Christmas Every Day Read online

‘And…’ Mack grew quiet. I risked a peek and found him gazing at the star-shaped lights twinkling amongst the bunting. He picked up his phone and fiddled with it, put it down again. Looked at me quickly, then back at his phone. ‘It’s different from the others, because it’s written from a male point of view.’

  ‘Tell us about this male,’ Ashley breathed.

  ‘Well, he’s a bit of a chump, to be honest. He’s made a monumental mistake, and instead of taking it on the chin, dealing with it, he’s decided the best response is to wimp out on life, and hide away feeling sorry for himself. He justifies it by saying this way he won’t mess up again, and won’t get hurt. And, importantly, he won’t hurt anyone else. He’s spending every day in a mindless grey funk and wondering why he can’t work any more – he’s a songwriter, by the way. And then, one day, this woman turns up.’

  I didn’t have to move my eyes off the table to know every single person swivelled their head towards me.

  Was it possible for a human woman to roast in her own hormones?

  ‘And she’s the opposite of him in every way – life has thrown her the biggest dungball, and she just pushes it off, dusts herself down and fights back with all this energy and bravado and determination. And she grabs this guy by the scruff of his neck and drags him out of his cave, back into the world.’

  You have got to be kidding me.

  I cannot breathe.

  I managed to suck in one final, strangled breath. It turned out final breaths sounded like a hippopotamus hugging a windy warthog.

  ‘Anyway.’ Mack let out a shaky laugh. ‘You’ll have to read it to find out more.’

  ‘Oh, we can’t wait, can we?’ Ashley said. ‘It sounds simply incredible. Now, questions. I’ll go first. Where did you get your inspiration from for this story, and was it you and Jenny?’

  Excuse me? I opened my mouth to protest. Then I remembered I was desperate to hear the answer, so I shoved one of Jamie’s mini mince pies in instead.

  ‘Maybe, in parts. She is an inspiring person to know.’ He coughed. ‘Also, my parents. The Neil Diamond songs they play while cooking dinner. My sisters’ families. The reintroduction of beavers into the UK. A conversation I overheard in the queue to buy a newspaper. And, as always, everyone I’ve ever met, and everywhere I’ve ever been, somehow mashing together inside my imagination and eventually congealing into something vaguely coherent. For starters.’

  ‘Is it a love story?’ Sarah asked.

  Those naughty women. I begged a sinkhole to appear and swallow me up right there. While at the same time my ears nearly strained off the sides of my head.

  ‘Yes. Falling in love with life again, mostly.’

  ‘Mostly, but not completely?’ Ashley needled.

  ‘Put it this way. I don’t think my regular readers will be disappointed. And that’s all I’m saying. You really have to wait and read it.’

  The conversation moved on as Mack answered more questions. I assumed they were about his other books, or his career in general. I’d given up listening, due to the more pressing issue of struggling to breathe. That, and my own wild thoughts careening about my head waving their hands about and screaming, ‘Mack thinks I’m an inspirational person to know. That has to be a good thing, right? Can you inspire someone in a bad way? She inspired me to write a book about avoiding a disastrous rebound relationship with an annoying neighbour. HOW DO I INSPIRE YOU, MACK?’

  ‘Right, well, if there’s no more questions, I’d best get back,’ I vaguely heard Mack say, as if from the end of a very long tunnel.

  Mack stood, his features in silhouette as he hovered on the edge of the glow cast from the candles. Tension crackled. Nobody moved or spoke.

  Which seemed a little rude, considering he’d interrupted crafting his latest blockbuster to come and visit a village book club, and now nobody even offered a thank you, good luck or please come again when the book is finished.

  Lucille sneezed, swiftly muttering, ‘Damn, I’m so sorry,’ as she fumbled for a tissue.

  Kiko thrust a napkin at her. ‘Shh!’

  Mack rubbed a hand over his messy hair before carefully putting his hat on. He cleared his throat. Twisted his body round to look at the door, turned back.

  ‘Can I walk you home?’ he asked.

  ‘I think he means you, Jenny,’ Ellen stage-whispered, leaning closer. ‘It would make sense, you being neighbours.’

