Christmas Eve at Cranberry Cross: A gorgeous and cosy romance that will warm your heart!

1

‘But it’s Christmas,’ Eve Pilkins cried.

‘There are plenty of others wanting this job, Eve,’ her boss Serena Whitelaw said, staring at Eve with such disdain that she wondered for the one hundredth time that day if Serena regretted hiring her and was looking for an excuse to fire her.

‘But it’s also my birthday on Christmas Eve.’

Serena shrugged her white-silk-covered shoulders and pushed her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses on top of her blonde head.

‘Nobody cares about that anymore.’

Eve wasn’t sure if Serena meant her birthday or Christmas but was too afraid to ask.

‘If you don’t get Edward Priest to deliver this book then it’s on you. You can explain it at the redundancy party when we let you and many others go.’

Today was one of those work days where Eve wondered if she should just run away and open a café or a bakery like they do in the romance novels her company published, but then she remembered she couldn’t bake or work a coffee machine. All she was good at was reading books, playing electric guitar and wrapping presents.

What could Eve had said in reply to that? Two hundred jobs relied on this book. Was that even true? She knew Edward Priest’s books were the money-spinner for the company. His books sold faster than any adult book on record and even though they weren’t to Eve’s taste, she admired his dedication to research and to the dogged process of writing such enormous tomes.

But Edward Priest didn’t do interviews and he didn’t deal with anyone at the company but Serena Whitelaw – and that was only by phone.

All she knew about Edward Priest was that he had made all the other editorial assistants cry and that’s why Serena personally managed him.

‘Why can’t you go?’ Eve had tentatively asked and Serena had shot her a look that would have turned anyone else into a gelatinous mess, but Eve had survived them before and was sure she would survive this one.

‘Because I’m going to New York for Christmas,’ she stated proudly. ‘Edward has a lovely country estate in Northumberland – quite posh I believe – but then you would have something grand with those royalties. Apparently, the wife bought it, wanted to play the lady of the manor from what I heard. I’ve also heard she grew tired of that pretty quickly.’

When Eve had read The Devil Wears Prada, she had thought it read like a non-fiction book. Just change the names and change fashion to publishing and that was Eve’s working life at Henshaw and Carlson.

One day everything would be fine – meaning Serena was ignoring Eve. Then the next day Serena would scream at Eve for not remembering that Serena’s white Carolina Herrera shirt was waiting to be picked up from the dry-cleaner. Even though Eve had no memory of being told that the blouse was at the cleaners and would need to be picked up. She had checked her texts, emails and phone messages and there was nothing about the blouse. In the end, Eve apologised and worked late to finish the edits on a book that Serena would then claim as her own work.

Eve tuned out from Serena’s gossip. Her boss was always indiscreet about her authors but there wasn’t much she could say about Edward, other than what anyone could read on the internet.

Edward was married to a former supermodel from America, and they had a daughter, who was about seven or so, according to one of the magazine articles Serena sent her later when she was back at her desk.

Eve had wanted to cry and then resign, or she wanted to resign and then cry, but instead she took her phone and went into the bathroom.

She put down the lid of the toilet, closed the door and dialled her mum’s number.

The phone rang out and Eve sat staring at the screen when her mum’s face popped up with an incoming call.

‘Hello, pet,’ she said. ‘I was outside feeding the dogs before I head off to work. Everything all right?’

Donna Pilkins had four rescue dogs and counting. She found them all on the streets, watching them beg or dodge the cars and buses as she drove the number 23 bus through Leeds. She would go back after her shift and gain their trust with her gentle nature and treats. They seemed to be very fond of her rissoles, which was understandable; she had inherited the recipe from her grandmother, who had always said it was the Worcestershire sauce that made them so moreish.

Clearly the dogs agreed, as she had rescued twelve in all and kept four.

Eve felt the tears release. ‘I can’t come home for Christmas,’ she sobbed.

‘What? Why?’

‘Serena is making me work, go to an author’s house and edit as he writes. It’s awful. She’s awful.’

Donna sighed. ‘Oh, dear me, that’s a nasty thing to do to someone and on their birthday too. Did you tell her it was your birthday on Christmas Eve?’

‘Mum, she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anyone but herself. And she’s bloody well going to New York. I want to resign.’

‘You can’t come back for the day?’ Donna asked.

