Someday at Christmas

by Lizzie Byron

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Real life is nothing like a romcom . . . Right? 'THE PERFECT FESTIVE STORY. SWEET, BLISSFULLY ROMANTIC AND BURSTING WITH HEART . . . OH MY HEART I LOVED IT.' MIRANDA DICKINSON 'THE LITERARY EQUIVALENT OF A MINCE PIE WARM OUT OF THE OVEN, WITH A DOLLOP OF BRANDY CUSTARD ON THE SIDE' SARRA MANNING, RED MAGAZINE 'YOU WILL FALL IN LOVE WITH SHELL SMITH' PRIMA _________________________________________________ The most delightful Christmas romance of 2020. Shell Smith is the most popular make-up artist on the ART counter at Duke & Sons, a beautiful but old-fashioned department store in her hometown. But whilst Shell's love life is looking up, now that she's dating long-time crush Nick, and business is booming in the beauty department, the rest of the store is noticeably quiet . . . The owner's grandson Callum has come up with some creative ways to keep Duke & Sons afloat this Christmas, including allowing a production company to secretly film a romcom after hours. When Callum recruits her to help out, Shell finds there is more to Mr Duke Jr. than sharp suits and a business-like demeanour. With a store to save and her own romance with Nick going off-script, Christmas just got complicated for Shell. But this is the most wonderful time of the year, so there must be a happy ending awaiting . . . Right? _________________________________________________ ' Warm, funny, sexy, gorgeous setting and characters. I loved it so much. (Also it should totally be a film.)' 5* 'I'll struggle to get into another book after this. I absolutely LOVED it.' 5* 'Just wonderful! Effortlessly diverse and inclusive' 5* 'A wonderful Christmas read that will leave you feeling happier than when you started, reaching out for the cocoa and wanting to put on a Christmas movie. Perfection' 5*

Release date: September 3, 2020

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

 

 

 

In the seventeen years since Patrick Duke opened the doors to Duke & Sons, the store had survived two wars, an exuberant soda fountain that almost flooded the café in the basement and his son Charles’s bright idea to distil whisky in a corner of the warehouse. As such, it was fair to say that there was very little that surprised him any more.

One thing that would never cease to amaze him, though, was how many people were nonchalant enough to leave buying their gifts until Christmas Eve. Even Renée Flynn, who visited the store almost every day to purchase table linen for a dinner party she was hosting or to linger in the Scarf Hall, admiring each one with the sort of hushed wonder usually reserved for an art gallery, still left it until an hour before the store closed to rush in.

She swept through the revolving door in her usual whirl of blonde curls and Gaulin perfume, then stopped to pat the snowflakes from her conker-coloured mink coat. When she finally looked up, he took a step forward to greet her.

‘Mrs Flynn,’ he said brightly, hands behind his back.

She turned her cheek towards the sound of his voice, then immediately softened when she saw it was him. ‘Oh, Mr Duke, thank goodness!’ She pressed a gloved hand to her chest. ‘You’re a sight for sore feet!’

‘Please.’ He bowed his head. ‘Call me Patrick.’

Wide-eyed and wasp-waisted, Renée Flynn was exactly the sort of customer Patrick had imagined when he opened Duke & Sons: a Grace Kelly blonde with exquisite taste and a weakness for Hermès scarves. She used to be a model, or so the gossip on the shop floor went, and after a scandalous affair with a Hollywood star, she had surprised everyone by marrying Adam Flynn, the CEO of Great Capital Bank. Now she was every bit the Ostley housewife, but she still had a mischievous glint in her eye.

‘Patrick.’ She beamed, immediately back to her playful self as she reached up to squeeze his shoulders with her hands, then kiss him swiftly on each cheek. ‘Thank goodness you’re still open. I didn’t think I’d get here in time. My train from London was delayed because of the snow.’ She plucked off her leather gloves with great flourish. ‘I took the children to see The Nutcracker.’

‘How was it?’

‘I enjoyed it, but I think they would rather have seen Jack and the Beanstalk.’

