It’s a Wonderful Night: A delightfully feel-good festive romance for 2018!

‘You definitely should. It’s timeless and so heartwarming, especially at this time of year.’

‘I know because she’s made me watch it with her seventy thousand times over the years. Anyone would think she was named after the main character or something,’ Casey says.

‘It’s a good film,’ I say, glancing out the back window at Mary and one of the volunteers standing under their umbrellas, undoubtedly talking about how late I am, and I’m standing here discussing films.

‘I don’t like films that make me cry,’ Casey says.

‘My wife loves a good weepie. I’ll make it a mission to watch it this Christmas.’ Jerry leans over and unlocks the back door for me. ‘Don’t forget, come in any time you need to for your love story.’

‘It’s not a love story,’ I protest.

‘It’s a coffee story,’ Casey says. ‘Apparently we’re all having a coffee with lunch today. Georgia’s paying.’

‘Fine, but yours will be an apple pie latte,’ I say, knowing full well that Casey thinks festive-flavoured coffees are an affront to humanity. ‘It’s not about money. It’s about making Leo feel like his hard work is worth it.’

Even as I think it, I know it’s pointless. Leo doesn’t need to sell an extra coffee or two and another batch of muffins. He needs a massive increase in customers. Like every other business on this street has needed for years. Like One Light needs to sell more than a couple of Christmas party dresses and hideous old suits as Halloween costumes to stay afloat. A whole round of coffees for the bank might help for a day but it won’t do anything in the long run.

I can’t stop thinking about it as I go to rescue Mary and the volunteer from the sopping car park. My mind is elsewhere as I listen to Mary worriedly ignoring her own wet coat and soaking grey hair to make sure I’m not late for reasons of ill health, ask if everything’s okay with my dad, and why I look so distracted.

I don’t tell her I’m distracted because seeing Leo makes my day better every morning, and I’ve never realized how much truth there is in the saying that the saddest people always try the hardest to make others happy.

I know above all things that I want to help him. And not just because I fancy him, but because I’ve been handed a unique opportunity. He doesn’t know that he’s shared this with me. Or, at least, he doesn’t know that I’m who he’s shared this with. This is fate. He found a leaflet on the bridge that I put there. He owns a shop called It’s A Wonderful Latte, named after my mum’s favourite Christmas film. She didn’t name me Georgia Bailey for nothing. This is fate telling me to be like Clarence, the guardian angel who stopped my namesake jumping off a bridge in the film. This doesn’t just happen, does it? Leo needs help. And I’m going to help him.

I’m just not sure how yet.

* * *

It’s while I’m in the window getting the mannequins dressed in our best evening wear and standing them around in groups like they’re nattering at a Christmas party, setting up tables full of empty glasses and a sparkling tree in one corner of the display that an idea comes to me. I keep going outside to see how the window looks, and every time I do, I back up just a little bit more than needed so I can see around the corner and up towards It’s A Wonderful Latte.

A woman is peering in the window, but her eyes fall on the gingerbread house and she turns away rather than going in. There are a couple of people around, but not one of them so much as glances at Leo’s window.

‘The windows look wonderful,’ Mary says, having made no comment about them being left unfinished last night even though she must have noticed. ‘Just as wonderful now as they did when you went out to check them the first sixty times.’

She knows something is going on. I can feel her eyes on me because I never go outside to see how the windows look from a customer’s perspective this often.

Creating eye-catching displays that showcase the very best of our stock is probably the biggest part of my job. I know how hard it is to get anyone on this street to look at your window displays, and Leo hasn’t even got a window display, he’s just got a gingerbread house. It might be a good gingerbread house, but it’s not going to make anyone stop in their tracks and rush into his shop. Windows on this street need to be special. This is no longer a street where people mosey about and leisurely wander into shops. These days, the only reason anyone walks down this street is because it’s a shortcut to somewhere better. Window displays don’t just need to be good, they need to be spectacular. They don’t just need to be eye-catching, they need to grab people by the eyeballs and drag them through the door. Figuratively, not literally. That would just be weird. And probably painful and a bit messy.

It does get me thinking though. Window displays are kind of my thing. I got this job because of decorating a window. I’d gone for the interview at the flagship shop in Bristol, and one of the tasks was to decorate their window with only items in the shop. They loved what I did with it and offered me the job despite my lack of experience.

We’re told again and again the importance of seasonal windows. It’s December – everyone wants a bit of Christmas at this time of year, and Leo’s gingerbread house isn’t cutting it. It’s doing nothing to attract customers, and customers are what he needs.

I go outside and look again, not even pretending to be looking at our windows this time. Normally Leo loves Christmas. It wouldn’t hurt to remind him of that, and make his window a bit more attractive in the process, would it? I used to paint. Once upon a time, I wanted to be an artist, and my dad still has a shed full of my old paint. I could do something with that, couldn’t I?

Chapter 4 (#ulink_e043f2b7-8e24-59d9-8d80-cc484d3f1c63)

It’s dark when I go back to Oakbarrow High Street. The bag over my shoulder is heavy with spray paint and the tube that holds my stencils is battling for space in my hands with a torch, and my dad’s old portable steps are swung over the other shoulder.

