Mandy Baggot is an international bestselling and award-winning romance writer.
The winner of the Innovation in Romantic Fiction award at the UK’s Festival of Romance, her novel, One Wish in Manhattan, was also shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Association Romantic Comedy Novel of the Year award in 2016. In 2024, Mandy’s novel, Desperately Seeking Summer became a Hallmark Original Movie entitled A Greek Recipe for Romance.
Mandy loves the Greek island of Corfu where she has a home. She also loves wine, cheese, Netflix, handbags and horse racing. Also a singer, she has taken part in ITV’s Who Dares, Sings! and The X Factor.
Mandy is a member of the Society of Authors and splits her time between living in Wiltshire, UK and Corfu, Greece. Find out more about Mandy on her website www.mandybaggot.com
Also by Mandy Baggot
Single for the Summer
Desperately Seeking Summer
One Christmas Kiss in Notting Hill
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For Rachel, who virtually propped me up with encouraging words as I wrote Christmas in a UK heatwave. Bad-ass, baby!
One Appleshaw Market Square, Wiltshire, UK
It was raining hard, close to freezing, and the windscreen wipers on Lara Weeks’s articulated truck were proving no match for the so-very-British winter weather. A mile. They had one mile to go before they reached the market square of her village, the every-second-house-is-a-thatch Appleshaw. Then the festivities could begin.
Turning up both the heat on the windscreen and the music – Taylor Swift singing a rendition of ‘Last Christmas’ through the Bluetooth connection – Lara focused on the road, blowing icy breath out into the cab. The ‘they’ encompassed the two Weeks Haulage trucks driven by her and Aldo. Aldo, her almost-brother, was in the lead vehicle carrying a huge, decoration-festooned evergreen complete with glittering lights of gold, red, green and a little out-there damson Mrs Fitch had had on special offer at the garden centre. Beneath the tree sat the whole tableau: Mary, Joseph, two sheep – who would be getting soggier by the second – the local MP’s pet goat Milo, a shepherd and three wise men. The three wise men were Mrs Fitch’s triplet grandsons who now, at thirteen, looked decidedly less than happy at being dressed in gold lamé.
But this was Aldo’s big night. The eighteen-year-old had been waiting almost his entire life to drive a Weeks Haulage lorry in the annual 1 December parade and finally he was getting his chance. He had passed his HGV test a few months before and it was Lara who had taught him everything he knew. Except maybe what to do when you had Baby Jesus rocking in a crib and it started to hail . . . Why didn’t it snow instead? That’s what it was supposed to do in December. A light sprinkling over picturesque Appleshaw to make it more festive Christmas cake rather than simply quintessential chocolate box.
‘Keep your speed down, Aldo. Just crawl along. There’s no rush,’ Lara said to herself, reaching to turn Taylor Swift back down. She eyed the CB radio on the dashboard. No one else she knew used CB except her dad Gerry’s haulage company. He’d got two brand-new trucks – Lara had called hers Tina – after a good spell of trading, but had insisted on keeping the old-style communication going. It’s tradition, he’d said. So here they were, handsets that looked like they belonged in a museum, alongside USB ports and built-in satnav. Lara took the walkie-talkie from its housing and put it to her mouth.
‘Aldo, do you copy, over?’
The handset found her lap, as she put both hands back to the wheel, visibility growing worse. She couldn’t remember a parade having weather quite as bad as this before. Perhaps no one would even be out to watch . . .
‘Lara? Is that you?’
Lara shook her head at the sound of Aldo’s surprised voice. As well as lorry-driving, she had also taught him to use the CB. The problem was, Aldo didn’t retain information very well, unless, like with the HGV driving, he was absolutely passionate about it. Trucks, football teams and anything Marvel
was about the extent of it. And lately, martial arts. If that obsession kept up she might need to suggest he slimmed down his growing Bruce Lee collection, perhaps focus on lighter kung-fu, like The Karate Kid . . .
‘Aldo, yes it’s me. You need to keep your speed down, over.’
A crackling sound commenced, like someone was crunching up tin foil, and Lara eyed her mobile phone, currently playing the music through the speakers. She could phone him . . . but what were the chances that Aldo would reach for his phone instead of going hands-free?
‘How do I keep my speed downover again?’ came Aldo’s reply. ‘I don’t remember that from the test, Lara.’
She forced in a deep breath. She was being overly cautious. Aldo would be fine. They were less than a mile away, going no more than fifteen miles an hour, and she was right behind him. What could possibly go wrong?
Suddenly Lara’s phone lit up and a side-eye to the screen showed a photo of her boyfriend, Dan. It was a picture of him in the summer, pulling a face, when she had made him suck on the biggest slice of lemon after a shot of tequila. She smiled, hitting the button on the steering wheel to answer safely.
‘Is everyone there or are they all hiding in the pub until the hail stops?’
‘What?’ Dan asked. It sounded like he was in a car. Either that or the ban on traffic through the centre of Appleshaw while the parade came through had gone awry.
‘I’m literally half a mile from the square now. Aldo and I are about to lead the procession through the town. Have you got a good spot? Is there anyone else there? It might be a great time for Mrs Fitch to sell those golf umbrellas.’
‘Is it the parade tonight?’
Lara laughed. He did like to tease her about the village’s quirks. ‘Very funny! Because it’s not like it’s always on the first of December or anything.’
There was no response. Just the sound of . . . motorway traffic?
‘Dan,’ Lara said. ‘Where are you? Because you know it’s my work’s Christmas party tonight too, right? You’re having melon, turkey and chocolate roulade.’
Still there was nothing. She would have thought the line was dead if it hadn’t been for the constant roar of an M-road. ‘Dan, did you hear me?’
‘Listen, Lara, I’m not going to make it tonight.’
She bit her lip. This was the third time Dan hadn’t been able to make it to something that was important to her. He hadn’t made the fun day at the haulage yard when he’d said he was going to help with the barbecue and he hadn’t come to Aldo’s eighteenth birthday party at the social club before that. There had been a disco that night, a killer darts competition and Aldo had drunk cocktails from a bucket he’d also needed to be sick in later on. Lara’s best friend Susie was a relationship guru, and she had told Lara how to handle these sorts of moments. Play it cool. No one likes Little Miss Shrink-wrap.
