Page 11 of The Christmas Highland Lodge

He had only just turned sixty.

Mum and I blundered around in a dazed grieving fog. The local community rallied round. We had deliveries of flowers, hot meals left on the doorstep, offers of errands, and cards telling us what we already knew but that we appreciated and wanted to read anyway – that Tom Grant had been a gentle giant and that the mould had been well and truly broken when he was made.

His friends and colleagues in the construction industry were forever on the phone, checking to see how we were coping and offering their help.

Both of us were thankful to have Christmas Crackers to seek refuge in.

Visions of my late dad floated in front of my eyes, as my cursor hovered over the hotel reception vacancy on the job website. It wasn’t ideal – it was less money of course – but the Heather Hill Hotel was very plush and it was only a fifteen-minute walk away from my flat. At least it would bring in some money and I would be nearby for Mum, until I could get my head around all of this and sort myself out.

I speed-read the job notice again, mentally ticking off the attributes they were looking for. I was presentable (most of the time) organised and was well versed in dealing with the public. I also knew the area well, should tourists interrogate me about places of interest, and I had a degree, even if it was in interior design and not hospitality or business.

I clicked on the link and took another gulp from my wine glass. If anybody from Archibald Strang Limited had been standing in front of me right now, I wouldn’t have been responsible for my actions. How your life can change in such a short space of time.

No relationship and now I wouldn’t be the owner of Christmas Crackers.

When we split, Kyle had announced that we were two very different people (boy, you could say that again) and that it would be best if we called it a day.

And to think that at one time, I had wondered if I might become Mrs Lottie Foster! Talk about dodging a bullet.

Strange thing was, six weeks after we split, I discovered he had been sleeping with Tula Lennox, a local part-time model and one of Santa’s helpers in the Craig Brae Father Christmas Grotto.

He couldn’t have been that averse to a bit of festive fun then.

When it all came out about their affair, Kyle and Tula packed up their rake and elf tights and took off to live together in Glasgow.

After that fiasco, my wounded pride and I decided to concentrate on building up the shop’s profile and concluded that I didn’t seem to have much of a future in terms of romance. I was far better off throwing myself into my career and putting all my energies into the love of my life that never let me down: Christmas.

I had a far better and more rewarding relationship with the festive season than I had with my love life.

But then again, now that I’d lost Christmas Crackers, that wasn’t turning out so well either!

I glanced around at my cosy two-bedroom flat. It overlooked a section of the local park and beyond that, the view from the sitting room window provided a tantalising glimpse of treetops and the claret and dark-chocolate hillsides.

Well, I had to find another job.

My mind turned over all the hard work Mum, Dad and I had put into my flat. I couldn’t lose my home because of a ridiculous sense of petulance and pride. I needed to maintain an income. I’d lived here in my flat for a couple of years now, ever since taking on the mantle of managing Christmas Crackers. Before I bought it, it had belonged to an elderly lady who was struggling to remain living independently, so her family took the difficult decision to move her into residential accommodation.

A swell of injustice promised to swamp me again, but I gave myself a stern mental shake. Come on, Lottie. You’ve got a job application to compose.

I straightened my back and decided to just get on with it.

* * *

‘I’m so sorry Lottie,’ burst out Mrs Crill the next morning, as she served me in the bakery, Sugar ‘n’ Spice, a few doors down from Christmas Crackers. ‘I’ve just heard about the shop.’

I managed to smile. ‘Thank you.’

She folded her arms against her floral apron from behind the cake-festooned glass counter. ‘Terrible business. Some of these landlords have no morals.’ She hesitated. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m gossiping…’

Ah, here it goes.

‘But that pharmacy chap said there are rumours Vivian Sangster has met some handsome American and she’s moving to California with him. Is that true?’

‘Good old Mr Frew. Yes. All true.’

Mrs Crill gasped. ‘Oh well. Good for her. That toerag of an ex-husband of hers treated her like a bloody workhorse.’ She flashed me a sympathetic look. ‘So, what happens now?’

I shrugged my shoulders under my padded winter jacket. ‘We’ve just got to push on for the next few weeks, until the shop closes for good on 31st December.’