The Christmas Stocking and other stories by Katie Fforde

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Also by Katie Fforde Living Dangerously The Rose Revived Wild Designs Stately Pursuits Life Skills Thyme Out Artistic Licence Highland Fling Paradise Fields Restoring Grace Flora’s Lot Practically Perfect Going Dutch Wedding Season Love Letters A Perfect Proposal Summer of Love Recipe for Love A French Affair The Perfect Match A Vintage Wedding A Summer at Sea A Secret Garden

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1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Century 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road London SW1V 2SA Century is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

Copyright © Katie Fforde Ltd 2017 Katie Fforde has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain by Century in 2017 www.penguin.co.uk A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781780896915 Set in 12.5/17 pt Palatino LT Std Typeset by Jouve (UK), Milton Keynes Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc Penguin Random House is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

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Dear Reader, Who would have thought there were so many different ways of experiencing Christmas? Although of course there are as many Christmases as there are people, I’m only used to having the one. I had great fun writing these stories; in fact I think I slightly prefer my Christmas to be in story form. I have a bit more control over events that way!

So here is a brand new book of Christmas short stories for you. I did one a couple of years ago ​­ – ​A Christmas ​ ­Feast – ​and that was such a great experience that I decided to do another. Last time, all except one of the stories had been featured in magazines over the years. That little volume used up all my existing supply however, so this time only two of the ​­stories – ​A Christmas Candle and A Christmas in ​­Disguise – ​have appeared before and that was in digital form only. All the others are brand new!

One of them was inspired by my ​­grand-​­dogs, so called because although they belong to my daughter. I helped hand rear them when their mother tragically died a year ago. They are a joy to us all, even though they covered my house in mud regularly until finally we fenced off the pond. They also love to embarrass me in front of my daughter and her husband, by clambering on my furniture and generally doing things that they know they aren’t allowed to do at home! Which proves I’m not a fit ​­grand-​­dog mother at all!

I do hope you enjoy these stories, and that they may offer you a little light relief when real-​­ ​­ life Christmas is getting a bit frantic!

With love and Happy Christmas Katie xxx

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To Annie and Wilson, my much loved grand-dogs.

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Contents

The Christmas Stocking and Other Stories A Dream Christmas Candlelight at Christmas Dogs Are for Christmas A Christmas in Disguise The Christmas Fairy Sneak peak of Katie’s new novel

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1 63 111 187 253 321 397

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The

Christmas Stocking and

Other Stories

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The Day Before Christmas Eve It was Saturday morning, the day before Christmas Eve, and the mild, damp Christmas weather had suddenly bucked its ideas up and turned cold. Romy was suddenly freezing.

She’d been selling Christmas decorations in an old station building at a bustling Cotswold Christmas market and she’d done well in the first two hours. But now, in spite of wearing masses of layers under her leather jacket (including her ​­not-​­very-​­cool thermal vest), two pairs of socks under ​­long-​­haired sheepskin boots, a pair of stripy leg warmers over her jeans (a later addition, courtesy of one of the 3

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other stalls), and a furry trapper hat, the cold was beginning to penetrate.

She looked longingly at the refreshments stall that was doing great business. She’d been up at the crack of dawn and she’d only managed to grab a banana and muesli bar on her way out. Also, her boiler had just broken down so the shower had been tepid and the flat freezing. A cup of something hot, and may be a bacon butty, would give her stamina for the day ahead. But if she ran over to buy a cup of tea she might miss valuable sales from the group of people, mostly men, who’d just entered the building.

Although it was only about twelve o’clock they’d obviously just come from the pub. They probably thought they were getting their Christmas shopping done early, with Christmas Eve still to go, perhaps safe in the knowledge that they only had one present to buy. Adoring wives and girlfriends no doubt would be buying presents for mothers, sisters, ‘Auntie Flo’s and anyone else necessary.

She noticed a man come in behind the group and at first she couldn’t tell if he was with them, or on his own. He was wearing motorbike leathers and had a sort of swagger about him. He had slightly long, dark blond hair and walked with determination. As he didn’t appear to be drunk and wasn’t wearing a crumpled suit, she decided he was on his own.

Romy reckoned he was here to buy a present for his girlfriend or his wife, and so she gave herself a 4

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minute to stop finding him rather attractive and think about her own boyfriend. Gus was waiting for her in France, with his parents, getting ready for a big family Christmas. She looked around her stall, wondering, for the ​­seven-​­thousandth time, if his family would appreciate her presents, samples of which she was now selling. There was a difference between ‘​­home-​­made’ and ‘​­hand-​­made’ and she was going for the ‘​­hand-​­made, personalised look’.

