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Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
Jaimie Admans
Don’t miss the enchanting holiday romance coming soon from the author of The Little Wedding Island!Pre-order now!
About the Author (#u71eb7b1a-daa0-5591-8c99-0a89d32b973c)
JAIMIE ADMANS is a 32-year-old English-sounding Welsh girl with an awkward-to-spell name. She lives in South Wales and enjoys writing, gardening, watching horror movies and drinking tea, although she’s seriously considering marrying her coffee machine. She loves autumn and winter, and singing songs from musicals despite the fact she’s got the voice of a dying hyena. She hates spiders, hot weather and cheese & onion crisps. She spends far too much time on Twitter and owns too many pairs of boots. She will never have time to read all the books she wants to read.
Jaimie loves to hear from readers, you can visit her website at www.jaimieadmans.com (http://www.jaimieadmans.com) or connect on Twitter @be_the_spark (http://www.twitter.com/be_the_spark).
Also by Jaimie Admans (#u71eb7b1a-daa0-5591-8c99-0a89d32b973c)
The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters
The Little Wedding Island
It’s a Wonderful Night
The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea
Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
JAIMIE ADMANS
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Jaimie Admans 2019
Jaimie Admans asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, 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.
E-book Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008331214
Version: 2019-08-28
Table of Contents
Cover (#u47606aaf-e9d9-59db-850a-5ce3c3e4a3d1)
About the Author
Also by Jaimie Admans
Title Page (#udf5330af-66e1-5886-bccb-7a9945ed1bb4)
Copyright (#u9f2fd2ad-26dc-5cd5-b8de-5b9a9fae6877)
Dedication (#u558322d6-955b-5bef-ab9d-b7d5da2f6137)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgements
A Letter from the Author
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
For my Little Bruiser Dog.
Thank you for making me smile every day for fifteen years.
I will miss you every day for the rest of my life.
Chapter 1 (#u71eb7b1a-daa0-5591-8c99-0a89d32b973c)
I am never drinking again.
Please tell me that pounding, throbbing sound is not coming from inside my own head. I peel one eye open and severely consider not bothering to open the other one.
I’m slumped on the living room floor and propped upright by the coffee table, with my face smooshed against the keyboard of my open laptop. My movement jogs the mouse and the dark screen comes back to life, and my eyes hurt at the sudden brightness. I wince and push myself away, instantly regretting it when my stomach rolls at the movement.
When I can bring myself to peer blearily at the screen, there are loads of new emails in my inbox – and most of the subject lines say ‘congratulations’. More spam, no doubt. ‘Congratulations, you’re the sole benefactor of a millionaire Nigerian prince, give us your bank details and we’ll pop a million dollars straight into your account. Totally legit, honest.’
There are three empty bottles of Prosecco beside me, and my phone is worryingly nearby. Why do I remember squealing ‘thank you, luffly robot voice, we’re moving to Scotland!’ into the phone at some unmentionable hour of the night? While sitting on the living room floor? With my computer? And my phone? I glance at the empty bottles again.
Oh god, Steve. On the desk in his office. With Lucia from accounting. That’s why I’d broken out the emergency Prosecco. And then the emergency emergency Prosecco. That bare bum thrusting in amongst the spreadsheets was enough to drive anyone to drink. I’d never seen it from that angle before. There in all its spotty, hairy glory. And all that grunting. Did he ever grunt like that with me? I’d always thought it was sexy, but when you walk into your boss’s office and find him humping your colleague on the desk, it sounds more along the lines of ‘stuck pig’. Which, conveniently, is exactly the way I described Steve yesterday, with a few choice swear words thrown in for good measure, as I clambered onto a filing cabinet and announced to the whole office what had been going on, quit my job, and stormed out with a satisfying door slam. I’d then sat in the fire escape stairwell and let the tears fall, hurt and annoyed at myself for trusting him. I hadn’t, at first. I knew he flirted with everyone and didn’t really believe he liked me, but he was so charming, so believable, and I’d let myself be taken in. Why did I ever think it would be a good idea to get into a relationship with my boss? Why did I ignore the rumours that circulated the office about him? Why did I drink three bottles of Prosecco last night? Why … wait, why does that email say ‘receipt for your payment’? I must’ve gone on eBay and bought another pair of shoes that look pretty but, in retrospect, were obviously designed for women much younger than me and with much slimmer feet and more attractive legs than mine, who also possess some ability to walk in heels, which I do not.