Patrick chuckled lightly.

‘Still. At least they’re thrilled at the promise of a white Christmas.’

Her smile was more wistful as she glanced over her shoulder at the snow falling quietly outside. Patrick, too, smiled wistfully at the sight of it and the crowd that had gathered on the pavement outside, little hands and noses pressed to the frosted glass as they gazed at the DUKE & SONS TOYLAND display in the window.

When he turned back to Renée, her gaze was darting around the busy Beauty Hall.

‘It’s so late,’ she said. ‘I thought everyone would be at home with their families by now and I could run in and collect Charlotte’s locket. But it’s busier than when the store reopened last month. Are you having a sale?’

‘No.’ He chuckled again, but he could see why she thought that, aware of the building chaos. The nearer they got to five o’clock, browsing became snatching and the panic was almost palpable. They’d sold out of Duke & Sons hampers by midday, which never happened. He’d failed to put one aside and his wife would not be amused. ‘It’s our first Christmas since rationing ended. I think people are enjoying being able to buy whatever they please this year.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Mrs Flynn adjusted the collar of her coat, then lowered her voice. ‘I do acknowledge how lucky Adam and I were to be able to eat out most evenings and we had use of the dining hall at the bank, of course, but there’s nothing like a home-cooked meal.’ She leaned a little closer to him. ‘And when I say home-cooked, I mean cooked by our housekeeper, Mrs Montgomery, of course. You and Mrs Duke must come over for supper in the New Year. Bring Charles. How old is he now? Eighteen?’ The corners of her mouth twitched when Patrick nodded. ‘Does he have a sweetheart? If not, I can introduce him to David’s niece, Philippa. She’s his age and quite lovely.’

Before Patrick could respond, she glanced around the busy Beauty Hall again. ‘Speaking of lovely, look at this! Things almost feel normal again.’

‘They certainly do.’ Patrick turned to the queue of children holding their parents’ hands and clutching their neatly written letters as they waited to see Father Christmas. ‘The store on Bridge Street was a welcome refuge while we were rebuilding, but it’s nice to be home. Especially for Christmas.’

‘And it’s nice to have you back.’ She reached up to squeeze his shoulder again. ‘Nowhere does Christmas quite like Duke & Sons.’

‘Well, yes.’ Patrick’s cheeks flushed with pride. ‘This is all Charles’s doing, though. He loves Christmas. It was his birthday yesterday so he gets everything at once.’

‘These are beautiful.’ She pointed at the garland of holly edging the Gaulin counter.

‘They’re more modest than Charles would have liked.’

That was putting it mildly given the heated discussion they’d had about them last month.

As it was the first Christmas since Duke & Sons had reopened, Charles was resolute that the store had to look exactly as it did that first Christmas in 1937. He was only a year old when it opened, but Charles insisted he remembered it. He couldn’t possibly, but Patrick did. He remembered the tree, and the heavy spruce garlands that edged each of the counters in the Beauty Hall and lined the handrail of the carved wooden staircase that twisted up from the middle of the store, circling the floors to stop under the stained-glass dome in the ceiling.

‘And the tree is stunning,’ Mrs Flynn added. ‘Better than any I saw in London today.’

The Duke & Sons Christmas tree used to be a tradition in Ostley Spa. Everyone would make a point of coming in to see it. He had missed many, many things about the store when they had decamped to Bridge Street, but watching customers’ faces when they walked in and saw the tree was one of the things Patrick had missed most. It didn’t matter how cold it was outside or how busy the store was, everyone would stop to stare at it, standing in the middle of the floor, the point of the gold star almost touching the stained-glass dome.

It was good to be home.

‘Well.’ He plucked the pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. ‘If you’d care to join me by the tree, Charles tells me he’s arranged something that is sure to get us all in the Christmas spirit.’

‘Oh, what is it?’

‘It’s a surprise.’ He extended his arm. ‘Shall we find out what it is?’

As they approached the tree, there was a commotion on the staircase and Patrick frowned as a group of men appeared in top hats and black suits with red tartan ties and waistcoats.

