Christmas Every Day

Beth Moran

Description

‘Life-affirming, joyful and tender. Beth Moran has written the perfect Christmas story to brighten up even the darkest Winter’s evening.’ Zoe Folbigg, author of The Note

When Jenny inherits her estranged grandmother’s cottage in Sherwood Forest, she has nothing to lose - no money, no job, no friends, no family to speak of, and zero self-respect. Things can only get better...

Her grumpy, but decidedly handsome new neighbour, Mack, has a habit of bestowing unsolicited good deeds on her. And when Jenny is welcomed into a rather unusual book club, life seems to finally be getting more interesting.

Instead of reading, the members pledge to complete individual challenges before Christmas: from finding new love, learning to bake, to completing a daredevil bucket list. Jenny can’t resist joining in, and soon a year of friendship and laughter, tears and regrets unfolds in the most unexpected ways.

Warm, wise, funny and utterly uplifting, what one thing would you change in your life before Christmas comes around?

Praise for Beth Moran

'Beth Moran's heartwarming books never fail to leave me feeling uplifted' Jessica Redland

'Every day is a perfect day to read this heartwarming Christmas gem' Shari Low

'A British author to watch.' Publisher's Weekly

'A wonderfully warm-hearted story full of love and laughter.' Victoria Connelly, bestselling author of the Austen Addicts series

What readers are saying about Christmas Every Day:

' Beth has crafted a compelling story with a wonderful supporting cast and some genuine heartfelt moments.'

'Couldn't put this book down, such an enjoyable read!'

'I LOVED how unique the storyline was, and I adored how every little path came together to create a storyline that was full of multiple, beautiful journeys all incased under one umbrella: hope.'

'Engaging and witty from the very beginning, there was a real freshness to this story which made it stand out.'

'This is a humorous book that has some of the most delightful characters I have ever met. It is warm, inviting and a whole lot of fun from beginning to end.'

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Relations familiales
• Mashups
• Holidays
• Siblings
• Humorous
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Dating
• Romantic Comedy
• Sibling
• Stocking
• General officer
• Gift
• Woman
• The Women
• General
• Holiday
• Contemporary
• Santa
• Family Life
• Romance
• 2019
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 17 septembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9781838893163
• Langue: English

Extrait

CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY


BETH MORAN
For Dominic, who loves to laugh
CONTENTS



Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44


More from Beth Moran

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Beth Moran

Love Notes

About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
22 DECEMBER

It was finally here. The highlight of the Dougal and Duff calendar. Everyone would be there, from the lowliest admin assistant to the senior partners. The oak bannisters were draped with ivy, dotted with twinkling red and white fairy lights. The doorway leading into the designated party room was framed with pine branches, a cheeky sprig of mistletoe hanging in the centre. Inside, the room looked even more spectacular than last year. Hundreds of sparkling snowflakes dangled from the wood-panelled ceiling, more fairy lights and greenery adorned every surface. The Christmas tree in the centre of the back wall stood festooned with baubles and ribbons.
Waiting staff slipped between the clusters of office cliques with trays of champagne and crumbly canapés, their black uniforms in sharp contrast to the glittering party dresses and tartan finery. A swing quartet thrummed, but it couldn’t beat the buzz of festive gossip. Rumours had been flying that the newest partner, Richard Abernethy, freshly returned from yet another victory in the Paris office, had been dropping hints about an important announcement. And when a locally renowned jeweller delivered a ring-shaped box to Reception that morning, every one of the sixty-three employees knew within minutes. The only question was who. Nobody had a clue.
That was, except me.
The other PAs assumed I must have some insight to the mystery woman, given that I’d almost unlimited access to his emails and diary. They spent most of the evening trying to badger me into giving them a name. Or at least a list of suspects.
I smoothed down my ridiculously expensive dress, patted my hair, took another fake-nonchalant swig of champagne and said nothing.
Not because of loyalty to my boss. Although that would have been reason enough.
Taut with nerves, heart fluttering, resisting the urge to wash the dryness from my mouth with another drink, I not so surreptitiously watched my secret boyfriend and soon to be fiancé from across the room and wished he’d hurry up and get on with it.
I had always dreaded Christmas. Particularly these last few years when it had simply been another day alone, opening the same gift card sent by my dad and watching someone else’s television. Waiting to hear from Richard, despite him telling me that he’d probably not get a moment to call.
But this year – surely I’d be spending it on his family’s estate in the Highlands? I had already planned the clothes I would pack, and spent a frantic afternoon searching for the perfect ‘last-minute’ gifts for his parents and younger brother.
For the first time, in so long that it made my heart ache just thinking about it, I would be spending Christmas with a loving, happy family.
I took a deep breath, smothered my smile and, for the millionth time that day, silently practised my surprised, thrilled and senior-partner’s wife worthy ‘yes’.
1

