A Gift in December

by Jenny Gladwell

Genres: Friendship; Contemporary Romance; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

Love can grow anywhere in this cosy, romantic tale inspired by London's most famous Christmas tree.

A heartwarming festive read set in beautiful Norway - perfect for fans of Veronica Henry, Jojo Moyes and One Day in December.

Jane has given up on love. She might have uncovered the news scandal of the year, but she's also been dumped by boyfriend Simon . . . and has spent the last month avoiding him at the office.

With Christmas fast-approaching, Jane's heart is no closer to mending.

But Jane's boss has other plans for her. She needs someone to go on a luxurious press trip to Norway to cover the story of the Trafalgar Square Christmas tree and she's selected Jane to go.

Jane would much rather wallow at home than spend a week in the fjords with some ditzy bloggers, a snippy publicist, ever-cheerful colleague Ben and handsome-but-arrogant TV presenter Philip Donnelly.

But as Jane throws herself into the trip and starts to enjoy herself, it seems that love hasn't quite given up on her just yet...

Amid all the snow, could a gift be awaiting her underneath the mistletoe?

(P) 2020 Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

Release date: August 22, 2019

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 211

Sample

acknowledgements

As an editor, I always wondered why authors got stressed writing their acknowledgments. Now I know – a lot of people go into making a book and you want to thank them ALL.

A huge, heartfelt thanks to Hodder and the awesome team there. Melissa Cox for asking me to write a comfort read in these miserable times, and for being so smart and insightful when we were plotting it. Lily Cooper, for her terrific editorial insights and for being such a champion of this book. I know full well how many people work on a book in-house and I wanted to thank, deep breath – Laura Collins and Barbara Roby for top-notch copyediting and proofreading; Sarah Christie for a beautiful cover; Melanie Price in marketing; Jasmine Marsh in publicity, Melis Dagoglu in Rights and Susan Spratt in production. Being on the other side of the fence is very humbling – thank you for making it so easy and enjoyable.

Thank you to my agent, brilliant Jane Finigan at Lutyens Rubenstein – for your support, wise words, and the bacon naans  – and Francesca Davies for all of your help.

I confidently thought I could write this book around my day job and childcare, during “nap time”, ha. Easier said than done, and I owe the biggest thanks to all the people who helped me pull it off – this feels like the tip of a very large iceberg, but they include:

My parents, for so much, not only for making reading a part of everyday life for as long as I can remember, but – crucially – for sorting extra childcare so that I could finish a first draft. THANK YOU.

My in-laws, Sue and Steve, for much love and encouragement, and again – staying with the theme – for some seriously stoic childcare over one long weekend where I only came out for meals.

Cove Park, Birkbeck and the Sophie Warne Memorial Prize, for giving me the time and space to work somewhere so beautiful.

Sam Smith, for being the most supportive, hilarious and kind.

My two Eleanors, Eleanor Scoones and Eleanor Bindman, for being wildly enthusiastic about this book without having read a single word; Louise Lamont, wise, ruthless; Ellen Holgate, the absolute best; all the libraries and Glasgow cafes who let me nurse a lukewarm coffee in the corner for hours. Thank you to everyone who chatted to me about Norway and who kindly talked me through this new-fangled app called Instagram.

Writing the “com” part of a rom com concerned me because I’m not known for having the best sense of humour. Any sense of fun I’ve developed (questionable) is entirely down to my hilarious and amazing children, Florence and Theodore; thank you, you lovely maniacs.

And finally, this book quite literally could not have been written without my husband, Alex. I really did hit the jackpot. Thank you, for everything.

 

1

London, November 2017

The snow was falling.

In her tiny flat on a quiet street in Stoke Newington, Jane Brook sat on her window seat looking out at the fat snowflakes drifting down from the sky. Snow for the next week; snow for Christmas, maybe. It brought her no joy. Snow was not for watching out of the window, alone. Snow was for enjoying with someone. With Simon, for instance.

She thought of that week last winter when snow had fallen and she and Simon had been happy. He persuaded her to spontaneously take the week off work, unheard of for her. They sat with coffee in the Turkish café near her flat, talking, drunk on the newness of it all, giddy at their secret romance. Their eyes would meet across the table and they would burst out laughing at nothing at all. Every touch was a spark.

He brought out a sense of fun in her she had forgotten was there. Where she was calm and ordered, he was chaotic and spontaneous. She discovered the joy of lying in, of curling up in bed together, drowsy and warm. They spent long afternoons in the pub. She would buy a big stack of newspapers for research and they would read and drink, gossip about other journalists, share packets of crisps, and leave pleasantly tipsy.

