Christmas at Porthglen Inn

Book Five – Love in Porthglen – Mila’s Story

A Sweet Romance

Tamsin Bracknell

CHRISTMAS AT PORTHGLEN INN: A SWEET ROMANCE

Copyright © 2022 TAMSIN BRACKNELL

All rights reserved. This work may not be copied, duplicated, transmitted, broadcast or otherwise distributed in part or in the whole without the written permission of the author.

Christmas at Porthglen Inn is an original work of fiction that does not depict the actual names, circumstances, or events of individuals living or dead. Any similarity to such individuals or situations is entirely coincidental.

Published by April Showers Publishing

For everyone missing their family this festive period

Chapter One

The Right Woman for the Job

Three weeks until Christmas

“Did you have a chance to look over the numbers for the Oxford branch, Brian?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair as Brian fumbled for the correct file containing the data. I’d already seen the numbers, but it was clear from the panicked look on his face that he hadn’t.

“Yes, one second… sorry, Mila…” He wheezed, flitting through page after page.

“Here,” Yasmina, my assistant, chirped up, pulling the data sets from her own binder and handing them to Brian.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling at her with pitiful shyness. It was no secret that he had a crush on her, and from the smile she gave him back, it seemed she might feel the same. He turned his attention to the file and stammered, “The room reservation numbers look good so soon after opening, although the weekend bar sales are down.”

“That will pick up over Christmas, don’t worry,” I nodded and addressed the room. “I want an income report for the bar and rooms by Tuesday lunchtime please. Good work everyone, that’s home time.”

There were a few nods and murmurs as everyone stood up and gathered their things before heading out of the meeting room.

Brian took a little longer than everyone else, presumably intending to talk to Yasmina, who was packing up her own things a little more slowly than usual.

I pretended not to be paying attention to them as they finished gathering their things and looked at each other, Yasmina waiting as Brian opened his mouth to speak.

He hesitated before blurting out, “See you on Monday!”

“See you on Monday,” Yasmina replied as he started to leave, a little disappointed.

“You know, you could ask him out,” I teased as we were the last two left in the room.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Yasmina laughed. “Besides, I don’t know if he likes me like that.”

“Yas – the poor man wheezes every time he speaks to you. Of course, he likes you ‘like that’,” I smirked.

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out. We were on the hundredth floor, the view of the Thames and the buildings around us illuminated by blue-toned winter sunlight as it started to dip below the London skyline.

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugged, coming to join me at the window. “But I don’t want to push my luck.”

“Oh, Yas. You’re smart, gorgeous and independent. When are you going to realise that you’re a catch?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” She shot back. “You’re always dating people you don’t like.”

I had to hold my hands up to that one. My romantic life had been pretty pathetic since my five-year relationship had ended a year earlier.

“Speaking of which,” I said with a groan. “I’ve got a date with Boring Kyle tonight. I should probably shave my legs, just in case he gets interesting.”

“What!” Yasmina laughed. “You said ‘Boring Kyle’, but you’ve never been out with the guy! How do you know he’s boring?”

“He types messages like he’s boring,” I said, rounding the meeting table to grab my bag.

“How does someone type like they’re boring?”

“He writes ‘LOL’ instead of thinking of something witty to come back with,” I explained. “Or a thumbs up emoji instead of a full reply. It’s a conversation-halter.”

“I can agree on that last one,” Yasmina relented, opening the door for me as we walked out into the office. “But I really don’t think you can get a lot from messaging. He might be really funny in real life.”

“Unlikely,” I suggested. “But I’ll test out your theory tonight anyway.”

“… so that’s the amazing thing about plastering,” Kyle said, gesturing at me with his breadstick. We were only waiting for the starters and I was already thinking about feigning a work emergency and leaving. He continued after chewing on the end of the breadstick, “You really can’t tell what shade of beige it will be until it’s up. It makes wallpaper a very attractive option if you’re worried about warm tones showing up underneath your paint.”

“Ah,” I nodded. I really hoped this wasn’t how I sounded when I talked to my friends about work. “So, have you been a decorator for long?”

“Since I was seventeen – officially, anyway,” he nodded, and added with sparkling eyes, “But I was taking cash in hand work when I was fourteen – LOL!”

Oh no. He said ‘LOL’ in real life.

I groaned inwardly.

I would be polite and stay to finish the meal, but the date was over.

We had nothing in common, and the text-speak brought to life was the final straw for me.

“So, a month until Christmas,” Kyle continued as the starters came out. “What do your family do on Christmas Day?”

I choked on a mouthful of calamari.

“Oh, just the normal stuff…” I lied, trying to think of what to say. “Presents and… food.”

“Do you go to your parents, or do they come to you?” He smiled, ripping into his garlic bread.

I looked down at my food, searching for a casual way to bring up my family situation on a first date.

“It’s complicated,” I replied simply after a pause. “My parents got divorced when I was little. Dad remarried and has three other kids. Him and his new wife go to her family in Australia for half the year so I don’t see them very often. We usually do Christmas Day together.”

“And your Mum?” Kyle said, clearly a little awkward after his assumptions.

“Mum… She moved to the US and met someone there. We don’t really speak,” I explained.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “It must be hard to be away from family at this time of year.”

“Oh, no,” I waved a hand dismissively. “Christmas has never really been a big deal to me.”

On the high street outside the restaurant, a band dressed in Santa costumes started up ‘Carol of the Bells’.

“Really?!” He laughed a little more than I would have liked, an incredulous smirk on his face. “Why not?”

“I suppose, I just don’t like it,” I shrugged, feeling defensive.

“How can you not like Christmas?!” He blinked at me like I had said I enjoyed killing puppies. “The beautiful lights, carols, great food, presents?!”

“The cold weather, the social expectation to be jolly at all times, dry turkey, poorly wrapped tat that you didn’t ask for?!” I retorted with a mocking tone.

He furrowed his brow and sat silently.

Perhaps I had gone a little too far.

I tried to backtrack – “Look, I get that there are lots of things to love about this time of year, but for me, I’d rather not have to do the whole performative festive thing. I’d rather just be by myself with a mug of cocoa and a film.”

“That sounds lonely,” Kyle shrugged, still bothered by my tone.

“Quiet,” I replied. “But not lonely.”

The waitress took our plates and assured us that the mains wouldn’t be long.

It was clear my assertions about Christmas had really bothered Kyle, who up until that point had seemed to be enjoying our date, even if it had mostly been conversation about drywall and spackle.

I started to wonder how much worse this date could get. I tried not to set off any other controversial topics as the mains arrived.

“You know, I think you’ll change your mind about Christmas one day,” Kyle suddenly said part way through his steak. “Like, when you have a husband and kids.”

I hid a laugh in a forkful of lasagne.

“That’s a little bit presumptive,” I scoffed. “What makes you think that I want a husband or kids?”

He wrinkled his nose, “Of course you do. That’s what everyone wants.”

I laughed disbelievingly and replied, “Not everyone. Not me.”

“Your future sounds sad,” Kyle said with an eye roll. “You’re going to regret it all one day.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I said, putting down my fork and sighing.

“What do you mean?” He chuckled disbelievingly. “Why are you getting annoyed?”

“Why?!” I gasped. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

He shook his head and put down his own fork.

“Perhaps you just don’t want to hear the truth. You’re so insistent that you don’t need human connection that you’d rather be by yourself. It’s pretty pathetic.”

“Wow. We don’t need to finish this date. Have a good evening, Kyle.”

Rage pumped my blood fast through my ears. I was angry, but also hurt. I didn’t think I was pathetic for wanting a bit of quiet time, even at Christmas.

I rifled through my wallet with shaking hands and placed down a wad of cash in front of him for the bill.

“Fine,” Kyle said, standing up as I walked towards the exit, almost as if he was about to stop me. I turned and gave him a final questioning look. We both knew it wasn’t recoverable. Our views were polar opposite. He relented and added, “It was nice to meet you, Mila. I hope you manage to have a good Christmas this year.”

I found my friends in a bar a few hours later, and told them the story of my disastrous date with the details exaggerated for comic effect.

“…and then he said ‘I hope you have a really rubbish Christmas, Mila, you grinch!’ as I left!” I laughed along with my friends, all of us a few glasses of wine down.

“No, he didn’t!” Louisa protested. “Kyle’s a friend of a friend – he’s not a bad guy! I wouldn’t have set you up with him if I thought he was!”

“No, no,” I held up my hands confessionally. “No, not a bad guy. But we both said some things that couldn’t be unsaid.”

“You’re quite good at doing that,” Isla teased, leaning over the bar to get the attention of the barman. “Another round of wine, please.”

“Oh, no, I have work tomorrow,” I said, looking at the time on my phone. “I really can’t stay out too late.

“Work on a Saturday?” Louisa asked. “That’s a bit much, even for you.”

“Even for me?” I laughed.

“Yeah – you’re a workaholic,” she smiled.

“Louisa’s right,” Isla said, coming back with the tray of wine glasses. “You’re always at the office.”

“I like my job, is that a crime?”

“We like our jobs too,” Louisa shrugged. “But we also like our lives. I don’t want to give up my Saturday to talk about hockey stick inventory, so I’m surprised you’d want to go in for… I don’t know, a meeting about the brand of tiny shampoo in your hotel branches?”

“Very funny,” I smirked, taking a sip of my wine. “It’s not about tiny shampoo, it’s a one on one meeting with my boss.”

“A promotion?!” Isla asked with a twinkle. “You’ll be manager of the entire country’s hotel branches at this rate.”

“I was only just promoted to Regional Manager for the South East a year ago, I really doubt there’s an option to promote me again.”

“So, then, what would the meeting be about?” Louisa shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine. She never tells me what she wants to talk to me about,” I sighed.

“Well, it could be about tiny shampoo for all you know,” Louisa added cheekily.

But when I saw my boss waiting for me in her office the next morning, it was obvious this was about a little more than tiny shampoo. She was sat behind her desk, face turned down as she read reports, gold-edged round glasses balanced on her nose

Her glass-walled office was decorated for Christmas already, with a wreath on the door and a tree in the corner.

“You wanted to see me, Lisa?”

“Do come in, Mila,” she said as I knocked on the glass door.

“Thank you,” I replied, sitting on the chair across from her.

Her desk was strategically placed near to the window, her office having an even better view of London than the meeting rooms. Her windows faced the west, out over the Thames, so high we could see all way down the river to the bridges.

I suddenly felt very small in her presence.

“So, Mila, how are you finding your new position?” Lisa asked, making eye contact with me for the first time.

“It’s going well,” I said, starting a familiar and rather rehearsed response. “Our new branches are already making net profit, especially the St. Albans branch which has had a 92% average occupancy rate since it opened in August, holding steady even during the quiet season.”

“Very impressive,” Lisa nodded, her words more enthusiastic than her tone. She looked over the reports in front of her again. “I have noticed that you are particularly skilled at openings.”

“Thank you,” I said with a slight smile, wondering where this could be going.

“In fact, all of the branches in your region have performed better during their opening periods than branches under other regional managers. You’ve made a name for yourself in the company, Mila.”

“I’m very grateful for the opportunity to have opened so many great branches,” I nodded, hoping my fake humility wasn’t too saccharine.

Lisa smirked at the attempt but didn’t call attention to it.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” she said, taking off her glasses and leaning her arms on the desk. “I have another branch for you to manage – outside of your jurisdiction, an inn located in a tiny village on the coast of Cornwall.”

“Cornwall… but Cornwall is in the South West – under Colin Trunder’s management?”

“Yes, well, Colin fluffed it up big time,” Lisa groaned, barely hiding her frustration as she stood up and pressed a button on the futuristic-looking coffee maker in the corner of her office. “There’s only three weeks until the new branch opens – just in time for Christmas, and we have a lot of reservations, but Colin was too busy with his other branches that he forgot to hire a Hotel Administrator or a Concierge for this particular branch. In short, the place is not even close to ready for the first guests to arrive on the 22nd of December.”

