The Zara Stoneley Romantic Comedy Collection

‘But he does look quite sexy, admit it.’

‘Are you for real?’ I’m not going to admit it, even though he does have a certain something about him. ‘Not my type I’m afraid.’

‘Aw, come on, he’s not that different to that guy you went out with before Callum.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Exactly. He looks a lightweight.’ I stare at the image. ‘And smug, like he thinks a lot of himself.’ That guy before Callum spent a hell of a lot of time staring at himself in the mirror and it’s kind of put me off the well-groomed look. I mean, have you ever known a man to be checking himself out while you’re having sex?

I thought he was reciting the alphabet backwards in his head or something, to try and delay the inevitable; turned out he was checking out if his hair gel was holding up. That was it for me. End of.

‘He’s good-looking, so cute!’

‘And he knows it.’

‘Rubbish, how can you tell that from a photo? He reminds me of that guy in The Mentalist.’ She’s staring at her screen and has moved in closer, as though she’s going to start licking it any moment.

‘Mental’s the right word. Who are you talking about now?’

‘You know, I know you do. What’s he called?’ She does some more googling. ‘There you go, Simon Baker. All twinkly-eyed and cute, but a bit naughty.’ We both stare at the images.

‘Pfft.’

‘He’s cute.’ I think she’s back to our Mr Armstrong now, but who knows? ‘Look at those dimples. I bet he’s fun.’ I don’t know which set of dimples she’s going on about, but it doesn’t matter.

‘I am not interested in his dimples, or his cuteness. He is duplicitous.’

‘That’s a very long word.’ I can tell by Sam’s twitching fingers that the online dictionary is about to get interrogated, so I pull her and her wheelie chair away from the desk. Very handy these chairs, a good investment.

‘Well, he is.’ I can’t believe that somebody could portray themselves as so – well, fun and carefree, when in fact they’re rude and curt. ‘His face contravenes the Trade Descriptions Act.’

‘His face?’

‘His face. He is definitely not nice, however cute he looks in that picture. In fact, I bet that’s not even him, or it was taken years ago, and he’s gone all mean and bitter in his old age.’

‘Maybe he’s having a mid-life crisis and realises that his life is meaningless.’ Sam sighs, rests her chin on one hand again and reaches for another biscuit with the other. I roll my eyes. Not at the biscuit, but her fantasy.

‘Running a business is not meaningless.’

‘It is if you always wanted to swim with dolphins, or ride a camel, or drive to Monte Carlo in a Ferrari.’

‘Sam, that’s your bucket list, not his. Do you honestly think he looks like he wants to swim with dolphins?’

‘Maybe not, but you don’t know, do you?’

‘And I don’t care, to be honest. Look, he is taking our clients’ money, giving them a shit Christmas in return, and refuses to talk to me about it properly.’ I don’t know what annoys me most, the fact that he’s totally, single-handedly, ruined what used to be our most popular festive location, or the fact that he is refusing to take my calls, to discuss it. ‘Whatever happened to the customer is always right? He’s just plain rude.’

We’re on the build-up to the festive season, and it’s not just the nasty email that came yesterday: bookings at the Shooting Star Mountain Resort are spinning into reverse. Which is so not how it should be. I mean, it should be the perfect place to spend Christmas. Crackling log fires, massive mug of hot chocolate, sled rides with a pack of huskies and some ho ho ho from Santa as you shove carrots at his real-life reindeer. Not to mention all that après-ski to warm you up after a day rolling about in the snow (I can’t ski, all I can do is roll and face-plant).

‘It should be fan-bloody-tastic. The brochure and website make it look like total magic.’

‘Maybe they’re a bit out of date?’ Sam is looking worried. And I was beginning to think the same. ‘But you don’t need to send him an email like that.’

‘I flaming do! It’s not just that Latterby guy threatening to sue, it’s worse. You know the Wilsons who came in the other day?’

‘Oh yeah, they were lovely. They were so excited about going even though it’s nowhere near Christmas yet, and they were SO loved up.’ Sam has got that dreamy look on her face. She’s pretty loved up herself, with the lovely Jake, and I think she’s subconsciously started to plan the wedding of the decade. ‘Getting married in a winter wonderland, can you imagine?’

