The Beachside Christmas

by Karen Clarke

Genres: Holiday books; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Snow is falling and there's romance in the air. Curl up for a cosy Christmas by the fire at Seaview Cottage...When thirty-year-old Lily Ambrose's latest relationship ends in disaster, she remembers happy childhood holidays in the seaside town of Shipley and decides it's the perfect place for a fresh start.But when Lily arrives, the town's spirits are as low as her own: the local celebrity due to turn on the Christmas lights has gone on a cruise instead. Keen to prove herself, she calls in a favour and secures gorgeous reality star Ollie.Lily's neighbours are initially thrilled, but Ollie is as uncontrollable as he is good-looking. He can't remember the town's name, calls the Christmas decorations tacky, and manages to offend everyone. And whilst handsome but stubborn cameraman Craig tries to help, even he can't stop Ollie's madcap plans to stage a romance with Lily...Will Lily be able to keep Ollie under control and bring the Christmas cheer back to Shipley – and find herself a real kiss under the mistletoe?Perfect for fans of Phillipa Ashley, Cathy Bramley and Debbie Johnson.'Had me properly laughing... A light hearted, fun, easy to read story that will have you giggling, while also wishing your own house has far more Christmas lights!' Rachel's Random Reads, 5 stars'Karen Clarke has such a knack for writing hilariously funny one-liners. I have lost track whilst reading this how many times I've laughed out loud... This is a fabulous book!!' Stardust Book Reviews, 5 stars'Perfect to get you in the Christmas spirit!' Read.Sleep.Knit-

Release date: September 26, 2017

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 342

Sample

‘No one’s died here if that’s what you’re worried about.’

I turned, surprised that the estate agent had misinterpreted my silence.

‘I’m not worried,’ I said, whipping out a smile. I looked a bit stern when I was being serious, according to Max.

Don’t think about Max.

‘Someone famous lived here a while back.’ Alfie Blake ran a nervous finger between his neck and shirt collar. ‘Isabel Sinclair?’

‘Never heard of her.’ I felt a bit sorry for Alfie. He looked too young to be selling property, as if he was on work experience. ‘Is she an actress?’

‘No, but she went on Morning, Sunshine! trying to get our local sweet shop closed down,’ he said. ‘It didn’t work, and suddenly they’d moved out.’

‘Well, I’m glad they did.’

My eyes switched back to the view through the latticed window. Despite the gunmetal sky, befitting early November, there was a triangle of sea just visible and I imagined jogging along the beach, the wind tossing my hair, blasting away the stress of the past six months. I hated jogging, but it was bound to be more relaxing by the sea.

‘The garden doesn’t look great at this time of year, but there’s a decent-sized shed, and there aren’t too many shrubs, and I know the apple tree looks a bit crap at the moment, pardon my French, and there’s a shed. Did I mention that?’

‘You did.’

Alfie joined me at the window, clutching his clipboard like a Bible. ‘Have you been to Shipley before, Miss Ambrose?’

‘Lily,’ I said, automatically. ‘I came here on holiday a few times with my family, years ago.’ My lips curled in a smile as a succession of happy snapshots flooded my mind: eating sandy sandwiches on the beach; my brother chasing me into the sea, then mounting a panicky rescue when I floated out too far; Dad’s startlingly hairy legs in his ‘holiday’ shorts, hurtling after our beach-ball; Mum, red-shouldered in her summer dress, trying to read a romance through her sunglasses.

‘I always wanted to come back,’ I said, though, in truth, I’d been perfectly happy in London, before my life blew up.

‘It’s a bit quiet.’ Alfie’s youthful brow puckered. ‘I mean, it’s nice for older people—’

‘Hey, I’m barely thirty,’ I protested, though that was probably ancient to him.

‘Oh no, I didn’t mean… I just meant… I mean…’ Alfie’s cheeks looked as if someone had taken a blowtorch to them. It was easy to imagine what he must have looked like as a toddler, with his wholesome face and swell of chestnut curls. ‘What I meant was—’

‘It’s OK,’ I said, putting him out of his misery. ‘I’m planning to write a novel, so quiet is perfect for me.’ I liked the way it sounded. I’m a novelist sounded more exciting than primary school teacher. Not that Alfie was impressed – or even listening.

