Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop: Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance!
is staring at us. Pointing, even. The only way we’d be turning more heads is if we were being pulled along by an actual real-live reindeer. What’s more, now we’re speeding down the street, the wind is biting. On a good day in winter, much to my constant dismay, my nose is red enough to lend to Rudolf. And that’s without the help of a hot, steaming coffee or a vodka cocktail. Both of which I try to avoid consuming in public, even if I don’t always succeed. After a few minutes out in this arctic blast, my hooter is going to be positively luminous.
I let go of the seat and try to pull my collar of my trusty leopard-print jacket up over my ears so I can bury my nose in the fake fur. It’s one of those coats that feels like a shield when you put it on. If you snuggle down into it, you’re guaranteed to be warm and safe wherever you go. And pretty much invincible. Which is why I couldn’t think of a month away without it, even if the rest of Cornwall are wearing on-trend down jackets, or gorgeous wool coats with humungous fur collars. Although faced with a Cornish westerly as stiff as today’s, with me trying to make it double as an invisibility cloak, I’m asking a lot of my own small jacket.
‘So, are we looking forward to Christmas?’ It’s a wonder Santa has time to chat as well as deal with the early afternoon traffic. His carriage driving technique consists of pointing his pony, then going for it. I reckon his costume must have gone to his head, because at every junction he assumes he’s got priority. If he were driving a taxi this recklessly, they’d fine him and confiscate his license.
I blink as yet another car screeches to a halt, its driver open mouthed as we whoosh past, a snowflake’s width away from his bumper. On balance, I decide it’s easiest to bluff the reply to a tricky question.
‘Christmas? I couldn’t be any more excited, Santa.’ Even without jolting along behind a pony’s swishing tail, the truth is way too complicated to go into, even for Santa. Basically, the problem is, he’s twelve months too late asking me the question.
For my whole life, Christmas has been my favourite time of year. When we were kids, my big sister Freya and I used to get so excited we’d hyperventilate from the moment we opened the first door on the Advent calendar until the last present had been opened. Freya embraced Christmas the same way she tackled everything – forging her way ahead with her amazing exuberance, dragging our younger brothers and me along on her wave of enthusiasm. Making hundreds of yards of paper chains, then hanging them in festoons all over the house, even in the bathroom. Spraying the windows along the entire street with fake snow late at night. Buying a bale of red fleece from the market and making the whole family Santa suits for her school textiles project. Then when I was twelve, the unthinkable happened and she died. It was the worst time ever. Fast growing brain tumours happened to other people, not girls like Freya, who was only fourteen and ripping through life like a tornado. Twenty years on, I’ve learned the best way to cope is to concentrate on the good bits. I’ve taught myself to love remembering all the happy times. And as my everlasting tribute to Freya, I go completely over the top with the festive thing. Because anything less would be wrong.
Which is why this time last December, I’d already decorated my boyfriend Luc’s flat to within an inch of its life and I was holding my breath for a fabulous Christmas trip to his parents’ place in the Highlands. I’d splurged to the max on presents. And bought at least a hundred rolls of paper to wrap them in, obviously. And yes, I was aching for Christmas to come. Then it did, and my entire life unwound.
I’ll save the more desperate details for a time when I’m not careering round a corner at top speed on one wheel, like we are now. At least if we go super fast, we’ll get there quicker, with less chance of anyone I know recognising me along the way. It’s enough to say that entirely thanks to me, Luc’s surprise Christmas proposal went all kinds of wrong. Okay, I admit that a woman running away at the speed of light isn’t an ideal reaction when a guy waves a diamond ring under her nose. When you’re as un-sporty as I am it’s more than ridiculous. And I still don’t completely understand why my legs reacted as they did. Or why, once I’d calmed down and come back, we couldn’t work things out. But the upshot was that by January I was boyfriend-less. And eleven months on I’m still single, confused and way too sorry for myself. What’s worse, my dream London life has completely lost its sparkle. And with my fifteen boxes of Christmas decorations still in storage and no proper home to put a tree up in anyway, I’m hardly going to be whooping it up on the twenty fifth this year. But thanks to Jess and Poppy’s help, I’ve got that sorted. I just hope me telling Santa porkies isn’t going to backfire on me, just when a tiny part of me is optimistic that things are about to get better.
‘We’ll take the scenic route along the sea front.’ Santa’s yell is a foot from my ear, as we suddenly veer away to the right. But the side winds off the bay are so vicious, I can barely catch what he’s saying. ‘It’s a long way round, but easier for Nuttie and we get to see the lights.’
‘Great.’ I shrink further inside my coat, take in the dark grey swell, and a high tide pounding against the sea wall, sending foam splashing over the railings. When I look up at the unlit light strings thrashing horizontally, the flying sand stings my eyes. At this rate, by the time we reach the shop I’m going to look like a witch who’s been on a broomstick ride in a hailstorm. I’m so busy trying to untangle my hair, I only look up to notice the huge rogue wave arching through the air across the road at the last moment. As we speed towards it I’m howling. ‘Watch out ahead, Santa!’
‘Whoa, Nuttie!’
Even a guy with Santa’s powers can’t easily stop a cart pulled by a ton of pony doing a twenty mile an hour extended trot. As the arc of water showers downwards, we clatter to a halt yards too late. The breaking wave smacks us full in our faces, then sluices down over our shoulders and legs.
‘Holy mackerel! The hazards of sleigh riding!’ Santa’s letting out a choking squawk as he collects the reins again. ‘We’re lucky Nuttie didn’t bolt there.’
‘Jeez, bolting would be nothing.’ The elf is gazing down in horror at his soaking green knees. ‘My panty hose have gone entirely transparent. How about you, Holly?’
I’m scraping the icy drips out of my eyes, muttering as I squeeze streams of water out of my jacket. ‘I couldn’t be wetter if I’d been dipped in the ocean.’ If this is payback for lying to Santa, it’s come raining down on me scarily fast.
As the elf turns to Santa he’s close to pleading. ‘Let’s call in the Surf Shack to dry off?’
Now he’s talking. You have to admire an elf who knows his local cafés. So long as you don’t mind walls made out of random planks, it’s the best one on the beach. I’m already warming up, mentally shovelling a ton of marshmallows into the top of my bucket-sized award-winning hot chocolate. But we’ve both overlooked the fact that Santa’s on a mission.
‘This isn’t a jolly.’ Santa’s scolding is scornful and incensed. ‘We’re here to make deliveries. We need to get Holly to her wedding shop.’ There’s a jolt, and we’re off again, this time even faster.
I spend approximately two minutes consoling myself for not getting the chance to visit the ladies’ room so I could work on not looking so much like I’d crawled out of a shipwreck. Then the cliff side gives way to buildings again. As we whizz up the hill past significant and familiar landmarks, I’m getting involuntary flurries of excitement in my chest. Jaggers Bar, the Yellow Daisy Café, Hot Jack’s, and Iron Maiden’s Cleaners pass so fast they’re a blur. We’re yards away from Brides by the Sea, accelerating wildly as we make a turn into the mews, but by the time we get there, a four by four is already in the space we’re heading for.
‘Donna and Blitzen! What the hell happened to priority for the elderly? Can’t he see the beard?’ Santa’s cursing bounces off shop windows shining warm light into the grim afternoon.
The whole point about Santa driving the carriage like a loon is that it only works when other road users give way. If you meet an ‘eff-off’ driver head on in these narrow streets, you’re likely to end up in big trouble. Even dealing with any driver who doesn’t jump on the brakes a hundred yards away, you might end up with