‘Serena said he will be working through Christmas Day. He’s a workaholic at the best of times but he’s really behind on this book for some reason. I don’t know. I’ll be shoved into the maid’s room and he’ll send me pages, which I have to copy-edit, and then I’ll send them over to her to check my work and so she can look at the structure – which is the reverse of the way we usually do things. Then I have to send them to the proofer, who will send them to the typesetter. The turnaround is so tight I don’t even think it can be done, but Serena said there are two hundred people relying on me not to join the unemployment line.’

‘Then we will pause Christmas until after you’ve finished your work and you can come home.’

Eve could hear the disappointment in her mother’s voice but also her resilience. Donna Pilkins was the strongest woman she knew and her biggest cheerleader.

‘No, Mum, the boys would be devastated.’ Eve’s younger brothers, Gabe and Nick, were fifteen and gorgeous boys who defied the teenage clichés and were chatty, funny and engaged in everything in the family.

‘Dad is going to be furious,’ she said.

‘I’ll talk to him. We will work it out, pet; we always do,’ Donna said cheerfully and Eve knew she meant every word.

The last time Serena Whitelaw had pulled something similar was when she said Eve couldn’t have a day off to head to Leeds to see her grandmother before she died. Eve’s father, Sam, was ready to call in the transport workers’ union and go on strike from driving buses until Eve was allowed to return home.

Donna had talked him down but Sam never forgave Serena, especially when her grandmother died without seeing Eve.

‘It will be okay, Mum,’ said Eve, trying to take some of her mother’s strength.

‘Of course it will, Eve. It’s Christmas. Things are always okay at Christmas. Just wait and see.’

Eve hung up from the call and stared at her phone when she saw a text come through from Serena.

Where the hell are you? I need coffee and a tampon immediately. In that order.

Eve pretended to hit her forehead with her phone and she closed her eyes and thought a silent wish.

All I want for Christmas is a new job and to see my family. I promise I won’t kill Serena and I will stop drinking wine on weeknights and getting takeaways. And I will be a better person and stop smoking when I drink wine and I will take my makeup off every night.

She opened her eyes as a text message sounded.

Hello? Have you fallen in? I’m under-caffeinated and bleeding.

This is a dire combination.

Eve sighed. Christmas couldn’t come fast enough, especially if it delivered her wish.

*

Zara was waiting for Eve with a large glass of wine at the door of their shared flat.

Eve took the wine as she shrugged off her coat and dropped it onto the chair in the hallway and did a double take at the size of the glass and the measure of rosé.

‘Does it come with a goldfish?’ she asked and then took a gulp.

‘After your day, I figured you needed it,’ said Zara. ‘Everyone was talking about it around the office – Serena is truly the worst.’

Zara worked with Eve at Henshaw and Carlson, but Zara was in the publicity department and seemed to know everything before anyone else in the company. Zara had moved up from intern to junior publicity coordinator within a year and now was a publicity manager who looked after commercial books. Edward Priest’s next book would be on her list to promote, not that it would be hard to sell into the stores or to his avid reader base, but Eve had no doubt that Zara would push harder than anyone else on selling the book.

Eve kicked off her shoes and shoved her feet into her favourite Christmas slippers, which were stuffed reindeers complete with two light-up noses if she pressed a little button on the side of each slipper. She lifted her feet and switched on the nose lights. She needed all the cheer she could tonight.

‘Anita is getting us a curry and we can sit and bitch about Serena all night if you like.’

Eve smiled at her best friend. They had met at work but Zara was loyal and kind and always gave quality fashion advice. Anita, their other housemate, was Zara’s friend from school who was a junior architect at a large firm and who had just been put onto a huge project team for a new skyscraper.

It seemed everyone around Eve was on their way up and she was stuck being Serena’s slave.

Anita arrived with their dinner and they ate the fragrant food while sitting around the coffee table, sharing naan bread and the rest of the wine.

‘And what happens if you don’t go?’ asked Anita.

‘I get fired,’ Eve answered.

‘Did she say that?’ asked Zara.

‘Plenty of others wanting this job, Eve, she told me. And she also said I could explain it to everyone at the redundancy party if I failed.’

‘Honestly, she’s such a cow,’ Zara told Anita. ‘She told me once when I was wearing a skirt from H&M that she had the real one from Gucci. As though this was supposed to make me feel shite about myself or something.’

