Portia MacIntosh - Love and Lies at The Village Christmas Shop - A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for Christmas 2018

‘Sisters, huh?’ she says to my mum politely, like perhaps she has daughters of her own, and she knows exactly how tricky they can be.

‘Would you believe they’re twins?’ my mum replies. ‘Non-identical, in both appearance and interests. Fascinating really. Can I get you anything else?’

‘No, that’s great, thanks.’

‘Have a very merry Christmas,’ my mum says brightly as she hands over a receipt, before turning her attention back to Holly. ‘Who did that for you?’

‘I did it myself,’ she says proudly. ‘Only 99p from Boots.’

‘Will it come out?’

‘Yeah, well, in three washes,’ she admits.

‘Can you go and get started on the first wash now then, please,’ my mum asks gently.

‘I thought you’d like it,’ Holly persists. ‘Red is festive.’

My mum laughs wildly. ‘You’re not going to convince me you did this in tribute to Christmas – you hate Christmas.’ We all know Holly hates Christmas; she’s not exactly shy about it.

Right on cue, Wizzard’s ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ starts playing. Holly rolls her eyes.

‘OK, fine,’ she whines.

‘Oh, Holly,’ my mum calls after her. ‘Ivy was looking for her boot-cut jeans. Have you taken them?’

‘No, burglars broke in, and only stole Ivy’s jeans,’ she replies sarcastically as she disappears up the stairs.

‘Never have teenagers,’ my mum tells me once Holly has stormed upstairs. I blink at her. ‘You don’t count; you’re not like a teenager. You’re an angel.’

I smile.

‘Holly doesn’t think Christmas is cool,’ I tell her. It’s not a very good explanation, but it’s all I have.

‘Not cool like Steps.’ My mum laughs. ‘She’s going to be mortified, when she’s in her thirties and someone reminds her she used to wear a cowboy hat.’

With a moment of calm at the till between customers, my mum takes my natural long blonde hair in her hands, combing it with her fingers.

‘It’s no surprise your sister is sick of Christmas,’ my mum reasons. ‘She does live in a Christmas shop that’s open all year round. You’re lucky you love it as much as I do. For her, it must be torture.’

I replace my bookmark and close my book, setting it down to one side.

‘Have you always loved Christmas?’ I ask, because I realise I haven’t actually asked her that question before.

‘I have,’ my mum says with a smile. ‘This shop is my dream come true. Like now, in December, it’s so wonderful to see people coming in, all excited for the holidays, looking for quirky decorations to hang on their trees, or unique little gifts to give their loved ones. I love it in the summer too, though, when tourists come in from the baking-hot sun, usually after a day catching rays on the beach – they literally step into Christmas and that pleasantly baffled look on their faces is one I never grow tired of.’

‘I can’t wait to work here,’ I tell her. Ever since I was little, all I’ve wanted to do is help out in the shop. My mum sometimes gives me little jobs to do, so that I think I’m working here, but now that I’m a teenager, I’m hoping she’ll let me work here properly one day soon.

‘And I can’t wait for you to help out, but you need to finish school first,’ my mum insists.

I smile as I watch a dad lifting up a little girl so she can choose a bauble from the tree. She delicately removes a glass bauble with a white feather inside – a great choice; I’ve always loved that one. We have the exact same one on our tree in the living room upstairs.

I feel my smile drop as I think about my own dad. It doesn’t matter how many Christmases go by since he passed away, I still miss him now more than ever. They say these things get easier with time but every time I see something that belonged to him, someone mentions his name, or I see a happy child playing with their dad, it gets me. I miss him so much.

‘You know, apart from you and your sister, this shop is the thing I’m the most proud of. It’s practically like one of my kids.’ She laughs. ‘It’s taken a lot more raising than you – probably less than Holly, but don’t tell her that.’

I giggle.

‘I like to think about when you and Holly are grown up, happily married, with kids of your own. I imagine you bringing them here and then, after I’m gone, I don’t know… I imagine the shop being in the family for years, generation after generation. That’s silly, isn’t it?’

‘That’s not silly,’ I reassure her.

‘You’re a sweetheart, Ivy Jones, but you know I’d never expect either of you to work here. I’m sure you’ve got your own big ideas for the future.’

‘Mum, I mean it. We’ll keep the shop going forever.’

‘That’s my girl,’ she says, squeezing my hand before turning to serve yet another smiling customer, delighted by the armful of Christmas decorations they have selected.

I’m not sure whether or not she believes me, or if she’s just humouring me, but I’m serious. I know how much this shop means to my mum. I’ll always be here to help.

I hear thudding on the floor upstairs – most likely Holly working on her routine to ‘5, 6, 7, 8’. Holly might not care about Christmas or the shop, but I do. I know how important this shop is to my mum and I’ll always do whatever it takes to keep it going.

I sit up in my bed and stare straight ahead, as though that might make my ears more efficient. Did I just hear something or was I dreaming?

After a few seconds I hear the noise that woke me again and realise it’s a knock at the door.

I grab my phone from next to me and look at the time. Uh-oh, it is 8.45, which means I’ve overslept – I never oversleep.

I grab my brown reindeer dressing gown (complete with antlers on the hood) and throw it on over my nightshirt before dashing downstairs to answer the door, combing my hair with my fingers and wiping sleep from my eyes as I hurry down the stairs.

As I approach the shop front door, I can just about see Pete, the postman, on the other side of the glass, which, now that I think about it, I maybe went a little too heavy on with the spray snow. The white, frosty edges frame his face, giving him this angelic white glow. I don’t suppose I look so festive from where he’s standing; all he’ll be able to see is me hurrying across the shop floor undressed, with my bed head hair, fumbling with my keys.

He waves at me, all smiles, as I unlock and open the door.

‘Hello, Ivy, sorry, did I wake you?’ he apologises as he clocks my dressing gown.

‘Hey, Pete. I’m glad you did,’ I admit. ‘I need to open the shop in 15 minutes.’

‘It’s not like you to sleep in,’ he says, handing me a parcel. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Everything is fine,’ I assure him. I don’t tell him that I was up late looking over my finances, worrying a few years’ worth of wrinkles onto my face until I finally dropped off some time after 3 a.m. ‘I was up late reading.’

‘Now that I believe.’ He laughs. ‘Is that what’s in there?’

Is there not some kind of law that prohibits postmen from asking you what’s in your parcel? There could be anything in this box – what if I’d ordered some super sexy lacy underwear or something? I mean, it is from Amazon, and it is book-shaped, but still. I’m not always so predictable (I am).

‘Yep, another book,’ I tell him. ‘Something to read while I’m working.’

‘Business still quiet?’ Pete asks.

‘Yeah,’ I say with a sigh. ‘It’s December 1st though, so things should pick up a little.’

‘I’ll be in for a few bits,’ he assures me.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sure I had something to tell you,’ he says, hovering outside the door. I appreciate that it must be uncomfortable, talking about my difficult livelihood – especially for the man who delivers my bills. I usually enjoy his friendly small talk, but today I just want to get back inside and get some clothes on.