‘I bet it’s noisy in London, what with all that traffic, the shops, and people.’ He made it sound as if London was one long street, filled with ear-splitting car-horns and deafening music. ‘There won’t be any of that here,’ he went on, wistfully. ‘Most you’ll hear is seagulls. They’re bloody noisy, pardon my French.’

‘I can handle that,’ I said, glancing around the living room, which was painted the colour of mayonnaise (or Vanilla Dream, as Alfie informed me, faithfully checking his clipboard). The cottage was palatial compared to places I’d lived in before: a room in a student house, a poky studio flat, then my childhood home in East Finchley, where I’d been living for nearly three years, since Dad died.

‘Your money goes a lot further out here,’ Alfie said brightly, switching back into sales mode. Not that he needed to. I’d as good as bought the cottage already. I’d found it online a couple of weeks earlier, hunched over my laptop in the middle of the night, desperate to be somewhere else. I’d typed in Shipley, figuring it was as good a place as any to flee to, and some frantic scrolling had brought me to Seaview Cottage. The owners were so keen for a sale, they were even throwing in a few classy pieces of furniture they hadn’t got room for in their new place, and after a tour through the gallery of photos, I’d booked a viewing.

‘I couldn’t afford anything like this in London,’ I said, the words provoking a painful lurch as I recalled the daydreams I used to have of Max and me buying our own place, once his divorce was finalised.

‘You’re buying it on your own?’ Alfie’s eyes grew round, as if I was an heiress, or lottery winner.

‘I’ve been at home for a while, saving for a deposit,’ I said, which wasn’t strictly true. I doubt I’d have moved back to Finchley if Dad hadn’t died, and I’d already had a respectable nest egg, thanks to Granny Ambrose, who’d been squirrelling away money for me and my brother for decades. Chris had spent his on a hipster café in Shoreditch, while I’d put mine aside for a rainy day.

The rainy day had turned into monsoon season, and I’d never been more grateful to my grandmother for providing me with the means to escape.

‘That famous woman I just told you about, she had it decorated proper like, so there’s not much to do unless you fancy painting over it all.’ Alfie’s lovely Dorset vowels washed over me, and I began to feel oddly at home.

‘The fireplace is an original feature, but hasn’t been used for a long time,’ he said, nodding at the copper façade, which was partly hidden behind an old-fashioned fireguard. ‘It’s decorative, like, but there’s plenty of logs in the shed, so you might want to think about opening it up.’

Tucking his clipboard under his arm, he led me into the modest but stylish kitchen, and flourished an arm at the artfully rustic cabinets. ‘Fridge-freezer’s like another bedroom, see?’ He opened and shut the shiny red door, then turned on the tap at the butler-style sink, leaping back when a whoosh of water splashed his skinny tie. ‘Shit!’ he muttered. ‘Sorry,’ he added, taking the tissue I was holding out and dabbing at his front. ‘This is only my first week on the job…’

‘Don’t worry, you’re doing fine,’ I said, understanding all too well the horror of messing up at work. I shuddered at the memory of Max’s wife, storming wild-eyed into my classroom a couple of months ago, in the middle of story time.

‘Look at you!’ she’d cried, as if she’d been expecting Beyoncé and encountered a Teletubby. ‘You’re… homely! And he doesn’t even like blondes, or blue eyes!’

Actually, Max had professed to love both; claimed my hair was the colour of sun-ripened wheat, and my eyes the blue of the evening sky in summer (he’d fancied himself as a poet). I couldn’t tell her that of course; especially not in front of thirty five-year-olds desperate to get back to The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

‘It’s caused quite a stir, Lily,’ the head teacher had said, pulling me into her office the following day, her usually kind eyes frosted with disapproval. ‘I’m afraid there’ve been complaints from some of the mothers about your affair.’

‘They were separated and, anyway, we’re not together any more,’ I’d protested weakly. I’d just begun to get over our break-up – though it was hard seeing Max drop off and pick up his daughter every day – when he’d texted me to say that, in a fit of guilt, he’d confessed to his wife that he’d been ‘seeing’ their daughter’s teacher while they’d been apart. The shame of that confrontation with his wife, which I’d stood through, sweaty and shaking, had meant I couldn’t stay in my job, even without the head’s veiled hints that I was no longer welcome at the school. The humiliation of being gossiped about, and eyed suspiciously by the parents, was more than I could bear.