‘Oh, well, that’s a shame but . . . never mind.’ She swallowed. It felt unnatural. She was annoyed with him. Angry even. And it felt very alien to hold that frustration in. She didn’t do holding in emotion very well . . . not keeping a lid on it had almost earned her points on her licence last year. A car had pulled out in front of her lorry and she had blasted the horn and shouted some choice expletives. Then, at the next set of traffic lights, she had screeched Tina to a halt, leapt down from the vehicle and confronted the driver . . . who happened
to be a policeman in an unmarked car. ‘You got my text about Christmas though?’
Susie said always follow up the let-down with something positive. Make plans. Remind him, and yourself, of all the other good stuff you have coming up. It was a case of keeping things fresh and not being complacent. They had been together two years. Things weren’t exactly Interflora and Thornton’s. They were more garage carnations and Dairy Milk. But that was fine. That was normal. What mattered most was they loved each other. And Dan was her window to the world, with his job in hot-tub sales that took him all over Europe. She’d ask him about these trips when he got back, and he would tell her about the little pavement cafes in Paris, the canals of Amsterdam and the buzz of New York’s Manhattan. As much as she loved the cosiness and quaint charm of Appleshaw, she loved to hear stories of a different real life going on in every corner of the globe.
‘Lara . . . I thought you’d been at home now,’ Dan replied. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘It’s the first of December so I’m driving a truck. Like I’ve driven a truck on the night of the first of December since I was eighteen.’ Six years ago, it had been her first time leading the procession and she’d almost jack-knifed on black ice. ‘So, anyway, Christmas Eve, Aldo wants to do Chinese and a film, Christmas Day we’re going to Mrs Fitch’s for lunch and Boxing Day I thought we could—’
‘Lara, I’m sorry . . . I can’t do this any more. I . . .’
‘Dan . . . I think you’re breaking up,’ Lara called, adjusting her position slightly, trying to listen hard while maintaining a hard visual on the back of Aldo’s lorry.
There was a sigh, then: ‘Yeah,’ Dan replied. ‘Something like that.’
‘Dan . . . I don’t think I’m hearing you properly.’
‘Lara, I don’t know about Christmas. I think . . . I think I need some space.’
She hit the brakes hard, the hissing sound rising up like a hundred angry cats had all started fighting with each other. There was a definite shifting of her load and she instantly regretted the action. On the back of Tina were the Second Appleshaw Scout Troop, and their depiction of Christmas Through the Ages included a tableau of the various John Lewis adverts. There were boys and girls in penguin suits, snowmen, large full moons and a collection of boys dressed as wizened old men.
‘I . . . don’t think I heard what you said,’ Lara stuttered. The hail was hammering at her windscreen now as she sat stationary, Aldo’s back lights rolling away from her.
‘Lara . . . I think we should go on a break.’
She racked her brain for a Susie-style interpretation of this. What was the best thing to say? What did he mean? Think! Think! Something positive and plan-making! Quick!
‘We should get away,’ Lara blurted out. ‘We haven’t been away since . . . the camping trip.’
‘Lara . . .’
‘We could go camping again. It was fun, wasn’t it? Sitting around the fire, toasting marshmallows, drinking that awful cider, feeding the rabbits the horrible chips from the chip shop . . .’
‘It’s December,’ Dan said.
‘I know but . . . we could go in Tina.’ She felt hope spark in her chest. Her lorry was full of all the modern trucking conveniences, including heating. ‘I’m sure Dad wouldn’t mind, just for a few days. It’ll be cosy. It’s got the bed and we could fill the cool-box with beer and find a great band to go and watch and then we could—’
‘I need to get away for a bit,’ Dan stated. And then there was an out-breath. ‘And . . . I think we should have a time-out.’
A time-out. It sounded like something you gave a naughty child as punishment. Lara was desperately thinking for an alternative explanation but right now it sounded like Dan was breaking up with her.
‘I’m going to Scotland for Christmas,’ he said quickly.
‘Oh.’ What else was there to say? This felt all wrong.
‘A friend has booked a lodge up there and—’
‘Which friend?’ Lara asked. ‘Derek?’
‘No.’
‘Smooth Pete?’
‘No.’
‘Then who?’
There was a throat-clearing that sounded nothing short of guilty. ‘You know Chloe . . . from the golf club.’
Chloe from the golf club! Cleavage Chloe. Her boyfriend was spending Christmas in a lodge in Scotland with Cleavage Chloe! This couldn’t be happening. Lara held her breath and closed her eyes, only coming to with the sound of questioning voices coming from the back of her rig. The scouts. The Advent Parade. Her almost-brother, Aldo. She was in the middle of a very important job. She put the lorry back into gear and put her foot to the accelerator.
‘There’s others going too. Sam and Fiona. Darren and Amanda—’
‘But not me,’ Lara said. ‘You haven’t invited me.’
Why hadn’t he invited her? Scotland at Christmas sounded romantic. It was bound to snow. There would be log fires and single malt whisky, tartan rugs and . . . kilts. Dan in a kilt. He had such great legs . . . and now those legs would be in Scotland
for Christmas along with the rest of him . . . and Cleavage Chloe.
‘I think we need to . . . think about things . . .’
‘Well, what things? Tell me what we need to think about and we’ll think about it,’ Lara said. ‘We can think in Appleshaw, can’t we? I know I can. Why do you have to go to another country to think?’
‘I need a bit of space and time—’
‘Why?’ Lara said. ‘I don’t understand what for.’
‘To work things through.’
‘What things, for God’s sake?!’
‘To work out if—’
‘Dan! I’m seconds away from the Appleshaw Silver Band’s rendition of “O Holy Night”.’
‘To work out if . . . I still love you.’
It was at that second that Aldo’s back lights became visible again . . . and so close. So close that Lara wasn’t sure she was going to be able to stop in time. Her options were limited now she had reached Appleshaw’s centre. She either smashed into the back of the vehicle containing the Messiah, his parents, the Magi and the villagers’ livestock or she took out the soup stall . . .
‘Lara,’ Dan spoke over the phone. ‘Lara, are you OK?’