‘She is the queen of the put-down,’ said Eve.

Zara looked furious. ‘And now you have to babysit her biggest author because she wants to go to New York and continue her affair with Paul from Non-Fiction, whose wife is pregnant.’

‘Paul Wallis? He’s awful. He gets spit in the corner of his mouth when he’s pitching.’

Anita laughed. ‘Oh my God, your work sounds insane.’

Eve put down her fork. ‘I really need to find another job.’

‘Publishing is tough at the moment,’ said Zara. ‘Why don’t you wait until Christmas is done, and then you can look. The job market always opens after new year. All those people drunk and deciding they hate their boss and need a new direction.’

‘I don’t need it to be new year or to be more drunk than I am to know I need a new direction.’ Eve started to clean up.

‘Stop, we’re on duty tonight,’ said Zara and she turned on the television. ‘Look it’s I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here. They’re going to eat spiders.’

Eve lay on the sofa. ‘Sounds better than what I have coming for me,’ she muttered.

2

The train rocked in a soothing rhythm as though trying to calm Eve’s nerves and anger.

It was the third of December and she hadn’t even thought about her Christmas cards. Eve mentally made a list of who she needed to send cards to. Serena Whitelaw wouldn’t be getting one – of that she was certain.

God, this was going to be torturous, she thought as she watched the country landscape pass her by.

She was to meet the housekeeper – someone called Hilditch – at the station, who would drive her up to the house, and then she would be straight into work. Hilditch? Was it a man or a woman or a man or a they?

Edward Priest must be very rich to have his housekeeper meet her. Or lazy, or busy? Her mind was whirling at the same speed as the train.

The email from Edward Priest to Serena had come through the night before she left. Serena had taken pleasure in schooling Eve on what to do and not do on the manuscript.

‘Just do the copy edit and I will look at the structure when you’re done with it. I don’t want your mucky paws on it – you’re not experienced enough, but I can’t start straight away so we’ll have to do things back to front.’

Eve wanted to punch Serena with her mucky paws but said nothing. There were plenty of times Eve had edited works and Serena had taken credit for her work.

Breathe, she reminded herself, and just get through Christmas and then look for a new job.

Eve had taken a copy of Edward Priest’s previous book from the shelf at work to look at on the train. It was a best-seller but not as high in the charts as his previous books.

It was a historical thriller about World War Two and Nazi hunters who also collected art or something, but she lost interest a quarter of the way into the book. It was overwritten and hadn’t been edited the way it should have been, but Eve found this to be true with any successful author. Once they reached a certain level of success, some authors refused to be edited or pushed back on the changes.

Eve could think of at least five authors who were on the rich list and who needed a machete taken to their books. Cut, cut, cut, she would mentally say when she was reading one of their books. You don’t need this much backstory. The corridor of backstory she called it when she read some works. We don’t need to know all about why little Johnny didn’t get a red truck one Christmas and how that led to him become a detective with one arm and a lisp.

But this book of Edward’s was lazy, and it rushed through some of the more promising themes.

Serena had done the edit, but she was as afraid of Edward and his reputation as Eve was of Serena and her constant threats about unemployment.

She put her head against the window of the train. The cool glass calmed her a little. The countryside flew past, little stone houses and walls, then busy stations and towns and so many people coming and going.

Cows watched the train, and fat sheep huddled against each other from the cold as the wind blew over them.

There was snow on the forecast and ice on the roads. The cold weather didn’t bother Eve; at least in London it didn’t. She ran from her office to the tube to home and repeat. She hardly ever went out as Serena was always making her work late.

Why did she put up with Serena’s bullying? ‘No job is worth that,’ her dad had said and told her to call the book readers’ and writers’ union. Eve had explained that wasn’t a union and then her dad told her to start one.

Why was everything so exhausting at this job? Eve had assumed she would do her job and not have to worry about anything else when she had left university. Serena had made sure that was not the case. All she did was worry and organise Serena’s life, and then became frustrated when Serena would throw her an editing job to assuage her frustration.

Books had always been her escape at school, hiding in the library where the librarian had taken pity on her and had let her eat her cheese and gherkin sandwich in the Encyclopaedia section while reading The Hunger Games trilogy.