Cheeks pink and eyes bright, they would stumble back to her flat through drifts of snow, clutching at each other as they slipped and skidded. Simon’s scarf wrapped round her neck, smelling of him, her gloved hand in his. Lazy evenings on the sofa, her feet in Simon’s lap, drinking expensive whisky he brought over and watching old films that he loved. It’s a Wonderful Life at Christmas. The Apartment, his favourite, on New Year’s Eve. Simon laughed at her when she cried at the end.

‘I thought you were meant to be tough,’ he teased.

The snow was coming down more heavily now. Jane breathed on the window and drew a jaunty, smiling face that she dashed out just as quickly. A burst of laughter carried down the street and a child in waterproofs and wellies staggered past, the snow nearly up to his waist. A couple followed, a man and woman with their arms wrapped round each other. Jane closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the glass.

With Simon, she had understood how wonderful sharing her life with someone could be. She had opened up her neat, ordered world to him and things would never be the same again.

Her best friends, Margot and Kate, had taken her for dinner the other night, to a restaurant in town that they loved. They had poured her a large glass of red wine, ordered her steak, spinach and mashed potatoes. Margot was pregnant, in her third trimester, and Kate, her partner, was casually solicitous, rubbing the small of Margot’s back. Talk, despite their best efforts, turned to birth plans and childcare, maternity leave, mortgages and kitchen fitters. Jane listened to their chat, charting the gentle, loving beats of a relationship, and felt misery rise up in her. They listened to her woes, eyes sympathetic, but Jane knew she would have to help herself out of her gloom.

She could no longer stay here, perched by the window, watching the snow fall. Her feet and hands were cold. She hadn’t eaten properly for days. Right now, she needed to take a shower, wash her hair. Throw out the old food in the fridge. At the last count, it had contained a lump of old cheese, half a jar of pesto and a wilted lettuce.

Because tomorrow, she’d be gone, off on a work trip to Norway of all places. She groaned. Norway.

That only meant more bloody snow.

 

Her boss, Nadine, had suggested the assignment. ‘Suggested’ was euphemistic: Nadine issued orders, not suggestions.

She breezed out of her office yesterday and dropped the press release onto Jane’s desk – thick cream paper, elegant, swirling font, full-colour photos of fir trees in the snow and blazing log fires.

‘I’m sending you to Norway to watch the Trafalgar Square Christmas tree being cut down,’ Nadine said. ‘A very lavish press trip.’

‘You want me to write about a tree?’ Jane asked, incredulous.

She had been at the London Courier nearly ten years. From the start, she had hero-worshipped Nadine, who had white-blonde hair cut short, wore trouser suits and trainers and no make-up, and ran her paper with calm efficiency.

Nadine also had something that Jane had come to understand was rare in the industry: integrity. The Courier was respected for its impartial reporting – and was newsworthy itself at the moment, thanks to Jane’s recent breaking of a dramatic immigration scandal that exposed corruption at the heart of the government.

She had hoped that her next story would be something just as juicy.

Jane glanced at the glossy release. ‘This looks like a puff piece,’ she said, and one of Nadine’s elegant eyebrows rose. ‘I just thought,’ Jane continued, more diplomatically, ‘that I might be better off staying here. I want to start something new. I’ve got loads of ideas . . .’

Nadine looked at Jane over her glasses for a long moment, something curious and unfamiliar in her expression.

‘I want you to take a break,’ she said at last. ‘You’ve worked hard, and I’ve seen more experienced journalists than you burn out after a big story like that. Plus, I have a feeling that things haven’t exactly been easy for you here.’

That was Nadine being diplomatic in turn and not mentioning Simon.

‘You should take a holiday,’ she went on. ‘That’s what anyone else would do after the month you’ve had. But since there’s no chance of that happening, yes; I’m sending you to Norway to write about a tree. It’s the next best thing.’

Jane picked up the press release and began to read.

 

The global social-media spotlight will be on Norway this November as a select group of bloggers and journalists join us for a magical journey into the past . . .

Since 1947, the city of Oslo has presented a Christmas tree to the city of London every year, in gratitude for its assistance during the Second World War.

In 1940, in the midst of the occupation, King Haakon of Norway refused to install a Nazi sympathiser as the head of government. Miraculously, he escaped German bombs and established a temporary government in London. Norway worked tirelessly against the Nazi regime for the remainder of the war. Each year, a magnificent Christmas tree – known as the ‘Queen of the Forest’ – is carefully chosen from the forests outside Oslo and transported, by boat and lorry, back to London. This gift to Londoners from the Norwegians forms a central part of the city’s Christmas decorations and is integral to many festive events throughout the season.