Two Appleshaw Social Club, Appleshaw
‘Best bit of driving I’ve ever seen, Doug. I’m telling you, my girl could do that truck racing they have at Thruxton.’ Gerry Weeks ate another mouthful of turkey and stuffing before carrying on. ‘Skewed that unit in double quick time, missed the soup stand by inches and not one of them scouts lost a woggle.’ He let out a hearty laugh and slammed his hand down onto the table. Aldo copied him, gravy splattering up from his plate. ‘Lara, you might have to re-enact that move in the yard. Teach the other drivers,’ her dad concluded.
Lara said nothing. Tonight was supposed to be the first night of the beginning of her favourite time of year. She might have avoided disaster in the square but, after Dan’s words, there had been no festive joy in the proceedings for her. Usually Dan would be there, teasing her about the traditions – Mrs Fitch selling her Christmas pudding woollen hats, Flora giving out her home-made mince-pie whisky, the school children determined not to let anyone go home without purchasing a zip-lock bag of ‘reindeer food’ (basically Quaker Oats and glitter). But he hadn’t been there. Wasn’t here now. Would be spending Christmas in the Hebrides. Wanted to go on a break . . .
Lara picked up her second pint and took three good gulps. When in doubt, turn to probably the best lager in the world. Except it wasn’t quite hitting the spot. She wasn’t in the mood for a party. She felt like going back to her barn and crying like her heart had been ripped out . . . which it had. She hadn’t even gone home to get changed before coming here. She had planned black trousers and a Christmas vest top stating ‘It’s the most wonderful time for a beer’ but instead, while everyone else was sparkling in new shirts or dresses, she was still in her jeans, Dr Martens and Slipknot T-shirt. As was normal, the social club heating was belting out at full blast so her hoodie was on the back of her chair. It was hail-soaked anyway and needed to dry out. A bit like her hair. She had shoved her short, dark crop under the hand dryer in the ladies’ toilets but it was no Dyson Blade and her hair was still wet-wipe damp. And Susie hadn’t turned up yet either.
Lara’s best friend Susie Maplin was a hairdresser at Appleshaw’s Cuts and Curls. She had moved to the village from London with her parents five years ago, fresh out of hairdresser training. Mr and Mrs Maplin were fed up with the rat race and were looking for a little bit of English countryside peace and quiet. To begin with, Susie hadn’t been enamoured by the slow pace and far too many shampoo and sets but, when Wendy had given her total control over colour, extensions and basically anything twenty-first-century mane, Susie had come into her own, bringing a whole new wave of waves to the high street.
Lara looked at her phone and the background wallpaper. Her and Dan standing in front of her new, beloved, thankfully unscathed Tina. She needed to call him back. She needed to tell him going to Scotland was a mistake. That they should
spend Christmas together. Maybe she could go with him to Scotland. Granted, she could think of nothing worse than being in a cabin with Cleavage Chloe, but being there was certainly preferable to being in Appleshaw, knowing your boyfriend was in a cabin with a femme fatale. And she was a femme fatale. There were divorcees in the village who called her the Mantis.
‘Don’t you want your chicken, Lara?’ Aldo asked from across the table.
She looked up from her phone to her almost-brother. He was red-cheeked and grinning, his thatch of tightly curled Justin Timberlake hair showing all its ginger under the bright bulbs of the social club. He had added a bow tie to his plaid shirt, just like her dad.
‘It’s turkey, Aldo,’ Lara reminded him.
‘Don’t you want your turkey, Lara?’ he asked. ‘Or the sprouts. I really like the sprouts.’
She pushed her plate across to him. ‘Don’t eat all the sprouts though. You might end up being blown to Amesbury by the end of the night.’
Gravy drizzling down his chin, Aldo looked a little confused. He wasn’t the best at picking up subtle humour. Lara looked back to her phone as the first few bars of ‘Step into Christmas’ began from the disco.
‘I am sooo sorry I’m late!’ Susie threw herself down into the chair next to Lara, unwound a fake-fur scarf from her neck then removed a matching hat. The coat was next. ‘This woman comes into the salon at a minute to six – and I mean a minute to six – and wants her hair glitterised.’ She picked up Lara’s pint of lager and downed half of it. ‘Sorry . . . I’ll get us some more drinks in a minute. Anyway, so I’m halftempted to send her to the garden centre for that spray we
coat the outside plants in at Christmas but then I notice what she’s wearing: face-cheek to butt-cheek in designer. I’m talking Victoria Beckham jeans, Prada top and one of those very I’m-leading-the-fox-hunt Barbour jackets,’ she said breathlessly. ‘So, I look at Wendy and Wendy looks at me and I’m already deciding what I’m going to do. Well, to cut a long story short, I create this amazing fusion of pinks and purples and a little of that mermaid-blue Demi Lovato favours every now and then, then I roll her hair up into these two unicorn-horn-shaped cones and I cover the entire thing in this diamond dust I bought at that conference in Italy.’ Susie grinned. ‘She Insta-ed before she was even out of the chair and she has over two thousand followers! I’m hoping they’re all from the polo set, or at least members of the golf club.’
At the mention of the golf club, Lara’s delight at seeing her best friend waned absolutely.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late though, Lara. But I’ve heard all about the close shave with the soup stand – Flora caught me up on the way in – and it doesn’t matter that I missed the melon course, melon’s basically water, I’ll get some water when I get the next drinks in.’ Susie looked around the table, giving a feasting-on-sprouts Aldo a little wave. ‘Where’s Dan?’
Lara felt the hurt and rejection crush her chest like she was pinned to the wall by an out-of-control forklift. And she knew how that felt because it had actually happened once. Tears were welling up before she could keep herself in check. What did she say? What could she say?
‘Lara?’ Susie asked, putting a hand on her arm. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Dan . . . he . . . doesn’t know if he loves me any more. He wants to go on a break.’
Her words had tumbled out the very second the DJ had messed up mixing into the next tune and the function room plunged into silence. Suddenly, the inquisitive eyes of every partygoer were on her.
‘With Cleavage Chloe,’ Lara said. The whole room inhaled.
Three
‘I’ll pulverise him!’ Gerry declared. Aldo, next to him, threw a karate chop into the air. Everyone in the Weeks Haulage team were crowding around Lara at the bar in a show of solidarity. ‘When I’ve finished with him he’ll need physio to learn him how to smile again.’