She’d met Gus’s ​­ ex‑​­ pat parents, who lived in France but didn’t seem to speak a lot of French or have many French friends. His two sisters she had checked out thoroughly on Facebook. They were​ ­nice-​­looking, sensibly dressed and looked like advertisements for Boden with their shiny blond children, whose white teeth were evidence of regular trips to the dentist and limited access to fizzy drinks.

For the elder sister, who had three children, Romy had done a set of ​­frosted-​­glass jam jars with silhouettes of Mummy and Daddy, all three children, and the dog (a Labrador). She had been aiming for a generic child but actually she felt she had achieved likeness. It wasn’t an ideal present to be carrying on a budget ​­airline – ​she hadn’t wanted to spend extra money on hold luggage – ​ ​­ but she thought they were nice. For the younger sister’s two little boys she had painted plain white lantern fairy lights with figures from Minecraft. Finally both women, and their mother, were getting silk scarves, ​­hand-​­painted 5

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by Romy. Perfect for carry‑​­ ​­ on luggage. She would buy presents for the husbands at the ​­duty-​­free shop.

Alcohol was always acceptable.

As she ran through the checklist in her head whilst surveying her stall, Romy felt a swell of pride at her handiwork. She’d been working so hard this season, doing all the local markets and Christmas fairs, selling her Christmas decorations. It wasn’t a major earner but, apart from the rent for the stall, it was almost all profit. And it topped up what she earned from her part-​­ ​­ time job while she was doing a master’s. She was proud of the decorations and only hoped Gus’s parents would appreciate them when they opened their presents.

Thinking about them as a family she reflected that while they were all kind enough, they were very hearty and, going by the parents, had loud voices. She didn’t really object to the volume, it was the backslapping and teasing that was only just the right side of cruel that bothered her. And they all thought that anything not entirely practical, like art, was a complete waste of time. To make matters worse Romy knew she had only been invited to France because Gus had told his family her own parents were going to New Zealand for Christmas. Really she would have preferred to spend Christmas with friends, but she would have felt ungrateful turning down the invitation.

Gus was lovely, of course, and Romy had been mad about him when they’d first got together. But 6

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a year in she sometimes wondered if she’d only been attracted to him because he was so different from her previous boyfriend. He’d once admitted to her that his friends were all a bit shocked that he’d chosen such an arty, indie type while at the same time envying him for having such a gorgeous girlfriend. When they first met he had asked her rather anxiously if she had any tattoos. She hadn’t, but his question made her think of getting one, a bat perhaps, on her wrist. This trip to France would be a bit of ​­test – ​if their relationship survived they were probably meant to be together. She wished she didn’t feel so ambivalent about it all: the Christmas and the relationship.

‘Here,’ said a voice. ‘I thought you could use this.

You look cold.’

It was the man in leathers, handing her a mug of spicy hot chocolate.

She took it with a grateful smile. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘I certainly could use it. I hardly had time for a cup of instant coffee this morning and my boiler has broken.’ She took a heart-​­ ​­ warming sip. ‘Please, take a look round the stall and have something free. For your girlfriend, maybe?’

She hated herself for what must look like a blatant bit of digging but it was too late.

‘I have actually got her present,’ said the man.

Judging by his expression, he seemed fairly confident that his girlfriend would like it. Romy knew 7

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it was silly to be disappointed – ​ ​­ it wasn’t as if she was free ​­herself – ​but somehow she was.

‘Well, that’s good! Most men don’t even start thinking about it until Christmas Eve so you’re well ahead.’

‘I do need some Christmas decorations though; my house is a bit of a shell at the moment. My girlfriend’s been having an early Christmas with her family in Connecticut. I want the place to look amazing when she comes back. Make her really fall in love with it.’

‘Well,’ said Romy, having now sipped enough hot chocolate to warm her up. ‘Christmas decs are what I specialise in. All made by me. And there are these, in case you missed them.’ She gestured to a jar on the floor that contained white-​­ ​­ painted branches. On the branches were decorations made to look like​ ­hot-​­air balloons. Every one had a single battery light so from a distance the branches looked as if they were dotted with stars. Close up you could see the individually painted ​­egg-​­like shapes.

He inclined his head. He had a slightly unkempt look that seemed genuine and not deliberate. If it was deliberate, it was extremely effective. ‘I have to say, I was drawn to them when I first came in.’

‘But you stopped at the coffee stall first?’

‘I saw you stamping up and down and flapping your arms. I guessed you were cold.’ He was very twinkly, and impossible not to respond to.

Romy laughed. ‘Was I that obvious? I am sorry.

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I think this stall is in a bit of a draught or something.