‘What’s this?’ Mrs Flynn gasped, but he had no idea.

One of the men tipped his top hat to Patrick, then turned to the others with a smile. That was obviously their cue, because they immediately ran down the stairs towards the tree. They were swiftly followed by a group of women in white shirts and long red tartan taffeta skirts that swished loudly. The gentle murmur of chatter faded as everyone in the Beauty Hall stopped and turned to watch the men and women gather around the Christmas tree with their backs to it, each holding up a lantern with a church candle inside.

The sudden hush was enough to draw the curiosity of the shoppers on the other floors, and Patrick watched a series of heads pop up along the banister as a small girl with cola-coloured ringlets appeared on the staircase. She was wearing a knee-length red tartan taffeta dress and glossy black patent shoes that tapped lightly on the steps as she skipped down them to join the others at the Christmas tree. When she stood in front of them, there was a collective coo as she lifted her chin with a smile. She waited a beat, then took a deep breath, and when she started singing ‘Silent Night’, Patrick covered his mouth with his hand.

Charles remembered.

Patrick bit down on his bottom lip to stop himself giving in to the rush of emotion charging through him as the little girl sang. And, with that, the whole store was still, as it was only at night, when the doors were locked and it was just him, wandering the shop floor, straightening the perfume bottles and wiping the smudges from the glass countertops with his handkerchief. Quiet in the way it had been that chilly morning in 1940 when he approached Ostley High Street to find that it was barely a street any more. Rather, a layer of smoking rubble with shards of metal sticking up towards the sky, like candles on a birthday cake.

Sky. That was what he remembered most about that morning. An endless, uninterrupted stretch of ash-coloured sky. The sky and Duke & Sons, in the middle of it all, the roof gone and one corner bitten off, but still there. Even the clock above the revolving door remained, although it had stopped at seven twenty, the time the first bomb had dropped the night before.

Patrick Duke was advised to demolish the store and rebuild. He refused, renting temporary premises on Bridge Street so Duke & Sons could keep trading and he could plough every spare penny he had into the repairs. The store had been open for just a few years so it wasn’t difficult to reassemble the team who had worked on it originally and could restore it to its former glory. The decorators, who remembered without needing to be told which colours they’d used. The carpenters, who made new counters, relaid the parquet floors and built another staircase that was somehow more beautiful than the one it replaced. The glazing company, who sealed the windows and delivered the stained-glass dome, piece by delicate piece, from Frome, and painstakingly reassembled it the day before the store had reopened last month.

The only thing Patrick hadn’t fixed was the clock outside over the revolving door, its hands now stuck for ever at seven twenty.

It had taken fourteen years, and while there had been moments when he wondered if he should stop referring to the store on Bridge Street as temporary, he never did.

When he was a child, Patrick saw a photograph of Le Bon Marché in Paris in his father’s newspaper and dreamed of living in a department store like that, of sleeping in a different bed every night and wearing whatever he wanted from the boys’ department. The night before Duke & Sons had reopened last month, he had done just that. He had slept in the grand four-poster bed on the top floor and woken to buttery sunlight pouring in through the stained-glass dome, his nod to Le Bon Marché, and for one sweet moment, he’d thought he was in Heaven.

As he listened to the little girl sing, he felt the same way, and when the other carollers joined in, everyone in the store was equally enchanted. Some sang along, but most just stood there, lips parted.

When the carol ended, he joined in with the applause, then turned to find his son next to him.

‘Do you remember, Pops?’

‘Of course, Charles,’ he said, reaching over to ruffle his blond hair.

‘Remember what, Patrick?’

He turned to Mrs Flynn, who also had tears in her eyes. ‘That first Christmas Eve, after …’ He coughed to dislodge the knot in his throat. ‘I insisted that we check on the store on our way back from midnight mass. Mary, Charles and I picked our way through the rubble and stood right here.’ He pointed down at the floor. ‘And looked up at the hole in the roof, at the stars and the flat black sky. Just as we did, it started snowing. I remember that Charles,’ he glanced at him with a proud smile, ‘who was only three at the time—’

‘Three and one day,’ Charles corrected.

