This Christmas

By Tracey Mayhew

Three ghosts… Two choices… One chance to get it right.

 

Morgan Scott hates everything about Christmas, from the garish Christmas jumpers to the over-the-top Christmas songs. Is it any wonder she wants to bury herself in work, until the dreaded holiday is well and truly over?

 

But her plans fly out the window when, on Christmas Eve, she receives an unexpected visitor and there begins the rollercoaster ride through her past, present and future… straight to the only man she has ever given her heart to.

 

This Christmas, will Morgan finally see the error of her ways and reclaim the love she had rejected or will she continue on the same path, no matter where it leads?

 

This Christmas is a fun and festive reimagining of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, perfect for anyone who loves second chance winter romances and Christmas!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracey Mayhew
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393047117

Book preview

1

Three Days Before Christmas

Christmas.

Honestly, is there any other time of year that’s more pointless than Christmas?

I mean, look at all these people waiting for their coffees, wearing their silly jumpers because the office is having a ‘Christmas Jumper Day’. I’ve never heard anything more ludicrous in all my life. A day dedicated to wearing a Christmas jumper? Give me strength.

I gaze out of the window, already dripping with condensation, and watch the chaos outside for a moment; Londoners fighting their way to work. This sight never fails to amaze me and fill me with joy; the thrill of rush hour and the prospect of a brand new business day are what get me out of bed in the morning. Everything else is just white noise to me.

Excuse me, please.

A voice breaks into my thoughts and I sigh, moving out of the way as yet another person collects his coffee ahead of me. What is wrong with this place today? Can’t they get half decent staff any more? Peering across the counter, I notice that all the baristas are barely teenagers and probably couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag, let alone their way around a busy coffee shop in the middle of rush hour.

Seriously, this is getting ridiculous now and that non-stop Christmas music is driving me insane. I mean how many times do I have to listen to Leona Lewis sing about five more sleeps? It’s criminal that a grown woman should be that excited about five more sleeps until the most dreaded day of the year. Someone should tell her that Christmas is for children and not thirty-somethings who should know better!

It’s the same with everyone’s need to put up Christmas decorations; I mean, these people are adults, here to do a job, and yet they set up a Christmas tree in the window that could easily provide service for another two tables; that’s potentially eight sales they're throwing away, all for the sake of a plastic tree! And if councils everywhere stopped wasting so much money on Christmas lights and light switch-on parties… well, the world would be a lot better off, in my opinion.

Nick! An espresso and blueberry muffin for Nick!

My attention is once again drawn back to the serving counter and I watch helplessly as yet another person is served ahead of me and leaves with their coffee…

Unable to hold back any longer, I shove my way to the front of the crowd of customers still waiting for their coffee. I’m only too happy to finally make it to the counter where an annoyingly chirpy barista is waiting for me, complete with a sparkly, red snowman jumper and a Santa hat; even her name tag has been bordered with tinsel.

Are you Shirley?

I frown. "No, I am not Shirley," I retort, using my most acidic tone, the one that always makes my staff run for the hills.

The girl, whose name, according to her tag, is Charlie, smiles. Oh, shame, she says, before standing on her tiptoes and calling out, Double macchiato for Shirley!

That’s me! comes a breathless reply as a woman holds her hand aloft and makes her way to the front, coming to stand beside me. Whew, I thought I’d be waiting ages! she gushes, taking the offered take away cup, her name scrawled on the side in Sharpie. Thank you and Merry Christmas!

Charlie beams at her. Merry Christmas to you, too! she sings back.

Shirley glances at me and smiles. Cheer up, love; it’s Christmas! Happy Christmas!

I scoff. Whatever, I mutter, only too glad to see the back of her and her inane grin. What is it with people; why do they think that just because it’s Christmas we should all be happy and jolly? It’s not like the terrible things in the world stop happening just because it’s Christmas, is it? People still feel pain and sorrow and-?

Can I help you? Charlie asks, breaking into my internal rant.

Yes, you can help me, actually, I reply brusquely. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for my coffee?

Charlie seems to think about this for a moment. Um… no.

Too long! I retort. I’ve been standing here for the better part of fifteen minutes, watching people who came in after me get their coffees and go. Honestly, how hard is it to make a coffee? It’s not like I’ve asked you to source the beans themselves, is it? I sigh, really settling into my tirade now. Do you need a degree nowadays to work here? Let me tell you this: if you worked for me, I’d-

Are you Morgan? Charlie asks, that stupid, happy grin taunting me.

I’m sorry, what?

I said: are you Morgan?

Yes… yes I am, I reply warily.

Charlie holds up a coffee cup. Then this must be yours, she announces smugly. I did call you - several times, actually - but no one answered and I assumed you’d left.