“I see.”

I tried to sound nonchalant, but the task was already sounding monumental. With no Hotel Administrator or Concierge, there were no boots on the ground to oversee everything that needed doing before opening. And with the time of year, the workload would be double.

I was starting to think this extra project wasn’t the compliment Lisa meant it to be. She was saddling me with extra work because of someone else’s failings.

“That’s why I want you,” Lisa explained, noticing my sceptical facial expression. “You’ve proven your aptitude time and time again. I think you will really enjoy your time there.”

“My time there?” I repeated.

“In Porthglen – it’s a lovely part of the world. We’ll give you a week to get everything in order but it really is in dire need of your guiding influence.”

“Wait – you want me to go to Cornwall? For how long?”

“Just until Christmas Eve – I’m sure you’ll have everything under control by then. There’s a lovely annexed living area for the manager so you should be more than comfortable.” She smiled sweetly and turned back to the coffee maker to take the mug.

“But… Christmas?”

“Oh, yes, don’t worry. I already have you booked onto a late train on Christmas Eve. You haven’t got family waiting for you to come back, have you?”

“Yes, I do and-”

“-This is really important,” Lisa stressed, giving me that cold stare she did so well. It was the stare of ‘your job is on the line’.

How was I going to explain to Dad that I wouldn’t be seeing him until Christmas Day? We usually spent the whole week together. I had saved up my time off especially.

“I really can’t-”

“-This is a huge opportunity for you, Mila. Your performance review is coming up, you’re up for a big bonus. I’d think very seriously before you turn this down.”

It was just one Christmas, right? Dad had my half-siblings and my stepmother with him anyway, they wouldn’t notice if I missed going to the Winter Carnival or making garlands on Christmas Eve.

I had to admit, Christmas week at Dad’s was never what I wanted it to be. It was all about my siblings, and whilst I loved them and didn’t begrudge them that, it was hard to watch my Dad being a parent to them when he’d been there for so few of my own Christmasses.

“I… don’t know what to say, Lisa,” I said, trying to look pleased.

“You should say thank you! This will be a huge boost to your status at the company, if you can pull it off, that is. We’re all counting on you.”

And so with those ominous words repeating in my head, I headed home to pack my bags for Cornwall.

Also by this author

Snow at Shetland Lodge

Tamsin Bracknell

After Fern catches her boyfriend in bed with her best friend, she heads on their couples' retreat to the Shetland Isles alone. There, she intends to spend New Year's Eve in their luxury cabin, with champagne, chocolates and creature comforts on demand.

After a long flight from London to Scotland she's cold, heartbroken and surrounded by loved up couples. Every activity seems to be designed for two, and she's quickly drained by the cutesy couples and the overly cheery staff.

When a dangerous snowstorm comes in, Fern finds herself caring for a tiny Shetland foal with the handsome but grouchy groundskeeper who seems to prefer animals to people.

Chapter Two

No Comment

Two weeks until Christmas

I had to admit, even though I preferred the towering skyscape of a city to the small-town life in the countryside, Porthglen was beautiful. As the taxi driver took me from the train station to the inn, he pointed out the features of the village including a café in a lighthouse, miles of beaches and a farmer’s market in the town square.

“Here you go, love,” the taxi driver said with a slight smirk back at me in the rear-view mirror as we pulled up at my destination.

“…what?!” I said, bursting out of the taxi. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Love, there’s only one branch of Dreamy Sleep Inns in Porthglen. This is the place,” he scoffed, joining me in the driveway with crossed arms.

“But it’s… it’s not ready at all!” I blathered, walking forward to survey the mess.

The car park was covered in a few inches of snow, meaning no one had thought to grit it as was standard practice at our establishments in winter. There were no Christmas lights along the roof. No trademark Christmas tree decorated with the Dreamy Sleep company colours by the entrance.

Worst of all, there was a skip full of building rubble blocking the entrance to the gardens.

“How am I supposed to host the Dreamy Sleep Winter Wonderland with this in front of my garden entrance?!” I groaned to the taxi driver, who was still grinning.

“Good luck, love,” he said, unloading my suitcase from the back. “You’re going to need it.”

And with that final comment, he got back into his car and sped off down the lane, snow spinning out from his wheels in all directions.

“For goodness’ sakes…” I muttered to myself as I dragged my suitcase up to the front door, snow bunching under the wheels forcing me to lift it awkwardly. “Hello?” I called, knocking on the glass door.

There was no one at the desk, as there should always be, evening before the official opening, in case someone wanted to book in person, and to answer the phones.

It made sense – Lisa had said that there was no concierge. It looked like I would be wearing a few different hats while I was here.

After knocking persistently for a while, a person appeared from a back room in a chef’s jacket. She noticed me and came to help.

“We’re not open,” she said with a sympathetic smile as she opened the front door. “But if you go onto the website, you can book anytime from the 19th December.”

“Thank you for the information,” I said, pleased that there was at least someone on sight to offer potential guest’s some guidance. “But I’m not a guest. I’m Mila Hyden. From London.”

“Oh! The new manager!” She beamed, opening the door fully and beckoning me in.

“Temporary manager,” I corrected. “I’m actually the Head of the South East Management Department.”

“Oh, very nice,” she smiled. “You sound very important! Our little village will be glad to have you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And you are?”

“Fran Bateman,” she smiled.

She was around my age – mid-thirties – with curly brown hair and deep laughter lines on her cheeks as if she spent every waking second smiling.

“Are you from Porthglen?”

“Born and bred,” she nodded. “I’m so glad this place opened. There aren’t many jobs for chefs around here!”

“No, I bet,” I chuckled.

“The other locals might not agree, though,” she shrugged.

“Why do you say that?”

“The villagers have been a little… tetchy. Some don’t think that a big chain should be allowed to open in Porthglen.”

“I see,” I nodded, wondering if she was describing the minority opinion or not. Local opinions often settled down after a few months of opening, but it could be a big factor in the opening. If the local voices weren’t behind the project, I could run into some trouble.

“Just a few people,” Fran hurriedly explained. “The old guard don’t like change very much.”

“It’s the same everywhere,” I assured her.

She seemed to notice my suitcase and quickly course corrected.

“I should take you to your accommodation,” she said quickly. “It’s a bit… unfinished.”

“Unfinished?!”

“The builders are just sorting the plumbing,” she explained as she led me through the foyer towards some big double doors. “That’s why the skip is here.”

“Will it be gone soon?” I asked. “I need to organise the gardens for the Winter Wonderland on Christmas Eve.”

“I don’t know,” Fran shrugged, using a key to unlock the door. “You should probably have these,” she added, handing me a large ring of keys.

“Thank you,” I said, taking them with a nagging worry deep in my gut. “Fran…” I asked. “Are you the only person here?”

“Oh, well, yes – today, that is,” she said with a good-natured shrug.

“Where’s the rest of the staff?!” I asked, horrified.

“Well, we don’t have an administrator or a concierge, as you know, so it’s just me, my sous chef and the maids. My sous chef is a nice lad but he’s been a bit unmotivated to work seeing as there aren’t any guests to cook for. The maids barely have anything to do, even with the dust from the building work to clean up. Most of them only come in every couple of days. There’s also a gardener who works up at Porthglen Manor, Hailey. She pops in to do a bit of weeding once a week.”

I tried not to let my horror show on my face.

Just two kitchen staff and a handful of maids. No wait staff for the restaurant. No bar staff. No receptionist let alone a concierge. No cleaning manager.

My branches in London were bustling with staff, and even my more rural branches had the basics.

This wouldn’t do. I had a week to hire everyone I needed, otherwise I would find myself spread very thin.

Fran led me through an empty dining room, the tables and chairs stacked up like a warehouse, until we reached a door which read ‘Private’.

“This is your accommodation,” she said, showing me how to use the keys. “It might be a bit dusty, but it’s mostly done.”

We entered through the door and took a staircase ahead of us, heading up onto the next floor of the inn.

The apartment was spacious and modern, but we were immediately assaulted with clouds of dust as we saw a builder in the corner of the room using an electric saw to cut through pipe.

“Ed!” Fran shouted over the noise. “Ed, turn that off!”

“Sorry,” he said, noticing us and coming to greet us. “You must be the Londoner.”

He took his glove off to shake my hand, and I was too shocked looking around at the mess to really register it.

“Are you nearly done?” Fran asked, cosying up to him in a sidewards hug. I saw then that they had matching wedding bands of rose gold, Fran with a diamond engagement ring on top.

“Not long, sweetie,” he answered her, leaning down to kiss her on the forehead, laughing as her chef’s hat got in the way.

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling a little blindsided by the incomplete room. “I know you are both working flat out here, but I have got to get my ducks in a row. How long until all of the building work is finished?”

“Well, the guest suites are mostly done,” Ed answered with a thoughtful expression.

“Mostly?!” I asked.

“Yeah – we’re just still trying to work a few kinks in the plumbing-”

“-Kinks?!”

“-Yeah, nothing major, don’t worry about it. It was just the unexpected cold weather – some of the pipes froze up and the guest bathrooms didn’t have any water.”

“No water?!”

“Mila – calm down,” Fran beamed. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“Sorry,” I said, trying to take comfort in her words. “This is just not what I’m used to so close to opening day.”

“It’s not ideal,” Ed agreed. “But I’ve got my team working on it round the clock. We’ll be ready for the opening, don’t you worry about that.”

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” I nodded. “Can I stay here – is it safe?”

“Your accommodation just needs a new spatchcock. We should be done by tonight if you want to occupy yourself until then.”

“Great,” I agreed, muttering under my breath, “Whatever a spatchcock is.” I sighed.

“Before I forget – there was a reporter here yesterday wanting a quote for the local newspaper,” Fran said. “He asked for the manager and I told him that you hadn’t arrived yet so he said he’d come back.”

“A reporter? That would be really good for the opening,” I beamed. “That is if I can pull everything off. I’ll need to head into the village to organise the details we’re missing, then there’s a lot of hiring to do.”

“Can I do anything to help?” Fran asked sweetly. “I really don’t mind doing anything you need. After all, there’ s no one to cook for.”

“Now that you mention it,” I said, putting my marketing cap on. “Why don’t you make some appetisers – little pastiries, things on sticks, you know the kind of thing. Christmas-themed if you can. Take some of the maids down to the village square with trays and drum up a bit of interest in the inn and restaurant at the farmer’s market. I’m sure there are some flyers at front desk that the maids could hand out.”

“Sure thing,” Fran grinned.

“Great,” I breathed out, a little more positive. “We will get this place sorted by opening. We will.”

While Fran and Ed continued their jobs, I headed into the village in hopes of buying a tree for the front entrance.

With only two weeks until Christmas, it could be a challenge to get one of the size I wanted.

Luckily, I found a farmer at the market with potted trees.

“I’d like to buy the biggest tree,” I explained, pulling out the company credit card.

He was an elderly man with a bushy beard, seemingly a farmer judging by his clothes.

“Would you now,” he said, looking me up and down. “Say please, Londoner.”

“Sorry?” I said, a little flabbergasted by his attitude.

“You heard me – I won’t sell it to you until you say please.”

“Oh,” I said, my cheeks colouring. “Sorry. Please may I buy the biggest tree?”

“Hm,” he said, still not satisfied. “For £200.”

“What?” I laughed. “The label says £100!”

“£200 for you,” he said. “I don’t like people who don’t say please.”

“Fine,” I shrugged. It wasn’t my money after all. “I’ll take it for £200 please.”

He grinned triumphantly and began loading it into a van.

“A shining example of local hospitality.” A voice in my ear made me wheel around.

A man was stood behind me, only a few years older than me with neatly coiffed short dark hair and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He was tall and broad, built like a rower with powerful arms, crossed across his body with amusement. His attractive physique was at odds with his tone, and he already had my back up.

“I hope you’re being sarcastic,” I said, staring back at him, confused as to who he was and why he was speaking to me.

