One Week 'Til Christmas Read online

  About the Author

  BELINDA MISSEN is a reader, author, and sometimes blogger. When she’s not busy writing or reading, she can be found travelling the Great Ocean Road and beyond looking for inspiration. She lives with her husband, cats, and collection of books in regional Victoria, Australia.

  Readers Love Belinda Missen

  ‘An awesome read’

  ‘I fell in love with Belinda’s writing’

  ‘There is an air of lightness and love over the whole novel’

  ‘Wonderful heart-warming romance’

  ‘This is a perfect fun, flirty beach read’

  ‘Belinda has a warm, witty style of writing that makes characters and emotions leap off the page’

  ‘A lovely summer read’

  Also by Belinda Missen

  Lessons in Love

  An Impossible Thing Called Love

  A Recipe for Disaster

  One Week ’Til Christmas

  BELINDA MISSEN

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Belinda Missen 2019

  Belinda Missen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008296933

  Version: 2019-10-01

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Readers Love Belinda Missen

  Also by Belinda Missen

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For the SBG

  Chapter 1

  10 Days ’til Christmas

  The bell above my head chimed as I stepped inside from the cold. My hair stopped whipping around my face and I loosened the belt of my coat. The reassuring clack, clack, clack of my suitcase followed me over the tiles like a trusty steed.

  ‘Here she is!’ Alfred looked up from behind his glossy red coffee maker, tapped the portafilter on the bench and dangled a takeaway cup in the air. ‘Good to see you again.’

  ‘I’m just like Halley’s Comet,’ I teased. ‘Only I show up more often and I’m not as bright.’

  ‘I won’t hear a word of it.’ He laughed. ‘How long are you here for this time?’

  ‘An entire eight days.’ I dug my purse out of my backpack. ‘Well, seven and a half now, I suppose. I’ve just dropped the hire car at Heathrow.’

  ‘Hire car? You mean you’ve been here long enough to have a road trip, and this is the first I’m hearing of it?’ He feigned disgust. ‘You awful woman.’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you about Belfast, then?’ I smirked.

  Alfred clucked his tongue.

  I guess the first thing you should know about me is that I love to travel. There’s nothing more thrilling than the thrust of an aeroplane the moment the wheels leave the tarmac. It says, ‘Here you are, welcome to your next adventure. Enjoy your stay, make sure your tray table is upright, and tip your wait staff accordingly.’

  In my decade as a travel writer, I’ve been to places I never thought possible. I’ve been smeared in coloured powders during the festival of Holi in India, bumbled my way through hymns inside St Mark’s Basilica, and watched the Northern Lights on a night so cold it felt like I’d found the dark side of the moon and decided to dance the jig in a polka-dot bikini.

  But above all that, I’ve made friends in every corner, crevice, and back alley of the globe. Like a sailor (allegedly) has a girl in every port, so too do I have a bed in every city. It might be a couch, sofa bed, or bunk in a shared room, but it’s the unspoken pact of international friendship. The front door is always open. The keys are yours. You just have to get here.

  Right now, here was London – ooh, and a text message.

  If you’re at Alfred’s, can you grab a fresh baguette? Like The Proclaimers – I’m on my way.

  I smiled at Estelle’s message and slipped my phone back into my pocket.

  Estelle was one of those friends. We met during a sweltering summer in Japan ten years ago. It was my first assignment with the Melbourne Explorer, and her fifth with the magazine she wrote for. Like that scene from Forrest Gump, the only seat left on a crowded bus to Furano was next to her.

  Our friendship was pieced together in the following weeks aboard tour buses and bullet trains. We gazed at rainbow ribbons of flowering fields, were rendered speechless at the haunting beauty of Hiroshima, and puffed our way up Mount Fuji with nothing but a bottle of water between us. By the time we said farewell in Sapporo, I knew I’d have a friend for life.

  She’d since left journalism in favour of life as curator of Check-1-2 Gallery, a Chelsea art gallery. It kept her busy, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous intent on expanding their collections of priceless pieces. It paid well enough that it afforded her a perfectly modern maisonette off the high street full of modern appliances and retro furniture, and me a warm bed whenever I was in town. When I wasn’t here, I missed her and our late-night wine-soaked chats dearly. More than once, we’d mused over how much fun we’d have if I lived a few thousand miles closer, rather than in Australia.

  ‘So, what’s the plan this time?’ Alfred asked, weighing a gingerbread person in one hand and fruit cake in the other. He was a regular scale of gastronomical justice … I pointed to the cake.

  ‘Nothing but Christmas,’ I said. ‘I’m getting my yuletide on.’

  When my boss had first floated the idea of ‘popping over to the UK’ (his words, not mine) for a few weeks in December to report on a refreshed Game of Thrones tour and a new distillery in the Cotswolds, I’d leaped at the chance to swap the endless summer nights of Melbourne for the icy British air. I’d even managed to wrangle a few extra personal days into the deal so as I could experience all the snow-white beauty of Christmas in London.