  I scrabbled my wits together, took the deepest breath I could, and jabbered out a sort of ‘yes’.

  So while the others finally offered appropriately enthusiastic goodbyes, I shrugged into my coat and hat, patting to check my keys and phone hadn’t miraculously climbed out of the pocket, and we set off into the frosty night.

  Walking. With Mack. In the dark.

  Oh, boy.

  44

  As we entered the black of the forest, I slipped on a patch of ice. Mack, without breaking stride, took hold of my hand.

  The feel of his hand wrapped around mine. Warm, assured, still a perfect fit. Gooey, tingling loveliness ran down my arm like honey and settled in my stomach.

  Halfway home, he still hadn’t spoken. Part of me didn’t care, didn’t care whether he felt me quaking. Wasn’t bothered if he’d only taken my hand to stop me tripping, and had spent the rest of the time wondering how to extricate it without seeming rude. I could have kept on walking like that for hours, in and out of the moonlight, feet crunching on the frozen leaves in time with each another, the night deliciously chill against the throbbing heat beneath my skin, carrying the scent of pine trees.

  But the other, possibly wiser, certainly bolder part of me had to get some answers. Like, what the heck was going on, for starters.

  And when, as we reached the clearing behind our houses, the first few flakes of snow began to fall, softly twirling in the glow of the fairy lights I’d hung in every window, I took that as a sign.

  Bursting with impatience and frustration and an unbearable mixture of fear and hope, I stopped beside the picnic bench.

  Mack turned to face me, still holding onto my hand, his face silver in the moonlight, a snowflake settling on his eyelashes.

  ‘You wrote a book about me.’ I paused, corrected myself. ‘About us.’

  ‘No.’

  Oh. Okay, then. Slightly embarrassing. Should we pretend this never happened?

  ‘I wrote a book about two entirely fictional characters.’ Mack looked away, as if searching for the words, then bent his head towards me once he’d found them. ‘But I thought about you, about us, whether there could ever be an us, how it would happen, what I would say and how you would look when I said it, the whole time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah. Oh.’

  ‘So how did you imagine it would happen?’

  He grimaced. ‘Not like this.’

  As I struggled to reply, he tugged on my hand. ‘In my head, you looked pleased. Had that smile that makes my heart keel over. Not… anxious and uncertain and like I’ve just invited you to come and see the collection of human bones in my cellar.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening here.’ I did feel anxious, and uncertain, and suddenly very small.

  Mack sat on the bench, gently pulling me down beside him. I could feel the heat of his body through the thick jacket he wore, my own body shivering involuntarily in response.

  ‘You’re freezing. Shall we go inside?’

  I shook my head. Being out here in the dark made it easier. It felt safer, somehow, to do this half hidden in shadows. Mack unwrapped his scarf and wound it around my neck, frowning slightly as he adjusted my hat. When his hand skimmed the skin below my ears, I thought the air in my lungs froze.

  He took a deep breath. ‘What’s happening is that, while I can write love scenes where strong, kind, sexily amusing men find the perfect words to tell a woman they’ve fallen for them, I’m discovering the reality is very different. Possibly because I’m not that strong, and probably not that kind, sexy or amusing. So,
I guess what’s happening is I’m messing this up.’

  ‘I think you’re very sexy,’ I blurted out, to my horror. Nice one, Jenny. Good choice. Much better than telling him he’s kind, or strong, or amusing.

  Mack went completely still.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to have another go?’ I offered, deciding we were way beyond nerves or embarrassment now.

  ‘Okay… um… Jenny, being with you… it makes me feel like… Christmas every day?’ His eyes widened in shock at the sheer horror of what he’d said, before we both burst out laughing as I punched his jacket.

  ‘That is not a compliment! I hate Christmas, remember?’

  He shook his head, cringing. ‘This is why I have an editor.’

  ‘You’re telling me!’

  ‘You just called me very sexy! I was… rendered insensible.’ He slowly reached up and brushed a snowflake off my cheekbone with his knuckles. ‘Okay. Last try. Come on, Mack, get it together! Right: Jenny. In the past few months I’ve realised some things about love, other than that I didn’t know what I was talking about. I realised love is the person who knows you at your worst, while hoping for the best. It’s wanting to know everything, but having all the time in the world to find that out.

