Snowflakes on Silver Cove: A festive, feel-good Christmas romance (White Cliff Bay Book 2)

T
o Hazel Osmond
who had faith in me when I barely had faith in myself, George and Libby wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for you.

S
queak
. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueakBang, SqueakSqueakBang, SqueakSqueakBang, SqueakSqueakBang, SqueakSqueakBang.

‘Oh!’

SqueakSqueakBang.

‘Oh!’

SqueakSqueakBang.

‘OH!’

SqueakSqueakBang.

‘OH!’

SqueakSqueakBang.

‘OH GOD!’

BangBang.

‘OH GOD!’

BangBangBangBang.

‘OHHHHHH!’

Every morning, without fail, Libby had been woken in the same way. Every morning since three weeks earlier, when the newlyweds, Rosie and Alex, had moved into the flat above her. Then Alex would race out to work, clearly late and with a huge grin on his face. At six Alex would arrive home and two minutes later the same noises would be heard again, occasionally peppered with ‘Harder Alex, harder,’ or ‘Rosie, God I love you.’

Weekends were worse. They’d do it all day. And as today was Sunday Libby was expecting an encore any time soon.

Urgh. Libby decided she hated newlyweds. Only a few more weeks and she would be gone and she wouldn’t have to be woken by the horny alarm clock any more.

She padded through to the kitchen and switched on the dancing Santa who twisted and jived to some seventies Christmas tune. He made her smile. Her best friend George had given it to her because he didn’t think her tiny tree that sat and twinkled feebly in the corner of her flat was enough in terms of decorations to celebrate Christmas. A singing reindeer, a dancing tree and a serenading snowman had also found their way into her flat in the last few weeks. He had tried to persuade her to take a four-foot-high inflatable musical snow globe the day before, but she drew the line at inflatables. George, it seemed, didn’t have this issue.

As Santa launched into another song, she made two rounds of bacon sandwiches and two mugs of tea. Loading the whole lot onto a tray, she took it over to the table by the lounge window and looked out on the glorious view.

It was that view that had made her move to White Cliff Bay in the first place. She had spent years travelling the world but, although she had sworn she would never stay in the UK again, White Cliff Bay had appealed to her in more ways than any other place had. Today the sea mirrored the first time she had seen it, the weak winter sun glistening on the water in front of her as if jewels were buried beneath the waves. Light snow had fallen overnight, dusting Silver Cove beach with a sprinkling of talcum powder. She leaned her hand on the window and closed her eyes, trying to capture the image in her mind. She would miss this place when she left.

Reluctantly she turned from the view and went to the fridge, reaching for the ketchup. It was obligatory to cover the bacon in a thick layer of it. Then she remembered she had finished the bottle the night before.

Stepping over the newspapers on her front doorstep, she walked across the hallway. Without knocking, she let herself into the flat opposite. She stopped when she walked into the lounge; impossibly it looked even more crammed with Christmas decorations than the last time she had seen it. It wasn’t just the large tree that nearly blocked out the whole window, the room was filled with almost a whole herd of life-size reindeer, a seven-foot inflatable snowman, tinsel, garlands and an army of dancing, singing Christmas characters along with the garish snow globe she had rejected. Christmas music filled the flat as she moved to the festively strewn kitchen and went straight to the fridge to get the ketchup, then followed the sound of music to the bedroom.

There was George Donaldson, topless, dancing round the bedroom with a six-foot inflatable candy cane as his dance partner. She smiled, affection for him filling her heart. He was miles away from the alpha males she wrote about in her books and maybe that’s what she liked about him. There was nothing mean and moody about George Donaldson, he made her laugh a lot. His hair was a messy mop of black curls that jiggled as he moved, his body was tanned from days out on the beach. He didn’t have the cut abs and six-packs her heroes always had, but he had a wonderful body with strong arms that gave the best hugs in the world, making her feel safe and adored. She would miss him more than anything once she had gone. She giggled as George took his partner in his arms and moved in to kiss her.

She must have made more noise than she thought, as he abruptly let go of the candy cane, looking guilty and embarrassed.

‘Libby Joseph! Does a man not have any privacy any more, did you not knock?’

