Snowed In at The Wildest Dreams Bookshop by harpercollinschildrens

GRACIE PAGE

First published in the United Kingdom by Harper Fire, an imprint of HarperCollins Children’s Books, in 2025

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Chapter One

Ever since she was little, Ivy Pearson had imagined escaping Fox Bay, the tiny coastal town where she had spent her entire life. She had pictured a grand farewell. A tearful, cinematic departure at the train station. Her mum, begging her to stay, to reconsider leaving them for art school. Her little sister Liv, wailing, promising that she’d keep her side of the bedroom tidy if only Ivy would stay. Her best friend Raye, clinging to her, telling Ivy that life without her would be dull and boring. Teachers apologising for misunderstanding her creative genius. The cool kids admitting they had always secretly been jealous of her.

Because this was it. This was Ivy’s goodbye to Fox Bay with all its quirks and bizarre traditions and anyone who didn’t understand her artistic genius. She was going to Cornwall Art College in Truro, where she could finally start her new life as a painter and, she thought hopefully, as muse to an artist as brooding and introspective as herself.

In the event, her send-off committee had consisted only of her mum and Liv, waving cheerfully and asking her to text when

she arrived. Raye had already left for her textiles course in Glasgow. No one had cried and no one had begged her to stay. It had all been considerably less dramatic than Ivy had thought. And Ivy certainly hadn’t imagined returning to Fox Bay with her tail between her legs less than three months later.

When she had set off for art school, Ivy hadn’t exactly considered where she would spend the holidays. Perhaps one of her cool new friends would ask her to stay in their New York apartment or she would have been given an internship at a gallery in Paris. None of that had materialised. The many galleries she wrote to never replied. Three months in, her social life at college was best described as a disaster. And she had nowhere else to go but home.

So here she was, still in her ratty rainbow-striped cardigan, her long, red hair still wavy and unmanageable, still driving her mum’s old Fiat 500, still winding her way through the streets of a town she had spent years dreaming of leaving.

Cornwall Art College had not been exactly what Ivy had imagined. Yes, the buildings were beautiful, smart and modern. Yes, there were impossibly cool people with blunt fringes who discussed art theory over their sandwiches. Yes, the teachers wore long scarves and were terrifyingly intelligent. And yes, after years of feeling like a fish out of water, Ivy was finally among people as creative as herself. But for some reason, nothing about art college was clicking the way she had thought it would.

Part of the issue, Ivy thought as she bemoaned the lack of a functioning heater in the car, was that she hadn’t been able to

afford to live in the college halls. Instead, her mum had found her a room that was miles from the college on the top floor of an elderly couple’s house. It meant Ivy never seemed to be invited to the cool parties, where, presumably, intense artistic conversations were happening over red wine. And she’d failed to become anyone’s muse.

Correction. She had been someone’s muse, for a few short weeks. Raff from London, with cheekbones and a leather jacket, had asked her for coffee on the first day and they had instantly bonded over their love of Neo-Expressionism. For a few blissful weeks, it had been all Ivy had imagined – intense, 3 a.m. conversations about the meaning of life and whether it would have been better to be an artist in 1920s Paris or 1960s New York. But then Raff had dumped her at a toga party with the immortal line, ‘I just don’t think you’re my muse, Ivy,’ right before disappearing off into the sunset (or rather into the student union bar) with another first-year called Aurélie who – oui – was French and had transferred to Truro from the Beaux-Arts. She even wore a beret. How could Ivy Pearson, resolutely ordinary, from just up the road in Fox Bay, possibly compete?

To cap it all off, Ivy thought, as she forced the car into gear up the hill between her mum’s flat and the centre of town, passing the post office with its traditional hideous winter snowscape, her art was a flop. Unlike her adoring Sixth Form art teacher, Miss Wheeldon, her new tutors didn’t seem to think much of it at all. She was beginning to wonder if venturing out of the small pond of Fox Bay might have been a massive mistake.

In Fox Bay, at least Ivy had stood out. In a sea of tanned surfer kids, she and her best friend Raye were the striking, artistic types, with their love of indie music and ripped jeans. At college, it seemed that everyone saw themselves as striking, artistic types. Ivy was just one of many. Her heavy fringe and paint-spattered DM boots were practically a uniform at art college. And, far from being blown away by her work, her fellow students seemed almost . . . underwhelmed.

‘I just don’t really get it,’ drawled a tall, elegant girl called Imogen, when Ivy had presented her piece to the class, halfway through term. ‘It’s not speaking to me, you know, authentically?’

‘Yeah,’ said Raff, his arm slung round Aurélie. ‘I feel like your concepts are confused, Ivy. Maybe you need to be less rigid in your approach.’

