddison,
We act for Nutcracker Enterprises Incorporated, trading as Nutcracker Lane. We are writing to inform you that you have been named as a co-proprietor of Nutcracker Lane Christmas Village. Please make contact with our office when we reopen on January 4th and arrange a meeting to officially sign over a third of Nutcracker Lane into your name.
Please ensure you bring proof of identification with you.
If you have any enquiries, we will be happy to assist.
Yours sincerely,
B.G.D. Solicitors
Well, that’s one way to wake up. The equivalent of a bucket of ice water to the face. I read the letter again and again, but it still doesn’t make sense.
I scan the document