‘Do you want to look upstairs again?’ Alfie balled the tissue into the jacket pocket of his baggy grey suit. ‘I can show you how the shower works, if you like.’

I had a vision of us emerging, sodden. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘The garden?’

‘Looks great, from what I’ve seen.’ It was a raw day, even for early November, and I didn’t fancy wandering around in a force ten gale.

‘OK, so…’ Alfie’s eyes roved around, as if seeking something spectacular he could point out: a sliding ceiling, perhaps, or a panic room.

‘How soon can I move in?’ I said, smoothing a hand over the limestone worktop. I could see me baking in here.

His face brightened. ‘You said you’re not in a chain?’

‘That’s right, and you told me the couple who were also interested have pulled out so… I’d like to offer the full asking price.’

Alfie’s grin was huge. ‘Let’s do this!’ He tried to high-five me but I missed my cue, so he scratched his head instead. ‘I’ll phone the office,’ he said.

He moved into the hallway, his mobile pressed to his ear, and I closed my eyes and imagined myself living on Maple Hill, where the houses on either side of the steeply pitched road were all different shapes and sizes. Seaview Cottage was one of the smallest, but that suited me just fine.

I’d already earmarked the back bedroom as a study, where I was going to write my book, and, once I’d settled in, Erin could come and stay, even if it was just to check her best friend hadn’t made a terrible mistake, and Chris and his fiancée could visit—

A car door slammed, and I jumped. I crossed to the window and saw a man wearing a bandana, earrings and a trench coat, leaning into the boot of a black Explorer parked on the drive next door. He heaved out a cardboard box overflowing with fairy lights, and what looked like a deflated reindeer, and clutched it to his chest as if it were stolen jewellery.

‘What are the neighbours like?’ I asked Alfie when he came back in, watching as the man crept – he was definitely creeping – up his garden path, pausing to glance over his shoulder as if expecting a police car to arrive.

‘Neighbours?’ Alfie followed the line of my gaze. ‘Ah, that’s Barry Lambert,’ he said. ‘He’s head of The Christmas Lights Society.’

‘The what now?’

Alfie adjusted the tiny knot of his tie. ‘It’s a sort of committee,’ he said. ‘They raise money during the year for the lights in the town, and book someone to turn on the tree lights in the square, and there’s a competition every year for best house display on Maple Hill. Blake’s Properties – my dad – usually makes a donation.’ He opened his mouth, as if to say more, then snapped it shut again.

‘What aren’t you telling me?’

‘Nothing!’ He snatched up his clipboard and held it like a shield. ‘It gets a bit competitive, that’s all.’

‘I think it sounds lovely,’ I said. Christmas was my favourite time of year and if I couldn’t spend it with Max, then being in Shipley might be the next best thing. ‘I should join the society, if it’s not too late. It’ll be a good way to meet my new neighbours.’

Alfie’s round eyes widened. ‘I think they’ve had all their meetings, and I doubt you’ll be moved in before Christmas, anyway.’

‘Why not?’ Now I’d seen the cottage, I wanted to move in right away.

‘Well, there’s… stuff to do.’ Alfie clearly needed training in what selling a house involved.

‘How long, Alfie?’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Could be six weeks, could be longer, it depends on lots of things.’

Six weeks? ‘What sort of things?’

‘Stuff?’ His Adam’s apple bobbed over the collar of his shirt. ‘Paperwork, mostly.’

I couldn’t bear to wait any longer than I had to. The wheels were in motion, and I wanted to start my new life in the place where I’d had such happy times as a child. It felt like I was destined to live in Shipley.

‘Can you make it four?’ I did a little twirl in my shiny new kitchen. ‘I’ve already started packing.’

‘I think I’ve made a mistake.’ I stared through the rain-speckled window at the soggy garden. There was no sea or sand visible today, just a hovering mist, and a bedraggled seagull on the gatepost.