“Of course,” he shrugged. “But Mr. Timmins there represents an opinion a lot of the community hold.”

“What opinion – that forgetting to say please has a hefty fine?”

“You rather missed his point,” the man said, bemused by my replies. “Do you really think this was all about you not saying please?”

“I have no idea what it is about,” I replied. “Only that my tree had a 100% mark-up in the span of a few minutes.”

“Because of where it is for,” he explained. “The inn.”

“What? He charged me extra because of the inn?”

“People aren’t happy,” the man explained. “In fact – do you care to give a comment on the situation?”

“A comment on the situation? Are you a reporter?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t you have to tell me if you are?”

“That’s police, and even that’s not true,” he laughed. “But fine – yes, I’m a reporter for The Mariner’s Mail. Andy Kimblewick. So – can I get my quote now?”

“No comment,” I said blankly with a look of derision, heading towards the farmer to pay for the tree.

I had hoped for a bit of free publicity, but it seemed that the reporter was only going to add to my opening night woes.

“I would strongly advise against that,” Andy quipped. “If you haven’t yet noticed, the locals aren’t exactly keen on the new inn. The headline ‘New inn’s manager says ‘no comment’ when asked about local objections’ isn’t a good look.”

“Is that a threat?” I asked. “Because whilst you have freedom of press, I have the freedom to abstain from giving you a comment.”

He held up his hands passively, “Hey, I’m not looking for a fight, I’m just trying to help you get ahead of this thing. Porthglen is a tight-knit community, and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of it.”

“Look, Andy,” I said, facing him with a face like thunder. “I appreciate the well-intentioned if patronising advice, but I’m good at my job. I’ve opened fourteen branches of Dreamy Sleep Inns during the past three years and I’ve yet to have a disaster.”

He laughed to himself and put away his notepad.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged. “Just don’t come crying to me when you don’t like what I report.”

I rolled my eyes as he walked away, getting back to my long to-do list of items to sort before the opening.

Chapter Three

Poinsettias

Four days until Christmas

“So, you won’t be coming for Christmas week?” Dad said. I could hear my siblings screeching somewhere in the background, probably playing with the game console my stepmother got them.

“No, I’m sorry Dad, I have to work, but I’ll be there for Christmas Day, I promise,” I explained. “No – the tinsel needs to be higher,” I instructed one of the maids.

“What was that, love?” Dad asked.

“Not you, Dad,” I said.

“Are you working right now?”

“Higher, higher!” I stressed, starting to lose my patience. Everything was taking way too long, with the only staff members here to help me being the part time maids, who really weren’t pleased at having their job descriptions extended to include preparing for the Winter Wonderland on Christmas Eve.

“Okay, Mila, let’s chat another time,” Dad sighed.

“Wait!” I said, turning my back to the decorating disaster adding, “I really did want to be there, Dad. I’m in Cornwall setting up a new branch.”

“That’s exciting,” he said, although he couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice.

“It’s a big opportunity for me,” I said guiltily. “It’s just this one time. I’ll be there for Christmas Day.”

“It’s not just this one time though, is it?” Dad asserted. “You missed your sister’s birthday last month because you had to go to Guildford for a meeting.”

“It was the annual Hotel and Inn Conference, Dad. I couldn’t miss it – I had to give a speech. It was a huge-”

“-Opportunity, yes I know,” he sighed. “Just don’t miss out on all of the opportunities we’re offering you. I won’t be around forever, and your siblings miss you. It might seem like you don’t have a choice, but you do.”

“Dad, I really don’t have a choice,” I said, swallowing down the ball of guilt that was forming in my throat. “I wish I did, believe me.”

“Mila, where should we put the streamers?” One of the maids asked.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” Dad said.

“Put them in the dining room. Make sure to hang them over each table and a few over the bar,” I said to the maid. “Okay, Dad. Dad? Are you there?”

He had already hung up.

I stood back outside of the entrance and admired my work.

The big tree was standing proudly by the entrance, giving off a subtle pine smell, and decorated with the Dreamy Sleep Inn logo colours of gold and blue.

The front desk, foyer, dining room and corridors were adorned with baubles, streamers and tinsel.

Everything finally looked how it was meant to look, and still with five days until the Winter Wonderland on Christmas Eve.

“Mila?” Fran crept up to me with a worried look on her face.

“Doesn’t it look great?” I asked her, before noticing her expression. “What is it?”

“This just came,” she said, holding out the newspaper with a grimace.

The Mariner’s Mail

19th December

Corporate inn chain receives backlash from locals

By Andy Kimblewick

A group of local homeowners gathered in the town hall on Friday night to discuss the impact of the newly built Dreamy Sleep Inn which is due to open this evening on Fir Tree Avenue.

Amongst the disgruntled locals was town councillor Audrey Pruner, who told this reporter that the new inn was ‘an eyesore’. Continuing with tears in her eyes, Mrs. Pruner, 67, said, ‘I’m sad to see our tiny village reduced to a tourist trap for people looking for a cheap night in a gaudy inn. The bar alone will be disruptive to nearby homeowners and the primary school on Willow Drive.’

This reporter did reach out to the manager of the new Porthglen Inn, Ms. Mila Henderson, 34, but she declined to comment on the situation, which is growing more fraught as the opening looms.

Continued on page 4

“Oh my goodness…” I breathed, anger rising in my chest. “Mrs. Pruner had ‘tears in her eyes’?! Really?!”

“She is a little bit dramatic,” Fran shrugged. “It will all work out, Mila.”

“I’m not sure it will,” I huffed, turning to page 4. “Here the lovely reporter, Mr. blooming Kimblewick, describes me as having ‘the detached air of someone who spends all of their time in fancy London coffee shops drinking low fat pumpkin spice lattes’.”

“That’s a little below the belt,” Fran agreed.

“And he goes on to say that my ‘attitude is representative of Dreamy Sleep’s general apathy towards the residents of the towns they decide to build in’. My ‘attitude’?! What ‘attitude’?!”

Fran looked at me sheepishly for that comment, not willing to confirm or deny the reporter’s claims.

“I need to do damage control,” I seethed. “The opening is tonight and it has to go perfectly! Let’s show them all the good things that the inn is bringing to Porthglen.”

“How did this happen?!” Lisa raged down the phone as I tried to keep my head down, walking through the village to the town square.

Everywhere I looked – benches, cafes, streetcorners, even people on the beach – was the paper, the page open to the article about the inn. The villagers noticed me as I walked past, tittering to each other.

“It’ll blow over,” I assured her, trying to ignore an elderly lady out with her dogs, who were reading the article aloud to another lady. “News moves fast in the countryside, they’ll be onto the next bit of gossip soon enough.”

“I’m not so sure,” Lisa stressed.

“Well, everything is ready for the opening tonight,” I explained, rubbing my eyes to try and dispel the headache I was getting. “I’m on my way to the florist now for festive decorations.”

“That’s a good start, but you need to do more if you want to quash this for good. You need to win this reporter round – Andy something. You need to give him a fully comped room, champagne, a free meal – the works! If he continues to print about the inn, he’ll make sure the locals are fully against it without giving it a chance. You need to speak to him the first chance you get.”

“Okay…” I said, worried about how to convince this irreverent reporter to accept a comped room and luxury package when he was clearly so against the inn’s existence.

“Sort it out, Mila. I’m counting on you not to mess this up. Remember what I said about what a great opportunity this would be for your career, not to mention your end of year bonus.”

“Message received,” I replied, filled with dread.

As I hung up the phone and made a beeline for the florist, I tried to remind myself of all the challenges I had overcome in my career before.

There was always some obstacle in my way, whether it was planning permission hiccups, budget restraints or, in this case, pesky locals and a meddling reporter.

The florist was laid out with beautiful festive bouquets tied off with red ribbons, wreaths of red berries, gold baubles and garlands made of real evergreen boughs, shaped to be hung above windows and fireplaces.

The smell of fir tree, cinnamon and dried oranges hit me as I entered, a familiar and comforting scent. It was just the jolt I needed to refocus me on making the opening as festive as possible.

“What can I do for you?”

The florist was around my age, with a bright smile and a head of dark curly afro hair. It was the first smile I had seen in town since arriving.

“Hi, I need some floral decorations for the inn,” I explained, seeing her face instantly change, not quite to unfriendliness, but to a worried frown. “It’s the opening tonight – free bar and food for all. Perhaps you could help me out and spread the word a little.”

She met my gaze sympathetically.

“I’ll spread it around, but I’m sure you’ve heard about the article by now?”

“Yes, I have,” I sighed. “I’m trying to show the locals that the inn is good for Porthglen rather than a drain.”

“People will come around in time,” she shrugged, coming around the counter to show me the options. “But the open bar certainly won’t hurt. Which ones would you like?”

“I’ll take them all,” I said, her face lighting up with surprise.

“You know, buying all the wreaths in town won’t recoup any public opinion,” a male voice came from behind us.

Andy.

“Just the man I was hoping to see,” I said, swallowing down my pride as I attempted to put Lisa’s proposal into words. It was hard to try and be polite to a man I loathed so much.

“Look, I told you that you would be better off making a statement, but you decided not to,” Andy chuckled. “Don’t be mad at me for doing my job.” He added to the florist, “Could I buy one of the Poinsettias you have out front please, Una?”

She nodded, her eyeline passing between the two of us briefly, as if she was worried we were about to turn the tables over and have an old west style gun fight in her shop.

She left us as she went outside to find the plant Andy had asked for, and I took my opportunity.

“You’re right,” I said, the sentiment nearly suffocating me. “I should have listened to you. Please, accept a suite in the inn for the opening tonight – fully comped with our luxury package.”

“Tempting,” Andy said, eyes wide with intrigue as he weighed up the offer. “But before I agree, I need you to understand that I don’t print retractions.”

“Fine,” I nodded. “But perhaps you’ll like the inn enough to right up a real review, rather than just an opinion piece.”

“I’ll have to see what my editor says,” he shrugged as Una came back in with the plant.

I tried not to let my frustration show on my face as I said, “Great.”

“Great,” he echoed my tone with a smirk. “It’s a date.”

“Here you go, Andy,” Una said with a sympathetic smile. “On the house.”

“Thank you, Una,” Andy replied as she disappeared into the back of the shop.

“For your wife?” I asked, gesturing to the plant.

“I’m not married,” he laughed. “It’s for my mother. She’s in hospital.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback by his honesty after our sparring banter. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she feels better soon.”

“She loves Christmas,” he added with an uncomfortable chortle. “Keeping our fingers crossed that she’ll be out by Christmas Day.”

And with that, he exited the shop, leaving me feeling a little conflicted about the reporter I had been so ready to fight only a few minutes earlier.

Chapter Four

Honesty

Four days until Christmas

“This spread looks incredible, Fran,” I beamed, looking around at trays of tiny canapes, warming dishes of roasted potatoes, vegetables, gravy and a giant goose ready for carving.

“We’ve got our work cut out to impress the village,” Fran sighed, hands on hips as she looked over the food. “Do you think I’ve made enough?”

“I think you could feed Father Christmas and all of his reindeer with this,” I laughed. “It’s perfect.”

“How long until everyone arrives?” Fran asked anxiously.

I could tell this was conflicting for her. She was from Porthglen, her loyalties laid with the villagers, but she was passionate about the inn too, especially the restaurant. Her opposing motives were starting to tear her apart.

I hoped for her sake as much as mine that we could bring the locals round.

The first guests had started to arrive, checked in by the new concierge, Jenna, who I had hired in record time by putting up flyers on the bulletin boards in the college in Foweybridge. She was young and would need a little more training up before I went back to London, but she was bright and friendly, the perfect person to be our concierge, especially with the combatant locals.

I left Fran primping the food as I recognised someone in the queue at the front desk – Andy.

“I’ll take over now, thank you Jenna,” I said as she finished checking in an elderly couple who had come all the way from Scotland for a Christmas holiday.