‘Of course not. Now do you want your breakfast or not?’

‘Ah Libby, you will make someone a goodly wife one day.’ He walked past her, planting a big wet kiss on her forehead, grabbed a paper bag by his door and then stopped to scoop up the newspapers on her front doorstep before sitting down at her table, his mug of tea in his hand.

Libby sat down opposite him, smothering her bacon sandwich in ketchup, and then tucked in. George flicked through the paper for a while before turning his attention to his own breakfast.

‘So,’ he said, through a mouthful of sandwich, ‘newlyweds wake you up again?’

She rolled her eyes and nodded. He smiled sympathetically and turned his attention back to the paper. They sat in silence as they ate. There was no need to make polite conversation; George was her best friend. They could sit like this for hours without feeling the need to force a conversation. Other times they would talk non-stop, only drawing breath to eat some of the delicious food that he cooked for them. Although her bacon sandwiches were amazing, if she did say so herself, it was pretty much the only decent thing she could cook. In the first few weeks of their friendship, she had invited George to take part in several dried-out pasta dishes, numerous cremated roast dinners with unrecognisable meat and, once, some homemade soup that looked and tasted like vomit. After that, they had mutually agreed that he should do most of the cooking.

She looked across at George and found it hard to believe she had only met him for the first time six months before, the day when she was moving into the tiny block of flats. She had known instantly he was gay. As he came rushing out the flat to help her with her boxes, dressed in a garish pink t-shirt, she had done that thing that all single women do when they meet a nice-looking bloke for the first time. Wedding ring? No. Straight? Definitely not.

Knowing he wasn’t a potential boyfriend and that she didn’t have to try to impress him eased the transition into their friendship very quickly. He was loud, funny, kind and sweet. Over the first few days, as she had got to know him, she became convinced that her suspicions about his sexuality had been right. He had a huge collection of musicals, like
Grease
,
Joseph
and
The Sound of Music
. And instead of a collection of boy movies like
Die Hard
or
Pulp Fiction
, he had a vast repertoire of old classics such as
Some Like it Hot
,
Brief Encounter
,
The Seven Year Itch
and
Operation Petticoat
, dividing his love of Marilyn Monroe and Cary Grant almost equally. His dubious taste in music did nothing to change her mind.

She remembered the conversation they’d had about his sexuality very vividly. They had known each other for about five weeks and had almost been inseparable since she had moved in. Over dinner one night he had quizzed her about past boyfriends. After a thorough grilling she’d turned the tables on him.

‘So are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ she’d asked, biting into the delicious lasagne he had cooked for them.

‘Nah, perpetually single me.’ He’d laughed.

She nodded. ‘I guess it’s tricky though, what with White Cliff Bay being such a tiny town.’

‘Well yes, and most of the residents of White Cliff Bay are over the age of fifty.’

‘No, I mean that there isn’t much opportunity to meet the right sort of person round here, you should try Brighton, that’s got a great nightlife.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘The gay capital of Britain?’

‘Exactly, there aren’t exactly a lot of gay bars round here, I bet there aren’t even any in Apple Hill.’

He had frowned in confusion but she had blindly carried on.

‘Oooh, my cover designer lives in Brighton, he’s gorgeous, hung like a horse apparently, or so says his ex-boyfriend. I could give you his number, get him to take you out to all the best gay clubs, show you a good time.’ She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

George choked on his lasagne and when he didn’t look like stopping, she rushed to get him some water. She returned a few seconds later and passed him the glass.

He had drunk greedily, then put his glass down and eyed her across the table. ‘Libby,’ he’d said firmly, ‘I’m not gay.’

It had been her turn to choke on the lasagne then. ‘You’re not?’

He shook his head.

‘Oh God, George… I’m… I’m so sorry, I thought the clothes, the musicals, the old films…’

‘Well you thought wrong. Bloody hell, just because a bloke isn’t sitting around scratching his testicles and watching rugby…’ he laughed good naturedly. ‘It’s OK, though. You’re forgiven.’

She shook her head, laughing at her own narrow-mindedness, suddenly the laugh dried in her throat.

‘Oh God,’ she gasped, her hands going to her mouth. ‘You’ve seen me naked.’