‘Oh, Lily, of course you do. You’re just feeling funny because I’m going back home today.’ Mum came over and wrapped her arms around my waist. In the distorted reflection she could have easily passed for my funkier sister, with her spiky white hair, and her favourite rectangular glasses with the leopard-print frames. It was only when you looked closely that the ‘V’ between her eyebrows and fine lines around her eyes were noticeable.

She’d lost weight after Dad died, which had brought out her cheekbones, and she’d kept it off with a diet of faddy eating and a frantic lifestyle.

‘Can’t you at least stay until the weekend?’ I said, breathing in her familiar scent of fresh apples, and vanilla body lotion.

‘I can’t leave Annie for long, she gets flustered on her own,’ Mum said, giving me a little squeeze. ‘And I’ve got my play tomorrow night.’

As well as running a craft shop with her oldest friend, Annie Larkin, Mum was a leading member of Acting Out, an am-dram group that specialised in Agatha Christie mysteries and occasional adaptations of classic novels. The other players had been her saviours after Dad died, and I couldn’t begrudge her (much) for wanting to get back to them.

‘It’s so quiet,’ I said, cocking my head. Nothing but the patter of rain on the living- room window, and Mum’s soft breath in my ear. I hadn’t even heard a car door slam since arriving the day before.

‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ Mum steered me back to the plush, oatmeal-coloured sofa that had belonged to the previous owner, and sat me down. ‘I thought you wanted peace and quiet so you could write your novel.’ She slightly emphasised ‘novel’, as if unsure of its meaning, still not fully on board with me giving up teaching.

‘I do,’ I said, lifting my mug off the coffee table, hot chocolate steaming my face. ‘It’s just so unfamiliar.’

Things had happened quickly in the end, as my four-week challenge was met with gusto, and I’d become swept up in organising the move. Once we’d arrived, I’d thrown myself into organising the rooms, with Mum’s help, installing the few items of furniture I’d had stored in her garage, and rearranging the rest. Around midnight we’d sunk, exhausted, into my hastily made-up bed, and slept for eight hours.

It wasn’t until this morning, over a breakfast of poached eggs (me) and black coffee, (Mum) that reality began to sink in. Soon, I’d be alone in a strange town, miles from everything I knew.

‘It’s a big step,’ Mum acknowledged, sitting beside me, ‘but once you’ve got to know your neighbours, and reacquainted yourself with the area—’

‘We haven’t been here for years, Mum, it’s like a completely new place,’ I said, invalidating my original argument for choosing Shipley in the first place.

‘Seaside towns don’t change that much.’ She patted my knee. ‘You’ll be fine, sweetheart.’

I didn’t know whether to be upset that she was trying to convince me, or relieved that she wasn’t the sort of mother who wanted me tied to her apron strings forever.

‘Won’t you miss me?’ I said, childishly.

‘Oh, darling, of course I will, but you’re not a million miles away, and we’ll see each other at Christmas.’ She bristled a little in the chunky-knit cardigan Annie had knitted for her birthday. ‘I’m just happy to see you taking control after what that man did to you.’

Mum had been friendly towards Max, but after he broke my heart had branded him a ‘shitbag’, which had made me giggle, tearfully. She’d preferred ‘Lovely Dan’, who I’d dated since teacher-training, and I hadn’t had the heart to tell her he’d given me an ultimatum when I told him I was moving back home after Dad died – him or my mother.

‘I won’t be able to come to your plays,’ I said, though in truth it was quite a relief. As much as I supported Mum’s acting endeavours, it was sometimes hard to watch her playing a murder victim, or pouting, sultry-eyed at her leading man, as she’d done in an adaptation of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. ‘There’s probably nothing to do here in the evenings.’

‘Where’s that sunny girl of mine gone?’ Mum looked around comically, as if the old me might be lurking on the oak bookcase that had belonged to the previous owners. ‘We Ambroses are famed for our resilience, so don’t you go letting the side down,’ she said, wagging a playful finger.

I mustered a smile. She was right. Our family possessed an uncanny ability to bounce back from adversity, which had proved a blessing in the past, but since Max… don’t think about Max… since leaving my job, my resilience had taken a battering, and, apart from the resurgence that had seen me uproot my life, was in danger of vanishing.