I can imagine. ‘Wedding in a Winter Wonderland’ was already on a mental poster I was going to stick in the window after they’d sent me some of the photos. They’d be swathed in rugs, surrounded by presents on the prettiest reindeer-pulled-sledge imaginable. Kissing. All the best bits of Christmas and weddings rolled into one.

They’d be curled up together in front of a roaring log fire, sipping a shared hot chocolate as the snow fell softly outside, and the whole scene would be bathed in candlelight that bounced off the bauble and tinsel-laden Christmas tree.

And they’d be surrounded by friends and family, swapping presents, then gathered round a food-laden table as they tucked into a mammoth Christmas dinner that had absolutely everything. Even the bits you don’t like.

‘Well.’ I blink, and the image disappears. ‘They’re not.’

‘What do you mean, not? They were so perfect together, he was—’

‘Oh, the wedding is still on, just not at Shooting Star. They cancelled first thing and have already rebooked at another resort online.’

‘What?’

‘This.’ I switch screens on the computer and open the video link they sent me. ‘Matt Wilson was looking at reviews and found this online on The Worst Christmas Ever blog. It’s from last Christmas.’

It’s quite a professional video, actually, with captions and music, specifically ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’, which says it all.

I have already watched it several times; it’s like one of those horror films that you know is going to scare you to death, but you can’t help yourself. You have to see it, even though you keep half turning away and squinting. Then you have to watch the worst bits on a loop.

Sam and I watch in silence. The family are wearing party hats, which is a handy clue, or you really wouldn’t know it was Christmas at all. They are also wearing coats. And scarves. With tinsel over the top.

One solitary marshmallow floats on the top of what might or might not be a mug of hot chocolate, and a vat of mulled wine is poked about in vigorously until a single clove studded orange bobs to the surface.

A child drops a sprout, which bounces across the table like a frog on steroids, and is pounced on by a cat.

The fire looks like it stopped ‘crackling’ two days earlier, and the turkey looks like it’s been on a diet.

And the tree. I don’t want to talk about the tree. Christmas trees should be glorious. They should be the biggest tree you can carry home, and they should have every single decoration on that you can find (I need to stress that you can never have too many). This one is like the orphan of Christmas. It is the tree Christmas forgot.

It has been starved of attention, it is practically naked apart from a strand of scraggy tinsel and a job lot of candy canes.

‘Wow, have you seen all those candy canes.’ Sam points, unnecessarily. ‘Have you ever seen so many?’

‘Nope. And I never, ever want to see that many again.’

The video pans to the window where the snow is falling, and there’s an unmissable sign taped to the glass Boxing Day Party Cancelled.

I close the video down and we both stare at my email. ‘This is so bad. The only people who are actually going to book are the ones that don’t know how to use Google. I don’t want to give up on the Shooting Star Mountain Resort, and strike it off our list, but honestly Sam, what the hell are we supposed to do? We can’t let them book a holiday that we know is going to be shit.’ How could the man be so good-looking, but so totally bah-humbug? What a waste.

‘I know, but, maybe it’s got better since last Christmas?’ I love Sam for her optimism. ‘He might have bought some new decorations?’

I position the cursor over the ‘send’ button and hold my finger up high over the mouse theatrically. Just to see the look of horror on Sam’s face.

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Sam, the man hates Christmas, he is Scrooge with knobs on!’

Sam is not like me; she is a bit dippy, but she is also kind, logical and sensible. I am not often accused of any of those things. And I am mad, as in very cross. Mr Armstrong is driving me nuts, which is quite an achievement seeing as I’ve never even met the man.

He is upsetting our clients but, more importantly, he is upsetting Auntie Lynn. She was so agitated yesterday when she heard about the latest complaint (I had to tell her, no way can I lie or hide things from Aunt Lynn, though I avoided mentioning a lawsuit), that she cleaned the oven. This is unheard of. That is why Mr Armstrong needs sorting. He’s also upsetting me, but we don’t need to go into that. ‘Do you really dare me?’

‘No, no, I take that back. I didn’t mean it, no dare, just don’t!’ Sam knows that I will rise to any dare, that saying the word ‘dare’ to me is like saying the words ‘hot chocolate fudge cake’ to her. Irresistible.

‘That man needs a kick up the butt. Has he any idea how much commission we’re losing on this? It’s all me, me, me with some people.’