‘Dad,’ Lara said, touching his arm. She hadn’t wanted this to come out tonight. Her dad worked hard every year organising the party. It was their big annual celebration. She didn’t want it blighted by her relationship drama.
‘I’ve a good mind to go round there now. Give him a piece of my fist.’
‘Dad, no,’ Lara stated hurriedly. She knew Gerry was at least three pints down already, and there was a quarter-drunk flagon of Flora’s mince-pie whisky on the Weeks Haulage table. ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’
‘I wouldn’t say it’s fine,’ Susie interrupted. ‘I’d say he’s being a complete dick.’
‘Dick!’ Aldo shouted angrily.
Lara closed her eyes for a second. They were all being so nice but equally they were angry, mad on her behalf, but she wasn’t feeling anything like fury. She felt desperately, desperately sad. This was her fault. Her and her small village mentality
had lost her Dan. Cleavage Chloe might work at the golf club, but Lara knew she travelled. She saw more than the inside of a truck and didn’t holiday at Haven campsites. Chloe probably had interesting things to say about sunsets over Santorini and eating tabbouleh. Lara was hungry for more than Appleshaw, but Appleshaw was the centre of her universe. Her dad, her job, Aldo, they needed her as much as she needed them. Her mum had left the village, and it had taken her dad a long time to pick himself and a six-year-old Lara up. Appleshaw was who she was. It, and the people in it, had helped raise her. But apparently Dan was done with it. And done with her.
‘We’ll excommunicate him,’ Gerry declared. ‘And that company he works for.’ He held his hand in the air like he was the preacher from Damnation. ‘Let it be noted down this night. As from the first of December 2018, Dan Reeves is not to be spoken to, written to, or communicated with in any way . . . and neither is Spa South.’ Gerry drew in a long breath, his bald head going bright red. ‘Let’s see how they transport their hot tubs now.’
Lara couldn’t listen to any more. She snatched up her hastily poured tumbler of Flora’s special brew from the bar area, almost knocking over the tinsel-draped charity pot, before retreating to a table in the corner of the room. It was the furthest seating area away from the fallout of her life and the disco, that seemed to be playing an early erection section starting with ‘When a Man Loves a Woman’.
‘Oh no you don’t.’
Susie was at Lara’s heels, nudging her arm before she could take a chair.
‘I’m fine,’ Lara snapped.
‘No, you’re not,’ Susie replied. ‘And I don’t blame you one bit. Not only has Dan done a really, really shitty thing to you
on one of your favourite nights of the year, but you’ve got your dad and Aldo and the rest of the drivers turning all biblical talking about burning at the stake and ostracising.’
She still didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? When your heart was breaking in half and you didn’t even know how to go about making it through the next few hours, let alone the rest of your life.
‘So, in order for me to help you I need to know exactly what Dan said to you.’ Susie sat down, slurping at her glass of mince-pie whisky.
‘What?’ Lara asked, suddenly coming to a little.
‘Well, you said that he said that he wants to “go on a break”. In my experience, that’s man-code for “I’m having a bit of a pre-thirty crisis, am worried about my age, my attractiveness to women, my ear hairs and my risk of prostate cancer versus how many pints it’s acceptable to drink on a weekend”.’
‘It is?’ Lara asked.
‘It’s classic, almost-thirty behaviour,’ Susie confirmed. ‘Remember Ruby at the Appleshaw Inn and her bloke, Trigger? He bought a motorbike and shares in a speedboat then said he was going off to “find himself”. Absolute classic case. And Dan is the same. He’s heading off to Scotland for Christmas because he thinks it’s different, new and exciting. It’s not playing Scrabble with your dad, Aldo and Mrs Fitch, not that there’s anything wrong with that but . . .’
The home-made whisky was starting to numb Lara’s senses a bit. ‘He knows I wouldn’t want to leave the family at Christmas,’ she began. ‘But he still made his decision on this lodge without even talking to me . . . and then why didn’t he say he was going there for Christmas and he’d see me for New Year? Why this “break” stuff as well?’
‘Pre-thirty crisis, like I said. So, what did he actually say? Word for word.’
As Lara thought back to that hands-free conversation in her truck, the sound of Christmas crackers being pulled filled the air, together with comments about the arriving dessert. Her group were making their way back to the table, but she didn’t want pudding. Right now she wanted to fill her system with as much booze as she could get her hands on.
‘He said he needed space . . . to go on a break . . . to have time out, no, to have a time-out.’ Saying the words out loud was making her feel sick. How could this be happening? They were good together, solid, comfortable . . .
Maybe that was the issue. Maybe she had got too comfortable. She had started leaving the door unlocked when she was in the shower. Dan often came in to clean his teeth. They hadn’t gone so far as using the loo in front of each other but . . . she had thought about it when he had been in there for more than half an hour and she was at bursting point.
‘Well,’ Susie said, triumphant. ‘None of that sounds like the end to me. It sounds like he wants to assert his control over the relationship. Remember? I told you that’s what men do, what they feel they have to do . . . to feel like men.’ Susie gritted her teeth and made a noise like a horny Viking. ‘Despite all the grooming products and apps that can do anything, they’re always going to act stone age. It’s written in their DNA.’
A tiny flicker of hope burnt a little brighter inside her. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Absolutely. I mean, Chloe, she’s . . .’
‘Hot.’
‘No . . . well, a bit, I suppose . . . if you like that sort of thing.’ Susie took a swig of her whisky. ‘Do you want me to stop doing her hair?’
‘You do her hair?’
‘I do every Appleshaw resident under-sixty’s hair! She has highlights and lowlights and colour . . . it’s a good couple of hundred quid every six weeks or so.’ Susie put a hand on Lara’s arm. ‘Anyway, you’re hot too. Super-hot. With that petite frame that says vulnerable and needs looking after, mixed with the feisty attitude that says you definitely don’t need propping up by anyone. Killer eyes. Fantastic hair – you’re welcome – and the funniest person I know, except for me.’
Lara swallowed. ‘He said he needed to work out if he still loved me.’ She looked to Susie for the next piece of relationship advice. A silence descended as the music went back to Slade.
‘But he must still love me now, right? To want to do the working-out-if-he-does bit.’
Susie’s flat expression was making anxiety trampoline in her chest. This was bad. This could go from being a break to a break-up. What was she going to do? What the hell was she going to do?
