A Christmas Gift
Copyright
Published by Avon, an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Sue Moorcroft 2018
Cover illustration © Carrie May 2018
Cover design © Head Design 2018
Sue Moorcroft 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.
Source ISBN: 9780008260071
Ebook Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008260088
Version 2018-09-17
Dedication
To every wonderful member of my street team
Team Sue Moorcroft
with grateful thanks for your support.
You rock!
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Sue Moorcroft
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Georgine tied the laces of her running shoes, keeping one anxious eye on the patterned glass in her front door and the two manly shapes silhouetted by November sunlight.
One of them knocked with measured movements. ‘Miss France? Miss France? Come to the door, please.’ Then he muttered something to his companion.
The companion answered clearly, ‘Not giving up yet,’ and leant on the doorbell, raising his voice above the sound. ‘If you could just open the door, Miss France, we won’t keep you long.’
Everything about the men and their insistence said ‘debt collectors’. Even though she knew they weren’t as bad as bailiffs, who could lawfully gain entry, they raised too many horrible memories for her to open the door, even just to say that Aidan no longer lived with her. She wouldn’t have expected to be believed, anyway.
Heart tumbling, she fumbled herself into her running jacket and gloves, then checked her backpack for the Christmas student show production file. Yep, there was its pretty Christmassy cover, nestling on top of her distinctly less-Christmassy work clothes. Quietly, she swung the backpack onto her shoulders and let herself silently out of the back door, heaving a sigh of relief as she turned the key. The debt collectors would have to come up the footpath behind the terraced houses on Top Farm Road and climb her six-foot fence to see her here. She hoped they wouldn’t, because that was the route she was about to use to escape.
Breath forming a white cloud, she loped across the lawn, every grass blade rimed with frost and squeaking beneath her feet. A run and jump onto a garden chair and her gloves found enough purchase on the top of the ice-beaded fence to allow her to swing a leg over the top, then she was up, over and jogging along the footpath.
When she reached the point where Scott Road met Top Farm Road she lengthened her stride. She’d intended to drive to work until her unwanted callers had planted themselves between her and her elderly hatchback, but it was exhilarating to race through the zing of frost on the morning air. Any number of men could bang on her door all day long without bothering her.
Her breath came easily as she found her rhythm, legs carrying her out of the Bankside estate, soon reaching the last houses of Middledip village. The pavement petered out and her comfortably worn running shoes began slapping the road. She tried to concentrate on thinking about props for the Christmas show, but every time a car whooshed past she hopped onto the verge and held her breath in case it was the debt collectors and they’d somehow guess she was the Miss France they’d been trying to speak to.
It was a relief, when she’d covered a mile or so, to swing left beneath an iron arch bearing a white sign with black writing:
ACTING INSTRUMENTAL
Performing Arts College
Sanctuary. A place where she could leave reality behind. Her running feet ate up the final few hundred yards as she wove through students ambling along the drive, chatting or heads down over their phones.
One called, ‘Good mawnin’, Mizz Jaw-Jean,’ in a pretty fair Midwest American accent.
Laughing breathlessly, she raised a gloved hand. The student, Isla, was not only a drama student at Acting Instrumental, but the daughter of Sian from Georgine’s own schooldays. Her schoolmates in the huge comprehensive school in the nearby town of Bettsbrough had loved to rib her with awful parodies of her American father’s soft Georgia drawl. She wished she had a pound for every time her teenaged self had heard it. It might pay off the scary men at her door – if it had been her debt they were trying to collect. Which it wasn’t.
She’d honestly thought she’d finally be OK for money when she landed the job of events director at Acting Instrumental three years ago, but what with Georgine’s dad and her sister, Blair, needing support at different times, and Aidan falling apart upon being made redundant, which had led to the current financial mess … Still, never a day passed without her thanking her stars that she hadn’t been daunted by the formal language in the ad for an events director of student productions. What her role actually required her to be was stage manager, producer, hand-holder, bridge-builder and breach-filler.
Georgine specialised in that kind of role.
She veered towards the main building. Barely slowing as she yanked off her backpack, she touched her pass to the card reader. The door clicked a greeting and glided aside.
The first person her gaze fell on was Norman Ogden, the principal of Acting Instrumental, strolling past the as yet naked Christmas tree in the foyer at his usual deceptive pace. Peering from under his fringe, he reminded Georgine of an enormous
schoolboy who’d found an adult set of clothes and tried them on. ‘Cold enough for snow,’ she panted, to draw her boss’s attention away from the fact that she only had a few minutes in which to change out of her running gear before work.