I squint and move closer to the screen. That email’s from an estate agent. Scottish Pine Properties. I recognise the name because I’ve been daydreaming about their listing for a Christmas tree farm all week …
I sit bolt upright, ignoring the spinning room and thumping head as I click on the email.
I didn’t … did I?
Dear Miss Griffiths,
I’m pleased to congratulate you on your purchase of Peppermint Branches Christmas Tree Farm. Thank you for your fast payment. I look forward to meeting with you to show you around your new property and hand over the keys. Please give my office a ring at your earliest convenience to arrange a meeting.
I did, didn’t I?
It suddenly comes back in a flood. Oh god, what have I done? Why did I think looking at the online auction for a Christmas tree farm that I’ve been fantasising about since the first moment I saw it was a good idea after so much Prosecco?
Why do I remember shouting ‘Hah! Up yours R-five-hyphens-81, it’s mine!’ at some ungodly hour of the morning, probably scaring a passing cat?
R-five-hyphens-81. The other bidder in the online property auction – privacy maintained by the website only allowing you to see the first and last letters of your opponent’s name. The buzz of the auction last night. Watching with bated breath as they put in a bid with ten minutes to go on the countdown timer. So I put in a bid. Then they put in another. And I added another. We went round in circles until there were four seconds left on the clock. I hit the button one last time. And I won it.
Now there’s a multitude of emails in my inbox that say things like ‘Congratulations on your purchase’ and ‘receipt for your payment.’ The automated phone call from the bank, the robot voice asking me to confirm that it wasn’t a fraudulent transaction, that it was really me requesting to transfer the small sum of fifty grand to Scottish Pine Properties in Aberdeen.
I’ve actually done it. I’ve spent almost all of Mum and Dad’s money on a Christmas tree farm. In Scotland. What was I thinking?
I glance at the empty bottles again. That Prosecco has got a lot to answer for.
Note to self: change security questions. Must be something unable to answer when drunk. The origins of pi or long division or something. Unfortunately I still remember my mother’s maiden name and my first school even after three bottles of fizzy wine.
You know how you get overexcited at eBay auctions and you only want that skirt if it doesn’t go above £1.50 and you’re there right at the end and people are bidding and suddenly you’ve won the thing for £29.77 and you’re absolutely exhilarated until the invoice email comes through, and you realise you do actually have to pay £29.77 plus postage for someone’s manky old skirt that’s probably got moth-eaten holes in it and stitching coming out, and when you get it, it smells of stale cigarette smoke and clearly has never met a washing machine before? This is like that, but I’ve bought a Christmas tree farm. This is so far removed from anything I’d ever normally even consider doing. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like a mistake. That money has been sitting in a savings account, waiting for something to happen to it. I wanted to make something of it, to use the money from the sale of Mum and Dad’s house to honour their memory or make them proud or something. I’ve never known what. That’s why I haven’t touched it since it came through.
Dad grew up in Scotland and always talked about selling their house and buying a farm there in their retirement. He always wanted to return to his Scottish roots. He never got a chance to live that dream. And as I stared at my laptop last night, that auction suddenly seemed like the answer. It wasn’t just because I was slightly worse for wear. It was because, without that Prosecco, I’d have talked myself out of it and convinced myself to do the sensible thing and not buy a Christmas tree farm in Scotland.
I should be terrified. I should be getting onto the estate agents and begging for a refund on the grounds of diminished capacity. Obviously, this is a mistake. Of course I don’t actually want a Christmas tree farm in Scotland. I live in the tiniest flat known to mankind in the centre of London. What am I supposed to do with Peppermint Branches Christmas tree farm in the little village of Elffield in the northernmost corner of Aberdeenshire?
That’s what I expect myself to be doing. But the very small part of me that doesn’t feel completely sick from the hangover is fluttering with excitement. I don’t want a refund. I don’t want to back out. I saw that auction over a week ago and have daydreamed about it ever since. How amazing would it be to own a Christmas tree farm? I’ve spent hours picturing wide open fields, rows of lush green trees, snowy ground, sleigh rides, and the scent of pine needles hanging in the air. Subconsciously, I knew exactly what time that auction ended. I didn’t inadvertently stumble across it just as it was ending, and accidentally enter a bidding war with the other anonymous bidder, driving the price up by a grand each time, until my final bid went in at £52,104. With estate agent fees and whatever other expenses will be added on, that leaves me with under £2000 left in my savings account for whatever investment the tree farm needs. The price was so close to the amount I got from the sale of Mum and Dad’s house that it’s almost like fate.
It wasn’t a drunken mistake. I wanted it, and in the cold light of day, I still do.
And coffee. I definitely want coffee.