 

Jane paused to protest and Nadine raised a hand. ‘Just keep reading.’

 

This year, the Norwegian Tourist Board, Luxury Travel magazine and a selection of top fashion and lifestyle brands are sponsoring a lavish trip for our guests through the stunning Norwegian landscape to see the chosen tree cut down. Guests will stay in Norway’s top hotels and sample the country’s finest cuisine and Christmas traditions. The trip will culminate in a winter ball before returning home to see the tree installed in Trafalgar Square.

A symbol of peace for our time, shared with the world.

 

‘I’m sending Andersen too,’ said Nadine. She raised her voice. ‘Do you hear that, Ben?’

Ben Andersen, a freelance photographer, who was known for being irrepressibly cheerful despite covering a succession of bleak war zones, raised his head.

‘I just got back,’ he said mildly. ‘I’ve been away for six months. I haven’t even unpacked yet.’

It was as close to a complaint as Ben would ever make.

‘Think of this as a nice change of pace,’ Nadine cackled. ‘You’re too nice to say no. It’s perfect – you’re actually Norwegian, right?’

‘I am,’ said Ben. His face brightened. ‘I guess we’ll be there for the Christmas markets.’

Nadine beamed. ‘That’s the spirit. Take a leaf out of Ben’s book, Jane. Now then, if you’re both happy . . .’

‘I just don’t understand what the story is,’ Jane muttered, scanning the paper. ‘Also, I hate Christmas.’

‘Well, Scrooge,’ Ben replied, ‘if anything can convert you, it’ll be a few weeks in Norway. It’s where Christmas was practically invented.’

‘Just stop,’ Jane told him. ‘Christmas was invented by department stores in a bid to sell people more stuff they don’t need.’

‘Christmas as we know it was invented by Dickens,’ Nadine said, sat next to her, absently tapping out an email on her phone, already thinking about something else. ‘It’s a feel-good story. That doesn’t make it worthless.’ Ben nodded vigorously and Jane shot him a dirty look. ‘Our readers need a bit of sentiment – something to remind them that people are essentially good. A positive story about European solidarity and collaboration might be just the ticket.’

‘Exactly!’ said Ben.

Jane allowed herself a very small smile.

‘Besides,’ Nadine added, ‘how many fancy holidays normally land in your lap when you’re writing for a boring old broadsheet? Think log fires and hampers and hot tubs. I had to fight Chrissy from Travel for it.’

Jane leaped in as Nadine took a swallow of coffee.

‘Chrissy from Travel is exactly who should be covering this—’

‘Finally, and most importantly, you’ll avoid this place in the run-up to Christmas,’ Nadine continued. ‘Think of it, Jane. No office parties. No average pub lunch where we have to fork out thirty quid to wear paper hats.’

‘Even if those hats look great on you,’ Ben said. ‘Even if you were born to wear those hats.’

Jane groaned. ‘Christmas isn’t for ages,’ she said weakly. ‘And you’re already putting me off it.’

‘It’ll come around sooner than you think. But at least you’ll be relaxed after a few weeks in Norway,’ Nadine said, standing and smoothing down her trousers.

The sly glances from the rest of the team as Simon and I avoid each other, thought Jane.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll take it. Like you’re giving me any choice.’

‘Good,’ Nadine said briskly. ‘I’ll loop you in with the PR now. She’s called Natasha. Watch out for her – she’s already annoying me.’ She gave Jane the ghost of a wink. ‘Ben, it’s your mission to make Jane enjoy herself. I want her back more cheerful than Scrooge on Christmas morning.’

‘Ho, ho, ho,’ Jane said mirthlessly, slumping down in her seat.

 

Jane had always prided herself on not getting too involved when it came to men. Her hard-won job as a reporter for the prominent, award-winning London Courier brought her a joy so fierce that she could only acknowledge it with a sort of superstitious caution. Even after a disheartening day, she still had to pinch herself that this was her, with her patchy education, working alongside some of the best journalists in the country. She had hit her stride at the Courier, found something she loved doing and thrown herself into her work.

And then Simon Layton had joined the London Courier just over a year ago as arts and culture reporter. ‘Sitting in a dark room watching films – what’s not to like?’ he said to her.

Jane hadn’t paid him much attention at first – average height, curling dark hair, a lilting Irish accent – but suddenly he was everywhere. Teasing her in the kitchen, asking her opinion with flattering frequency on his work. Stopping by her desk with tempting little nuggets of office gossip, making her laugh. Arguing with her about politics, which, as she told him, he knew nothing about. Coffee, exactly how she liked it – strong, with a lot of milk – on her desk every morning. Waiting for her, ever so casually, at the end of the day so that they could walk out together.