Lara stood up, her hand at her chest, feeling overwhelmed. She couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t focus. The room was beginning to spin, all its Christmas finery blurring into one big, glittery melting pot.
‘Lara,’ Susie said. Her voice sounded tinny, like she was standing from far away. ‘Lara, sit down.’
What did she do in December if it didn’t involve Dan? There would be no dressing the barn and falling into bed halfway through. No taking it in turns to write the office Christmas cards and seeing who got the septic tank company this year – she always fixed it so Dan did – Merry Christmas from us to poo. She felt sick and sweaty . . .
‘Sit down!’ Susie ordered, grabbing her arm and forcing her into her seat. ‘This is not happening. Do you hear me? Dan
is not going to make you fall apart like this. Lara. Lara, are you listening to me?’
She was trying to. Really trying to. She looked directly at her best friend, attempting to take in every subtle detail of her appearance. Her subtle mousy curls that had somehow survived both the freezing hail of the night and her hat, her honest green eyes, her lips slicked with a rose-coloured gloss . . . slowly Lara’s breath stopped catching, rolled over into a full exhale. She was getting back in control.
‘OK?’ Susie queried, still holding her arm.
She managed a nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Right then,’ Susie said decisively. ‘There are two courses of action open to us now. You need to answer one question.’
‘Do you want to make this work with Dan?’ Susie asked.
‘Do you love him?’
‘I think that was two questions,’ Lara answered gingerly.
‘Well?’
‘Yes,’ Lara said immediately. ‘Yes, of course I love him. Of course, I want to make this work.’
Susie clapped her hands together and rubbed them like she might start a fire with her hot palms. ‘Right then, I know just what to do.’
Four
Seth Hunt and Trent Davenport’s apartment, West Village, New York
‘I can’t do it! I cannot do it! This is nuts! Literally nuts!’ Trent put his hands in his short, blond hair and pulled. He made gorilla noises and thumped his chest as he strode around the open-plan apartment like he was caged.
From his seat at the diner-style table, Seth watched his friend in full-on meltdown mode. He should really video it. Despite the expletives falling from Trent’s lips, it would make a great comedy reel . . . Maybe he’d thank him for it later.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘I swear to God I am gonna sack my agent! Get this!’ Trent turned to face Seth, iPhone gripped in his hand. ‘He wants me to turn up to an audition today, like in an hour’s time, for a commercial. For nuts! Nuts!’ Trent screamed. ‘It’s nuts!’
‘What kind of nuts?’ Seth asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.
‘Seth! Man, are you for real?!’ Treat grabbed hold of the still-bare spruce they had installed in the apartment last night. They’d both been a little buzzed from drinks at Jimmy’s Corner in Midtown, seen the tree-seller on the way back in the cab
and made the driver stop while they purchased a fir that was no way going to fit in the taxi with them. Carried across the city to home in the West Village, it had been left to Seth to find some sort of vessel to prop it in – currently the bowl from the kitchen sink. He would ask his mom if she had a pot they could borrow when he caught up with her later. He looked to the notepad in front of him, the blank page he was supposed to be filling with questions . . .
‘Well,’ Seth began as Trent altered the position of the Christmas tree’s branches. ‘Nuts, pulses and raw diets of that stuff are big business these days. And Gwyneth Paltrow does it.’
‘Do I look like Gwyneth Paltrow to you?’ Trent asked, hands on hips, a study of pent-up frustration.
‘I don’t know,’ Seth said, angling his head a little. ‘Perhaps with a dress and a weave . . .’
‘OK, man, you can laugh but what auditions has your agent lined up for you this week?’
Seth put his pen down. ‘Trent, I wasn’t laughing. The total opposite. The nut commercial, it’s a chance for cash, right? We all need cash. It pays for this apartment and the cab fares to the auditions that matter.’ He sighed. ‘Plus, you know, it’s nuts. It’s something you can . . . crack . . . without breaking a sweat. The job’s yours already.’
‘Unless Junior Benson’s there again. God! That guy!’ Trent thrashed his arms out, fighting to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves. ‘No matter how hard I try I can’t look as urban as him. Every single audition and he’s there in his dope clothes, snapback on his head, breathing cool-hood like he invented it.’
‘Urban is a phase,’ Seth said, getting to his feet. ‘And nuts, they’re . . . sophisticated, they’re cashews and macadamia and—’
‘Monkey,’ Trent interrupted. ‘The brief said they were monkey nuts with shells you can eat, coated in cinnamon and honey.’
‘Jeez,’ Seth said. ‘How have they made shells you can eat?’
‘I don’t know! And I don’t care!’ Trent sniffed. ‘This is beneath me. It was only a few months ago I was in a film with George Clooney!’
‘And that will come again,’ Seth told him, slapping a hand to his shoulder. ‘Soon. But until then . . . I’d take a chance on the nuts.’
Trent sniffed, finally seeming to calm down a little. He pointed at the neon sign that hung on the bare-brick wall of the kitchen area. ‘There’s a light out on the coffee mug.’
‘I know,’ Seth answered. ‘I’m gonna get to it this morning.’
‘Haven’t you got anything on today?’ Trent asked. ‘I bet your agent has a whole stack of great things lined up.’
Seth didn’t reply. The truth was there was nothing. Not even a commercial for nuts. ‘Not really,’ he answered finally.
‘What about the Netflix series screen test you did?’
‘I’ve not heard back.’ And he’d had flu. He’d sweated a fever out all night while trying to learn the script and delivered the lines completely through his nose. He hadn’t even understood what he’d said.
‘But you’ve followed it up, right? Your agent has told them you’re gunning for the gig and you’re good to go whenever they are.’
‘I . . . don’t know.’
‘Come on, man. I got nuts! You’ve got—’
‘Nothing,’ Seth answered. ‘I got nothing.’ He let out a sigh and walked back to the table. He was beginning to get that creeping feeling he’d had just before he’d decided to try and make it as an actor. Disillusionment. Fear. The constant thought
that his time playing Dr Mike on Manhattan Med might have been the pinnacle of his career . . . and he’d gone and thrown that fame and regular salary away for a chance that hadn’t come off.
‘Listen, man, I might be feeling a little off about the nuts thing but that’s because I know I’m better than that,’ Trent stated. ‘And I’m not too stupid to know that I only have half your talent.’
