Humbugs and Heartstrings: A gorgeous festive read full of the joys of Christmas!
‘The most delightful Christmas tale I have ever read.’Girls Love to ReadA festive story about love, friendships, and a sprinkling of Christmas magic. Perfect for fans of Jenny Colgan and Lucy Diamond.Two ex-friends. One Christmas to remember …Bobbie's boss Carol is a real misery-guts, dedicated to making the lives of everyone around her unhappy in pursuit of every last penny. What makes it worse is that the two women have history: they were once best friends.When handsome hotelier Charlie steps into the frame the two women go to battle as one sees a romantic future and the other a possible lifeboat for her business.With wonderful warmth and humour – and the odd mince pie fight – the women are forced to confront their shared past, the turbulent present and, most importantly, the potential of the future.Curl up this Christmas with this heartwarming and funny read. You’ll never look at a mince pie in the same way again…
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Humbugs and Heartstrings
Catherine Ferguson
A division of HarperCollinsPublisherswww.harpercollins.co.uk
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2014
Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2014
Cover photographs © Lisa Horton
Cover design ©Lisa Horton
Catherine Ferguson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © October 2014 ISBN: 9780008117269
Version: 2017-11-14
For Matthew
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Acknowledgements
About the Book
About the Publisher
It has to be here somewhere.
I bend closer and yet another van hurtles past in the semi-dark, flinging spray all over me.
I’m not normally to be found scrabbling about in gutters on wet, murky late afternoons in October, risking a drenching from the vehicles swishing by.
But today, The Boss gave us a lecture on biros.
She said we’d probably have to start paying for our pens because she couldn’t be sure we weren’t using them for our own personal stuff. So then, of course, I was digging in my bag on the way out of work, and what should come flying out and roll away into the road, but my precious biro.
Suddenly I spot it, floating in an oily puddle, and as I’m bending to fish it out, something else catches my eye.
A crumpled ten pound note is skating along the pavement beside me.
Fascinated, I give the pen a shake, pop it in my bag and follow the progress of the queen’s head as it zigzags towards the hedge and snags on a lamppost. I glance around, expecting someone to rush up behind me and breathlessly claim it, but there is no one in sight. If it was a purse with money in it, I could take it to the police station. But what do I do with a ten pound note?
Ten pounds.
There’s no question how I’d use it.
Already I am imagining slipping my pass book under the glass and watching the cashier’s efficient, manicured hands processing the note. And afterwards, the pleasure of checking the growing balance in the Tim Fund and knowing I am inching slowly towards our goal.
A gust of wind frees the note from the lamppost and shuttles it on its merry way. And right at that moment, I am diverted by a flash of colour. A well-rounded woman in a bright orange tracksuit and lime green trainers puffs past on a bike, corkscrews of blonde hair escaping from her hood. Her mode of transport looks creaky, to say the least, and something about her red cheeks and slightly awkward posture tells me she’s brand new to this cycling lark. With a quick glance behind her to check for traffic (none), she suddenly starts pedalling furiously then freewheels with her legs out to the sides, shouting, ‘Whee-ee!’
A drop of rain plops onto my forehead and I glance skywards. I got wet walking into work this morning, resulting in a day of mad hair (think Kate Bush and ‘Wuthering Heights’) and the clouds are heavy with the threat of more rain.