‘Why don’t we have a nice muffin before I go?’ Mum suggested, as if I’d reverted to being seven years old. She shot into the kitchen and returned with the gingham-covered basket she’d found in the porch that morning, while putting out some rubbish. ‘You can pop round and thank the woman who left them, and then you’ll have made a new friend.’

‘I guess so,’ I said, taking the note she was holding out and scanning the untidy handwriting sprawled across the paper.

Welcome to Maple Hill, from Doris Day (Head of Neighbourhood Watch) Number 1 (blue door, brass knocker). The purple bits are blueberries, I didn’t use nuts, just in case. If you aren’t allergic I make a nice pecan tart, although I don’t think people can be allergic to pecans. They’re tree nuts, so not related to the peanut. Return the basket at your leisure. I’m in all day tomorrow.

‘Doris Day?’ I immediately thought of the old films that Mum and I used to watch on Saturday afternoons, when Dad took Chris to the football, and tears pricked my eyes.

‘She’s bound to be lovely with a name like that, and to have gone to all this trouble…’ Mum peered into the basket and inhaled. ‘They smell divine.’ She often said actressy things like ‘divine’ since she’d joined Acting Out.

‘I’m not hungry,’ I said, then seeing worry unfold on her face, added, ‘Go on then, maybe a couple of bites.’

She relaxed into a smile. ‘We’ll share one,’ she said, which was a measure of her concern. She’d currently given up anything she couldn’t throw in a juicer.

‘They taste… odd.’ I swallowed a mouthful, trying to pinpoint the flavour. ‘Sort of… earthy.’

‘They might be poisoned.’ Mum grabbed it off me, her face contorting with horror. ‘It could be laced with arsenic.’

‘Mum!’ A laugh bubbled up. ‘This is real life, remember?’

All the same, I didn’t eat any more, and once Mum had left in a flurry of hugs, goodbyes, reassurances, and promises to call, dashing to her little Golf in the sleety rain, holding her tapestry bag above her head, I slid the bolt across the door. After I’d checked that all the windows were tightly closed, I switched on the television for company.

Next, I took another tour of the cottage, acquainting myself with its twists and turns, soothed by the unaccustomed space, soft colours, and tasteful furniture – which I’d never have chosen, but which suited the little rooms.

The books and cushions I’d accumulated, and the fortifying photos of family I’d scattered around, made me feel a bit more anchored.

‘I’m going to be fine,’ I said out loud, determined not to imagine Max’s head on the pillow in the bedroom, his athletic body in the shower, or his long legs stretched out on the sofa.

Shipley was going to be a Max-free zone. A drama-free zone.

A round of applause burst from the television and I gave a bloodcurdling yelp.

This was ridiculous.

Maybe I wasn’t suited to being alone with my thoughts.

‘You’re not used to it, that’s all,’ I said kindly, as if counselling one of my pupils. Don’t think about them. Don’t think of their shiny little faces, wondering where Miss Ambrose has gone, or my ex-colleagues, gossiping about me in the staff room.

My old life was over.

‘DO something!’ I ordered, my voice bouncing off the smooth, cream walls. Perhaps I could go for a bracing walk. I glanced through the window at a seagull being flung about on a gale-force wind. The rain was horizontal, and in the distance the sea was a frothing mass of crashing waves.

I should start my novel instead.

I rushed to the back bedroom, where I’d set up my laptop at the school-type desk I’d bought on eBay a few years ago, but had never found a space for. I plonked myself on the swivel chair Mum had given me, which used to be Dad’s.

I spun around a few times.

The room was warm, thanks to the efficient central heating, but otherwise empty. I’d need a new bed if I was going to have people to stay. Mum had been happy to bunk in with me, but I could hardly share with my brother if he came to visit, and even though the sofa was big and squashy enough to sleep on, it would be nice to have a proper spare bed.

I logged on to the Wi-Fi, congratulating myself for setting it up before arriving, and started browsing websites. Before I knew it, I’d ordered a double divan, and some bedding and matching curtains.

I quickly checked my emails (nothing but Spam) and clicked onto Facebook. Max loathed social media, so thankfully wasn’t on there, but reading updates from my old life made my throat ache. I was missing the build-up to the end of term before Christmas. We’d be living on a diet of Quality Street and mince pies in the staffroom, and someone usually brought in a bottle of Bailey’s to share on the last day of term.