Less rigid? What did that mean? Ivy understood that being an artist meant dealing with critics. But it seemed that no matter how hard she worked, her work was somehow lacking. As the first term drew to a close, as crit after crit had ended badly and the winter break loomed, she’d felt uneasy; that she wasn’t making the most of the opportunity she had wanted since she was little. She had to succeed. Art college was everything she had ever dreamed of. Her big chance. She couldn’t fail at the first hurdle – could she?

Her final tutorial of the term had taken place in the large first-year studio that smelled of turpentine. The end of term meant the submission of their first long-form project, a major piece of coursework. Everyone else had spread their work across

the long tables or hooked up projectors to display audio-visual work.

Ivy had known before she walked in that her project wasn’t great. Sheepishly, she had fiddled with the sketches and mumbled behind her curtain of red hair about permanence and ephemerality. The unimpressed silence that greeted her explanation said it all really.

‘Stay behind, will you, Ivy?’ her tutor Jess had said casually as the other students packed up to go. Jess had glossy black curls and wore jumpsuits with bold prints. She used phrases like ‘let’s try digging deeper into your practice’. She also didn’t suffer fools or floundering students. Ivy was starting to suspect she was one.

Ivy sat while the last students had left the room. Then she watched and cringed while Jess had slowly flicked through the half-empty pages of her sketchbook, frowning.

‘So,’ Jess said gently at last, closing the book, and turning her piercing green eyes on Ivy. ‘This final project. It’s worth thirty per cent of your overall grade you know.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ivy uncomfortably.

‘Remind me of the thesis here, will you?’ Jess tapped Ivy’s sketchbook with one black-painted nail.

Ivy scrambled for the words she had used earlier. ‘I was thinking about . . . exploring the relationship between impermanence and the – the ephemerality of self.’ Even as she said it, she wanted to cry. What did that even mean?

Jess nodded thoughtfully. ‘Right. Impermanence. Ephemerality. Aren’t they kind of the same thing?’

Ivy swallowed. ‘Um. Yes?’

There was another silence and then Jess had leaned forward. ‘Listen, Ivy. I know the first term at college can feel overwhelming. Especially with commuting and living off-campus. I’m very sympathetic to that, believe me. But this project is important. You know that, right? It’s your summative work for the first term. You can see how hard everyone else has worked. It has to be signed off when you get back after break. It is crucial to your overall mark for the year.’

Ivy nodded mutely.

‘And to be blunt,’ Jess continued, ‘right now, I don’t see a project. I don’t see anything.’

Harsh, Ivy thought. But, she had to admit, possibly fair.

‘You’ve got the technical skill, of course,’ Jess went on. ‘There’s no doubt about that. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. Your line work is excellent, really extraordinary – some of the best I’ve seen. But this course isn’t about being good at drawing. It’s about putting yourself out there, allowing yourself to be vulnerable.’ She tapped the sketchbook again. ‘At the moment, something isn’t working.’

Ivy bit her lip. The worst thing was that Jess wasn’t being unkind; she was being honest.

‘If you’re stuck,’ Jess added, ‘find what you care about. Draw that. And remember to . . .’

‘To dig into my practice, I know,’ finished Ivy.

Jess smiled. ‘You can do this, Ivy. I should be accepting the final projects now, but technically I can give you till the first

week back. Take the winter break to figure this one out. What matters to you artistically? What speaks to you? What do you enjoy drawing, what feels important? Find that and the rest will come.’ She pushed her chair back. ‘Let’s come back in January with some fresh ideas and a fresh attitude, okay? Because you have it in you. I know you do.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ivy. She had gathered up her work and left the studio that afternoon feeling nothing less than crushed. She had ducked past the student union, knowing that everyone would be in there celebrating the end of term and their successful projects, and driven back to her lodgings, miserable thoughts churning round her head.

Were ephemerality and impermanence the same thing? Yet again, Ivy had a growing suspicion she’d made the biggest mistake of her life. The last thing she’d painted with any conviction had been a half-finished seascape in September that she’d immediately flipped face-down on her desk. It had reminded her of home, and the last thing she wanted to paint was anything inspired by Fox Bay.

And now it was the end of term. The crowds of exciting, Bohemian new friends Ivy had thought she would make had obviously not materialised, nor had the longed-for internship in Paris. Ivy had no hot artist boyfriend to bring home and show off either. With no money and no offers pending, Ivy had realised she had no choice but to go back. Back to Fox Bay, back to the room she shared with Liv, to figure out her end-ofyear art project in a place she knew better than the back of her

hand, where literally nothing exciting or inspirational ever happened.

