Love and Lies at The Village Christmas Shop: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for Christmas 2018. Portia MacIntosh
feigning enthusiasm.
‘It is a tree,’ I reply. ‘Do you like it?’
My sister forces a smile. ‘It’s great,’ she eventually says. ‘I’d better go check on the chicken.’
My sister hurries back into the kitchen so I leave the kids admiring their handiwork and follow her.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I ask her.
‘You know I don’t really like Christmas all that much.’
‘I know, but you’re worse this year,’ I point out.
‘How’s the shop doing?’ she asks, changing the subject.
‘Meh,’ I reply. ‘I’m hoping it picks up now it’s December. It’s just so hard, because no one knows we’re there, now that cars don’t really drive past anymore.’
‘You not fancy going back to plan A?’ she asks.
‘The shop has always been plan A,’ I remind her. ‘What you’re talking about is just something I did because Mum wanted us to do something different and come back to the shop if we wanted to. And I wanted to.’
Our mum was always adamant we do our own thing; she didn’t want us to feel pressured into joining the family business. So, after school, as well as working part-time in the shop, I pursued a career in catering, eventually training in patisserie and confectionery before getting a job at Walters, a shop on Main Street that makes and sells chocolate and sweets. It turned out that cooking was something that came naturally to me, and while I knew the shop was safe in my mum’s hands, it was something I was more than happy doing full-time. But then, when my mum died, my priorities changed. I knew that stepping up to take over the shop was the right thing to do.
‘That reminds me,’ I say, grabbing a bag from under the kitchen table. ‘I brought the kids advent calendars from Walters.’
‘Oh, I already got them ones.’ Holly points to two, not-very-exciting-looking advent calendars.
‘Where are they from?’ I ask.
‘Buy one get one free at the petrol station.’
‘These are the ones Mum used to get us,’ I say, showing her. ‘They deserve special ones.’
‘So mine aren’t good enough, but amazing Auntie Ivy comes along with her fancy ones and—’
‘Hey, I’m not trying to steal your thunder, I just thought they’d love these. I won’t say they’re from me, just say they’re from you.’
‘Can I pay you for them?’ she asks.
‘No, you’re my sister, you cannot pay me for them. Just take them.’
With a shake of her head, Holly takes the bag from me.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I ask again. ‘I’ll stop asking if you want but you just don’t seem OK.’
‘Ivy, I’m fine,’ she says slowly.
‘OK,’ I say, because what else can I say? But for some reason, I’m just not convinced.
Today I did not sleep in, nor did I forgo getting dressed before opening up the shop so, despite the usual lack of custom, I’m already having a great day.
I have adjusted the countdown to Christmas (it’s 23 days, in case you were wondering), turned up the Christmas music (we’re kicking things off with Michael Bublé’s cover of ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’, which is much better for morale than yesterday’s offering), made myself a cinnamon latte and I’m currently reading my book and tucking into a slice of pistachio panettone that I bought from the deli in town. As mornings go, this isn’t a bad start.
I’m not so deep in my book that I don’t notice a customer walk in today. As I hear the door, I snap my book shut and place it on the counter.
‘Good morning,’ I say brightly, snapping into professional mode.
As I look up I realise that it isn’t just any customer, it’s Seb, here again. He’s wearing a grey suit with a long black coat and a black scarf. He’s a snappy dresser, with a really stylish, cosmopolitan look that I appreciate.
‘Good morning,’ the man replies. ‘Oh, you’re dressed today.’
‘I am,’ I reply. ‘And you’re here again – twice in two days – are you after another a snow globe?’
He laughs. ‘I am not.’
What is he after then? If he’s not here to buy something…is he here for me? He’s not…he’s not here to ask me out, is he? I mean, I’m flattered, he’s obviously good-looking, rich and successful, but I’m not after a fleeting encounter with a tourist.
‘I’m just having another look around,’ he says. ‘Don’t let me distract you from your book.’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I assure him.
‘You a big romance fan?’ he asks, eyeballing the cover.
‘I’m not just into romance, I’m into a bit of everything,’ I reply.
As I watch Seb’s eyebrows shoot up I realise that what I just said didn’t sound exactly as I intended it.
‘I mean as far as reading goes,’ I clarify.
‘I see.’ He laughs again. ‘I dated a girl who was obsessed with the Fifty Shades books. I didn’t see the fascination with those.’
An awkward silence follows.
‘Do you read?’ I ask him.
‘I don’t,’ he replies. ‘But I’m hoping that will change. I’ve always been so busy so, now, I’m looking for somewhere to settle down, run a small, easy business, where I’ll have more free time.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I reply. ‘Where are you thinking of moving?’
‘Here,’ he replies.
‘Oh really?’ I reply.
Suddenly, Seb isn’t just a tourist. The fact that he might be moving to Marram Bay changes everything. I’ve always thought I was too busy for relationships but there’s just something about Seb… Maybe he’s worth breaking my self-imposed man ban for. Business is pretty quiet at the moment, and other than hanging out with my sister’s kids, I have almost nothing going on in my life. Maybe I should go on a date with him and see what happens…even though it’s been so long since I went on a date, I don’t really remember what’s supposed to happen on them. As far as I remember, you just make awkward conversation before feeling largely disappointed, and going home alone. I’m pretty sure that’s right.
Seb’s phone rings, interrupting our conversation.
‘I’m sorry, I really need to take this,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe I’ll pop back in and see you later?’
‘I’d like that,’ I call after him.
‘Great,’ he replies. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
That sounds ominous… Then again, I did offer to show him the sights, so perhaps he just wants the benefit of my local knowledge.
I try not to think about it – although my mind is racing – busying myself with a few little jobs before grabbing my book again while it’s quiet. Just as the story starts to pick up, I hear the door again. It’s another familiar face: my landlord.
‘Ivy, hello,’ he says. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ I say,