On impulse, I deactivated my account and scrolled through Twitter instead. Erin often posted pithy updates from the talent agency she worked for, but apart from a bland congrats to Ellie Palladino on a job well done! about a former soap star fronting a toothpaste advert, there was nothing recent. Or pithy.

I logged off, surprised to find that a couple of hours had shot by. I stood up and did some stretches to get my blood flowing, then sat back down and opened the document I’d imaginatively titled ‘Novel’.

I stared at the blank page, wishing I’d written a paragraph or two already. The trouble was, I hadn’t made up my mind what type of novel to write. I’d been hoping inspiration would strike once I began my new life.

Thrillers were popular, so it made sense to go down that route.

I looked out at the muted colours of the compact garden, where the light was fading and the naked apple tree was bent double, and tried to enter a murderous frame of mind.

A robin landed on a wavering branch, its feathers fluffed up for protection, and the sight of it reminded me it was Christmas in less than three weeks and I’d hardly bought any gifts before leaving London.

Perhaps I should do some more Christmas shopping now…

No.

‘Stay focused,’ I ordered myself, waggling my fingers above the keys.

Just type an opening line and the rest will flow.

I was sure I’d read that somewhere. Or maybe Max had said it, about his poetry writing.

I quickly typed: It was dark and dreary, as Janet entered the garden… Janet? I knew a Janet from school, and she was lovely, but hardly main character material.

It was dark and dreary as Maxine entered the garden… That was better. A strong, female name.

No, wait. Maxine? I was thinking about bloody Max.

… as Camilla… too royal. Cerys… tricky to pronounce? …as Jasminda, Belinda, Melinda, Toyota, Magenta, Placenta…

Jessica!

I pressed delete and started again. Rain lashed down as Jessica entered the garden…

Why was she entering the garden?

…as Jessica entered the garden with a spade and began to dig…

More atmosphere.

…as Jessica drove her spade into the soil…

Drove didn’t sound right… dug… didn’t look right.

Jessica slashed the soil with her spade… Oh, for hell’s sake, spades didn’t slash.

I hated Jessica already.

And I didn’t want to write a thriller.

I deleted it all and typed: Jessica watched Marco enter the garden, his naked chest muscles rippling as he wielded his spade…

Blood gushed to my face. Imagine Mum reading that! And why was I fixated on spades?

As I deleted the text, I became aware of an unnatural brightness filtering into the hallway, considering the sky was now black with no sign of a moon. I rose and went into the front bedroom, and my mouth fell open as I drank in a kaleidoscope of Christmas lights. In the house opposite, they twinkled in every window, around the garden, and even on the roof, while next to it was a perfect replica of a gingerbread house. There were candy canes and gingerbread men surrounding the perimeter of the garden, and icing-like snow trimmings attached to the edges of the house (how had they got that ‘ginger’ effect on the walls?) Moving closer, I noticed a house a couple of doors down decked out as a scene from Frozen, with vivid blue lighting, and an image of Elsa beamed onto the front wall.

‘Wow,’ I breathed. They really made an effort on Maple Hill, and I wondered if it was compulsory; whether I’d be shunned if I didn’t participate.

Dragging my eyes from the festive lights, I slammed my laptop shut. What I needed was a cup of tea, and to plan my novel properly.

Down in the kitchen, I spotted the piece of paper Doris Day had written her note on, laid on top of some junk mail Mum had placed on the worktop. I picked it up and was about to throw it away, when I noticed Doris had written something on the back: There’s an emergency meeting of The Christmas Lights Society at No. 8 Maple Hill at 6 p.m. today (the 7th) if you fancy coming along. Refreshments provided.

I glanced at the illuminated digits of the built-in oven: 17.55. I checked my reflection in the glass door. My hair – recently chopped from shoulder- to jaw-length – had developed a kink, and my skin was chewing-gum pale, but I didn’t have time to faff with straighteners and make-up.

I pulled my parka on over my sweater and jeans, stuffed my feet into my boots, and grabbed my keys.

My novel would have to wait. It was time to meet my neighbours.

It was gone six o’clock by the time I realised that Number 8 was right next door. It shouldn’t have been that difficult, as there were only ten houses on either side of the. . .