‘A snow day to keep us at home would probably suit the students,’ he responded good-naturedly. ‘Need a catch-up. Quick meeting, you and me, ten minutes, my room?’
‘Great,’ she replied as she jogged towards the staff area, suppressing the urge to point out that she was busy, busy, busy as it was just six weeks until opening night of A Very Kerry Christmas, Uncle Jones, this year’s Christmas show by the top year students. It would be her sixth show since she’d come to the college.
And she had to phone Aidan to give him a giant bollocking about responsibility dodging. It was more than time for him to man up. She sighed as she reached the female staff locker room. Left over from when the house had been a luxury private residence, the locker room had a sumptuous pale grey marble shower room attached.
Queen of the lightning-fast shower, she switched on the water, wriggled out of her running kit and hung it on the radiator so it wouldn’t be clammy for the run home, and jumped into the spray. Soon she was dressing in the clean clothes she unrolled from her backpack. Two further minutes with hairbrush, tinted moisturiser and mascara wand and she was ready to start her day.
As she emerged into the corridor, students were streaming towards rehearsal rooms or first sessions, crowding her with their backpacks and instrument cases and confining her pace to what she thought of as ‘the student shuffle’.
Chatter and laughter rippled through the air. Georgine smiled. She loved this time of year. Halloween and bonfire night had passed and now the students were looking towards the main event of the term: Christmas. Already posters advertising A Very Kerry Christmas, Uncle Jones were appearing in Middledip, Bettsbrough and even as far afield as Peterborough.
Some of the students called, ‘Hey, Georgine!’ and she returned their greetings, only pausing when a tall, solemn youth with a guitar-shaped gig bag on one shoulder fixed his gaze on her and announced sternly, ‘Got me grade seven acoustic guitar.’
Not fooled by the unsmiling delivery from Tomasz, a student generally held to be ‘challenging’, she raised her hand for a high-five. ‘Fantastic, Tomasz! That’s awesome!’
‘I’ll get a stiffycut.’ Tomasz’s heritage might be Polish but his accent was pure Bettsbrough. He performed his part in the high-five as if obliged to humour her, but triumph shone in his eyes before he turned away.
Georgine was still grinning at his pronunciation of ‘certificate’ when she reached the office suite, calling ‘Morning!’ to Fern as she passed through the admin office and reached the door marked Norman Ogden at 8.30 a.m. precisely.
‘C’mon in,’ Oggie called genially and gestured towards one of the tub chairs that stood around his desk. ‘Tell me all the news.’
Georgine settled herself in the brown chair. She was long past hunting for hidden meaning in Oggie’s habit of opening meetings with informal questions, knowing he’d listen with apparently equal interest to progress reports, student concerns, personal news or downright gossip. Previous years working in mainstream schools as a teaching assistant or arts support staff had made Georgine deeply appreciative of a head like Oggie.
She knew if she told him about the men banging on her door he’d instantly offer any support he could, but she felt sick just at the idea of sharing such shaming information, so she got straight down to business. ‘Tomasz has passed grade seven acoustic guitar. He’s waiting for his certificate.’
Oggie gave several claps of his big hearty hands. ‘I’ll find him later to offer congratulations. He seems to have settled a bit this term.’
Georgine nodded. ‘Because it’s his second year, maybe.’ Knowing Oggie would want an update on the progress of the show, she opened her file and reported speedily on music, dance and drama rehearsals, winding up with finance. ‘I’ve negotiated a better discount with the Raised Curtain by supplying our own lighting and sound crews from the theatre-tech students. It’ll be great experience.’ Experience was a buzzword at Acting Instrumental.
She closed the file and shifted to the edge of her chair ready to get on with her day. A Christmas musical-theatre piece was a fantastic showcase of student abilities and evidence for their courses, but it meant a lot of sweat from the events director.
Oggie stretched and settled more comfortably. ‘A new guy’s joining us today and I’d like to introduce you.’
Georgine sat back in her chair again. ‘A staff member? I didn’t know you were recruiting.’
Oggie made a vague cycling motion of his hands. ‘Not formally. But when the right person comes up … I know Joe will make a valuable contribution.’
‘I’m sure,’ she replied politely. ‘What’s his role?’