She giggles and waves a biscuit in front of my face. ‘Ha ha, instead of you, you, you? You’re just taking this all too seriously, it’s not personal. Have a Hobnob, they’re chocolate ones.’

I do take it seriously. This travel agency on the high street is my Aunt Lynn’s business, and knowing exactly where our clients are going is our USP. We have gone for small, friendly, and special. Boutique. Auntie Lynn was a bit of a hippy (from what I can gather) when she was younger. As in what I call her pre-me era. The time before she took me in and took the place of my mother.

She loved to travel, to explore the world. Live life in a way that most people only manage through reading books.

She thinks the rest of the world is special.

She thinks holidays are special.

We are, she says, selling dreams, so we have a responsibility to stop them turning into nightmares. Our edge is that we care about our customers; we know that we’re selling a holiday that will suit somebody to a tee.

Except it’s all gone wrong with Will Armstrong.

I used to love hearing about how much people enjoyed their holiday in this place, how much it meant to them. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, as though I was somehow responsible. Aunt Lynn and I would share a secret smile as we read the reviews together. And now Mr Armstrong has buggered it up, and it’s pissing me off.

‘It is personal.’ I narrow my eyes and stare at the screen. ‘This place is one of the first that Auntie Lynn visited and fell in love with. He’s screwing up her happy memories as well as our reputation.’

When my aunt set this business up, it was to promote the places she’d been to. Places she loved and wanted to share. Then, as it grew, she made a point of visiting every location. Experiencing for herself what they had to offer, and more often than not she had taken me along with her. She said we were the two musketeers, though I did sometimes wonder if it would have been better for her if she’d been able to add a third.

Anyway, back to Mr Pain-in-the-arse Armstrong. To give in to temptation and hit send on this email, would be to admit that he has got to me. That he has made me forget my professionalism. It would be easier to just find another, much better resort to recommend.

Except it isn’t that simple.

The lovely log cabins with roaring fires, lashings of hot chocolate and deep white snow outside had sent our customers flocking to the Canadian Rockies for a cosy Christmas. Once upon a time, this place had created memories that could never be replaced. And sometimes we all need memories to hold onto the good times.

‘It’s bloody annoying,’ I know I sound a bit like a spoiled child, but I’m peeved, ‘that place was perfect, not commercialised, and everyone who had stayed there thought the same. They all came back starry-eyed, saying how it had been the best ever Christmas. Until Mr Festivity-bypass got his hands on it.’

Last Christmas had been a bit sparse on the old festive spirit, and even the holidaymakers who’d gone for the ski-ing and snowboarding had written terrible reviews about the equipment and facilities. As an outdoor resort it was pretty bad: as a festive resort it was the pits.

‘To be fair,’ Sam always tries to be fair, ‘it has definitely been slipping the last couple of years; last winter somebody said the huskies kept stopping for a pee instead of pulling the sled, and the mistletoe was plastic.’ She does have a point; the sparkle has been wearing off for a while now. ‘Faded plastic.’

Plastic mistletoe has to be the pits, but faded old plastic mistletoe? I ask you, who’s going to pucker up under that?

She shrugs. ‘We can suggest people go to Lapland instead, or to see the Northern Lights, they’re popular. I wouldn’t mind going there myself. Do you want this last biscuit, or not?’

‘Yes, seeing as you’ve had the rest.’ I reach out. ‘Shit.’ I had wanted the last biscuit, but now I don’t, I really don’t. ‘Holy crap. How did that happen?’ Oh God, why did I position the cursor there? Why was my stupid bloody mouse right where I could catch it with my elbow? Why do biscuits even exist?

‘What?’

‘Shit. Bugger. I am sooooooo dead. I hit send!’ I cover my eyes with my hands, and peep through. Sent. Gone for ever. Even if I delete it from my sent box, I will know I did it. Aunt Lynn will kill me. ‘It’s fine, fine.’ Take a deep breath, Sarah. ‘He won’t read it anyway. He usually never reads my emails.’ Only he did yesterday. I nibble on the biscuit frantically, like a demented hamster.

‘You idiot.’ A packet of Oreo’s appears on her desk as if by magic. ‘Emergency supplies, to treat shock.’

‘Oh nooooooo!’

‘I thought you liked . . .’