  ‘Speaking of Christmas, I’ve been playing around with almond milk eggnog,’ Alfred said as I readjusted my backpack. ‘You want one to go?’

  ‘For you, I’ll be a willing guinea pig but I also need your best baguette t
o go with dinner.’ I wrapped my hands around the piping takeaway cup he handed to me as the aroma of vanilla swirled with cinnamon in the steam of the drink. Warmth radiated into my fingers and seeped across my palm. And if it smelled divine, it tasted even better. I let out an appreciative groan after my first sip. ‘This? This is amazing.’

  ‘Good, am I right?’

  ‘You know, I could have done with that a week ago when I was buried in cold showers and mud.’ I took another sip of my drink. A trip to the Giant’s Causeway was a lesson in wearing better shoes on my adventures. Finn McCool or not, it was an uncomfortably soggy trip back to Belfast after stumbling into the North Atlantic. To add insult to injury, the hot water in my accommodation had taken its own holiday.

  ‘Consider it on the house,’ Alfred said, handing me my change and a crusty baguette. ‘The drink, that is.’

  ‘You’re amazing. Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘See you soon!’

  ‘Don’t leave without saying goodbye!’ he called after me as I used my shoulder to shove past the dangling tinsel Christmas trees and through the door.

  Drink in hand and baguette tucked under my arm, I pulled my coat tighter against the icy breeze and made my way towards the bus stop. Estelle’s was close by but, with slippery footpaths and a light drizzle, it wasn’t near enough that I wanted to walk the whole way. When the lights at the crossing changed, I skipped across the road with the crowd.

  Passing an M&S, I veered into oncoming pedestrians to avoid a well-dressed man who’d burst from the doors like a long-held breath with a phone to his ear and newspaper in his hand. He fell into step behind me.

  ‘Is this article your doing? I’ve just picked up this rot you pass off as a newspaper,’ he stammered, his voice dropping a few notches. ‘Secret love affair … what? Are you kidding me? Who thinks of this? I was having coffee with her. To assume I’m now in some kind of sordid love affair is ridiculous.’

  I resisted the ticklish urge to turn towards the scandal. Quick extrapolation told me he was either a politician or a celebrity, especially if his love life had hit the papers. A brief look at his face as he walked along behind me registered nothing but his outfit: dark trousers, a blue-knit pullover, shirt and long coat. Classically nice in that take home to Mum for Sunday roast kind of way. I fumbled about in my pocket for an Oyster card.

  ‘You have to do something,’ he pleaded. ‘You can’t just leave it like this! I’ll be tarred and feathered by the morning. Or was that the whole point?’

  I winced. That sounded painful. My breath came in clouded puffs as I dodged another puddle. I was relieved to see the bus stop up ahead. It was beginning to feel like I was eavesdropping on something that both I and the rest of the city really shouldn’t be privy to.

  ‘What am I doing?’ he asked incredulously. ‘You actually want to know what I’m doing? All right then, well, I’ve just left Marks & Spencer’s, where I very contentedly bought a single-serve meal, because that’s what I am, a single, solitary man. Neil Diamond even wrote a song about it. One person, like that lone mouldy apple no one wants to buy, or that one lost Tupperware lid, or that random sock you find under your bed that you were sure ran off to jump over the moon with the aforementioned Tupperware lid.’

  I snorted. Single-serve meals. Now that, I could relate to.

  ‘Bloody journalists,’ he continued. ‘Not one of you is rooted in truth or the real world. Pack of fantasists.’

  Why, I never! I must have gasped aloud, as heads turned towards the noise behind me.

  It became infinitely more difficult to resist the urge to shoot him my best how-very-dare-you scowl and, maybe, the two-fingered salute. Then again, who was I kidding? This wasn’t my battle. I pulled my phone from my pocket to find a text from my sister, Miriam.

  I know I’ve asked a dozen times, but you will be home for Christmas, right?

  That was one of the things I didn’t love about my job. The nature of being a travel journalist meant I had no control over my plans or where I’d be at any given time, and I was usually at the mercy of my boss. Trips often overlapped with family events, leading to terse phone calls, huge swathes of guilt, and expensive gifts to try and smooth over the cracks in relationships when it was revealed that, no, I wouldn’t be home for a birthday party. Again.

  More than once, I promised myself that I’d start my own blog one day so I could work for myself. Then, the electricity bill would arrive and I’d remember why I couldn’t just throw caution to the wind, dance right out the front door of my job and make it happen.

  ‘You know what? Don’t worry about it. All I need to do is tweet and it’s out to millions of followers … Okay, all right, thousands if you now want to be pedantic about the truth. If you lot can’t do your job properly, then I’ll do it myself.’ His voice cut in again as his pace quickened and he got closer. ‘Now, where’s my bloody car?’