I narrow my eyes at her; I know her game: behind the charming, butter wouldn’t melt, smile, this girl has claws. Well, I’m not sure you could really blame me if I had left, I retort, trying desperately to claw back the upper hand. I mean, look at this place. I shake my head. No one should have to wait this long for coffee.

We do our best to serve everyone within five minutes of their order, she assures me. It’s not our fault that, on occasion, people are too caught up in their daydreams to hear us. Cinnamon? she asks, holder up a shaker.

I’m sorry, what? I ask, still too shocked that this girl has the audacity to answer me back.

She asked if you wanted cinnamon, a man in the crowd repeated impatiently.

No, why would I want that on coffee?

Charlie shrugs. Some people like it; they consider it a festive treat.

Just give me my coffee. Without the cinnamon, I add firmly, just in case this little upstart gets any funny ideas.

Charlie hands me the cup. Of course and have a happy-

Don’t, I snap, holding up a warning finger. Don’t even say those words.

I send her one final glare before turning and making my way through the crowd. I swear I hear someone mutter Scrooge as I pass, while others commiserate with Charlie about how some people are just so rude but I don’t care. I’m out of there and already wondering where I’ll be getting my morning coffee from now on; preferably somewhere where the baristas aren’t sarcastic and who appreciate that the customer is always right.

Good morning, ma’am!

I barely hear the man as I pass, focused as I am on the sea of bodies around me as I make my way to the Tube station.

Er, hello, ma’am; have you got a minute?

I glance at the slightly overweight man who is half-walking, half-jogging to keep up with me, his breath coming in short gasps, his cheeks ruddy in the icy morning air. Does it look like I have a minute? I demand.

For a moment, the man falters but soon collects himself. Well, as luck would have it, I’m going in this direction, so I could talk while we walk, yes?

I stop abruptly, meaning he soon finds himself a few steps ahead of me so has to turn back to face me. I ignore the frustration of the other commuters around us, letting them make their way around us. Look, if this is your way of approaching a woman then-

The man laughs, a full on belly laugh. Oh, goodness no! That’s not what this is. Happily married, me, he says, holding up his left hand as if to prove it. No, I just wanted to ask you about whether you’ve considered donating to-

Oh, here we go, I think, rolling my eyes. Let me stop you there, I demand, watching the man deflate; he was clearly gearing up for a speech. I’m not interested. I continue on my way, my heart sinking when the man reappears at my side; geez, he’s determined, I’ll give him that.

But, ma’am, Christmas is a tough time, especially for those on the street. I mean, they have nothing: no homes, very little food or warmth save-

And whose fault is that? I demand.

The man looks stunned for a moment. I’m sorry; what?

Whose fault is that? I repeat. Half these people are homeless because they have a drink or drug problem.

The man shakes his head. That’s not-

"And the other half do nothing to help themselves, aside from waiting on hand-outs from the hard-working people who do have jobs. I shake my head. If these people really wanted to make a difference to their lives, they would. They could get a job, get housed by the council-"

It’s not always as simple as that, the man protests.

It is in my book, I retort. If you have a problem, you solve it; you don’t wait on hand-outs. Those people you champion should remember that. Glancing at him, I add, Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have a job to get to.

And, with that, I slip into the crowds entering the Tube station and the man is lost from my sight.

Good riddance.

2

Exiting the Tube station at the other end, I have to say I’m only too glad to be making my way towards my office; it’s the only place I feel like I can truly be myself, the only place I truly feel at home. It’s my domain and there’s no one there to judge me (even if my employees do have problems with how I do things occasionally) and no one expects me to act a certain way. My work image is one I’ve taken years to cultivate and it’s one I’m proud of.

Marsdon & Scott Estate Agents.

Just the name, a beacon in the muted morning light, fills me with a sense of peace and fulfillment. I started this business, along with my best friend, and business partner, Victoria Marsdon, five years ago and, thanks to our business sense and, what many people called, ruthlessness, we made it the biggest and best commercial and residential estate agents in the area. Building this place alongside Victoria had been one of the happiest times of my life, despite all that it cost me in the end. I still feel a pang of sadness every time I see her name above the door or on the letter headings and I still find myself wishing things could be different, that she could still be here.

You see, a year ago (a month before Christmas, in fact), Victoria died of a sudden and catastrophic heart attack. If I’m honest, her death shook me to the very core but I soldiered on, in life and in business, because I know that’s what she would have wanted. I had no time for grieving because there was always another sale to be made or property to acquire and, even to this day, I can still hear Victoria’s voice in my head when I have a bad day, urging me on.

Pushing open the door, I’m stunned into silence by what I see: my assistant, Hannah Anderson, and a