“Personal service, how exciting,” Andy teased as I approached the desk.

“Of course,” I smiled, swallowing down my irritation with him. Now was the time to be as professional as possible. “I’ve put you in our best suite.”

“And does that mean paying guests have been downgraded?” Andy asked. I noticed he had his phone out in his hand, no doubt recording everything I said.

I bit back words of annoyance.

“No,” I corrected him. “We left the suite available for VIPs.”

“Wait,” he laughed. “It’s your opening night, but you had left your best suite unoccupied. What, your other guests aren’t good enough?”

My patience was running out, especially as I saw more guests arriving behind him, listening in to our conversation.

“No, it’s just best practice, sir,” I said as calmly as I could. He grinned mischievously, clearly amused by my poorly hidden anger. I was reminded why I worked in the office instead of a public facing role. Lisa had better give me a whopping bonus for this. “Please, allow me to show me to your room.” I added to the waiting guests, “Our concierge will be with you now.”

Jenna came back to the desk as I gestured for Andy to follow me out of the front door.

“My bags?” Andy asked with a cheeky smile, pointing to his suitcase and laptop bag.

“Certainly, sir,” I replied through gritted teeth. He beamed with eyebrows raised in surprise; it had clearly been a test and not a serious request.

I led Andy out of the entrance and across the car park to the gardens.

“Is the luxury suite a tent?” Andy asked as he followed me, phone still held out to catch anything I said. “A yurt, perhaps?”

“No,” I corrected, opening the gate to our gardens and leading him through.

“Are you taking me off into the woods to do away with me?” He teased adding in a cartoonish voice, “My family won’t rest until they solve my murder!”

“Will you please be quiet?!” I griped, losing my cool. I stopped halfway up the garden path and turned back towards him. “You are so irritating!”

He laughed, “There’s the fire! I knew you had it in you to be honest with me.”

“Honest?” I snapped. “I was doing my best to be professional, which is more than I can say for you! I know you will probably print every word of this and I’ll get fired, but I can’t keep pretending you’re not riling me up!”

“I’m a journalist,” Andy shrugged. “What were you expecting?”

“A chance, perhaps?” I growled, hands on hips. “You just see a corporate chain, not the work that goes into it, the real people trying to make a living. No, you just want to make jokes about pumpkin spice lattes.”

Snow started to fall as we stood in the cold, Andy still grinning at me in that way that made me want to scream.

“And that’s the line that stuck with you?” He snorted. “You really don’t see the issue with some city-slicker who had probably never heard of Porthglen before it was pointed out on a map to her building a soulless inn amongst our rural community? The jokes are just my writing style, and I’m sorry you took them so personally, but the heart of the article was a criticism of the capitalist need to standardise everything. Cut, copy, repeat.”

The snow drifted thicker and thicker as we stood there, catching in Andy’s dark hair.

“How can you say the inn is soulless before it has even opened?” I asked, tears catching at my throat as the anger dissipated into defeat. “How do you know the effect on the community before we’ve even had a chance to get going?”

“Because we’ve seen it time and time again!” Andy bellowed, his smirk disappearing as some deeper held emotion came through. “First, the old Victorian mill between here and Foweybridge was turned into a QuickChicken. Then it was a pub chain taking over The White Lion in the old hamlet. In a few years we had our old mechanic taken over by a corporation, a Copa Coffee branch, even a PoundBargain on Foweybridge high street. Do you even know what was here before your company started building the inn?”

“No,” I whispered my admittance.

“It was a library, first built in the 1800s. You see, from your point of view, you’re adding to the village, and from their point of view, you’re destroying its history.”

I nodded slowly, not sure what to say.

I hadn’t ever thought about the locations of the inns – that was not my job. I couldn’t help but feel guilty.

“Let me show you the suite,” I said quietly, deflated.

We continued up the path, walking through a red brick archway. The second part of the garden revealed the suite – a free-standing lodge.

“This is our luxury lodge,” I explained as I unlocked the door. “We keep it free as a honeymoon suite.”

We brushed the snow from ourselves, and I started lighting the fire as Andy looked around. I felt a little better seeing the look on his face – the lodge was impressive with glass folding doors along one side that opened out into a private part of the garden with a hot tub. The living space was centred around a cosy fireplace, and the modern kitchenette had a dining table big enough for a family dinner. The wooden floors were accented by woolly rugs, and the large Christmas tree in the corner was adorned with a tree skirt filled with presents.

“I’m just going to guess that your other rooms aren’t like this,” Andy asked.

“All of our rooms are restful, spacious and fully equipped with mod cons,” I answered with the corporate line, all of my earlier anger drained from me.

“Couldn’t keep up the honesty, ey?” Andy asked quietly.

I blinked away the question and continued with the information he needed, noting the phone still held out, listening.

“The opening night party is in the dining room in an hour with an open bar and complimentary food for all. You’re also welcome to make yourself food here if you prefer – the fridge and cupboards are stocked with some basic staples. If you need anything else, press 0 on the phone and it will take you straight through to reception.”

“Very professional,” Andy commented teasingly. “You do that very well.”

“Thank you,” I replied with none of his mirth. “If that’s all, I’ll leave you to get settled in.”

I tried to pretend that Andy’s words hadn’t thrown me, but in truth, I was starting to question everything I had previously believed about my purpose here in Porthglen. I had thought the inn would be a beacon of good for the community, that the locals would come around when they saw what we were offering them, but the more I dwelled on the things he had told me, the more I saw it from their point of view.

I kept a smile on my face as I made sure everything was ready for the party and headed up to my apartment to get ready.

Ed and his team had made good progress on the work – there were just a few cosmetic changes to be made, but nothing a lick of paint and a few well-placed paintings wouldn’t sort.

It was similar to my studio flat in London – modern and minimalist. I had expected to miss London, but so far I had been too busy to think about it. I wondered how long it would be before I was back in my old haunts, admittedly, buying lattes in trendy coffee shops.

Andy had got a couple of things right, as much as I hated to admit it.

I did my make-up and pinned my hair up with a gold clip. I had chosen a sleek bodycon dress in bright red, knee-length at the front and sweeping down into a long skirt at the back – festive and sexy, but still professional.

I headed back downstairs to find the dining room thrumming with guests. The band were on the stage, playing covers of Christmas hits, and people were drinking, eating and dancing.

Fran smiled and gave me a thumbs up from the other side of the room as she and Ed slow-danced to ‘White Christmas’.

I headed behind the bar to make sure the new barman was coping with the influx of people.

“You’re the woman from the paper,” an elderly man in a green velvet suit said with an accusatory finger.

“Yes,” I smiled, not sure whether to take his pointing digit as a compliment or insult. “Welcome to Porthglen Inn.”

“Pfft,” he laughed. “I’m only here for the free food. The last thing we need is more tourists in this town.”

“Oh,” I sighed, not sure what to say. I was starting to see his point more and more.

“Two glasses of champagne please,” a middle-aged woman came to the bar. She had distinctive red-framed glasses, and looked gorgeous in a golden fit and flare dress, cut low but still tasteful.

“Certainly,” I smiled, finding the open champagne in the fridge and decanting two glasses. “Are you enjoying your night?”

“Oh, definitely,” she beamed, looking back to her table where four women were waiting for her. “You must be the manager – Mila?”

“You read about me in the paper too?” I asked, a little reluctant to hear her answer.

“Don’t sound so worried!” She laughed. “Not everyone is against you here. Or rather, not everyone is against you. Your company on the other hand… well, there’s not much you can do to improve their reputation single-handedly.”

“I’m starting to realise that,” I nodded. “Here.”

I handed her the glasses.

“So, everyone has been giving you a hard time?” She asked.

“It seems the dialogue around the inn is a bit more complicated than I first thought,” I said. “I didn’t know anything about Porthglen until a couple of weeks ago, never mind the history of the town and the library that once stood here.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” she waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, it was historic, but almost everything is in Porthglen. The library had been closed for years, and in 2009 the town council condemned the structure as unsafe. A few locals tried to rally to raise the funds to make the changes it would need to reopen, but they were quoted hundreds of thousands of pounds. They would have practically had to knock it down and start over – the original frame was rotten, and the foundations were flooded. It wasn’t worth saving.”

“I see.”

It seemed there really were more than two sides to every story. Andy hadn’t known the full story, and neither had I.

“Just ride it out, girl,” she leaned over the bar to share her wisdom. “In a month, some billionaire will buy an old church and turn it into a drone shop, and then everyone will forget about how angry they were at Dreamy Sleep Inns. And in turn, they’ll get to know and love you for the person you are.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” I smiled gently. “But I’m afraid I’ll be gone late Christmas Eve.”

“Oh,” she said, pushing her bottom lip out sadly. “That’s a shame. You looked like you could have fit in nicely here. I’m Ruth, by the way. If you do decide to stay, come to our book club – every Wednesday at The Ancient Mariner pub in the village. No need to read the book.”

“Which book?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she chuckled. “Have a great Christmas, Mila.”

And with that, she disappeared into the crowd and back to her table. I watched them, laughing together, and suddenly missed the support of my friends back in London. It hadn’t all been bad blind dates and leaving the bar early to get a good night’s sleep for work. They were also my cheerleaders and my confidantes.

I stacked glasses for the dishwasher and helped clean down the bar as more people took to the dancefloor. Despite the snippets of disgruntled conversation from some of the older members of the community, I could see people were enjoying themselves. The buffet had been thoroughly tucked into, and the tables were full of excited conversation.

Amongst the throng was Andy, dressed in a dark green shirt and fitted suit trousers. The sleeves of his shirt were pinned up with gold cufflinks, his hands thrust into his pockets.

“You scrub up well,” he said as he reached me. “Not the kind of dress I expected from you.”

“Well, that just goes to show how well you know me,” I scoffed. “What can I get you?”

“A thumb of brandy please – it is Christmas after all,” he smirked. “Make it that expensive French stuff I can see in the cabinet back there. My room is comped, after all.”

“Certainly,” I said, fetching the French brandy. “How is the suite?”

“Everything I would expect from a luxury stay at a Dreamy Sleep Inn. Stunning, comfortable and soulless.”

“That’s not what your face seemed to convey when I took you in.”

“It’s impressive, for sure,” he said, pausing in thought. “But I can’t help thinking that every Dreamy Sleep Inn looks like that. That somewhere across the country, someone is using the exact same hot tub as me, drinking the exact same cocoa in front of the exact same fire, sleeping under the exact same duvet. It’s just not very Porthglen. I’d hate to think that someone’s experience of our little town would be based on those aspects.”

“Then give me your feedback,” I said, handing him the brandy and standing back with my arms crossed. “I want to hear what you would do differently to better represent the village.”

He seemed surprised by my suggestion, and sipped his brandy slowly, formulating his reply.

“Well, for starters I would get rid of the awful corporate art,” he laughed. “You could feature local artists. That man over there, Fraser-” He pointed to one of the men with Ruth. “-He’s a local photographer and his work would look great in the bedroom. Remind people they are by the sea and ditch those awful abstract pink smudges you currently have in there.”

“Noted,” I said with a slow nod. It wasn’t a bad suggestion, nor one that I would find it difficult to convince Head Office to change. “Keep going.”

He widened his eyes as if questioning whether I really wanted him to continue, and seeing that I was serious, thought again.

“The cupboard staples in the luxury suite. Make it local. You could include freshly made bread from the local bakery, honey from Porthglen Acres Farm and eggs from Creek Forest Farm. You’d really bring the villagers on side if they saw you supporting the local community like that.”

“It seems we have a lot to learn from you,” I sighed. “But what about the library?”

“What about it?” Andy asked, leaning his elbows on the bar as he sipped his drink. “You can’t exactly rebuild it.”

“No, I can’t,” I replied, an idea coming to me. “But you said it yourself – it’s about heart, soul. I found out that the library’s structure wasn’t safe, and never would be, not without destroying and rebuilding it.” His face wrinkled – he hadn’t known the full story, as I had suspected. “What if we could pay homage to its history here. We could have photos, newspaper clipping about it, and a book box for borrowing and lending.”