  Typing out my reply to Miriam, I skirted the small crowd at the bus stop until I reached the timetable, in time to see a black saloon car roll into the kerb. Its tyres were slick with moisture, and beads of water rolled off highly polished panels. Midnight-black windows made sure nobody was seeing the precious cargo within. By comparison, my ride, a big ol’ red bus, rumbled, lurched, and rattled its way towards us.

  ‘Excuse me … pardon … out of the way.’ There he was again, moving through the crowd with forceful, heavy sighs. ‘Move, please, I’m so sorry. Yes, I realise he’s parked illegally. I’m terribly sorry.’

  As I reached for my pocket, I heard the polyester ruffle of fabric. My elbow, then my shoulder connected heavily with someone behind me, that same someone who’d been pushing through the crowd. I stumbled as my feet slipped out from under me on the icy footpath.

  Everything slowed as time stretched out between us like an elastic band. Sound drowned out to an underwater mumble and the world rushed past me. I felt the pressure of fingers curling around my upper arm in a desperate attempt to stay upright. I pulled one way, he pulled the other, and shop fronts tilted as asphalt approached. I landed with a thud and a puff, and then he landed in my arms to the sound of a bus braking and hissing as it pulled to a shuddering stop.

  When I unclenched my eyes, it was like pulling up for a gulping breath after a deep dive. Conversations were dialled up to a dull roar, and car horns sounded in the distance. But it was okay. The sound, the heaving chest, the desert dry mouth, all of it meant I was alive. That was good. I’d take that.

  I tipped my head back to the enormous red cliff-face of the bus. When confronted with something of that scale upside down, you realise how truly impressive they are. I was close enough that I could notice the stone chips in the registration plate and see the brake cables that had just saved my life.

  I should have been angry. I should have been gnashing my teeth and lecturing the Shouty Man on safety near roadways. But, right now, I could only think of two things. Firstly, that my backpack was so laden I probably looked like a turtle ready to be picked off by a predator. If someone didn’t help me up, there was every possibility I’d rock myself to sleep trying to get myself up off the ground.

  The second thought was that I hadn’t paid him enough mind when he’d burst from the supermarket. In fact, I was more irritated at having to navigate him like a roundabout. Up close? Though wide and bewildered, his eyes were a beautiful cosmic cerulean blue.

  Oh, and he was between my legs. He had the dubious honour of being the first man to boldly go there in the better part of twelve months. No, wait … eighteen. Hell, it was that long that even my maths was getting sketchy. Either way, it had been an age.

  My heart danced a tango against my ribcage as I continued staring at him. How could I not? His nutmeg hair was pushed back from his face in short curls, he had lips that were screaming to be kissed, and don’t even get me started on the stubble that barely concealed a slowly forming dimple in his left cheek. He was the most handsome man who ever did handsome. Maybe I was dead after all.

  Wow.
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  ‘Well, then,’ he blurted, shifting uncomfortably on his hands.

  His knee knocked the back of my thigh and, despite the initial fright, laughter – jittery and so very glad to be alive – bubbled up and out of me.

  ‘Well, then,’ I echoed.

  My backpack! My laptop! The last thing I needed was my work equipment full of water. Have you ever tried to write anything lengthy on a phone? I’d be blind by forty. And where was my suitcase? Lazing about in the gutter like an overfed cat. I lurched forward underneath him and, while I was held down by the contents of my bag, it brought him to life.

  Leaping to his feet, he held out a hand. ‘Oh my God, I am so sorry. Here, let me get you up.’

  Gingerly, I let him pull me up from the ground. His hands were cold and shaky but, beneath that, an unmistakable surge of energy shot up my arm and wound its way around my heart. I slung my bag around my front and alternated between watching him and checking the contents. If something was broken, better to find out now than after he did a runner.

  Eggnog clung to my pants like a dropped tin of paint, the cold chill of the gutter seeped into the seat of my pants, and I winced at a sharp bite in the palms of my hands.

  ‘Are you okay? I haven’t damaged you, have I? Let me just … I’ll fix your hair—’ His hands bounced around nervously before his finger traced the outside of my ear, and my stomach took a bow. There might have been hair involved, but I … phew. ‘—there, where it was.’

  ‘Where it was?’ I asked, studying him as his eyes darted about my face.

  ‘As you passed M&S,’ he mumbled, his hand suspended in the air near my head. ‘You had it just so.’

  ‘Oh.’ My lungs squeezed. Right now, I might’ve forgiven him just about anything.

  The bus sounded its fiery angry horn. I looked around him, to the driver tapping at her wrist.

  ‘Are you … are you okay?’ he asked, brows knitted in concern. ‘I feel like a complete arse.’

  ‘I … I have to go,’ I sputtered.