He became, she wasn’t quite sure how, part of the fabric of her life.

So this is what it’s like to have an office crush, Jane thought. Someone you made an effort for. She was constantly aware of Simon’s presence – when he was in the room, she would surreptitiously apply lip balm, fluff up her hair, sit straighter. She chose her outfits and applied her perfume in the morning with extra care. He was one of those people who was friendly to everyone: she had no idea whether she was special to him or not. The uncertainty made their flirtation – if that was what it was – extra exciting.

She found out he had just split up with his long-term university girlfriend, Emily.

‘She wanted the whole two-point-four-children thing,’ he told Jane one day by the coffee point. ‘You know – big ugly house in suburbia, big ugly car. Good schools. Holidays in Center Parcs.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not for me. Not just yet anyway.’ He grinned, his eyes lighting up his face.

Jane had stalked Emily on Facebook as soon as she was back at her desk. Wholesome – a sweet face, long, shiny dark hair, freckles across her nose, and very white, even teeth. Jane skimmed through the photos of her and Simon – camping, hill-walking, beaming at the camera over pints – then shut down the page and smiled.

 

The tension, real or imagined, had bubbled away for weeks. And then finally, after Nadine’s birthday drinks last November, they found themselves alone and slightly tipsy on a corner of Lamb’s Conduit Street. It was a perfect London night, clear and cold, Christmas lights twinkling and their breath clouding in the frosty air. Simon’s hand on her arm, pulling her to a halt. Jane’s heart beating so hard she thought it might burst as he leaned towards her, and then their mouths fitting together, just right.

After that, they were inseparable. They kept it quiet at work, but everyone knew. For nearly a year, everything was perfect.

Or almost perfect.

Looking back, Jane had to admit that there were cracks. When she had introduced him to Margot and Kate, he couldn’t have been more charming, but she sensed an unusual reserve on their part. Kate laughed at his jokes, but Margot seemed distant. She didn’t talk much, which for Margot was a red flag. She mostly leaned back and watched Simon through half-lidded eyes.

Jane began their group WhatsApp the next morning with an excited ‘Well??????’ Kate had been effusive – ‘He’s gorgeous! That accent!’ – but Margot was strangely muted.

‘Didn’t you like him?’ Jane asked her the next time they met, over fish pie in their usual midweek dinner spot. ‘I feel like you guys didn’t like him.’

‘Oh, we liked him,’ Margot said. She was in the middle of IVF and the strain was showing, although the signs – the faintest furrow in her perfect forehead, the bluish shadows under her eyes – would have been imperceptible to most. She took a thoughtful swallow of her sparkling water. ‘He’s handsome and charming, which I’m sure he knows.’ She leaned forward, her face serious. ‘He seemed a bit cross about how late you were coming home from work.’

‘Oh,’ said Jane, waving her hand. ‘He just worries about how hard I work.’

‘And he said you should be getting the drinks because you make more money. That felt kind of bitter.’

‘That was a joke! He’s not threatened by me, if that’s what you think.’

Margot nodded, clearly appeasing her. ‘OK. I mean, you know him best. The only thing that matters to me is – is he nice to you?’

‘Of course he is!’ Jane exclaimed. Margot was way too protective of her, she thought. She knew what she was doing.

And it was true – Simon was nice to her. He adored her. They even spent Christmas Day together because his family were in Spain for a wedding and he hadn’t enough holiday allowance left to go. Since her mum died, Jane spent it with Margot and Kate, but Margot airily waved off her apologies. ‘There will be plenty more Christmases,’ she said. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

Jane agonised over what to give him for this first Christmas but chanced on a battered first edition of Moonfleet in a charity shop, his favourite book as a boy. And he had given her a ridiculously expensive pink bobble hat, something Jane would never have bought in a million years.

‘One hundred per cent cashmere,’ he said proudly, when she unwrapped it. ‘Try it on.’

She pulled it on and he laughed at her doubtful expression. ‘You look adorable in it. Like a very serious elf. It’s not a crime to have nice things, you know. You should see how overboard my parents go at Christmas.’

‘Do you miss your family?’ she asked, snuggling next to him on the sofa, still wearing the hat.

‘They’re all right, but they’re not a patch on you.’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘You’ll meet them all next Christmas,’ he said confidently, and she glowed.

The months rolled by and Jane counted them off with glee. Finally, after years of rubbish men, she was in an adult, functional relationship. Weekend trips to the seaside and dinners with friends. A drawer in his flat for her to keep her underwear and a hairdryer.

And then Jane had hit on her big story. . .