‘Three and one day,’ Patrick agreed. ‘I was carrying Charles, and when he saw the snow, he started singing “Silent Night”. It was the first real moment of hope I’d felt since I heard the first bomb drop.’

Renée turned to Charles with a tender smile. ‘What a wonderful thing to do for your father!’

‘Thank you, Mrs Flynn,’ he said graciously, then went to thank the carollers.

When she and Patrick were alone and the chattering in the Beauty Hall resumed, he pushed his shoulders back and said, ‘Now, Mrs Flynn, you said something about needing to collect a locket?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Her blonde curls quivered as she shook her head. ‘A last minute Christmas gift for my daughter, Charlotte. I asked for it to be engraved and Henry called earlier to say that it’s ready.’

He held out his arm to her. ‘May I escort you to the third floor?’

‘That would be lovely.’ She curled her arm around his and let him lead her to the lifts.

As they passed the Gaulin counter, the woman behind it smiled. She was wearing a neat white shirt and the gold bells hanging from the red tartan bow pinned to it swivelled gently when she greeted them. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Flynn, Mr Duke.’

Renée stopped. ‘Molly, darling. Has that lipstick arrived yet?’

‘Yes. It came in this morning. Shall I wrap it for you?’

‘It’s just for me.’ She waved her leather gloves at Molly. ‘No need to wrap it.

‘I’m terrible, I know,’ she confessed with an unrepentant smile, her blue eyes shining as she stopped to sniff a perfume before they continued to the lifts. ‘Something for me. Something for Charlotte.’

‘My favourite kind of Christmas shopping.’

The grand brass doors opened as they approached. Jonathan the lift attendant heaved back the cage, letting everyone out. ‘Mrs Flynn. Mr Duke.’ He invited them to step in and asked which floor they needed.

‘Third, please, Jonathan,’ Patrick said. ‘The Scarf Hall, Handbags & Accessories, and Jewellery.’

Henry, who managed the Duke & Sons jewellery department, must have heard they were coming because as they ambled towards the cluster of counters, he emerged from his office holding a small black leather case.

‘Mrs Flynn, Mr Duke,’ he said, arm extended, gesturing to the round table in the middle.

‘Henry!’ she sang. ‘How lovely to see you.’

He and Patrick waited for her to sit, then did the same.

‘Always a pleasure, Mrs Flynn,’ Henry said, with a smile. ‘I hope you’re well.’

She put her handbag and gloves on the table. ‘Very.’

‘Marvellous.’ He held up the leather case. ‘Would you like to see Charlotte’s necklace?’

‘Yes!’ She clapped as he opened the case and slid it across the table to show her the fine gold chain and heart-shaped locket. She pressed the point of her red lacquered nail to the locket, then admired the freshly engraved C in the centre. ‘Oh, it’s perfect, Henry. Thank you. I know it was a rush, but when I saw it yesterday, I had to have it for her.’

‘You’re very welcome. If you’re happy, I’ll get it wrapped for you.’

He returned a few minutes later with a red tartan box tied with a green ribbon.

‘Look at that! Like something from a Christmas card.’

Patrick nodded towards the gold bell attached to the ribbon. It tinkled when Mrs Flynn shook the box. ‘Charles’s idea, I take it? My son and his ideas.’

‘I like this one.’ She shook the box again. ‘And his “Silent Night” surprise.’

Patrick raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, leave him be. He’s young. He just wants to make his mark on the place.’

‘He’s certainly doing that!’

‘I know, but the store is called Duke & Sons,’ she reminded him.

‘That’s very true, Mrs Flynn,’ he agreed with a small smile. ‘But lest we forget, this store has survived two wars. Hopefully it can survive my son, as well.’

There’s always a moment, right after Shell hands a client the mirror to show them what she’s done, when things can go either way. Either she’ll be heralded a genius. Princess of Highlight, Queen of Contouring, ruler of all her blusher-brush touches, or she’ll be told she’s ruined their life.