***
‘A Christmas tree farm?’ My best friend, Chelsea, says incredulously as I put two pumpkin spice lattes down on the table between us. She deserves that much for abandoning her Saturday morning plans with her husband, Lewis, and coming out for a coffee with me.
‘I like Christmas and I like trees, so why not?’ I say with a nonchalant shrug. I don’t know why I’m trying to act like this isn’t a monumentally big life-changing thing.
‘Well, I like Easter eggs but I’m not going to go out and buy Cadbury’s.’
‘Now there’s a thought,’ I say, my mind drifting to daydreams of owning a chocolate factory. Now that’s the kind of property auction I should have waited for.
‘Leah …’ Chelsea taps the table in front of me to get my attention. ‘It’s in Scotland. You’re seriously going to move to Scotland?’
Like it’s a question I haven’t been asking myself all morning. It’s a big thing, but without Steve, without a job and without Mum and Dad two hours’ drive outside the city, what have I got to stay in London for? Chelsea is the only person I’d miss, and it’s not like we’d lose touch. The more I think about it, the question changes from why I’d move to Scotland to why I’d stay here.
‘I’m stagnating here,’ I say eventually. ‘Since my parents died, I’ve been standing still, waiting for something to happen. I thought that something was Steve, but it clearly wasn’t. And now what? Back to the job centre to hunt for another mind-numbing data entry clerk role that gradually sucks the life out of me day by day? And let’s face it, I’m not exactly going to get a glowing reference from my boss, am I? Not after I stood in front of the whole office and invited him to do unpleasant things to himself with a turnip. And definitely not after I poured a hot cup of coffee down his neck and probably scalded his willy which was still waving about all over the place, and then topped it off by storming out without formally handing in my notice. What’s he going to say to my next potential employer? “Oh yeah, hire Leah, she’s great for a quick fumble behind the photocopier but don’t let her catch you humping the head accountant if you prefer your willy un-scalded.”’
Chelsea laughs and I sigh. ‘After the initial shock of Mum and Dad, the weeks of paperwork and organising funerals and then probate and solicitors and clearing the house and everything … I’ve been motionless, waiting for the punchline to this terrible joke I’m trapped in while life moves on around me. I’m like one of those stagnant ponds full of dead reeds. There might actually be insects living in me.’
‘If there’s green slime, you really need to get that checked out by a doctor.’
‘Ha ha,’ I say, even though I’m trying not to smile. I’m pleasantly surprised that Chels hasn’t told me I’m insane. She knows how I’ve been feeling, but I still expected her to tell me I’m mad for spending so much – literally my parents’ legacy – on a drunken whim, and doing something that will change my life without thinking it through. But I had thought it through. I’ve been thinking of nothing but that auction since the moment I saw a quirky news story about a Christmas tree farm being up for sale last week.
‘What happened with Steve? I thought you really liked him until that series of very drunken text messages you sent me in the middle of the night.’
I cringe.
‘Don’t worry, they were so badly misspelled that even autocorrect had given up. I thought things were going well with him?’
‘Yeah. Turns out things were going well for him and Lucia in accounting too. And Amanda in customer service. And Linda in acquisitions. Even Penny in printing had photocopied their bum cheeks together.’ I tell her the whole sorry story about walking into his office to find him giving the aforementioned Lucia a right good accounting to on his desk with his trousers round his ankles, complete with grotty underwear on show. Why did I never notice his ugly boxer shorts before? ‘I was too trusting. I mean, who really falls for their boss and expects it to work out? It’s a fantasy, isn’t it? I should never have let myself believe it … but I was so lonely that being with him was better than nothing.’ I bite the inside of my cheek as tears threaten to fall again. I can’t possibly cry over him any more than I did yesterday.
She makes a noise of sympathy and I wonder if I shouldn’t have said it. She’s been amazing since my parents died, she’s stayed overnight at my flat on more than one occasion, she’s offered to let me stay with her and Lewis, she’s dropped plans just to sit in my living room and keep me company because I didn’t know what to do. I tried to carry on with normal life while this gaping hole was still inside me, and then Steve got promoted into my department at work and flirted outrageously and it was nice to feel something again, anything. Harmless fun, innuendo in professional emails, the odd stolen snog in the stationery supplies cupboard, a cheeky raised eyebrow in a meeting that set off a round of giggles. Looking back, I see I wasn’t the only one giggling. Other girls went to get a lot of supplies and it took them a mysteriously long time too. I knew that. And I still trusted him.
‘You seem remarkably okay with it?’ Chels ventures.