“Now you’re getting into the spirit of the town,” Andy grinned. He paused for a beat and cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the jokes in the article. I didn’t mean to make you into a stereotype. I can see there is more to you than that.”

“You were just doing your job,” I shrugged. “I shouldn’t have taken them so personally.”

“Well, I have to admit, I wanted you to take them personally.”

“How so?”

“There was a lot of anger in the community about this place, anger that has come from me too,” he admitted. “I worked at the library when I was a teenager. It was a big part of my formative years.”

“I see,” I breathed out deeply. That explained his passion for the topic. “I’m sorry that it isn’t here anymore. I don’t have much control over these things, but when I go back to Head Office, I’ll make sure to stress the importance of remembering the location’s history.”

“Big changes start with small actions,” he smiled kindly. “I appreciate you listening to my thoughts. Now that we’ve buried the hatchet – care to dance?”

“With you?” I blurted out, with a little too much surprise.

“Don’t say it like I’m a leper,” he teased. “Just one dance?”

“Won’t I get lynched by the locals on the dancefloor?” I joked, already coming around the bar to take his hand.

“I’ll protect you from them,” he grinned, adding to the barman. “Don’t let anyone steal my brandy.”

He led me to the dancefloor, his fingertips warm against mine as we weaved a path through everyone. Despite the party, the locals still looked at me with blank gazes as we looked past, some subtly moving back from us.

Andy pulled me close, one hand on my waist, his palm lightly pressing against bare skin just below my shoulder blade.

I took his other hand as we swayed to the band’s rendition of ‘Driving Home for Christmas’.

“I always liked this song,” I said quietly. “It makes me think of driving from the city to my Dad’s house in Surrey.”

“Is that where you spend Christmas?” Andy asked, moving in time to the music as I hummed the tune wistfully.

“Every year since Mum moved away.”

“Did she move far?” He asked.

“America,” I said. “We’re not close.”

“I see.”

“What about your Mum?” I said remembering the conversation in the florist.

“She’ll be out for Christmas, just a quiet one at home with me and my sister,” Andy explained. “My sister’s two daughters are all grown up, off with their boyfriends this year. I think Mum is secretly a bit relieved, considering how ill she’s been.”

“What… why was she in hospital?” I asked gingerly.

“She has – had – breast cancer. She’s in remission now, thankfully. But the treatment weakened her immune system, so she couldn’t recover when she caught the flu. It was touch and go for a while there, but she’s getting stronger every day.”

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “That’s really difficult.”

“Thank you,” he said quickly, clearing his throat, the topic suddenly overwhelming. He pushed the rising emotion aside and changed the subject. “How are you liking Porthglen? You’re a long way from home.”

“It certainly feels that way,” I nodded. “I never imagined I would have all of these issues with the locals, but even so I was reluctant to come here.”

“Yes, you don’t strike me as someone who spends time in the countryside,” he snorted.

I batted his arm playfully and smirked.

“I’ll try to take that as a compliment.”

“I just meant that you seem like you enjoy your creature comforts,” Andy went on. “London is all about convenience. You barely have to lift a finger to get what you need.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Of course,” Andy chuckled. We span around as the song changed to ‘Rocking Around the Christmas Tree’ and the other dancers picked up the pace. He moved me further from him as we twirled across the floor. “Where’s the value in having everything done for you?”

“You’d rather have to work for what you need? To struggle?”

“Struggle maketh the man,” he replied in a mock-posh voice.

“Struggle maketh the man miserable,” I sneered.

He rolled his eyes as we wheeled sidewards again, his arms moving me a little more insistently.

“Out here, we rely on community, not convenience,” he said testily. “There’s no misery in that.”

“And what’s to be done when the community turns its back on you for one thing or another?” I asked bitterly, noticing that people still had their eyes on me, even less welcoming than before. “Independence is paramount. The community can let its members down, and we have to look out for ourselves when that happens.”

“That’s where you and I will always disagree,” he scoffed, seeming irritated with me once again. “And that’s why the locals won’t come around to your way of thinking, no matter how many parties you do.”

He broke apart from me with a jolt, leaving me in the middle of the dancefloor as he headed back to the bar for his brandy.

Chapter Five

The Camera

Three days until Christmas

Despite the clean-up from the party and my tension with Andy, the next morning I felt positive about how the opening had gone. Most of the locals had teetered out to their taxis well past midnight, slightly tipsy and singing Christmas songs merrily into the cold night air.

Even if I was only just starting to win them around, I was sure the opening had swayed public opinion from overwhelmingly negative to somewhat closer to indifference.

Andy’s words were ringing in my ears as I cleaned up but needed to push them aside. I had a job to do, and a family to get back to on Christmas Eve. I had two days to get the inn working like a perfectly oiled machine so that it could function without me.

“Mila, we’re out of towels,” Lily, one of the maids said to me, coming into my office with a flushed face as I tried to make a filing system for the financial papers. Colin Trunder really had made a mess of everything.

“Out? What do you mean?” I asked, putting down the papers.

“There aren’t any clean ones,” Lily explained, getting more and more panicked. “We thought we had enough for all of the guests, but we don’t.”

“Okay,” I said, breathing deeply. “There are spare towels in the luxury suite. I’ll go out there and get them now. In the meantime, phone the department store in Foweybridge and sort out more towels to be delivered tonight. Tell them we’ll pay extra.”

“Thank you,” she said, finally looking a little less flustered as I swept past her and put a comforting hand on her arm.

I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing Andy after our conversation the night before, but as he had said, I was good at being professional.

I took the garden path up to the suite and used the brass knocker.

“Mila – I thought it might be you,” he said, opening the door with a towel wrapped around his middle and nothing else on. He was slim and toned – almost, dare I say it, good-looking. “Get in here – it’s freezing.”

I averted my eyes and walked into the living room.

Professional, Mila, I reminded myself, looking directly into his eyes as I said, “Sorry for the interruption, but I need the guest towels from the spare room.”

“I see,” Andy smiled, running his fingertips through wet hair. “You’re welcome to them, I only need one towel.”

“Thank you,” I said, relief spreading through me.

We walked through to the spare room, and I piled the clean towels into my arms.

“So,” Andy said, stopping me before I reached the door again. “I was hoping to talk to you this morning.” I drew my breath in, expecting him to bring up our disagreement. “I think I’ll stay another few nights – until Christmas Eve, actually.”

“Oh?” I asked, taken aback. I would have thought he would be glad to get away from me, now that his obligations had been fulfilled.

“Yes,” he nodded thoughtfully, readjusting the towel at his middle. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t think I can write a full review in good conscience with only one night’s experience of the place. The villagers will expect a comprehensive evaluation of everything Porthglen Inn has to offer.”

“That seems fair,” I smiled.

“I don’t expect it to be complimentary,” he added. “I’m happy to pay for the extra nights.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said quickly. “No one else is booked into the suite until after Christmas – you’re welcome to stay as long as you like, especially if it will result in some good press.”

“That’s settled then,” Andy smiled, a flush of what looked like relief going across his face. Before I could question his motives, he added. “And about last night – I had a little too much to drink. We have opposing views, but there’s no reason for us to be at loggerheads, so I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m sorry too,” I sighed. “We keep doing this, don’t we?”

“We’re both passionate about our own causes, it’s bound to happen,” he said, opening the front door for me.

As I walked back down the garden path, I couldn’t ignore a warm feeling spreading up my chest.

He was stubborn and inflammatory for sure, but he also knew how to be humble, how to apologise.

“Andy,” I said, turning back to face him just as he was about to close the door. “Do you have plans today?”

“Uh, no, actually. I was just going to proofread an article about the new rock pooling club, but it’s not due until January. Why?”

“Well, I’m pretty new to the area and I could do with someone to show me around. I need to do my own Christmas shopping, seeing as I won’t be back in London until Christmas Eve, and I wondered if you could help me out.”

He nodded slowly with a gentle grin spreading across his face, and for a moment I thought he was going to refuse.

“Of course,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.” He gestured down at the towel. “Can you give me half an hour to get dressed?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, my cheeks glowing a little as my gaze followed his hand downward. “I’ll drop off the towels to the maids and meet you outside the front entrance in half an hour.”

“So, who do you need to buy for?” Andy asked as we walked up the snowy road from the inn towards the town. “We’re a small town, but I’m sure you’ll find a few things that your family will like.”

“Well, I’ve already got my Dad a shredder and a new coffee mug, so I’d like to find him a book. He loves to read.”

“You’ve got him a shredder?”

“That’s what he asked for,” I laughed.

“Well, we don’t have a bookshop in Porthglen, but we do have an Emporium.”

“An Emporium?”

“Roger’s Emporium. It’s secondhand and vintage stuff – you have to dig a bit, but you’ll be sure to find something for your Dad in there,” Andy smiled. “Who else do you need to buy for?”

“Just my stepmother and sisters. I went halves with my Dad on concert tickets for my stepmother, so she’ll be happy with that. And then it’s just my younger sisters. They’re ten, twelve and fifteen.”

“Clothes?”

“Not if I want to survive Christmas without being told I’m an unfashionable dork,” I laughed. “They’re quite into fashion.”

“You always look great,” Andy said with a smile, and then realising the compliment backtracked to add. “I mean your clothes are always very smart.”

“Thank you,” I chuckled under my breath.

We reached the high street and Andy led me towards the Emporium.

“I’ll warn you,” Andy grinned. “Roger’s a bit eccentric – but lovely - and there’s a lot of junk in here, but if you look around, you’ll find some hidden gems.”

We pushed the door open and were immediately hit by the smell of evergreens as the Emporium’s foyer was filled with potted Christmas trees of all sizes, some already decorated.

The next room was much larger, an old barn, piled to the rafters will odds and ends; furniture, vintage toys, crocheted knick-knacks, giant stone statues, walls and walls of mirrors, painting and photographs plus a huge Christmas village, each of the cottages coming up to our knees and all laid out on a blanket of fake snow.

“This is… this is nothing like I’ve ever seen before,” I chuckled.

“You don’t get things quite like this in central London,” Andy agreed.

“Where does he get all of these antiques?” I asked, running my hand over a beautiful old leather-topped desk.

“Estate sales mostly, or house clearances,” he shrugged. “When people pass away, sometimes the relatives don’t want to deal with everything. So, Roger clears out the junk for free and keeps anything that’s worth money in return.”

“Seems like a useful service.”

“It’s the reality for a lot of families,” Andy said, suddenly looking pensive. “When Mum got ill, Roger came and sorted through her spare room. We had to convert it into a comfy space for her while she wasn’t feeling great, so a lot of her stuff had to go.”

“That must have been hard,” I said, realising why Andy saw the positives in a place like this. “Did she find it difficult to give up her belongings?”

“A little,” he answered, quieter now. “But at the end of the day, Mila, they were just objects. In return, she had a cosy room for her recovery, and that’s all you can ask for when your loved one is going through something like that.”

I smiled, and gently gripped his forearm. He stared down at my hand and we broke apart, both turning to look at other items.

“Andy!” Roger greeted us, coming out from behind a big red curtain. “Good to see ya! After a bargain?”

“You know me, Rog,” Andy smiled. “This is Mila.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Roger chuckled heartily, his large belly jumping with the movement. “That poor lass who opened the inn. I read Andy’s article, as did everyone else.”

“Ah,” I said sheepishly, feeling like a pariah again.

“Ha – you don’t need to worry about me,” Roger replied, noticing my face. “The village is full of ol’ fuddy-duddies, just ignore ‘em. Porthglen needs industry, in whatever form it comes. Even pumpkin spice blooming lattes.”

He roared in laughter at his own joke, slapping Andy on the arm, who laughed along politely, shooting me a ‘told you so’ look.