Or their day, at least.

Shell isn’t trying to ruin anyone’s day – quite the opposite, in fact: she wants her clients to leave the ART counter not only feeling beautiful but empowered and brave enough to try purple eyeshadow again – but a reaction like that is easier to deal with.

It’s the ones who won’t tell her they hate what she’s done who are the worst. She knows as soon as they see their reflection in the mirror. Their face falls and they let out a tiny ‘Oh,’ and Shell knows what’s coming: a painful stretch of silence followed by a mumbled, ‘Yeah, it’s nice …’ Like when your hairdresser gives you layers you didn’t ask for, so you pretend you love it and cry on the bus home.

Luckily, after eleven years, reactions like that are rare. If there’s one thing Shell has learned it’s that it’s not what her clients say they want, it’s what they don’t say. So, someone asking for a ‘dewy, natural look’ doesn’t actually want anything remotely natural. They want two layers of foundation and enough highlighter that their cheekbones can be seen from space. And someone who wants to ‘try something different’ doesn’t want to try anything different. They’re just curious to see what a peach blusher looks like instead of their usual pink one.

Like her current client Mia Morris. Mia came in an hour ago asking for ‘something witchy’ for Halloween. Shell’s instinct was to go in with a slime-green glitter eyeshadow and a glossy black lip, but this is Ostley, not Shoreditch. And while ART customers are more adventurous than most, it’s still a struggle to get them to try something other than a copper eye and a nude lip, so if she used green eyeshadow and black lipstick on a client, they’d flee from the store in hysterics and never come back.

Besides, Shell’s been doing Mia’s makeup long enough to know that when she says she wants ‘something witchy’ she means a smoky eye and a red lip. Which is exactly what she’s given her.

‘I love it!’ Mia squeals, jumping out of the chair. She throws her arms around Shell, the pair of them swaying from side to side with such enthusiasm that one of the pink silk roses falls out of Shell’s flower crown. When Mia finally lets go, she raises the mirror and looks at her reflection again. ‘How did you cover up that hideous spot on my chin, babe? You can’t even see it any more. I tried this morning and it ended up looking like a brown clay mountain.’

‘Use that cream concealer you got last week,’ Shell tells her, as she bends down to pick up the rose, then tosses it onto the counter. ‘The thick one in the jar, not the stick you use under your eyes.’ Mia nods. ‘Do your skincare, put on your primer, then cover the blemish with a concealer brush. Don’t worry about being precise, just make sure it’s covered, then let the concealer settle for a second, apply your foundation with a sponge, like you usually do, and set your face with some powder. That will hide the blemish without making it cakey.’

Mia nods again, then looks back in the mirror. ‘And how did you get my eyeliner so neat? I can never do it.’

‘Eleven years of experience and a steady hand.’ Shell winks.

‘Let me see,’ Ricky says, from behind the counter, the train on his black-lace cobweb dress swishing behind him as he sashays over to where Mia and Shell are standing. ‘Yes,’ he hisses, a hand under Mia’s chin, tilting it up to the light. ‘Perfection, Shell! This is how batwings should be: black as my heart and sharp enough to kill a man.’

Mia giggles, then turns to the other ART girls watching from behind the counter. ‘What do you think?’

Becca and Soph bump into each other in their haste to run out from behind it so they can stand in front of Mia. They’ve dressed the same for Halloween, the pair of them in matching leopard-print catsuits, black knee-high boots and fluffy leopard-print cat ears. Their hair is the only way you can tell them apart: Soph’s as dark and long as Shell’s, and Becca’s a frothy candy-floss pink that makes her eyes an even more vivid blue.

It’s the most animated they’ve been all day and Shell gets it. She remembers what it was like to be a Saturday girl on the Gaulin counter when she was sixteen and in awe of the makeup artists who were as immaculate as their clients. Back then, the Gaulin girls embodied the sort of old glamour Duke & Sons was renowned for: perfect, radiant skin and red lips that were always curled up into a smile. Women came in because they wanted to look like them, and Shell would stand by, transfixed, as she watched the makeup artists work. It didn’t matter how indifferent or impatient the customers were when they approached the counter, they left beaming with a promise to come back soon.