Oggie’s eyebrows lifted as he considered her question. ‘To be defined. He has broad experience with contemporary bands – road manager and drum technician, and so forth. He could be helpful with lighting rigs and sound desk. I’ll call him in. He’ll have to be accompanied everywhere he might encounter students until his DBS comes through, so I’m landing him on you for a bit.’
Georgine didn’t protest, not just because Oggie was the boss, but because he was the best boss in the world and must have good reason to bring in someone who hadn’t got his Disclosure and Barring Service certificate in order, so she didn’t even look at her watch as he made a call. ‘Joe? Ready for you. Come to reception and Fern will see you to my room.’
It was typical of Oggie to say ‘room’ rather than ‘office’. Georgine had never heard him refer to himself as ‘principal’ and he expected students to address staff by first names. Staff and students alike called him Oggie.
She was roused from these reflections as Oggie’s gaze shifted to the doorway. He smiled. ‘C’mon in, Joe.’
Georgine turned in her seat to offer a friendly greeting. ‘Hi. I’m Georgine France.’
The tall, clean-shaven man with a brutally short haircut blinked at her through thin-rimmed glasses. His expression froze. Then he cleared his throat and muttered, ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe Blackthorn,’ before nodding politely and seating himself in one of the other chairs.
Oggie embarked on outlining to Joe the role Georgine held at Acting Instrumental. Though Georgine played her part in the conversation, warm and welcoming, she was intrigued by the strained behaviour of her new colleague. Somehow, she expected tall, handsome men to be bursting with confidence, yet this one was behaving as if he was suffering severe anxiety. It might explain why Oggie would choose a low-key and unorthodox induction to their establishment.
‘So, Joe,’ Oggie wound up. ‘Stick with Georgine for now. She’ll give you a quick tour and an idea of how we do things.’ Oggie raised his dark eyebrows. ‘That OK? Great.’
Joe evidently understood they were being dismissed and rose, murmuring, ‘Thanks for giving up your time,’ in Georgine’s direction.
Swooping up her file, Georgine replied, ‘Not a problem,’ though having to keep him with her or pass him like a baton to another staff member just added to her load. ‘If we start in the new block, we can finish in this building.’
‘Sure.’ He stood back to let her lead him out to the glass corridor that linked the buildings and gave them a view of a paved area currently empty of anything but benches, flower tubs and twinkling frost.
At the end of the corridor, Georgine turned to her near-silent companion, noticing the way he kept one step behind, as if it was uncomfortable to let his soulful brown eyes meet her gaze. Lifting her voice over a sudden burst of drumming, she said, ‘This block holds sound studios and rehearsal rooms.’ The drumming paused, and the sound of an argument took its place, culminating in a snarled, ‘Tosser! You knew that was mine.’
‘Whoops!’ Georgine quickly followed the sound through a doorway and found a group of teenagers surrounding two gangly lads squaring up
to each other, faces red and eyes glittering. One of them was Tomasz, whose good mood over his ‘stiffycut’ appeared not to have lasted.
‘No tutor here yet, guys?’ she asked calmly.
Both heads swivelled her way, faces wearing matching expressions of dismay. Tomasz rubbed his ear sheepishly. ‘Not yet.’
‘We’re waiting for Errol for Music Industry,’ volunteered the other, backing away as if the field of battle had nothing to do with him.
Georgine treated each to a keen stare. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here any time. You don’t need me to wait with you. Do you?’
Both lads flushed and shook their heads.
Georgine beamed. The other students had fallen back to sit on tables or rummage through backpacks. ‘Everybody OK? See you later, then.’ She returned to Joe in the corridor.
He glanced towards the now subdued room they were leaving behind. ‘Do you need to wait for their tutor?’
‘It’s not how we generally do things. The tallest one, Tomasz, can’t always afford things like guitar strings and he gets protective of his possessions, but Oggie likes to treat the students like adults as far as possible. I think they’ll be OK now they’ve let off steam.’ She opened a pair of doors.
‘Oggie was always good at treating kids as if each one mattered.’ Joe stepped into the lofty hall beyond the doors.
Georgine followed him in. ‘Did you work at Oggie’s last place? I know he was head of a big academy in Kent.’
Joe looked away. ‘He taught at my school in Surrey when I was a teen. He put on the plays and concerts and I did scenery shifting and stuff. It took me a while to fit in, but Oggie helped. I kept in touch with him through college and we became friends over the years.’