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

‘Tea’s made.’ Mum comes into the room. ‘Tim, it’s high time you were in bed.’ She sees me holding the envelope and whips it out of my hand. ‘I need that,’ she says, pocketing it and disappearing again.

I go through and she tells me with a weary sigh that I’ve just missed her new friend, Bunty.

‘She never gives up, that woman. I’ve told her I’m not thespian material but she won’t take no for an answer!’

‘Are they that desperate for new recruits, then?’ I laugh.

Mum groans. ‘I think she’s decided I need rescuing from my dull little life. I’m sort of a pet project now that her husband’s died.’

I sympathise. I’m all for Mum getting herself a social life but I’m not sure Bunty, who runs the local amateur dramatics club, is really her cup of tea. She’s tall and thin, very ‘jolly hockey sticks’ and about as subtle as a tank in a glassware shop.

I used to try and persuade Mum to have a night out with her old friends. But she seemed happier to stay at home. So I was quite surprised when she showed me a leaflet from the am dram club and said she thought she might pop in and see what it was like.

She came back full of it and I could tell she’d had a good night. The folk were so welcoming, she said. But it definitely wasn’t for her, she’d never have the nerve to get up on stage. She couldn’t imagine what she’d been thinking.

Bunty, however, doesn’t seem to agree.

‘Their narrator’s gone into hospital for a hip operation.’ Mum pours the tea. ‘Bunty’s told everyone I’d be perfect.’

‘You should do it,’ I say. ‘I can babysit Tim on the nights you’re rehearsing.’

Mum laughs. ‘I’ve told her I’d rather eat my own arm than get up on stage at the town hall in front of hundreds of folk.’

‘I’m not a baby!’ yells Tim.

‘Stop ear-wigging!’ I call back.

‘By the way, I was thinking about Fez’s Christmas party.’ She turns away and folds the tea towel. ‘I – er – went into that trunk of yours in the garage and pulled out some of your dresses. I put them in a bag over there.’

I stare from her to the carrier bag on the counter. ‘You did what?’

‘It’s no big deal, Bobbie,’ she says firmly, wiping a spillage. ‘You’ve got some lovely stuff that you never, ever wear. It’s such a waste.’

She brings the bag over and I catch a glimpse of turquoise silk. ‘Try them on.’ She pushes the bag into my hands. ‘Please. For me.’

I flick my eyes to the ceiling but take it, just to please her.

There’s no way I’m even going to look in there.

Chapter Ten (#ulink_faa151d2-94c6-56e5-b23a-9c4319e7e780)

My phone is ringing when I arrive at the office next morning.

Shona, who is walking past my desk, balances the coffee tray in one hand and bends to pick it up.

‘I’m here! I’ll get it!’ I shout and charge across to snatch it up before she gets there.

She gives me a knowing look and murmurs, ‘Let me guess. Goldfish Guy.’

I flash her a look of wide-eyed innocence – just as someone on the other end says, ‘Can you hold? I have Mr McDonald for you.’

‘Er, yes, of course.’ I’m somewhat thrown by the fact that Ronald McDonald in Reservations seems to have a secretary. I suppose they do things differently in London.

I ignore Shona and put on my best ‘waiting for a very important business call’ expression, drumming my fingernails efficiently on the desk.

Shona would dearly love to believe there’s something flirty going on here. But she would be wrong. Ronald McDonald and I are just two people who happen to have a similar sense of humour, that’s all.

‘Hi, how’s the hamster with the penthouse?’ he asks.

‘Gosh, well.’ I laugh. ‘Dead, actually.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘It’s okay. I’m just about over it.’

‘When did you lose him?’

‘Er, twenty-six years ago?’

He laughs and I join in. I must be louder than I thought because Shona and Ella both look over.

I turn away and press the phone closer to my ear.

‘How’s the Jag?’

‘Doing very well, thanks for asking.’

His voice is deep and sort of resonant.

‘And the bike?’ I press the phone even closer.

‘Rode it into work this very morning.’

He must be fit.

I bat this thought away. Just because he’s funny and has a sexy voice, doesn’t mean he’ll be gorgeous looking as well. Goldfish Guy is probably fat and balding with a nasty body odour problem.

‘So do you have a deal for me?’ I switch into business mode.

‘Right. Yes. The deal.’

He tells me what he can do for us and I scribble it down gratefully. He’s probably had to stretch the rules a fair bit to give me such a ridiculously cheap package. Even Carol can’t quibble at this price.

So why aren’t I feeling more pleased than I am?

‘Are you still alive?’ he asks. ‘You’ve gone quiet.’

I force a laugh. ‘Just gobsmacked at the price. Thank you so, so much.’