And they always did.

Alexa Price, who was the senior Gaulin adviser back then, had taken Shell under her wing and would allow her to hover next to her while she was working on a client so that Shell could see what she was doing. When Alexa was done and the client had left, Shell would bombard her with questions. How she applied concealer under the client’s eyes so it didn’t crease. Why she dusted blush on the tops of their cheeks not the apples. Why she used loose powder for setting and not a compact.

Shell had learned more from Alexa than she had on her NVQ. So she understands Becca and Soph’s eagerness to do something other than clean brushes. She tries to keep them engaged, but they only work on Saturdays, which is the busiest day on the counter. She usually has back-to-back clients, which doesn’t leave time for much more than to show them what she’s doing and which brush to use.

‘Look at them.’ Ricky tips his chin at Becca and Soph, who are suddenly wide-eyed and chattering gleefully. They’re utterly besotted with Mia. But, then, they’re eighteen so, Shell supposes, Mia is who Becca and Soph aspire to be: she earns an obscene amount of money working in recruitment and has thirty thousand Instagram followers. Perfect hair. Perfect teeth. Perfect life with her perfect boyfriend and their perfect cockapoo puppy.

But Shell’s been doing Mia’s makeup for five years now and knows that her life is far from perfect. Yeah, she’s killing it in recruitment, but that’s not what she wants to do. She studied history of art at university but her mother was diagnosed with MS when she graduated and couldn’t work any more so Mia needed to find a job straight away to support her. So that ‘perfect’ bedroom everyone sees on Instagram, the one with the lights around the mirror and the fluffy white cushions, is actually the same bedroom she’s always had because she still lives at home.

As for Instagram, she has so many followers because she’s recovering from an eating disorder and is an advocate for body positivity. That’s why Mia made a beeline for Shell the first time she walked into Duke & Sons. She approached the counter asking Shell to be on her YouTube channel because, she said, plus-size people needed to see that they didn’t have to wear black all the time. It took some persuading, but Shell relented and is now a regular on her channel, the pair of them doing clothing hauls and giving advice on styling while Shell does Mia’s makeup.

So, while Mia doesn’t care that people dismiss her as the pumpkin-spice-latte-drinking, Ugg-boot-wearing girl who has it all, it pisses Shell off, because she’s so much more than that. Plus, she’s nice. Really, genuinely nice.

Shell should probably rescue her from Becca and Soph, but Mia seems to find them endearing.

‘Where you going tonight, Mia?’ Soph asks, then nods at Becca. ‘We’re going to Hannigans.’

‘Number Twenty-Eight.’

‘In Church Cabham?’

Mia nods.

‘Classy,’ Becca and Soph say in unison.

‘What’s your costume like?’ Soph asks, adjusting her cat ears.

‘I’m going as a witch, so a long black wig, black dress, fishnets and heels.’

Becca and Soph nod, eyes wide. ‘Wow.’

‘Wow,’ Ricky mouths at Shell, then rolls his.

Given that he’s dressed as Sharon Needles – or a Filipino Sharon Needles, he isn’t as pale but he has all of her attitude – in the floor-length black-lace cobweb gown and a grey bouffant wig studded with plastic spiders, Shell can’t blame him for mocking Mia’s lack of effort. Even Shell’s made a point of not dressing like a witch again this year and is Frida Kahlo. Her yellow and blue floral maxi dress isn’t as dramatic as his, but she’s twisted her long black hair into a pile on the top of her head and embellished it with a flower crown of hot-pink silk roses, the space between her eyebrows filled in with strokes of mascara.

Not that most of her clients have known who she’s dressed as.

One asked her if she was an Indian flower witch, whatever that is.

‘You’re the only one who can do my eyeliner, babe,’ Mia says, peering at her reflection in the mirror again as she fusses over her fringe with her fingers. ‘Mine’s always wonky. I think I need that brush you used.’ S. . .