“I was hoping you might have some second-hand books,” I said to Roger, trying desperately to change the subject away from the inn.

“Of course, only a whole bloomin’ section of ‘em,” he snickered, setting off at a pace down the aisle, chairs and tables piled up either side of us.

We followed him through the maze, trying to keep up as he darted this way and that.

“Here you go,” he said when we finally reached another room behind a green curtain, pulling it aside to reveal a nook full of bookshelves, stacked two or three to a row with books.

“Wow,” I murmured, dipping under the overhang of the curtain as Roger held it open for us. “This is amazing.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Roger said, satisfied with my reaction. “Just shout if you need me, Andy.”

“Thanks, Rog.”

We walked through and my fingers traced the spines, searching through everything from Victorian medical journals in tattered brown sleeves to well-loved copies of Mills and Boon from the ‘80s.

“The Tempestuous Lovers,” I mocked, showing Andy a cover of a Mills and Boon, complete with a half-naked hero with a hairy chest clutching the heroine to him protectively.

“Not quite what you’d like to buy your Dad for Christmas?” He turned the book over in his hand and read the blurb in a deep, mock-sexy tone, “Catarina Smithenby can’t bear the thought of marrying the awful Benedictine Forternbury, the man her father has insisted she will marry to seal his business merger. She runs off to the wild marshes of Yorkshire - where she meets the mysterious Fernando de Andalucia, an exciting man of few words…”

“You made that up!” I cackled, taking it back off of him and reading the real blurb.

“I might have done,” he grinned. “My mum always had books like this laying around when I was a kid. I might have read one or two.”

“Really?!”

“How do you think I became a journalist?” He shrugged, looking over more shelves.

“Well, I never would have thought you became a journalist because of your love of cheesy ‘80s bodice rippers,” I shot back sarcastically.

“I devoured books. I loved words and stories, it didn’t matter what they were,” he smiled. “It’s easy to disparage this sort of thing, but to me, it was just another book, another world to take in.”

“I like how open-minded you are,” I said. “About some things, anyway.”

“You won’t convince me to like London,” he replied. “But I am quite open-minded about most things. Call it journalistic intrigue.”

I bent down to look over the lower shelves and a red spine stood out to me. I picked it up – a biography of Napoleon, written in 1930.

The pages were tanned and thin, but the spine was intact, barely read.

“My Dad would love this,” I said to Andy, holding it out.

“Wow, this is old,” Andy nodded, looking it over. “These illustrations are exquisite.”

The centre of the book was taken up with illustrated maps of Napoleon’s campaigns, each laid out in meticulous detail.

“It’s perfect,” I said.

We took it back to Roger and paid.

“Big storm coming tonight,” Roger said as he took my cash and wrote out an old-style receipt for me. “A bit of snow, for sure.”

“I heard it wasn’t going to be too bad,” I said as he handed me the receipt.

“Oh, nothing we haven’t weathered here before,” he shrugged. “We’re used to snow down here.”

As he was wrapping my book in tissue paper, I noticed Andy looking at something, not listening to our small talk about the storm.

“What is it?” I asked. “Did you want to buy something?”

He blinked and turned back to me, “Oh, no, it’s nothing.”

“No, it’s something,” I said, coming over and looking at the spot he’d been staring at.

On the old table in front of him, was an instant camera, at least a few decades old, if not older.

“It was Mum’s. She used to take photos of us when we were kids and pin them all up on the wall in the kitchen,” Andy explained. “It must have been cleared out when we went through the spare room.”

“Oh,” I said. “It’s still here. Why don’t you buy it back?”

“I can’t afford to. It’s not important,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry about it. Just old memories, that’s all.”

“Okay,” I replied gently.

“We can try the Christmas market for your sisters,” he said, getting back to his usual composure as Roger handed over a paper bag containing my book. “I’m sure there will be some nice things to pick up.”

“Sounds great,” I smiled, following him out of the Emporium with a final glance back at the camera.

Chapter Six

Snow

Two days until Christmas

I woke up the next morning with a smile on my face, thinking of the sweet day I had spent with Andy, walking around the town and the market. We’d managed to find presents for each of my family members, and I had to admit that when we walked back to the inn, I felt his absence as he walked back up to the suite.

It was strange – we wound each other up, fought with completely polarised views, but I felt calm in his company, happy even.

I shrugged my duvet off of me, instantly wanting to climb back under as I was hit with freezing cold air.

“That’s strange,” I mumbled to myself, sleepily walking out into my living room to check the thermostat on my heating.

The entire inn was temperature controlled with central heating, underfloor warmers or air conditioning to make sure the guests were never too hot or too cold.

As I padded out towards the thermostat in my living room, the laminate floor was like ice.

I quickly got ready for the day, skipping a shower as I found the water was also frigid, and shoved on my warmest outfit – a mustard yellow roll neck jumper, thick leggings and a grey tartan woollen midi skirt.

The inn itself was also icy cold, and rather than finding my maids bustling around hoovering the dining room and foyer for the guests’ breakfast, the spaces were empty.

Hearing noises from the kitchen, I headed there.

“Fran?” I asked, pushing the door open and sighing in pleasure as a wave of warm air hit me from the ovens.

“Mila – thank goodness!” Fran said, midway through chopping vegetables. To my surprise, Ed was also in the kitchen, cooking scrambled eggs on the stove. “We tried ringing your phone.”

I looked at my phone – no signal. It had been patchy since arriving in Porthglen.

“What’s going on?” I asked, noticing that there were no kitchen staff in either.

“I’ll show you,” Fran said, shooting a worried glance at Ed.

She took my hand and led me back through the inn until we reached the glass doors of the entrance.

I gasped.

The Christmas tree by the door was barely visible for the amount of snow swirling through the air in an angry snowstorm, and the door was covered up by several feet of compacted snow.

“I’ve never seen anything like it…” I muttered, a hand coming involuntarily up to my mouth. “We’re snowed in?!”

“Completely,” Fran said. “Ed and I have been staying in the spare room on the ground floor while he’s been fixing the pipes in there, so luckily we were here overnight. But the rest of the staff can’t get in as some of them are in Foweybridge, and some of them are even further away. The roads won’t be safe until they start to clear the snow.”

My mind started to whir. We had a dozen guests staying until tomorrow, Christmas Eve morning, most of whom were elderly.

“Have you tried opening the door?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Me and Ed both had a go,” Fran sighed. “It opens outward and it just wouldn’t budge.”

“Okay,” I nodded, deep in thought as my mind ran through all of the problems we were having. “Let’s focus on the heating first – can Ed handle that while I help you with breakfast?”

“Of course,” Fran nodded. “We’ve nearly cooked everything, we just need to get service ready for the guests.”

“I’m going to call the guests down using the phones and explain the situation. The last thing we need is everyone panicking.”

I helped Fran set out the breakfast buffet and laid the tables before phoning each of the rooms to inform the guests. The reactions were a mix of worry and calm problem-solving, some offering their help to cook, clean-up and help clear snow once we could open a door.

The only guest who didn’t answer his phone was Andy.

“Come on, pick up,” I muttered as Andy’s phone rang out again. “Come on, Andy.”

His heating would also be down and getting food out to him would be difficult. I was suddenly glad of the staples in the cupboards.

I hung up and searched the phone book at the front desk for anyone who I could call in the village to help us out. After trying the pub, shops and post office with no answer, I found a business card for the mayor, Tilly Queston, tucked into the front.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this the mayor, Tilly Queston?” I asked, wrapping my fingers through my hair anxiously.

“This is she.”

“My name is Mila, I run the Porthglen Inn,” I explained. “I’m afraid that we’re snowed in. The doors are stuck, the windows are frozen shut and even if we could get out, the grounds are several feet deep in snow. Our elderly guests wouldn’t be able to get to their cars. We need any assistance you can offer.”

“It’s a pleasure to speak with your Mila, although under such unhappy circumstances,” Tilly sighed. I could hear her shifting her weight on the other end of the phone. “I’m sympathetic to your issues, but I’m afraid that the entire village needs help. We are all in the same situation. The storm is still wailing, making visibility non-existent and it is unsafe to walk more than a few hundred metres let alone drive. As soon as the storm eases, we can send out a plough, but until then, you will have to make do with what you have, as we all are.”

I moved the phone away from my mouth to groan. She was right, of course, she couldn’t endanger a rescue team when we would likely be fine just sticking it out. There was food in the kitchen, Ed was working on the heating, and barring a medical emergency, we had everything else we could need.

“I appreciate your time, Tilly,” I said. “Take care.”

“And you, dear. Keep me updated and someone will be out as soon as it is safe.”

I tried Andy again, dialling with increasingly frozen fingertips.

Still no answer.

The guests started to filter down into the dining room and as they took their seats, I explained the situation.

“So, we can’t leave yet?” An elderly lady, bunched up in her Dreamy Sleep dressing gown over the top of her clothes, piped up with a little worry in her eyes. “Will we be able to leave in time for Christmas?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I hope so. The mayor has assured me that ploughs will be sent out as soon as it is safe to do so.”

“Well, at least we’ll have a white Christmas,” the lady’s husband added, prompting a rolling chuckle around the room.

At least everyone was keeping their spirits up.

“That’s a thought,” I smiled, heading to the sound system in the corner. ‘White Christmas’ played, the entire room joining in with nostalgic gusto.

I gave a half-smile and left them to their breakfast, heading back into the kitchen.

“All go okay?” Fran asked, sweeping her hair out of her ponytail to tuck it under her chef’s hat.

“Well, everyone’s keeping warm and everyone’s fed,” I said. “But I’m still a bit worried. I couldn’t get hold of the journalist, Andy, staying in the luxury suite. It’s normally even colder out there.”

“There’s a real fireplace in there,” Fran said. “Try not to worry too much. The phone line is probably just down, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Even so, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to do something. I couldn’t leave a guest without help in a situation like this. And he wasn’t just any guest – he was reviewing us.

Fran and Ed offered to start cleaning the rooms while the guests were eating breakfast, and I packed up some of the leftover buffet into a Tupperware. I found some wellies in the staff locker room, put on a thick raincoat, woolly scarf and hat and confronted the front door again.

No matter how hard I pushed, it wouldn’t budget.

I ran through all of the exits out of the building in my mind. One of them had to work. There were three fire exits, all of which also opened outward onto paths which were also blocked. We had managed to push one partway open, only to bring a deluge of snow into the corridor, wedging the door ajar and bringing even more cold air into the inn.

The windows were mostly frozen shut. A few on the first floor opened, but I didn’t fancy the thirty foot drop down onto snow and then concrete.

But there was one more option.

I headed back up to my apartment and out onto my balcony. The storm was still howling, the wind throwing the trees back and forth and twirling snowflakes into my eyes.

All of the balconies in Dreamy Sleepy Inns had fire escape ladders which dropped down onto the grounds below.

I took a deep breath as I kicked the ladder. It stuttered down slightly, creaking as the frozen icicles hindered its process. I boiled the kettle and poured it over, tornados of boiling liquid helixing down with the wind, freeing the mechanism so that it would drop all the way to the floor.

With trembling hands I dropped the basket down into the snow below, watching it be enveloped by the snow, and climbed over the railing to start my descent.

“I’m not scared of heights… I’m not scared of heights…” I muttered to myself unconvincingly.

It was true – I was not normally one to worry about using ladders or being up high, but somehow the combination of the rapid winds and the promise that help would take much longer than usual to get to me was turning my legs to jelly.

The gusts of snow shook the metal ladder as I made my way towards the ground shakily. I was nearly to the ground when my welly hit an icy wrung, and I slipped falling backwards into the snow and landing left leg first.

My ankle wrenched, causing me to cry out in pain. I lay there for a moment, cold and hurting, until I could wiggle my toes.

Nothing broken, probably just a sprain.

I stood up, a jolt of cold pain shooting up my leg as I put weight on it. It was bearable, just about.

I grabbed the basket of food and hobbled forward towards the garden path to reach the luxury suite, the deep snow making the pain even worse as my ankle tried to stumble along.

