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       Chapter 1

      My phone beeps with a text message and I look up from the nutcracker bunting I’m painting. Hopefully the guy I’m seeing telling me he’s missing me and he’s sorry I’ve got to work late again. It’s not serious yet, but maybe it could be one day. After so many disappointing relationships, it’s nice to be dating such a reassuring man for a change. He’s always texting to ask where I am and what I’m doing.

      Can’t wait to see you tonight. That’s odd. I’m not seeing him tonight. Wear that purple lingerie set I bought you. It looks sexy on you but it will look even better on the bedroom floor. Again, odd. I don’t own a purple lingerie set. Nia’s working late again. Thank God for this shop she’s got. We’ll have all night without her constant needy texts.

      It instantly makes sense. Oh, great. Not only am I dating another cheater, I’m dating a cheater who thinks “it’ll look better on the bedroom floor” is original or even slightly seductive and thinks my texts are needy. I thought I was being romantic. I thought he liked me because he’s always texting to find out what I’m up to. I should’ve realised it’s because he’s carefully scheduling his purple lingerie appointments.

      A few seconds later, my phone beeps again.

       Hah! Had you going, didn’t I? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

      Does he think it becomes funnier with the more “ha”s he includes?

      It beeps again. Obviously I was joking. Nia? Nia?? Nia???

      I wait until he’s added an abnormal number of question marks and then text back. Oh, go schnitzel yourself, twatspangle. Enjoy your night with Ms Purple Lingerie. You won’t be getting to see my lingerie ever again, purple or not.

      I delete the last bit before I send it. My lingerie is mostly a sort of off-greyish colour because I accidentally washed it with a black T-shirt. The mention of it is not going to make him fall at my feet and question his life choices.

      I should probably feel sad, but we’d only been seeing each other for a couple of months. It wasn’t serious. And there’s become a sense of inevitability about it now. Every relationship is the same. Boy meets Girl, Boy is cute and funny, Girl does everything by the book and presents herself as most perfect specimen of normality she can muster – IE: Boy doesn’t know Girl bleaches arm hair and plucks out occasional hag whisker. Things seem to be going well for Boy and Girl, and then … Boy cheats on Girl. Repeat ad infinitum.

      My phone beeps again. Sorry, Nia.

      At least he sent it to the right person this time. And had the decency to apologise, which is more than can be said for the last three cheating boyfriends.

      I put my phone down on the desk and pick up one of the blank nutcracker silhouettes I’m painting and lift it away from the string it’s attached to. ‘What am I doing wrong?’ I ask it.

      It doesn’t answer. Maybe it’s the answer in itself – talking to wooden Christmas decorations.

      Strings of tiny, flat nutcracker soldiers are laid out in front of me and I move along the desk as I put a coat of primer on each wooden figure so they’ve got plenty of time to dry overnight, and tomorrow I can start painting in the details like faces and brightly coloured clothing.

      Maybe it’s a good thing that it’s ended. Now I won’t have to worry about working late and not spending enough time with someone and can concentrate entirely on the shop and making it the biggest success it can be. Having my own shop on Nutcracker Lane is what I’ve wanted my entire life. It’s good that I won’t have any distractions. I keep repeating that to myself as I move from one hand-cut MDF figure to the next, trying not to let my mind wander to the text message. It’s not like it was a serious relationship. Just a guy I met on a dating app a couple of months ago, chatted a bit with online, and have met up with a few times since. I didn’t really think it was going anywhere, but I did think I was the only woman in his life. Another lie.

      Tears blur the workbench in front of me and I try to blink them back as the tip of my brush dunks into the white primer. It’s not even him – it’s the fact that it’s happened again. Yet another guy who can’t be satisfied with just one person. Is it me? Am I not good enough for them? Other men get married and stay in committed happy relationships and their eyes don’t wander. And yet, even when I meet someone who seems like one of the good ones, I repel them like water on oil paint. This makes it the fifth guy who’s cheated on me in the last five relationships. That is not a promising ratio. And I’m the common denominator.

      Maybe it’s time to give up on love forever. I don’t know why I keep trying when it’s becoming clear that every relationship is going to end the same way.

      I shake my head, sniff and wipe my eyes, and hum “Little Drummer Boy” as loudly as I can. Painting nutcrackers always makes me think of this song. No use dwelling on it. Another unfaithful man is not worth any more tears – not when it’s December tomorrow and Nutcracker Lane will open to the public for the first time this year and my decorations will be for sale. This is something I’ve dreamed about my entire life and Stacey and I have spent the past few years trying to make it happen. Sharing a Christmas shop with my best friend. Yet another cheating boyfriend makes no difference to how amazing that is.

      ***

      It’s late by the time I’ve got the strings of nutcracker bunting finished and transferred to the little workshop in the back room behind the main shop. I should’ve been painting out the back, but this is my first year, and I wanted to watch from the window as the other shop owners finished their final preparations before tomorrow and left one by one. I wanted to watch the last of the Christmas lights be turned off as the sky gradually darkened above us.

      The clear roof has always been my favourite thing about Nutcracker Lane – the way you can watch the skies and experience the weather. Even though it’s warm and dry inside, the rain still patters down and the snow still blankets us, unlike the fake layers of felt snow that are piled up around the edges of the lane.

      I pull on my red coat, tug my bag over my shoulder, and turn the lights off in the back room. One final walk through the shop floor reveals there’s nothing else I can tweak or change. I’ve been here every day for the last month, transferring stock from my garden shed-slash-workshop, rearranging tables and display units, setting out everything just right and then setting it all out again in another formation until it really is just right and Stacey yells at me to stop fiddling.

      I want it to be perfect. My own shop on Nutcracker Lane is what I’ve always wanted, and I’m desperate for nothing to go wrong. I could easily spend another hour carefully rearranging the wooden snowman family that is standing near the counter or displaying the array of hand-painted baubles and hanging decorations that are set out in wicker baskets on a table, but even I know that I’m tweaking for the sake of it, and the shop already looks like the cosy little Christmas haven I always imagined my shop on Nutcracker Lane would be.

      I set a hand-painted “’Twas The Night Before Christmas” glittery plaque straight on the wall and then have to do it again because it was straight anyway and СКАЧАТЬ