‘Of course you must come back!’ her mum had said delightedly down the phone when Ivy finally summoned the courage to call and admit defeat. Her mum was permanently enthusiastic about life and love, despite a succession of failed relationships. ‘I’m sorry the internship didn’t work out, but I can’t wait to see you and Liv will be thrilled. Not to mention everyone else here. Everything is exactly the same in the flat, love. We haven’t changed a thing.’

Ivy blinked back tears. It was comforting hearing her mum’s warm, lilting voice. But . . . everything is exactly the same. We haven’t changed a thing. She could just imagine it – the same mismatched furniture, the same cramped little kitchen, the same bedroom, one half papered in Velvet Underground posters and prints of expressionist art, the other covered in Lilo & Stitch and Minions.

‘Great,’ she said in a small voice.

‘Fox Bay will probably roll out the red carpet. Or at least, Fin will bake his special cheese scones for you.’

Fox Bay would be the same too, Ivy had thought gloomily. The bakery, with Fin setting out the bread at exactly the same time every morning (Ivy had to admit to missing those cheese scones). Wildest Dreams Bookshop, with its eccentric owner Josie doing sun salutations in the doorway. The Mariner’s Arms, with its resident golden retriever and Simi and Lou behind the bar. Old Bill, smoking his pipe in his sea captain’s hat;

Tamsin, selling her crystals; Skye, making coffee at the Driftwood Café; Kate at the surf shop teaching the new generation of surfers . . .

Nothing ever changed in Fox Bay and Ivy couldn’t believe that anything ever would.

‘And all your school friends will be so pleased,’ her mum had gone on happily. ‘Erin, Mei, Callum.’

‘They’re not my friends, Mum,’ Ivy muttered. ‘They think I’m a loser. They only used to invite me to things because they felt sorry for me. I bet they were relieved I never went.’

Mei, Erin and Callum were nothing like her and Raye. They did regular Fox Bay things like surfing and partying on the beach, while Raye and Ivy had preferred to listen to music in their rooms and plot their escape. And Raye had been non-committal about the break, wanting to hang with Cleo, her new girlfriend. Ivy wasn’t sure when she’d be back.

And there was another thing to consider. While Ivy’s mum was just about scraping together tuition fees for Cornwall Art College, Ivy would still need to work during the holidays. She needed a job.

‘I’ll ask around,’ her mum had said, clearly running through her mental roster of Fox Bay job vacancies. ‘Lou’s started doing delivery pizza, so maybe you could do some shifts with the car, but I’m not sure it’s quite taken off yet and the Fiat is pretty unreliable, as you know. Or Simi might need help behind the bar at the Mariner’s Arms now that Jacob’s away with Anna . . . I saw Skye the other day back for the

holidays, so I’m not sure there will be anything going at the Driftwood . . .’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ Ivy said. ‘I was sort of hoping for something during the day so I can do my project in the evenings. But if you hear of anything . . .’

‘I’ll do my best,’ her mum had promised.

But all her mum’s leads – handing out fliers for Old Bill’s new boat tours, wiping tables at the beach café – came up short. In the end, Ivy had rung Raye.

‘I’ve got the perfect solution,’ Raye told her. ‘Wildest Dreams. It’s the most low-maintenance job ever.’ She had worked at the haphazard bookshop part-time for years.

‘It’s incredibly chill,’ Raye assured her. ‘You remember – I was mostly reading or catching up on gossip. Okay it got pretty busy towards the end of last summer but that was exceptional circs. It’ll be perfect for your needs.’

Stacking shelves during the day sounded more appealing than pulling pints at night, Ivy thought.

‘Do you think Josie needs anyone?’ she asked.

‘I bet she does,’ Raye had said. ‘I just had to tell her I couldn’t help out this winter as usual. Josie is the best. If anyone is going to support your artistic endeavours, it’s her. She is all about living for your art. Besides, she’s too loved up with Fin these days to make anyone work that hard. You could do a lot worse than Wildest Dreams. I’ll text her now and ask.’

‘Thanks,’ Ivy had told Raye. ‘I guess I’m coming home. Are

you not coming back yet then?’ She’d tried not to sound too hopeful (or desperate).

Raye laughed down the phone. ‘And miss the end-of-term parties? No way! Besides,’ her voice turned coy, ‘Cleo’s parents are coming to Glasgow in a couple of weeks and she thought maybe we could all have dinner together. Pretty big, huh?’

‘Pretty big,’ said Ivy, trying not to sound like she cared too much whether Raye made it or not. Like she wasn’t at all jealous of Raye’s cool new life. ‘I guess I’ll see you when I see you.’

‘I’ll try and make it back for New Year,’ Raye said breezily. ‘And,’ she went on mysteriously, ‘wait till you see Fox Bay. I went back for Reading Week and let me tell you, you’re in for a surprise. Things have changed since you were last there.’