“Andy!” I called as I went.

The garden path was also blanketed with snow, but the suite itself was raised, with steps and a porch leading to the front door.

I knocked, but there was no answer.

I fumbled in my pocket for the keys and let myself in.

The suite was just as cold as the outside, and the fire wasn’t lit.

“Andy?!” I called again, more worried now.

Maybe he went home last night, I thought, hoping to be right.

“Andy, are you here?” I asked, and this time, I heard movement from the bedroom.

“Mila?” Andy’s voice was soft and quiet.

I found him in the bedroom, under the duvet, shivering.

“Andy – you need to light the fire, it’s below zero outside!” I said, and as I came forward to realised what was going on – he was pale, and shaking, not just from the cold. I pulled off my gloves and felt his face. “You have a fever.”

Chapter Seven

Crisis

Two days until Christmas

“I feel really rubbish,” Andy croaked, trying to laugh, but the noise came out weakly.

“Didn’t you say your mum was in hospital with the flu?” I asked quietly.

“Only because she’s immune-compromised from the cancer treatment,” he coughed.

“Well, the cold night probably made you more susceptible to it.”

“Why is it so cold in here?” He murmured, his eyes half-closed.

“We’re snowed in,” I explained. “The heating broke and the mayor can’t get help out to us until the storm stops.”

“This is the worst inn ever,” he chuckled, the laugh making him cough into his pillow.

“Right, let’s get you sorted,” I said, propping him up against his pillows. “I’m lighting a fire and making you some food.”

“You’re limping,” he said.

“It’s nothing,” I lied. “Just rest up. I’m going to get a doctor out here as soon as the storm stops.”

“It’s just the flu,” Andy mumbled. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

I pursed my lips as he slumped back against the headboard sleepily.

Once the fire was lit, I arranged the breakfast muffins and hashbrowns I had taken from the kitchen onto a plate and found a tin of soup in the cupboard to heat up. I brewed tea and took it all into Andy.

“Just try to eat a little,” I said. He looked reluctant but took a muffin and started to eat.

“Do you do this for all of your guests?” He quipped weakly. “Or does it cost extra?”

“It’s a fairly unique situation,” I laughed.

“That didn’t answer my question,” Andy smirked, managing a sip of tea.

“Yes, I would do the same for any guest in your situation,” I said. “But this is the first time I’ve had to.”

“So, you spoke to the mayor?” He asked, pushing a muffin towards me. Banana and chocolate, one of Fran’s specialities.

I peeled the wrapper and bit into it, realising for the first time how hungry I was. I hadn’t stopped all morning. I lifted the soup spoon and offered it to Andy. He gave me a raised eyebrow but took it all the same.

“I did – Tilly Queston, what a woman,” I smiled. “She said everyone is in the same boat. Has this ever happened before?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“We can ride it out,” I said firmly, trying to convince myself.

Andy’s illness certainly complicated things, and my leg was throbbing inside the borrowed wellies. I checked my phone for signal – one bar.

I fired off a text to Fran and she quickly replied.

1.03pm

Made it to the suite.
The journalist is ill, has a fever.
I’m fine, staying to take care of him.
Use the phone to call the mayor again
and tell her we need a doctor once the storm lifts.

1.04pm

Sorry to hear that. We’ve got everything under control here.

Try not to stress.

1.04pm

Thanks, Fran.

“I’m sorry that I’ve become a bit of a burden,” Andy said, now eating the soup with a little more enthusiasm.

“You’re not a burden,” I said gently. “I can’t actually leave anyway.”

“Why not?”

“I have no way to get back into the inn until the plough comes. I climbed down the fire escape.”

“You did what?” Andy chortled feebly.

“You weren’t answering your phone so I had to come in person. All of the doors are blocked with snow drifts.”

“And that’s how you hurt your leg,” he said, realising the series of events. “I feel very special.”

I rolled my eyes at him.

His eyes started to close again.

“You should sleep,” I said. “I’ll get the fire going properly and check on you in a few hours.”

I took the tray of food and turned to leave, just as Andy said, “Mila?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

By dinner, Andy’s fever had broken, and he was more lucid, sitting on the couch by the fire.

“I bet I look awful,” Andy said, wrapped in several blankets as I sat with an ice pack from the freezer on my ankle.

“No worse than usual,” I teased.

“Thank you for staying,” he said. We shared an earnest smile, something flowing between us as we both held the gaze a little longer than expected.

I broke it off, blinking and looking to the kitchen.

“Um… you should eat again,” I stated, pushing aside the moment. “I can cook something.”

“I didn’t have you down as a cook,” Andy commented. “My image of a London life involves a lot of dining out at sushi and tapas restaurants.”

I snickered. He wasn’t wrong.

“I think I can manage pasta,” I shrugged. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

There was a bag of penne and a jar of pre-made sauce in the cupboard.

“Now I really do feel like a little kid, home from school ill,” he mused. “Pasta and a jar of sauce was just about all my Granny could cook, bless her heart.”

“She looked after you a lot?”

“Mum had to work,” Andy shrugged. “My sister and I went to childminders or Granny.”

I set the pasta to boil and sat back in the armchair next to him.

“And… your dad?” I asked gingerly.

He sighed, “Never knew him.”

“Ah,” I nodded. “Do you wish you had?”

Andy thought for a minute, and I was worried I had been too nosey, pushed too far.

“No,” he said after a beat. “I grew up with a loving older sister, a hard-working mum and a grandmother most kids would be jealous of. I can’t imagine where my dad would have fit into any of it. Mum said he stuck around for a bit when they had my sister, but when he found out she was pregnant with me, he wasn’t interested anymore.”

“You’re really close to your family. I love that,” I smiled. I had always wanted that, and never really found it with my own family, as much as they loved me.

“Very close,” he agreed. “I’m very lucky. That’s why Mum’s illness has been so hard. That’s why I asked to stay here a bit longer.”

“Oh?”

“Mum’s not home until the evening tomorrow. They want to be really careful in case she has a setback. So, the house is just… not Christmassy. I couldn’t stand being there any longer. By now, she’s normally flurrying around with decorations, baking and wrapping presents. It doesn’t feel like home without her there.”

“I understand,” I said.

“What about you?” He asked, stifling a cough. “What’s the week before Christmas like for you?”

“For me, the days leading up to Christmas make me feel like an imposter. My Dad is always busy with his other three kids, and I’m like the odd one out. They’re only a few years apart, whereas I’m twenty-five years older than the youngest, Georgia. I’m more like an aunt that they see every now and then, not a sister.”

“Do you want to be closer to them?”

I considered the question. I hadn’t ever really thought about it like that before. I was too focussed on what they thought of me, to think about what I might want from them.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I think I do. And maybe I will be when they’re a bit older. They’ll appreciate me more when they are adults, I’m sure.”

“You’ll be the big sister they come to when they get drunk at a party, or when they want a lift home from a boy’s house without their Dad finding out.”

“I thought you saw me as a stick in the mud?”

“You’re not though, are you?” Andy asked. “I think we both misjudged the other when we first met.”

“The situation didn’t help,” I shrugged. “But yes, you’re right. I thought you were a meddling journalist just out for the scoop-”

“-And I thought you were a corporate drone who would do anything for the company who signed the pay slips-”

“-But you’re really quite sweet,” I added, cutting off his judgemental tone. “Even if we do disagree fundamentally on almost everything.”

“Not everything,” Andy said. “I bet we agree on something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he said, searching for the answer. “I bet we both… think Christmas pudding is disgusting.”

“Doesn’t everybody?!”

“Somebody buys it,” he laughed.

“Okay, something harder…” I grinned, leaning forward in the armchair and grimacing as my ankle smarted. “I bet we both… think blind dates are stupid.”

“Agreed,” he said. “But I have been on quite a few.”

“Do your friends set you up as well?”

“All the time,” he nodded. “Last time it was a veterinary mortician who talked about embalming for the whole date.”

“Yuck,” I screwed up my nose. “I didn’t even know that they embalmed animals.”

“Apparently so,” Andy said. A noise from the kitchen caught our attention. “The pasta is boiling over, Mila.”

“Oh, dang it!” I moaned. “I promise I can cook better than this.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

I drained the pasta and combined it with the sauce, bringing a bowl each back over to the fire.

“My last date basically ended with him telling me that I was pathetic because I don’t want marriage and children,” I sighed.

“Wow, he sounds fun,” Andy snorted, eating a mouthful of pasta. “Which friend set you up with him? Does she secretly hate you?”

“Who knows,” I smiled. “I think we were just so fundamentally different that the idea of me wanting a different future to him sent him on a rant.”

“Not everyone wants the same things,” he said gently. “I don’t see children in my future either, for the record.”

I nodded slowly. It was rare that I met someone who had the same outlook as me on that front, especially in my mid-thirties.

“How are you feeling?”

“A bit better,” he said. “I’m not going to be running a marathon anytime soon, but definitely a little better. You’ve got a healing touch – who knew?”

“That stings,” I said indignantly, getting up to add another log to the fire. “When will I shed my city-slicker stereotype?”

“Let’s see,” Andy pondered. “You moved halfway across the country to the middle of nowhere on a moment’s notice, you opened an inn despite no support from anyone else, you scaled a thirty-foot fire escape and hobbled through a snowstorm. I’d say you’re more Porthglen than we anticipated. You’ve got guts.”

“That’s the best compliment anyone’s ever paid me,” I beamed.

Chapter Eight

Aftermath

One day until Christmas

I woke up on Christmas Eve morning, stiff from sleeping on Andy’s couch. Even though he had insisted that I take his bed, I hadn’t felt right considering how ill he was feeling.

The fire had died down to embers, but the room was warm; Fran and Ed must have managed to fix the heating.

I realised as I stretched from my tucked-up position that I had been woken up by sounds outside – a screeching and humming noise.

I limped over and looked out of the glass doors at the end of the lodge to see a huge snow plough moving the snow from the car park into a pile at the edge of the grass. The entranceway was being cleared and gritted by a team, and the snowstorm had dulled to a gentle flow of snowflakes.

“Is your ankle still hurting?” Andy appeared in the living room in just a towel again, hair wet.

“Yes,” I groaned. “The hot water’s back?”

I didn’t know where to look again, throwing a blanket from the couch at him to tell him to cover up.

“It’s back. What, are you offended by me being in a towel?”

“No, but you’re getting over the flu, you should keep warm,” I chided, feeling my cheeks glow.

“I don’t mind you looking, you know,” he chuckled, heading back into the bedroom to get dressed.

“I wasn’t looking!” I protested.

With signal still patchy, I just about managed to look up my train times.

Foweybridge to London Waterloo – 24th December, 6.12pm – CANCELLED

“No…” I murmured. I scrolled through all of the train times – all cancelled.

‘Snow disruptions’, the website said.

Getting a train on Christmas Day down here would be impossible. I was stuck until Boxing Day, if not after, depending on the snow.

I knew Dad would be devastated, and after my time in Porthglen, so was I. I had managed to get excited about spending Christmas with my family, even with all the challenges it brought.

Andy came back into the living room, dressed in a cable knit jumper and jeans.

“Better?” He teased, twirling around in the outfit to make his point. He noticed my expression. “What’s wrong?”

“My train home is cancelled,” I sighed, holding back tears I didn’t realise I had been suppressing. “I won’t be seeing my family for Christmas.”

“Oh Mila, I’m so sorry,” Andy said, pulling me into a hug.

I resisted at first, trying to stay professional, keep my distance. But as he wrapped his arms around my back, I melted into him, sobs erupting from me.

My phone started to ring, forcing us apart with sheepish glances at each other.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Mila? It’s Lisa.” She didn’t sound happy.

“It’s my boss,” I mouthed at Andy, and he nodded understandingly, heading to the kitchen to make tea.