Her voice tails off, probably because I’m pointing at my screen. This can’t be happening, I need gin, not Oreos. ‘I’ve got a reply!’

‘It will be auto generated, out of office, or something. Nobody types that quick.’

It isn’t.

Apparently, some people can type quickly.

Chapter 3

Dear Sarah,

Thank you for your recent correspondence. How nice to hear from you again! (I suspect this is sarcasm.) Unfortunately, in this part of the world there is no sand to bury one’s head in, therefore one has to use snow, which rather freezes the brain and leaves one temporarily incapacitated and thus incapable of carrying out simple tasks such as responding to phone calls.

I am currently reviewing our ‘flaming halls’ and other client requirements, though as far as I am aware ‘growing a pair’ has never featured on any feedback form.

Many thanks for your interest in our resort, and we look forward to welcoming you here in the future.

Regards. Will Armstrong (The Anti-Christmas).

Shooting Star Mountain Resort

‘Well at least he’s got a sense of humour.’

‘Hilarious.’ Dry I think they call it. I’m busy typing as I speak. What a cheek! Welcoming, huh, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

Dear Mr Armstrong,

Many thanks for your prompt response. If you are not currently suffering from brain freeze it would be very helpful if you could spare the time to pick up the phone so we can discuss our requirements.

Our clients have reported a far-from-warm welcome – in fact, it has been coined ‘frosty’ in one instance – and there has been little in the way of flaming recently, in fireplaces or halls. The only feature in your brochure that you seem to provide, is snow. Maybe a new, more specific, feedback form would be in order?

‘You can’t send that!’ Sam is back peering over my shoulder, dropping crumbs down my cleavage.

‘You said that before.’ I drum my fingers on the desk, well away from the danger zone of the mouse, and wriggle the crumbs out of my bra. ‘You know what I’m seriously tempted to do, though?’

Sam raises on eyebrow, and surreptitiously nudges the mouse out of my reach. ‘I don’t like the sound it, whatever it is.’

‘Go.’

‘What do you mean, go?’

‘Go there. To the resort. He said he’d look forward to welcoming me in the future, so maybe that’s the answer. I mean, he can’t ignore me if I’m standing in front of him, can he?’ I minimise the email screen and log on to the booking system. ‘I could see for myself just how welcoming Mr Brain-freeze is and whether there’s any hope of salvaging some magic. And if there’s not, I’ll cancel all the bookings our clients have made and move them.’

‘No! You can’t just go, we’re busy, you’re busy!’ Sam is staring at me. ‘Anyhow, all the good resorts are booked up now, so you can’t move people if it really is that crap. It’s too late.’

‘Well, I’ll think of something.’

‘You have got to be kidding!’ Sam frowns, then bites the side of her thumb. ‘Have you totally lost your marbles this time?’

She might have a point. But not one I intend to concede to. ‘I could be the undercover hotel inspector, poking about in his dark corners and uncovering the truth. I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a sleuth.’

‘You said you wanted to stand in front of him, so he can’t ignore you.’

The girl has a point. ‘Stop being picky. Anyway, that’s after I’ve poked about and written a witty and scathing piece about the state of his ski-lifts and skirting boards.’

‘Skirting boards?’

‘That’s where the dust gathers, apparently.’ Not that I’d know; I’m not a big-on-dusting kind of girl.

‘Do log cabins have skirting boards?’

‘Sam!’

‘Sorry, just trying to help.’

‘Anyway, I’d get a staff discount.’ Always look on the bright side, as my Aunt Lynn likes to say, and the one very bright side to working in her travel agency is that I get to travel on the cheap.

‘They should be paying you to go there.’ Sam taps a few buttons on her computer, then draws a deep breath. ‘Listen.’ I don’t really need to listen, I know the crap reviews off by heart, but she’s going to read them out to me anyway. ‘The worst Christmas we have ever had. The only good bit was the hot chocolate—’

‘– until they ran out of marshmallows.’ I finish the review for her. ‘But I could always take some with me.’

She ignores me. ‘I mean, who runs out of marshmallows? It’s like . . . like . . .’

‘Running out of wine?’

‘Like a margarita without the salt round the rim.’

‘Serious stuff, then.’