When the house had been described as like something out of a fairy tale, I’d been picturing Snow White’s cottage, or a quaint gingerbread house (minus the evil witch, whom I’d left behind in Edinburgh), not a shrunken, grottier version of Sleeping Beauty’s derelict outhouse. And, in my storybook, there hadn’t been an old pram, two sagging armchairs and a turquoise toilet blocking the driveway.
I peered through the taxi window, trying to kid myself it would look better once I was out of the car. Or it had stopped raining. Or if I took my glasses off. The driver pulled up in front of a rusted mangle.
‘Could you get any closer to the door?’ I asked, tugging the zip a bit higher on my jacket.
He swivelled his head to look at me, one eyebrow raised.
‘What about parking on the lawn?’
‘That ain’t a lawn. It’s a jungle. I ain’t risking my tyres on that.’
I blew out a sigh, and unbuckled the seat belt.
‘Fifty pound.
What?’ My hand froze halfway to my purse. ‘We agreed thirty.’
‘That was before the ford, the mud pit and the overgrown branches scratching my paintwork. The car needs a full-on valet and the extra won’t even cover it. I’ve got standards to uphold.’
I cast my eyes around the faded upholstery, scuffed trimmings and air freshener designed as a topless woman.
‘You knew the address was on an unnamed road in the middle of a forest and you still said thirty.’ I tried to keep the tremble out of my voice. The extra twenty pounds might not pay for a car valet but it would help me not starve for the next couple of weeks.
‘I’m the only taxi-driver round ‘ere who’ll come out this far.’ He grinned. The big bad wolf. ‘I’m the only taxi full stop. If you want out of ‘ere any time soon, best stay in my good books.’ He tipped his head towards the house. ‘And, trust me, you won’t be wanting to ‘ang around.
‘Are you threatening me?’ I did my best to channel some of the experience I’d gained working for sharks who’d sell your own baby back to you, and straightened my shoulders. After enduring a lifetime of being treated like a worthless wimp, this was supposed to be a fresh start. The new, improved, over-it, Jenny.
I opened my purse, and deliberately placed three notes on the plastic ledge between the front and back seats. ‘I’m giving you the thirty pounds you asked for , and not a penny more.’
He curled up one side of his lip, leant towards me and growled. ‘Are you sure about that?’
Letting out a squeak, I unclasped my purse again. ‘And a tip! Of course. Here. I’ll make it twenty.’ Yanking open the door, I tumbled out into the freezing January rain, slipping and sliding round to the car boot. Hauling out my suitcase, followed by a rucksack, I stumbled out of the way just in time to avoid injury, but not a generous splattering of filthy spray from the revving wheels.
Wiping a smear of mud off my glasses with a sodden sleeve, I stared at my new home.
A semi-detached old woodsman’s cottage; the grey plaster frontage streaked with grime, slumped chimney and patchy roof confirmed it hadn’t worn the years well.
I squelched through the puddles, rucksack on my back, hand-me-down Mulberry suitcase dragging behind, and peered in through the ivy-smothered front window. Rummaging in my jacket pocket for the key, I gave up attempting to make out shapes in the gloom beyond.
‘Right. Might as well get it over with. Get out of this rain and put the kettle on.’ I wiped the worst of the dirt from the keyhole, congratulating myself for having had the foresight to have the utilities reconnected before I arrived, and forced the key in, slowly wiggling it until it unlocked.
I pushed against the door. Nothing. Not even a rattle.
Turning the key back to the original position, I tried again. As water ran in icy rivulets down my face and up my sleeves, I did everything I could to make the door budge. Pounding, shoulder-barging, kicking, taking a slippery running charge like the cops in films.
After a while, determined not to start crying, I dumped my luggage and precariously stepped along the front of the house to see if I could get around the back. No good. More bushes, the rain dripping off two-inch thorns. I glanced over at the adjoining cottage. There none of the windows were cracked and the garden didn’t look as though it had been abandoned by a rag-and-bone man. Hmm. Maybe I could sleep in there instead. Just for tonight. According to my mother, the whole building had lain empty for years. There wasn’t much demand for cottages in the middle of nowhere, unless done up as holiday lets, and no one wanted to holiday next door to a scrapheap.
I cautiously moved closer, trying to peek beyond the closed blinds, before looking through the letterbox, but the approaching dusk made it too dark to see. I tramped along a brick path around to the back; here things appeared much the same. A wooden picnic bench sat forlornly on a patch of weed-riddled gravel about six feet square. Beyond that, my half of the building was nearly hidden where the forest had encroached right up to the house in a twist of branches and brambles. I might be able to squeeze through to the back door. I should at least attempt to squeeze through to the back door.
But then again, it would probably rip my jeans, and this was the only pair that fitted. And if I scratched my face, it would be harder to find a job, and then how could I survive here? I probably didn’t even have any phone reception, so I couldn’t call anyone if I tripped on a stray root and impaled myself on the thorns. I quickly checked my phone (not wondering even for a second whether Richard had been trying to send me any grovelling messages admitting it was all a terrible mistake). See! No signal. It would be reckless and foolish to force my way into that tangle of spikes.
I shuddered. Glancing at the shadows looming around me, I imagined the kinds of animals that prowled Sherwood Forest once darkness fell. They’d find my broken body, drawn to fresh meat by the scent of blood leaking from a thousand puncture wounds. I wouldn’t stand a chance.
And even if I could call that taxi bloke for help, he probably wouldn’t come.
If only there were a dry, empty, nearby dwelling-place for me to