“What on earth is going on over there?! You haven’t answered any of my emails, and some of the staff have emailed head office to say they can’t get into work because of the snow! Ridiculous! A little snow shouldn’t stop anything!”

“We were completely snowed in,” I explained, trying to keep my cool. “We had a state of emergency in the town, no one could get around. Plus, we had an ill guest.”

“That’s no excuse – you should have sorted all of these issues! There’s grit in each Dreamy Sleep supply cupboard, why didn’t you put that down?”

“It was three feet of snow, Lisa,” I said, getting heated. “Grit wouldn’t have helped.”

“I can’t believe this – you were on track for big things, Mila! After this…”

“After this?!” I roared, feeling anger boil in me. “You mean being handed a complete mess of an inn, being plunged into a community feud that I didn’t instigate and dealing with extreme weather conditions without any support or guidance from the company?”

Lisa was quiet for a moment before saying, “That is one way to paint the scenario…”

“Lisa, you knew how badly Colin Trunder had handled this project, that’s why you flung me at it. You knew I wouldn’t say no, and you hoped I would turn it around. And frankly, if you don’t give me that bonus, I’ll be leaving the company. I bloody well earned it this week. Have a good Christmas.”

I pulled the phone from my ear and hung up before she could reply, my hands shaking.

“Ha-ha! Brilliant!” Andy burst into laughter. “Was she as livid as she sounded?”

“More so,” I said, feeling a little untethered.

“Everything you said was fair,” he reassured me, coming over with tea. “If a little loudly expressed.”

“Oh no,” I groaned, putting my face in my hands.

“Drink,” he instructed, handing me the tea. “It’ll make you feel better.”

I obeyed, sipping down the steaming tea and feeling the warmth ground me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“What are you going to do next?”

“Everything I can to make this place a success before I leave,” I sighed. “Fully comped rooms for everyone, given this disaster.”

“You can count on one thing – I’ll be writing you a glowing review,” he replied with a gentle hand on my arm. “You’ve more than earned it.”

“I can’t express quite how much I appreciate that,” I beamed. “Hopefully it will make a difference to the village.”

“I think so,” Andy nodded. “I’m quite persuasive.”

We shared a look and snickered as we drank our tea, looking out across the snowy gardens.

“Mila, seeing as you can’t go home for Christmas as planned,” he added, clearing his throat a little awkwardly. “What would you say to joining me and my family?”

“What?” I was taken aback at the idea.

“Well, you don’t have to of course, I understand if you don’t want to,” he muttered. “But I just thought… well, it would be better than being alone.”

“Much better than being alone,” I said, too touched to say more. “I’d love that.”

“Really?” He said with obvious relief. “Oh, I’m so glad you said that.”

Chapter Nine

Family

Christmas Day

“Merry Christmas! Come in, come in! Take the weight off that ankle!”

Andy’s mum greeted us at the door in a sparkly Christmas jumper and red bandana over her head. She quickly ushered us through to the living room, hugging us both and insisting on taking our bags and coats for us.

“Mum, please take it easy,” Andy cautioned her, looking pleased to see her none the less.

We had walked from the inn as the roads were still too treacherous to drive on.

“Don’t worry about me so much, Andy. I’m your mother, not the other way around,” she scolded him, setting us up on the sofa. “I’ll get you some drinks – is sparkling apple juice okay, love?”

“Perfect,” I said.

“Mum doesn’t drink,” Andy explained as she left us to get the drinks. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” I smiled. “I’m just so touched that you invited me here.”

“Of course,” he said. “I couldn’t leave you alone at the inn for Christmas, could I?”

Andy’s sister, Nina, arrived shortly after us, and soon we were sat the dinner table, tucking into a huge meal and pulling crackers.

Once the food was cleared away, and Andy had volunteered to do the washing up, we went into the conservatory for gifts.

The glass ceilinged room had a great view over the cliffs towards the sea, the beaches were pure, untouched white where the snow had settled, the cliffs dotted with dogwalkers making the most of the less extreme weather. I could just about make out the lighthouse café that I had heard so much about, wrapped with multi-coloured Christmas lights from top to bottom.

“Now, Mila, love,” Andy’s mum said gently. “Seeing as I didn’t know you would be coming until yesterday, I’ve only gotten you a little something.”

“Same here,” Nina smiled.

“I’m just so touched you got me something,” I said, feeling guilty that all I had brought them were flowers and some of Fran’s festive Florentines.

Andy’s mum turned on some music, and we opened our presents amongst laughter, a concept I wasn’t used to. Dad had always been quite strict that present opening should be quick and perfunctory.

“You can enjoy them later,” he had always said. “Let’s just get the paper organised now, otherwise I’ll spend all evening doing the recycling.”

Andy’s family were the complete opposite. Each present prompted an anecdote, love and jokes. They enjoyed holding up the presents, as if they had x-ray vision and guessing what was in them.

His mum twirled around, testing out her new skirt. Andy was given a desk set for work and taunted into writing a naughty limerick. Nina opened a box of chocolates and made me close my eyes to guess the flavours.

“Okay, okay – Mila’s turn,” Andy’s mum said.

I opened a beautiful scarf, a box of local fudge, and a pair of earrings Nina made herself.

“These are just so generous,” I beamed. “I’m so thankful.”

“You are more than welcome, love,” Andy’s mum smiled.

“I actually got something for you, Andy,” I said gingerly. “Although it’s a present for all of you, really.”

I brought it out of my bag, and handed it to him.

“Is it cheese?” Andy laughed, gently shaking the present back and forth as if he could hear the cheese inside. “No, it’s stocking suspenders!”

“Bullseye!” I joked.

“Okay, I’ll just get on with opening it,” he grinned. He pulled the ribbon off and opened the box, stopping as he saw what was inside. His hand travelled up to his mouth as he held my gaze.

“Well, what is it?” Nina asked. “Was it cheese and stocking suspenders?”

“Not quite,” Andy said, a little catch in his voice.

He pulled the present out – the camera from Roger’s Emporium.

“Oh my…” Andy’s mum said quietly. “Is that… is that my camera?”

“Yes,” I said quietly, not sure if I had made the right move or not.

A tear rolled down Andy’s cheek as he tried to hide his emotion.

“When did you go back?” He said, blinking rapidly.

“The same evening we went,” I explained. “Roger cut me a great deal, seeing as it was for you.”

“Mila, I’m speechless,” Andy said, adding with a wistful chuckle, “Which I rarely am!”

“You can say that again!” Nina laughed, tears rolling down her own cheeks.

“This is truly, truly special,” Andy’s mum said, holding Andy close. “Merry Christmas, Mila.”

After the presents, Nina had to go home to open more with her daughters, and Andy’s mum went upstairs for a nap while we finished cleaning up. As the sun started to set, Andy suggested a walked down to the beach, and although my ankle was still sore, I relished the opportunity to go down to the sea. After all, I would be back in London soon enough.

We crunched the fresh snow until our feet reached the sand, enjoying the sensation and each other’s company quietly.

“Mila,” Andy said without warning. “I…”

“Are you speechless again? Twice in one day has to be a record. Even when you had the flu I couldn’t shut you up-”

My ramblings were cut off as he turned towards me and pulled into a deep kiss. He hesitated initially as I was so caught off guard, but as I reached up into him, he placed his arms behind my back and lifted me off of the ground, spinning us around in place on the snowy beach.

He set me back down, looking down at me expectantly.

“That was…” I shrugged not sure what to say.

He reeled backwards, “Oh, oh wow, did I misread this completely?”

“No! No!” I quickly explained. “No, you didn’t misread it. I just didn’t see it coming.”

“Really?” He laughed. “I invited you to Christmas. I thought I was being quite obvious.”

“Looking back, maybe…” I chuckled. “So…”

“So, I… I have feelings for you,” he said softly. “And I’m really counting on you feeling the same way.”

“Then you’re in luck.”

I wrapped my hands around the back of his neck and reached up to kiss him, long and gentle at first, our lips snatching at each other more passionately as I moved closer into him.

“This has to be in my top five Christmasses,” Andy suggested.

“What beats this?”

“One year I got a Lego set. That was marginally better than this.”

“We’ll have to try that kiss again and see if you can be convinced otherwise,” I teased, pulling him back into it.

Chapter Ten

Two Worlds

Boxing Day

With the Winter Wonderland in full swing in our freshly shovelled gardens and a new Hotel Administrator arriving the next day to take over from me, I had done all I could.

I had received a fairly grovelling email from Lisa, who had heard about Andy’s glowing new review and had several happy customers email her themselves to tell her how well my team had handled the crisis.

The carnival stalls and Father Christmas photo booth had attracted a lot of locals, and I was happy to see Ruth and her friends here again. She waved to me, her arm linked through the arm of the photographer Andy had mentioned. I had already told my replacement all of the requirements to change the lodges to include more local details.

I was sat on a bench by the fountain, watching the event.

“I still hate it,” one local woman grumbled to a friend on the next bench over. “I’m glad that petition is going around.”

“Excuse me – petition?” I asked, trying not to be antagonistic.

“It’s got a lot of signatures since Andy Kimblewick set it up,” the other woman told me. “The petition asks the council to close the inn and return this land to the town.”

“Oh,” I said, my throat feeling tight suddenly.

I couldn’t quite explain why it felt like a betrayal, I knew Andy had been against the inn at every step.

But it hurt. Everything I had built here could be stripped away.

My train ticket had been transferred to Boxing Day, and so I took a taxi over to the station, feeling conflicted about Andy.

We hadn’t arranged to see each other before I left, but it felt odd not to say goodbye.

I had texted him my train time that morning in hope that he would come by the inn.

Waiting for the train, I felt torn.

I missed my home, my friends, my family. But I had found something in Andy, in his family, that I had never found before. Christmas Day with them had been the most ‘me’ I had ever felt.

Porthglen, for all of its challenges, had shown me another side of me.

“Mila,” Andy approached me on the platform.

We hugged, and I pulled away a little quickly, feeling in two minds about the situation.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“I don’t know how to feel,” I said. “After yesterday… your family are amazing and I had the best time. And then on the beach… wow.”

He chuckled, “That all sounds pretty good.”

“It is,” I nodded. “But there’s another side to this. I have a home already, miles away from here. And me and you are still opposed in views. I found out today that you’re heading up a petition to close the inn. How will we ever work when you’re part of the reason I could lose my job?”

“That’s a lot to think about,” he admitted. “Firstly, us being opposed isn’t a bad thing. I think we’ve both seen another side to each other since we first met. We are not only made up of our views or our passions or our jobs. Secondly, the petition is not going ahead anymore. That’s where I was this morning – making sure it was dismissed.”

“Oh,” I said. “Why?”

“I have to say, as much as it pains me to see a big chain in Porthglen, I don’t feel the same way about the inn anymore,” he shrugged. “You convinced me otherwise.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Maybe there’s hope for us yet,” I said.

“I think so,” Andy said. “Who knows, maybe you’ll turn me into a Londoner.”

“I can’t wait to see that,” I laughed.

“I can work from anywhere, Mila. We could try me coming up on weekends. This doesn’t have to be the end of the road.”

I thought for a moment.

“That’s not what I want,” I said, realising it as I was vocalising it. “I don’t want a husband and kids and a house in the suburbs, but I do want love. I do want the care and community you spoke of, the same thing your mum creates for everyone she meets, even strangers like me. Maybe I could give that a real chance and come back here.”

“Yeah?”

“I could buy some wellies, become a proper country girl.”

“I can’t wait to see that,” he echoed my words.

And so with the promise to return etched onto my lips, Andy pulled me into an embrace, the snow falling fresh across our smiling faces as we imagined a different kind of love, and a different kind of future.

About the Author

Tamsin Bracknell is romance writer from the UK. She lives in a cottage thirty minutes from London. She loves nothing more than getting cosy under a blanket on the couch with a hot cocoa (if there’s any room after her two cats have found their spots!)

You can find her on Instagram @tamsinbracknellauthor

About Christmas at Porthglen Inn

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