Everyone else seems fine.’ In spite of his ‘​­bad-​­boy’ good looks, he had a very kind smile. She experienced a pang of jealousy for the girl who had parents in Connecticut. ‘So!’ she said briskly. ‘What would you like?’

‘I think I’d like all of them,’ he said after some thought.

‘I ​­can – ​­happily – ​give you one, but not all of them.’

‘And ​­I – ​­happily – ​will pay for all of them. I’ll have my one free one too, of course. And everything else you have left. I want to make a big impression.’

He grinned. Romy coughed and looked down at her decorations. He was far too attractive for her own good, she decided, but as a customer he was pretty much perfect.

‘Well, the ​­hot-​­air balloons are five pounds each,’ she said. This had put people off, although the work and effort that had gone into them had been enormous. ‘The bats are four pounds fifty and the jam jars with the tea lights – ​ ​­ although they are extremely​ ­pretty – ​are only a pound.’

‘In which case, I won’t have a free balloon. A hot chocolate isn’t worth a fiver.’

‘Have one of these then,’ suggested Romy. She held out a model bat made out of wire and black tights. She’d made several but they hadn’t sold well.

Bats were rather niche, she discovered.

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‘Oh, a bat!’ he said, sounding excited. ‘I like bats!’

‘You do? Then have a couple of them. No one else seems to like them. I suppose they’re more Halloween than Christmas. I think they’re rather sweet.’

‘I like them because they got me my house and music studio cheap.’

‘Clever bats! How did they learn that trick? It’s one I’d like to learn myself.’

He laughed. ‘Sadly they didn’t do it by being clever, only by nesting in the roof of the buildings, and as they’re protected they can’t be removed. And not everyone likes bats.’

‘So what sort of a house is it? If bats want to live there? It’s not an old church or anything, is it?’ She had a vision of bats streaming from a narrow arched window at dusk, with Dracula following ​­ – ​from a larger window, obviously.

‘It’s an old mill but it was empty for years and years and the woods have grown up around it. It’s going to be amazing when it’s finished.’

‘Sounds wonderful! I’ve always wanted to live in the woods, to wake up with the sound of the birds singing, to see the dappled sunlight filtering through the branches.’ She stopped. ‘Not in winter, maybe!’

She laughed and pulled off her hat. ‘It comes of having been nicknamed Goldilocks,’ she said as her blond curls revealed themselves.

‘All is now clear!’ he said, joining in her laughter.

‘You were destined to live in the woods!’

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‘I have thought of dyeing my hair black so I could pretend to be a bat. Then finding myself a home in the woods might be easier.’

‘Don’t do that!’ He sounded horrified.

‘No, it’s all right. A friend did it once and it took ages and hundreds of pounds for her to realise that, actually, blondes do have more fun. But now, your decorations? How many did you say you wanted?’

‘I want them all.’

‘Really? There are ten balloons, which is fifty quid straight off. I’d give you a discount of course.’

‘No need for that. Just add up how much it all costs.’

Romy did the calculation. ‘Let’s call it eighty quid.’

He had done the sum a bit quicker than she had.

‘I make it ​­ninety-​­five.’

‘No, with the discount for quantity, it’s eighty quid.’

‘Ninety!’

She shook her head. ‘Eighty is my final offer.’

‘Ninety! I want the branches as well.’

‘The branches are free. You could find your own​ ­branches – ​especially if you live in a wood!’

‘I suppose, but then I’d have to find white paint and a brush. I’d rather have yours.’

‘Go on then.’ This man had bought her entire stock, which meant she could knock off early and pack. Her flight was horrendously early in the 11

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morning and she had to catch a coach to the airport even earlier.

He frowned. ‘I’ve just thought. I came on my bike.

How would I get the branches home?’

‘Well, how are you going to get the hot-​­ ​­ air balloons and all the other decorations home?’

‘In my top box but I couldn’t manage the branches.’

‘Then man up and make new ones! You wouldn’t have to paint them white. Stick them in a bucket or something, like I’ve used. Fill it with sand, or earth or stones, and add the hot air balloons. That’s your Christmas tree done. Just add presents and chocolate.’

He didn’t respond but spent several seconds looking at her speculatively. ‘Actually, I wonder if I could ask you a huge favour?’

‘Ask away. I can say no.’ But realised she probably wouldn’t.

‘I need to get some ​­groceries – ​more than I can fit in the top box really. I was going to try and get the shopping delivered or hope I found a friend to get it back for me.’ He paused. ‘But would you take the groceries and the decorations?’

Romy didn’t think for long. Apart from anything​ ­else – ​and there were a lot of ​­things – ​he had bought her entire stock. Delivering it wasn’t too much of an ask.

‘OK, I’ll do it. In exchange for a tour of your house.’

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