‘Really?’ Ivy said, hardly listening. ‘Change, in Fox Bay? I find that hard to imagine. Have they repainted the station sign? Or put in new speed bumps by the Co-op?’

Raye had cackled. ‘Just wait and see, Ivy. Wait and see.’

When Ivy reached the centre of Fox Bay, on her way to meet her mum and Liv at Cod Almighty for a homecoming meal, she realised that Raye had been right. Something had definitely changed.

Take, for instance, the train station. Forcing the wheezing car into a space, Ivy stared in amazement. Usually, only one or two passengers would alight at Fox Bay, if that. It wasn’t uncommon to be the last passenger on the train by the time it

made it all the way down the coast to the town. Today, though, crowds of people poured off the train, chatting excitedly.

Ivy climbed out of the car and caught snatches of their conversations.

‘This place is so cosy!’

‘Shall we hit the bookshop first?’

‘Or the Unmissable Gems of Fox Bay boat tour maybe?’

‘A cream tea at the Mariner’s?’

‘We need to get one of Fin’s cinnamon buns.’

Bewildered, Ivy headed along the pavement to Cod Almighty. Her mum and Liv were in the window, holding up a sign that read WELCOME HOME IVY! She went inside and allowed herself to be enveloped in her mum’s warm, slightly bony hug. Her mum was a whirlwind of energy, all sharp angles and elbows, with freckles and thick red waves of hair like Ivy’s. She was also the kindest person Ivy knew and an eternal joiner, signing up for everything from the PTA to the Litter Collection Team; all in spite of the long hours she worked as a receptionist at the doctor’s surgery.

‘Darling,’ she whispered into Ivy’s hair, ‘look at you! All grown up! My clever art student.’

‘We missed you,’ whispered her little sister, Liv, burying her own curly head into Ivy’s waist.

‘You’ve got so tall,’ Ivy said, extricating herself from her mum’s hug and rumpling her sister’s hair. ‘You’re going to be taller than me soon.’

Liv, who was nine years old, very practical and wanted to be

the next Sheryl Sandberg ‘so that someone in this family makes some money’ wrinkled her nose. ‘I doubt it,’ she said matterof-factly. ‘Your dad was six foot five and my dad was, and I’m quoting Mum, a short arse.’

‘I don’t think I said that about him, love,’ her mum said, going pink. ‘Come on. Let’s get Ivy some tea.’

‘What,’ Ivy said, gesturing to the people bustling along the pavement, ‘is going on here and what has happened to the sleepy little seaside town I left behind? Is there some new festival I don’t know about?’ It was the only explanation she could think of. Fox Bay had a penchant for eccentric traditions and festivals, going big on things like Pancake Day, egg rolling, midsummer rites and Samhain. But it was usually confined to the locals. Ivy couldn’t remember anything bringing in the tourists like this.

‘Of course, you haven’t been here since it all kicked off.’ Her mum had tucked her arm through Ivy’s. ‘Remember when that writer, Kathleen Lee, came here last summer? You were away on that residency, but I told you about it.’

Ivy remembered, of course. A celebrity romance author called Kathleen Lee had launched her book in a hidden bay in their town. The launch had gone viral, with an exclusive signing from Kathleen Lee at Wildest Dreams, stoking the book’s already mammoth pre-sales and turning it into a phenomenon.

‘But it wasn’t like this,’ Ivy said, bewildered.

‘Well everything just snowballed after that,’ her mum said.

‘Some big travel writer from the US wrote a feature calling Fox Bay England’s Secret Seaside Paradise. They said we were “the

UK’s answer to Stars Hollow”. And since then, it’s just been hordes of tourists.’ Her mum sighed. ‘Which I suppose makes this secret seaside paradise rather . . . unsecret. Good for the local businesses though. The bookshop is especially popular, of course.’

‘Wow,’ Ivy said. ‘I didn’t realise it had got so big. Is Kathleen Lee really that famous?’

‘She’s huge. There’s even talk of a movie of Ocean Deep. Although that might just be a rumour. I haven’t seen an announcement yet. You know what this place is like for gossip.’

As they navigated their way back to the car after finishing their chips, Ivy found that the town was indeed crawling with tourists, thronging the cobbled streets, taking selfies in front of Old Bill’s boat, posing with glass bottles fitted with tiny paper scrolls on the shoreline, buying crystals at Tamsin’s shop and having coffee outside the picturesque Mariner’s Arms.

‘Gosh,’ Ivy looked around in amazement. ‘It’s quite a change. I’m not used to seeing this many people at once in this town.’

Her mum laughed. ‘And you always said nothing happened here! Well, now look.’

It was true. Ivy had left to discover the outside world at the precise moment the outside world had come to Fox Bay.