As the years went on, the lunchtimes and the sandwich stayed the same but the books changed as fast as Eve could devour them and the faster-paced and more exciting the book, the better. Other people claimed it was Jane Austen who propelled them into publishing or the collected works of Proust, but for Eve it was the paperback books on the spinning stands at the Leeds library that thrilled her. Agatha Christie was always her first love but she read everything she could. James Patterson, Patricia Cornwell, Minette Walters, even that silly git Jeffrey Archer. She had read many of the classics but she had a soft spot for the best-sellers of their day. Charlotte Brontë, Mary Shelley, Scott, Dickens.

It had never occurred to her she could be a part of the process of getting books onto the spinning stands at libraries and in the bookshops on the high street and in airports, but it was a goal that felt like her calling.

Instead, it seemed travelling to the centre of nowhere to babysit a spoiled author was now her calling.

She found some older images of his wife and daughter on an American website from when they attended the opening of a movie in Los Angeles. His wife, Amber, was very beautiful, like a thinner Jennifer Aniston, if that was even possible.

The child looked like her father. She was about four or five, Eve thought. Pleasant-looking but with a strong bone structure and wide-set eyes. She imagined the girl as a teenager, wondering why she didn’t get her mother’s high cheekbones. Eve still couldn’t forgive her twin brothers for getting their dad’s long eyelashes while she got her mother’s, which resembled iron filings.

It wasn’t easy being in a relationship with a writer, and Eve wondered how Mrs Priest was handling being in the country with a child and with Edward Priest, whose research was extensive and often first-hand. As she clicked on more links with his name she went down a rabbit hole on the web, reading about Edward and his writing routine and research process. Apparently he had travelled the route of the missionaries from Spain to Santo Domingo on the same sort of boat used in the 1800s so he could write about the experiences on the boat of the Augustinian friar who was the hero of one of his books.

Eve had rolled her eyes at that story. Pretty sure there weren’t travel vaccinations and mobile phones when the friar was afloat back in the day. Why did Edward Priest and other writers like him, usually men, decide they needed to experience it before they could write about it? Didn’t they have fully working imaginations? Why couldn’t they research and read and discover instead of throwing themselves into an ‘experience’? It was just such a pretentious and entitled male thing to do.

The train slowed down and Eve closed her laptop and packed it away. She stood as the train stopped and got her balance before making her way to the end of the carriage to get her cases. She had one large and one small, but she hoped she wouldn’t need anything else. The plan was she would stay until before new year, so at least she could get back and see her family for the last weekend before she had to face Serena again.

Eve exited the train with no grace whatsoever as she struggled to get her large pink suitcase off easily.

‘Christ on a bike,’ she said to herself as people pushed past her to get off the train. ‘Some people have no Christmas spirit at all.’

She stopped and adjusted her coat to try and get some control over her situation.

‘Eve Pilkins?’ She heard her name spoken in a deep baritone and looked up and saw a handsome woman, who must be close to six feet tall, of an indeterminate age between forty and sixty, Eve guessed. She was dressed in purple jeans, topped off by a jumper with a Union Jack knitted into it and a brown corduroy trilby hat. She wore a quilted vest in pink and was the most astonishing woman Eve had ever seen.

‘Yes?’ Eve was aware she was staring at the woman, whose hands were on her hips. As she surveyed Eve her eyes narrowed.

‘I’m Hilditch, housekeeper to Mr Priest. I’ve come to pick you up.’

‘Thanks, Hilditch, that’s very kind of you,’ said Eve, feeling like she had failed whatever test Hilditch had set for a first viewing.

Eve tried to drag one of the suitcases and heard a terrible screeching sound.

‘Oh, I’ve lost a wheel,’ she exclaimed and tried to lift the case but failed. Too many coats and scarves preparing for the arctic blast that her mother had warned her would be coming.

Hilditch picked up the case and the overnight bag and walked ahead of Eve while she struggled to keep up with the woman’s long stride.

‘This is us,’ said Hilditch, nodding at a red Mini Cooper. She wasn’t sure how Hilditch would fit in the car but she managed to fold up, like human origami.

Eve nodded, trying to act like she wasn’t a complete dunce.

‘How old are you?’ asked Hilditch as they got into the car.

‘Twenty-seven,’ answered Eve.

Hilditch sniffed as she started the car. ‘And you work with that Serena Whitelaw?’

‘Yes, she’s my boss.’

Simply thinking of Serena made her angry. She was off flying to New York, and Eve was stuck in outer nowhere to edit