‘Well, you’d feel cheated, wouldn’t you? And how about this one? Cosy this place is not – unless you’re related to a polar bear, it was warmer out than in.’ Sam glances up to check I’m still listening. ‘The website promises husky-drawn sleds, and the nearest we got was being allowed to take the dog a walk. Aw, I quite like the idea of that. Jake’s thinking about teaching Harry to pull a sled, but there’s never any snow here, is there?’ I refrain from commenting. Cute as her boyfriend’s dog Harry is, I’m pretty sure sled dogs are usually twice his size. ‘And this one’s from last Christmas, Guide refused to take us ski-ing because it was snowing! Cheese fondue was ace, let down by untidy dining room and rude waitress. Amazing place, just a shame the new owners have let standards slip. A magical Christmas this was not.’

‘So, I should go, shouldn’t I? Look, that place used to be the best on our books; it was magical, fabulous, festive – you know, all those F words.’ I’ve run out, but she knows what I mean.

‘And now it’s a flop, Sarah, but it’s not our job to put places right, is it? We just recommend somewhere else. You don’t have to actually go there.’

‘Aunt Lynn used to.’ I think I might be sounding a bit sulky.

‘To check places out, see if they were holidays she wanted to sell. Not put them right. Oh Sarah, why not just drop it, find somewhere better?’

‘Because . . .’ Well, partly because I’m stubborn and don’t like to admit defeat. ‘It’s not just Auntie Lynn that loved it.’ I take a deep breath as the prickly heat of tears in my eyes takes me completely by surprise. I mess around with the paperclips on my desk so that I don’t have to look at her. ‘It was where she and I spent our first Christmas together.’ There’s a lump in my throat that shouldn’t be there, and I’m blinking faster than the lights on a faulty pelican crossing. I swallow, hard. ‘I want to thump Will Armstrong.’

‘Oh hell. Why didn’t you say? Not the thump bit, the Christmas bit, I mean.’ Sam squeezes my hand and I pull away slightly, because sympathy always does me in. I don’t want to end up in tears, not here, not at work. Well, not anywhere, really. Crying is something I learned not to do a long time ago. It’s pointless.

Our first Christmas at the Shooting Star resort had been magical. Which I suppose is what Auntie Lynn intended.

She’d never been that close to her sister, my mum, they’d been too different. Camembert and brie, as Lynn liked to say, and the subtle differences had run deep. Mum had married young, had me, taken me off on magical mystery tours in a camper van. Lynn was single, resolutely childless and loved to spend time in unexplored corners of the world. They both had wanderlust, but their lust and their wandering had taken them in very different directions.

Up until then, I’d hardly known Aunt Lynn; our paths had never really crossed until that Christmas.

The Christmas when she’d been there to try and save my little family, and instead had been left with me when my parents had left. Without me. For a ‘spot of adult time’ as Mum had laughingly put it, and I’d never seen them again. That jokey comment and her tinkling laugh are the last I remember of her.

She didn’t wear perfume, so there was no lingering smell of lavender or Chanel N°5 to give me a part of her back. She didn’t even leave a discarded jumper, or treasured trinket. Life isn’t always like they tell it in the movies. There was nothing; no part of her for me to hold on to, except for the sound of her laughter and a hazy memory of her big, green eyes.

It had been my last Christmas with Mum and Dad, my first with Auntie Lynn.

We’d spent another week there. Just the two of us. I’d been bewildered, feeling lost, waiting for my parents to appear at the door and for everything to go back to normal. They didn’t.

Mum would never be able to go back anywhere now, she was sleeping with the stars. And Dad? Well, as far as I was concerned, my dad no longer existed.

That Christmas we’d spent our days building snowmen, walking in the snow, patting the huskies and feeding the reindeer. And in the evenings we’d curl up together in the log cabin, staring into the flames and making wishes. The same wishes I’d carried on making for years afterwards. Until I realised wishes never come true anyway.

I blink away the past and ignore the one tiny tear that manages to squeeze its way past my defences.

‘It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point, is it?’

Sam is frowning at me and doesn’t look convinced, so I ignore her and tap away on my keyboard, which means I can brush away the dampness on my cheek without her noticing.

‘But what about Lynn? You always spend Christmas together.’

Sam is right again. Ever since that one in the Shooting Star Mountain Resort, Aunt Lynn and I have spent every Christmas together. She’s my family, my whole family, the only one I’ve got, and she’s amazing.