‘Get outta here.’ He waved his friend’s claim away.
Trent cleared his throat. ‘Pardon me, but you got down to the final casting for Christian paddles-are-my-weapon-ofchoice Grey, did you not?’
Seth shook his head, a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘I can’t trade on that indefinitely. And the world knows I didn’t get the part.’
‘I blame your ass,’ Trent said with a long inhale. ‘When you do your squats at the gym you really gotta pull it on in. Suck that core to momma.’ He began a demo, crouching down in pants that didn’t look like they were going to withstand too much thigh-straining.
Seth brushed back his dark hair, then picked up the pen again, holding it over the notebook. He should have done this last night instead of going out with Trent. Now he only had a few hours before lunch with his mom and he wasn’t nearly as prepared as he wanted to be.
‘Listen, Seth, you’ve gotta get back out there,’ Trent said, raising one knee to his chest then the other. ‘Get your agent to get on to Netflix. Get on to the other studios. Big things, man.’
‘Yeah,’ Seth replied. There was little conviction. The reality was he was scraping by with what he had left from Manhattan Med. Just yesterday he had considered applying for a job at
the little coffee shop down the street. He might even accept part-payment in their melt-in-your-mouth bagels.
Trent pointed at him suddenly, his eyes wide. ‘I know what you need!’
‘Do not say another shot of JD.’
‘You need some publicity,’ Trent continued. ‘Get yourself under the public eye and into the news. It will give your agent something to really hang your hat on when he makes those call-backs.’ Trent pulled up the chair opposite and slid the notepad towards him. He took the pen from Seth’s hand before he could do anything about it. ‘What kooky humanitarian projects are going on right now? How’s your Twitter looking? You do use a management system to grow your account, don’t you?’
‘Trent, it’s ten thirty in the morning.’
‘And you’re out of the game, buddy. Come on, this needs to change.’ Trent put his hand out, fingers beckoning. ‘Gimme your phone. We’ll do a search. See if we can’t find something Christmassy and heart-warming to put Manhattan Med’s Dr Mike back on the map.’ He held up a finger. ‘How about the zoo? People love animals. There must be some ailing critters that need a bit of attention. I can see it now . . . Manhattan Med’s Dr Mike brings meerkats back to life.’ He paused. ‘How about your mother’s cause?’
Seth shook his head. ‘No.’
‘OK . . .’
‘I don’t know, Trent. All that stuff is more your thing than mine.’ Seth wasn’t stupid enough to think he could be an actor without social media, photo opportunities and promotion but it was his least favourite part of the role. One of the reasons he got into acting to begin with was because he delighted in having the chance to be someone else. It was so much easier
than facing head on where he had really come from – and that was starting today . . . if he went through with it.
‘Listen, man, do you want the nut job? Because if you need a shot of something right now, I’m thinking it’s confidence.’ Trent smiled. ‘And you could sell anything to anyone with those eyes.’
Seth smiled. ‘Trent, do not say anything like that in a bar, in company, like ever.’
Trent laughed. ‘Come on, man, humour me. Let’s hook you up with a cause.’
Five
Lara Weeks’s barnpartment, Appleshaw, UK
‘There can’t be nobody,’ Susie slurred, dropping her body down onto the rustic leather sofa. The seating was tan, worn and reminded Lara of saddles and cowboys. It smelt a bit like that too. Probably because the whole area was still barn-like despite the conversion that had taken place when she had decided to move out of the main house.
‘I know everyone in Appleshaw,’ Lara replied, stumbling a little as she headed to the tiny kitchen area for some glasses. She had hijacked the flagon of Flora’s mince-pie whisky and left the party as soon as the DJ had played ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’.
‘Well . . . what about Ian from the fish and chip shop?’
‘Susie!’
‘What?’
‘He looks about twelve!’
‘But he’s got to be over sixteen, because he’s been working there full-time for at least two years now.’
Lara poured the dark brown fragrant liquid into two oversized tumblers and sat down next to Susie. ‘I know, but sixteen is way too young and . . . I don’t fancy him.’ She took a swig, before cradling the glass in her hands and folding her legs up
underneath her, sitting back on the settee. ‘And at a certain angle he looks a bit like a fillet of haddock.’
‘You don’t have to fancy him!’ Susie exclaimed. ‘Dan just has to believe you do.’
‘Well . . . he won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I fancy Dan.’ Lara sighed. ‘We do talk to each other you know. And he knows who I like and who I don’t. We have played Kiss, Marry, Avoid.’ She had admitted to a slight girl crush on Jennifer Lawrence and Dan had concurred. They had laughed then, drunk more beer, ate peanuts and both pledged to avoid Keith Lemon at all costs.
‘There has to be somebody you fancy besides Dan.’ Susie spilt a little whisky down her shirt and patted her hand on her boobs to get rid of it. ‘It’s natural to look and admire and think “yes, if I wasn’t with him, I definitely would”.’
Lara smiled at her friend. ‘And who do you look at and think that? Because it’s been half a year since David.’ Susie’s Spanish boyfriend was as crazy as she was. They had met at a hairdressing conference and it had been lust at first undercut. Susie had spent alternate weekends travelling up to London to be with him and David had returned the favour, visiting Appleshaw and falling a little in love with Mrs Fitch’s attempt at tortillas. But a massive opportunity had seen him jet off and Lara knew her friend was finding the added distance difficult.
‘David and I are still very much together,’ Susie responded a little tightly.
‘He moved to New York,’ Lara reminded.
‘I’m well aware.’ Susie sniffed. ‘We FaceTime all the time, when we’re both not busy.’
‘But you haven’t seen him in six months.’
‘New York is a long way away and I just said, he’s busy and I’m busy and everyone is really, really busy.’ Susie swigged at her drink again. ‘Besides, we weren’t talking about me and David, we were talking about you finding someone to make Dan jealous.’
Lara shook her head. She didn’t really want her life turning into some half-arsed challenge from a reality TV show. She shouldn’t be needing to make Dan jealous. Dan should be with her now. They both should be at the social club, making fun of the giant paper Christmas ball that had been hanging there, apparently since the 1970s.
‘What am I thinking?’ Susie said suddenly, bounding up from the sofa, eyes wild with alcohol and whatever had just come into her head. ‘We need to look further than Appleshaw.’
