Humbugs and Heartstrings: A gorgeous festive read full of the joys of Christmas!

I wait till Shona goes to get coffee before checking for a reply.

Yes!

Lucky hamster. And yes, you guessed it. Fabulous holiday villa in the Carribean and big yacht in Monaco. Your psychic powers are truly amazing. Have you ever thought of changing your name to Gypsy Rosalee?

My reply:

Never mind a psychic; I want to work in hotel reservations. The money is obviously eye-wateringly good.

P.S. What’s your second car?

A few seconds later:

Second car: Maserati Quattroporte. Third car: BMW. Fourth car: Robin Reliant.

I also have a very nice bike.

I laugh out loud, just as Shona’s coming back in with a tray.

P.S. Will have news later about the deal we can offer you.

Silently, in my head, I punch the air.

‘She’ll be here soon,’ says Shona.

‘Who will?’

She flashes me a ‘duh!’ expression. ‘The Sparkle Sisters? Ring a bell? Betsey’s coming in again at eleven.’

That sobers me up.

Oh God, yes, of course. Somehow it’s slipped my mind that our lives might be about to be turned upside down.

If Carol really is planning to sell up, none of us will be laughing …

I press the bell and start humming ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’ in a bored fashion, even before the festive chiming starts up.

As a novelty bell ring, it has gone way beyond irritating. Especially in July. But Mum refuses to change it. She says it makes people smile.

She comes to the door in stretch trousers and short-sleeved T-shirt, even though it’s early October and the evening is raw. Her cheeks bear the tell-tale flush of central heating turned up to the max. Last year, I bought her a ‘slanket’ to keep her warm on winter nights but she just laughed and asked me whether she ought to be considering bars on the side of the bath and a stair lift as well.

I pop my head into the living room, batting away a length of tired gold tinsel that has come adrift from its mooring, and say ‘hi’ to my brother. He’s busy battling zombies on his Xbox, though, and can only manage a grunt in reply.

I corner Mum in the kitchen.

‘How is he?’

Mum nods. ‘He’s okay. Dying to go trick-or-treating.’

‘That’s weeks away.’ I frown. ‘And the name-calling?’

‘Oh, you know what he’s like.’ She shrugs helplessly. ‘He never tells me anything.’

‘He seems in good spirits, though.’

She nods. ‘Although I was talking to Ryan when he came for a sleepover. Apparently Tim’s been telling everyone at school he’ll be six inches taller once he’s had the op.’

We smile wearily at each other.

Mum fills the kettle and bangs it down on the work top. ‘He’s been on that bloody waiting list forever,’

‘So hopefully it won’t be too long now.’ I sound a lot brighter than I feel.

We stand in gloomy silence for a moment and I stare at the garish, plug-in Christmas tree that sits by the kettle. It could do with a good old dust. I’d like to sling it in the bin but then Mum wouldn’t speak to me for days.

‘I know you’re talking about me,’ Tim shouts. ‘I’ll be okay, you know. When can I get my Scream mask?’

I smile at Mum and nip back through to the living room.

‘Can I come trick-or-treating with you?’

I perch on the arm of the sofa and he looks at me in horror. ‘No way! I’m not going if you’re going!’

‘Thought you might say that.’ I stretch over for the socks that are lying in two discarded balls on the floor. ‘Tim, why do you always take these off?’ I brandish them at him with fake annoyance.

He grins and annihilates another three zombies.

‘I could lurk at the gate, out of sight,’ I suggest.

‘No!’ he groans. ‘Please don’t say that to Mum. It would be so embarrassing having my sister there!’

‘I’ll buy you a new baseball cap if you let me come,’ I say, picking up his tatty old one and plonking it on his head. I know I’m overprotective, but I can’t help it. ‘Tim, put that damn thing off and talk to me.’

‘In a sec,’ he says, stepping up the action and concentrating on what looks like the final pitched battle with bits of bodies and blood spattering everywhere.

‘Result!’ he shouts, throwing down the controller.

‘A new cap?’ I remind him.

He smiles. ‘I think I’m getting one for Christmas anyway. Pass me my drink.’

I poke him in the stomach. ‘Please pass me my drink, dearest and most beautiful sister.’

He hoots with laughter. ‘Please pass me my drink, most revolting and ugliest sister.’

‘That’s better.’

As I retrieve his glass from the coffee table, a long white envelope falls to the ground.