There are no streetlights as I walk down the main road through Oakbarrow, hoping not to run into anyone except Bernard, and telling myself I’m being stupid to worry about it. No mugger would bother with Oakbarrow anymore; there’s nothing to mug.

I stop outside It’s A Wonderful Latte and lower my bags carefully to the pavement. I don’t know why I’m being quiet but everything seems quieter in the night, and, while I don’t expect to see anyone, I think it’s a good idea not to draw attention to myself.

Even so, I can’t help looking up at the empty toy shop beside the coffee shop. I remember walking home on winter evenings and pulling on my mum’s hand to get to it. It would often be closed, of course, but the window displays used to be spectacular. The old Hawthorne Toys building is four storeys high, towering above the other shops on the street, and on ground level there are two Edwardian-style bay windows on either side of the entrance. When I was young, the displays inside them would run all night, lit by spotlights and flameless candles. There used to be toy trains running around snow-covered model villages, nutcracker soldiers standing guard, dancing Santas, wind-up elves, and reindeers with flashing red noses. I often wonder if looking at those displays as a child helped my interest in window displays now. As an adult, it’s an interesting concept to look back on. At One Light, our windows have to display as much as possible that we have to sell, whereas when Hawthorne’s were still open, their displays were just to entertain anyone who walked by.

Maybe it’s a sign that this is a good idea for Leo’s window. I can’t get inside to build a Christmas tree out of his pretty, festive cups or otherwise showcase his coffee, but I can make his window look attractive from the outside.

I wash the window down and remember a few days this summer of watching Leo out here, washing his windows in nothing but a vest and long shorts, soap suds clinging to his muscular forearms and water from the hosepipe dripping down his curved legs.

I shake myself. Now is not the time for thinking about Leo’s forearms. Or legs. No matter how sexy they are.

I dry the window and crouch down, unrolling my tree stencils from their tube and spreading them across the pavement as I try to figure out the best design to do. I know I have to incorporate the gingerbread house as well as making the whole window look Christmassy.

I spray the bottom part of the glass solid white and start using my fingers to wipe off key parts to create the base of the scene. Just as I’m sticking my first stencil up, I hear footsteps coming. I listen to the telltale extra slap of a broken sole against concrete and sigh in relief – Bernard. I’ve been trying to find him a replacement for those shoes, but the man has got ridiculously large feet and One Light don’t get that many pairs of size thirteens donated.

‘Whatcha doing, Georgia?’ Bernard asks, not sounding surprised to find me here.

‘Just a little decorating.’

He stands back and folds his arms across his puffy coat and casts an appraising eye across what’s done of the window so far. ‘I know it’s dark but you do realize One Light is on the opposite side of the road and around the corner, right?’

I smile at him. ‘I know. I thought I’d try to spread a bit of Christmas cheer. Leo doesn’t seem to have much this year.’

‘Leo doesn’t have much of anything this year,’ Bernard says, seeming to hint at what I already know. ‘Lovely guy though. Single too, you know?’

‘Have you been talking to Casey?’ I narrow my eyes at him, quite annoyed that Casey isn’t the only one who seems to be obsessed with me spending time with a guy my own age. It’s not that unusual. Really, it’s not. ‘Besides, I think Leo’s got more on his mind than relationships at the moment.’

‘I don’t doubt it, but there’s never a bad time to find love.’

‘Love?’ I snort. There’s not much chance of that around here.

‘Well, it makes life worth living, doesn’t it?’

Did he say that with a hidden meaning? Or am I just imagining things?

Bernard is whispering for some reason, perhaps because it’s so dark that it seems like whispering is the right thing to do, even though the street is completely deserted, but I follow his lead anyway. It never feels right to talk in normal voices in the dark. ‘Where’ve you been at this time of night?’

‘Just on one of my walks. Nightly patrol before I go back to my bench.’ He points a gloved finger at the window. ‘And you? Why the sudden interest in Leo’s festive window?’

‘I don’t know.’ Obviously I can’t tell him the truth any more than I can tell anyone else. ‘I get a coffee here every day. It just seems a bit unfestive lately.’

His look says he’s expecting something more.

‘And Leo seems sad,’ I whisper. It seems okay to say this much to Bernard. I know he’s a perceptive bloke, and I know he sees Leo every day too – if anyone knows about Leo’s current situation, it’s him.

‘I thought I was the only one who’d noticed,’ Bernard says, surprising me. And making me feel a bit guilty because I hadn’t noticed. ‘He loves Christmas really. He’s just struggling a bit this year.’

I watch Bernard try to shake off the sudden sense of sadness in the air. Bernard is not someone who ever looks on the gloomy side of life, despite the fact he lives on a bench in a churchyard. Nothing ever seems to get him down. ‘Well, this’ll help. Bring him in a few customers for those new festive flavours he’s got. He brought me a cinnamon hot chocolate today and it was quite possibly the best thing I’ve tasted this year. He deserves more people to know that.’

I nod in agreement and tell myself that if I’m ever awake enough not to have caffeine one morning, I’ll try the cinnamon hot chocolate instead.