‘Salisbury?’ Lara shook her head again. ‘Oh no, Susie, not the guy from Prezzo who always gives me extra olives.’
‘Not Salisbury,’ Susie replied. She grabbed Lara’s laptop from the coffee table, opened the lid and sat back down with it on her knees. ‘Celebrity.’ She started to type. ‘The world.’
‘What?’
‘There was this woman – it was in one of my magazines – she tweeted with her favourite celebrities and posted all the replies on Facebook and Instagram in a bid to make her husband jealous.’ Susie drew in a breath, fingers still flying across the keyboard. ‘He was having a relationship with Byron Burgers, apparently he would rather spend time with a double bacon cheese than her . . . anyway, it worked.’
‘What d’you mean it worked?’ Lara leaned forward a little. Not that she was interested in this ridiculous idea. ‘You mean people like . . . Tom Hardy tweeted her back? I don’t believe it.’
‘Obviously not all A-listers . . . although she did get a response from Zayn Malik.’
‘I’m not sure I’d call him A-list.’
‘The point is, she got replies and she got his attention. And that’s what we should do with you and Dan.’ Susie’s fingers ran over the trackpad of the laptop. ‘Let’s log you in to Twitter and get going.’
‘I don’t use Twitter to stalk celebrities,’ Lara said. ‘I use it to find out about the world.’ It was one of her favourite pastimes. Pick a country and type it into Twitter and see what she could learn. When her day consisted of loads of farm feed or fertiliser, it was a chance to travel outside the village in her evenings. From her laptop, she could walk down any street in the world. And she had. In her head, she had eaten tacos in Mexico and drank limoncello in Venice.
‘Let’s start with Ed Sheeran. He seems like a nice guy—’ ‘Susie, stop.’ Even with her head being addled by the whisky and her stomach full of Christmas fayre this didn’t seem right. She should talk to Dan, properly – not hands-free before an Appleshaw parade. She put a hand on the edge of the screen of her laptop. ‘How is this going to help?’
Susie straightened up but in no way relinquished control of the device. ‘You told me that Dan is going to Scotland for Christmas with Chloe from the golf club.’
‘I know.’ Her friend saying the sentence made Lara’s chest ache again.
‘We need action! He needs to see that the love of his life, the girl of his dreams, is going to make this break permanent if he doesn’t hurry up and get his act together. You are going to be in demand . . . you are going to be Ed Sheeran’s . . . Appleshaw Amour . . . OK, it’s not quite “Galway Girl” but you get it, right?’
She didn’t want to get it. She didn’t want to be having this mad conversation. She wanted to be undressing Dan, listening
to a Christmas classics playlist, the faint snoring of the goats from the farm next door making her feel warm, content and December-y . . . except Dan was who-knows-where with whoknew-who . . . or Chloe.
‘Thinking down to about D-list,’ Susie said, ‘who was that actor you had a crush on?’
Lara shook herself and reached for the flagon of whisky. ‘Narrow it down a little. There’s been a few. I even had a crush on John Simm once.’
‘Younger than him. Hotter than him . . . oh God, what was the name of that show? He was a doctor . . . all moody and broody and a little bit punchy when there was a drug-addict mother and a newborn baby . . .’
‘Dr Mike,’ Lara said. ‘From Manhattan Med.’ She still watched it, although it wasn’t the same without Dr Mike. He had been a glorious piece of eye candy to while away an hour or two when Dan was travelling for work. And she was picky – hence the rejection of local potential jealousy-making suitors.
‘Yes! We’ll tweet him too,’ Susie announced, eyes back down on the screen.
‘And Dan does know I liked him,’ Lara admitted. ‘He even didn’t shave one weekend when Dr Mike was going through his stubble stage.’
‘See!’ Susie exclaimed. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. So, what is Dr Mike’s real name?’
‘Seth,’ Lara answered, moving closer to Susie. ‘Seth Hunt.’
‘Seth Hunt,’ Susie said as she typed the name into the Twitter search bar. ‘Let’s see what you’ve been up to since you left the fictional hospital.’
Six
Dominique Bistro, Christopher & Gay Street, New York
Seth checked his watch again then poured some more water into his glass, adjusting the cuffs of his thick red-and-black plaid shirt. Pushing his glasses up his nose he checked out the other diners in the restaurant. All of them seemed to be engaged in animated conversation, as if the French vibe here was rubbing off on them. It was cold, some people were still wrapped up in scarves, coats unfastened but not removed, acclimatising before they shrugged them off. None of them appeared to be nervous like he was. Nervous about meeting his own mother. It was crazy. And then he saw her.
Running through the front door, a whirlwind of dark curls, a bright carrot-coloured scarf at her throat, already slipping off her thick winter coat as she came in on the breeze. Now his heart surged with nothing but love and admiration for Katherine ‘Kossy’ Hunt.
Seth went to stand up, wave a hand, but she knew where he’d be sitting. They always sat at the same table when they came here to eat – the one at the end of large windows displaying the street outside, next to the shelves filled with vinyl records, corks in a glass jar and a rustic, wooden pumpkin.
She headed towards him, hands at her neck, unwinding the scarf.
‘Hey, listen,’ Kossy began. ‘Before you say anything, I know I’m late, but you will not believe the morning I’ve had.’
Seth smiled. Almost every one of his conversations with his mom began this way. He hugged her tightly and she gasped as if the contact was unexpected. Perhaps he held on a little longer than normal. She kissed his cheek, then held his body away from hers, eyes roving over his frame as if she was doing an inspection.
‘Are you sick?’ Kossy asked firmly. ‘Because if you’re sick you really need to tell me before I order the ravioli. Ravioli is my happy food here and if it’s accompanied by bad news then . . .’
‘I’m not sick, Mom,’ Seth reassured her.
‘Well,’ Kossy said, hanging her coat on the back of the wooden chair. ‘I might have acted all cool and nonchalant on the phone when you fixed up this date, but don’t think your father and I didn’t discuss the reasoning behind it before I left for work.’
Seth’s conviction was leaving him. He didn’t want to worry his parents. He never wanted to worry them, but he had been working up to this for a few months now and he’d made himself a promise: on 1 December, before things got too sentimental and snowy and sugar-coated, he needed to ask the question.