He smirked. ‘Yes I have.’

‘But…’ she was aware she was now flapping her hands around, ‘I didn’t even think about walking from the shower to my bedroom without any clothes on when you were waiting for me in the lounge. I mean, I just thought you wouldn’t care, wouldn’t even notice.’

‘Oh I noticed all right, I just thought you were a very open person.’

‘Oh God.’ She buried her face in her hands.

He laughed, loudly. ‘It’s your own fault, Libby Joseph. That will teach you for judging a book by its cover.’

She had groaned in embarrassment as he continued to eat his lasagne.

She watched him now as he picked up the last crumbs of his bacon sandwich, and smiled.

‘Oh, I got you something,’ George said, passing over the brown paper bag, before he started singing his own version of ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’. ‘
Ten days before Christmas and my true love gave to me, a mug with a picture of the sea
.’

Libby smiled. He had started this twelve days of presents two days before when he had presented her with a Christmas pudding onesie complete with a hood with a holly leaf and huge red berries sewed to the top. The day before he had given her a big bag of rum and raisin fudge when they had been shopping in the town, her favourite sweets in the world. She quickly tore apart the paper bag and pulled out a mug that must have held at least a pint of tea. It was the tackiest thing she had ever seen. It had a picture of White Cliff Bay on the side but it wasn’t tasteful, it was bright and garish in colour.

‘And look what happens when you pour hot water in it.’ George grabbed her tea and poured it inside. Straight away, lights started to flash all over the mug, including on the oversized lighthouse, and a tinny version of ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’ drifted from some internal speakers.

Libby laughed. ‘I love it,’ she said, honestly.

‘Now you have something to remember us by,’ he said, glancing over at a few boxes in the hall and for a brief moment his face fell with disappointment before he slapped on a smile. ‘How’s the packing going?’

‘There’s not a lot to be honest. The flat came with its own furniture. There’s a few books and things I’ve acquired over the last few months that I’ll probably take to a charity shop. I don’t really have stuff, I don’t need it. I came with a suitcase of clothes and I’ll probably leave the same way.’

‘That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? To have no belongings other than the clothes on your back.’

Libby shrugged, happily. ‘Happiness doesn’t come from the things you own, it comes from experiences, the things you do, the places you go to, the people you meet. That’s what fills your life, not material possessions.’

‘And you’ve never been tempted to stay in all those beautiful places you’ve visited, you’ve never once found somewhere you could call home?’

She smiled. ‘It doesn’t work like that for me. I have to travel for work. Being an author means doing lots of research. Wherever my story is set I always immerse myself in that place, eat, drink, sleep, breathe it until the story is finished and I move on to the next place. I’ve always worked like that, I probably always will.’

Suddenly a noise from above them disturbed their conversation.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueakBang.

They both looked up.

‘Twice!?’ she muttered. ‘Seriously? Do they not have a TV in their flat?’

SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueak, SqueakSqueakbang, SqueakSqueakBang, SqueakSqueakBang, SqueakSqueakBang, SqueakSqueakBang.

‘Oh!’

SqueakSqueakBang.

‘Oh!’

George chuckled. ‘They really are loud, aren’t they?’

She pulled a face.

‘Well come on, Lib, we can give them a run for their money.’ He stood up and pulled her towards her bedroom. Leaving her by the doorway he leaped onto her bed, jumping up and down on it like a trampoline. The bed made a satisfying squeaking sound and the headboard banged obligingly against the wall.

She laughed at him. ‘Oh George,’ she moaned loudly, from the doorway.

‘How long do you think my penis is?’ he hissed. ‘Get over here.’

She ditched her dressing gown and walked over to the bed.

‘Christ, Lib, we’re only pretending, you don’t have to get undressed.’ He stopped bouncing long enough to help her up onto the bed. They both started bouncing again.

‘Oh George,’ she shouted, ‘that feels so goooood.’

‘Oh Libby,’ he groaned.

‘George, harder George. Oh God that’s it George. GEORGE! Faster George.’

‘Libby, Libby, OH Libby.’ He started jumping faster.

‘Spank me George, spank me.’

He spluttered with laughter.

‘Oh.’