  ‘It’s who you want to call when the roof leaks, destroying your office, or you write the first paragraph in months you feel proud of. It’s dancing all night and, instead of hating it, it’s the best night of your life, because being with them makes everything better. It’s believing that maybe you can risk it all on one person again, because they are completely worth it. It’s like waking up after years asleep and finding life isn’t so hideous after all. It’s breathtakingly beautiful if you know where to look. Who to look at.’ He stopped, pulled a wonky smile. ‘Any better?’

  ‘That depends.’

  His smile became an awkward laugh. ‘Can you give me a hint? ’Cos I don’t think I’ve got anything else.’

  ‘Just to be completely clear, you are talking about me?’

  He bent his head closer until I could see nothing but those molten eyes.

  ‘I’m always talking about you. Thinking about you. Spending a ludicrous amount of money on an authentic Macintyre kilt in some warped attempt to impress you. Waiting for you.’ He paused, swallowed, his voice no more than a breath. ‘Loving you.’

  I kept my eyes firmly fixed on his as I reached deep into every nerve, trying to summon up the composure to reply as my head spun and heart stuttered.

  ‘I lied. I don’t hate Christmas any more.’

  He watched me, the hint of a smile on his lips.

  ‘The two Christmases I’ve had this year were both just about perfect.’ I dropped to a whisper. ‘Because I spent them with you.’

  The smile burst into a grin. ‘Spend this Christmas with me and I promise you won’t hate that one either.’

  Mack placed one of his hands either side of my face. They were freezing against my flushed cheeks, but when he lent closer and pressed his lips against mine, I really didn’t care.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll spend another Christmas with you.’

  We were both grinning so hard now we could barely manage to kiss again. But, hey, where there was a will there was a way.

  ‘And the Christmas after that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another kiss.

  ‘And the one after that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  This time, I ducked my head back before he could kiss me. ‘Maybe we can continue this conversation inside, before we end up freezing to the bench and buried in snow?’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I’ve got a lot of Christmases I want to ask you about.’

  I unlocked the cottage door, stamped the snow off my boots and shrugged out of my coat in the welcoming warmth. As I turned to face him, Mack wrapped me up in his arms, and I was home.

  Acknowledgments

  This has been my first book working with an agent, and I owe huge thanks to Kiran Kataria, for not only seeing the book`s potential, but for fantastic support and wise counsel which has transformed the process into a team effort. I`m also tremendously grateful to have been invited to join the Boldwood team, and have been boldwood-ed over by their enthusiasm and encouragement. Particular thanks to Sarah Ritherdon for her insightful editing.

  Squash Harris was the main character in a series of books my daughter wrote in her early teens – thanks for the loan, Ciara, I hope Squash did you proud.

  It`s been a long road between books this time, and would have been a much harder one without the unfailing support of so many people: Jo, Pearl, Vicky and the Free Range Chicks` unfailing enthusiasm has been priceless. As has that of the Kings` church – I`m so blessed to call you my family. A particular mention to Julia Childerhouse – thank you for laughing with me, listening to me and loving me so well.

  To everyone who has asked me when the next book is out, written a review or got in touch to say you enjoyed the last one – it means the world, and makes all the difference. Thank you.

  As always, much love to the Robbins` family for cheering me on and teaching me the importance of laughter (especially directed at myself). Ciara, Joseph, Dominic – seeing your stories unfold is my greatest joy. And George, being with you for the past 23 years has not been like Christmas every day… but whatever each day has been like, you`ve made it so much better.

  More from Beth Moran

  We hope you enjoyed reading Christmas Every Day. If you did, please leave a review.

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  About the Author

  Beth Moran is the author of three previous books, including Making Marion. She regularly features on BBC Radio Nottingham and is a trustee of the national women's network Free Range Chicks. She lives on the outskirts of Sherwood Forest.

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  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

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  Copyright © Beth Moran, 2019

  Cover Design by Charlotte Abrams-Simpson

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  The moral right of Diane Saxon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  Paperback ISBN 978-1-83889-318-7

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