‘Your dad wants to know if you’re gay.’
Seth knocked the water glass with his elbow and it was enough to make a few droplets splash onto the dark wood table.
‘I told him a mother would know that already. I’m right, right?’ Kossy continued.
He mopped up the water with his napkin. ‘I’m not gay, Mom.’
She seemed to study him again, as if checking he wasn’t kidding around. ‘I can’t help feeling a little disappointed. When your dad said it, I had visions of us getting front row seats for Hello, Dolly!’
‘I don’t have to be gay to do that with you,’ Seth told her.
Kossy grinned then, nudged his arm and laughed out loud. ‘I know, I’m playing with you, Seth.’ She reached out and pinched his cheek. ‘Can we order? I’ve spent the whole morning watching my guests creating penises out of clay.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘They were meant to be making pots.’
His mom was one of life’s great people. She worked at a shelter, making sure at least some of the city’s homeless population got food, drink and somewhere safe to sleep. She also campaigned heavily to the city administrators for more funding for other centres just like hers and tried to not give the needy just the bare necessities, but also to attempt to enrich their lives too. Her latest project was getting the homeless – she called them her guests – to make things, explore the arts a little. It was all about empowerment and building self-worth. The idea didn’t work with every case but most, after a little Kossy-coaching, enjoyed having their day made productive with the promise of a clean bed to sleep in. And his mom being a wonderful, hard-working, caring, beautiful person made what he was about to ask her feel so much worse.
Kossy had already beckoned a waiter and ordered the ravioli with wild mushrooms and ricotta she loved so much. Seth had something different every time they came, preferring to work his way through the dishes, making a new discovery to try again one day, or never eat again – although he had never found anything he had truly detested.
‘The North Atlantic salmon for me.’ He passed the menu back to the waiter. ‘And shall we have a bottle of wine?’
‘Wine with lunch and I’ll be eating those clay pots after they’ve been fired,’ Kossy replied. ‘I’ll have a club soda.’
‘Can I get a glass of the Malbec, please.’ He needed a touch of alcohol to smooth things along.
‘So,’ Kossy said, leaning over the table a little and clasping her hands together, thumbs making a steeple. ‘Do you have another role yet?’
‘Not quite yet,’ Seth admitted.
‘Not quite yet,’ Kossy repeated. ‘Is that Actor Code? Does it mean you have an amber light on something and are waiting for the green of go? Come on, Seth, talk to Momma. Do you need money? Is that what this is about?’
‘No.’ Although the real answer was probably almost yes if this role drought carried on. He shook his head. ‘We . . . hadn’t had lunch in a while. I thought . . . it would be nice.’
‘Yeah, not buying that,’ Kossy replied. ‘Either you’re in trouble or someone you know is in trouble. Whatever it is, Seth, you can tell me. You can tell me anything and everything. Haven’t we always had an open door at home? Didn’t we both sit and listen and try not to laugh when your father admitted he wanted to make a replica racing car out of spaghetti?’
Seth couldn’t help but smile. He knew he could tell his mom anything – she would be honest and upfront with him –but this was different and he still felt uncomfortable. He had never raised the issue in sixteen years despite being given every opportunity to do so. It had been he who had insisted he didn’t want to know. He didn’t really understand why he needed the information now, apart from a nagging feeling he’d had since an audition he’d done a month ago.
‘We should wait for the ravioli,’ Seth answered softly. Or at least the red wine, so he could have that first lick of velvety alcohol on his tongue.
‘I told you. Now I’ve ordered ravioli it can’t be bad news or it’s gonna screw up my dining here for all eternity.’
‘I wouldn’t do that to you,’ Seth said.
‘Have you got a role in a biopic? You know how much I hate biopics . . . except the one about Winston Churchill.’ She gasped, hands to her mouth. ‘Has someone offered you something ahead of Gary Oldman?!’
‘No.’ He shook his head. If only . . .
‘Seth, come on, tell me, baby, I’m getting all strung out here.’
He cleared his throat. He had to stop doing that. It smacked of a lack of confidence and that was bad form for an actor.
‘Mom . . .’
‘Stop pausing and start talking, Seth. You’re doing that thing you did when you played the patient with anxiety. I bit through all my fingernails and almost started on your father’s.’
‘I want you to tell me where I came from.’
He watched his mom drop her hands down from the table and her pallor curdle. This was what he had been afraid of. It had been too long – his whole life – he had left it so late she had thought he was never going to ask at all.
‘Mom, have some water.’ He filled up her glass.
‘I’m fine,’ Kossy said, not sounding fine. ‘I’m good.’
‘Mom, listen, I know, years ago, I said I didn’t wanna know but—’
‘Seth,’ she said, reaching for the water glass. ‘We’re good here. I’m good here. Honestly. Wow. I wasn’t really expecting you to say that. I went through all the scenarios because I was worried but . . .’
Part of him wanted to take back what he’d said, but the other half of him was standing firm. He had, after all, been thinking about this for a reasonable amount of time. ‘I know I’ve sprung it on you but . . . I went for this part, this really great part I haven’t heard back from, and the character was this guy called Sam and he was adopted and . . . I’m adopted, and I should have felt more resonance with the character somehow and . . . I didn’t.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And it started me thinking. How could I really understand Sam if I don’t really understand me.’
He saw the tears forming in his mom’s eyes and he quickly reached for her hand. She batted it away, instead drawing a Kleenex from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes. ‘I’m good. I shouldn’t have let you feel like that for so long. It’s my fault.’
‘I haven’t felt like that for long and it isn’t your fault,’ Seth insisted. ‘It was my decision.’
‘Something you said when you were sixteen. I should have brought it up again. Every year to make sure you were sure . . .’
‘Mom . . .’
‘I’ll tell you everything.’ Kossy looked directly at him. ‘Of course, I will tell you everything.’ She sighed. ‘Everything I know, at least.’
Seth felt suddenly lighter, like a cloud had moved from blocking the sun.
‘But, Seth, promise me one thing.’ Kossy looked serious. ‘Anything.’
She took his hands, squeezing them tightly in hers. ‘Promise me you’ll keep in mind . . . that it isn’t where a person begins that’s important, it’s where they end up.’
He squeezed his mom’s hands, looking straight into her warm, honest, brown eyes. ‘I promise.’
