Christmas at Claridge's Read online

  ‘I’m way ahead of you, babes.’

  Clem turned in surprise. Stella was standing behind her, wearing the vintage black and red nurse’s cape she had decided upon as her pregnancy cover-up, and an intense expression Her colour was up and her breathing rapid.

  ‘Oh God,’ Clem exclaimed immediately worried and clasping Stella by the arms, trying to gauge her friend’s symptoms as she’d been taught in the ante-natal classes. ‘You haven’t started having contractions, have you? You can’t have your baby in the middle of Claridge’s lobby. It’s not like BA, Stell. They won’t give you free rooms for life you know . . .’

  Stella simply smiled and hooked her arm through Clem’s, wheeling her round to face the tree again.

  ‘What do you think?’ Clem whispered nervously, tilting her head to rest against Stella’s.

  ‘Stunning,’ Stella breathed, clutching her arm tightly. ‘I love the look of it as much as the idea.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ Clem said quietly, pushing one of the leather boxes with her finger so that it swung.

  ‘What’s your wish?’

  Clem shot her a pained look. ‘Don’t. You know perfectly well—’

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ Stella said quietly, turning her friend another 20 degrees.

  Clem felt the breath leave her.

  Stella leaned in so that her cheek was almost against Clem’s. ‘I found him on your doorstep last night; told him you were out on an all-nighter, so he stayed at mine,’ she whispered.

  Clem opened her mouth, but no words would come.

  ‘Worth the wait, I should say,’ Stella whispered, squeezing her arm lovingly before stepping back.

  Rafa, who’d been standing beside the bottom step, walked towards her. His tanned skin seemed darker than ever amidst all the pasty British winter complexions, and he was wearing a coat and black jeans, a grey cashmere scarf knotted at his neck in the way that only Italian men – even relatively scruffy ones like him – knew how to carry off. He seemed taller and his hair was longer than she remembered, falling into his eyes, which were hooded and wary upon her, as though she had startled him.

  They stared at each other in the long hanging silence that always came when their eyes met – words would never be enough – but they weren’t needed anyway. In the next moment, his hand closed around her wrist, pulling her to him, and his soft, full lips, which had denied her so much over the summer – a smile, a kind word – met hers, pushing her, tasting her, reclaiming her. She could feel traces of his anger still, but also his longing, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, riding the kiss as it told her all she’d ever wanted to know: that he loved her, always had, always would.

  He cupped her head, tipping her back, and she looked up at him as he pulled away as though checking she was real and not still the figure that walked through his dreams. ‘I could not lose you again.’ His voice was jagged and she saw the same haunted look in his eyes that she recognized in Luca’s.

  ‘You never did. I’ve never loved anyone but you.’

  Her words were like electric shocks to him, almost painful to hear, and clasping her face between his hands, he kissed her again, hard then sweetly, his beautiful mouth curling against hers into a delighted smile, a smile that was almost as welcome as his kisses.

  Something knocked against her feet and she looked down.

  A ball . . .

  A jolt of adrenaline arrowed through her as she looked up to find Chiara standing ten feet away, holding Luca’s hand. Her hands flew to her mouth to see her beautiful child suddenly so near, and she fell to her knees, wholly unable to stand, as he came slowly towards her. She found the ball though her eyes never left his, and she held it up as he stopped in front of her.

  ‘Is this yours?’ she whispered.

  Luca nodded but didn’t move to take it.

  ‘Am . . .’ She swallowed hard as tears filled her eyes. ‘Am I?’

  He blinked rapidly and she saw the faintest wobble of his bottom lip, her hand shooting out to cup his cheek, desperate to reassure him that he didn’t have to decide.

  ‘Yes.’ And before she could respond – before she could sigh, gasp or cry – his arms were around her neck, his face burrowed into her shoulder as he tried to hide the tears she could feel hiccupping through him.

  ‘Luca, my Luca,’ she whispered into his hair, rubbing his back as he tried to control his sobs, trying to be the big boy. ‘My darling child, my precious boy . . . I l–love you . . . so much. Every day I loved you.’

  Rafa crouched down next to them, his hand heavy and reassuring on Luca’s shoulder as the sobs kept on coming, his other hand in hers, their little family linked at last.

  She looked up at Chiara. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed to the friend who had schemed so cleverly all summer, constantly throwing her in the path of her son and forcing them to bond, to know each other, to laugh together, making it impossible for her to ever leave again. Chiara had succeeded in giving Clem what Rosa had known she needed all those years ago – a way back.

  ‘Did you see what I made?’ Clem whispered when Luca’s tears finally began to slow down, turning him gently towards the grand tree. ‘It’s a wishing tree, just for you.’

  He blinked in disbelief and looked at her. ‘For me?’

  She reached a hand out to the nearest branch and took one of the leather boxes. ‘Each box is to be filled with a wish. And you must write the first one.’ She reached in her jeans pocket for a pen and handed it to him. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to tell me what you’re wishing for this time.’ She smiled.

  There was a pause as the little boy thought. ‘You do not have to.’ Luca looked at her. ‘You already know.’

  ‘I do?’

  He nodded. ‘It is the same as yours.’

  At his words, the lead lining that had formed inside her ten years earlier melted away like ice cream in the sun. ‘Oh Luca . . .’

  Over his shoulder, Clem saw the lift doors open and Tom and her father step out, Tom pushing their mother’s wheelchair with adroitness and pride, her hands over her eyes.

  ‘Are you ready, Mu—? ’ Tom asked, stopping abruptly at the sight in front of the Christmas tree, his eyes immediately scanning the vast space for Chiara. His body softened as he found her gaze already upon him, promises in her smile.

  Without another word, Tom stopped their mother’s wheelchair in front of them, Edmund looking at Clem for confirmation of what he thought he was seeing. She gave a tiny nod, though her smile said it all, and she stood up, her hands in Rafa’s and Luca’s. Ready.

  ‘Can I open my eyes yet?’ her mother asked, oblivious to the silent conversations whizzing past her.

  Clem took a deep breath as Rafa squeezed her hand tightly in his. ‘Yes, Mum, you can look now.’

  Epilogue

  17 December 2015

  Dear Chiara,

  Greetings from Portofino!

  So, there’s eight sleeps to Christmas and you’re not going to believe this, but it snowed here last night! I know, I’m so jammy: my first Christmas here and it will be white. Rafa says it’s the first snow here since he was four! It’s made everything feel extra-Christmassy, and I was bad enough before. We’ve all put on weight from the amount of mince pies I’ve been making (Luca’s obsessed) and Rafa got really cross with me because I insisted we drive all the way to Rapallo yesterday for a tree. They did have some smaller ones in Santa Margherita but the shape wasn’t good enough and he just doesn’t appreciate that you have to get these details right.

  Anyway, I really hope the snow stays till you arrive next week. We made a snowman the second we woke up – it was Mediterranean-style with black olives for the eyes and mouth and that Missoni scarf of yours that you left behind. It was so fab. I’ve enclosed a photo of it for you.

  How’s work? Massive congrats on your promotion, by the way! Tom told me all about it. Junior exec. in just eighteen months – you must be doing something right! I just hope you’re not working too hard? We’ve fini
shed all the work on the hotel now. It was definitely the right thing to do, not opening this summer. We stripped everything right back and pretty much started from scratch. I can’t wait till you see it. The photos don’t do it justice.

  I have to admit I was a bit worried about what to do when the refurb was finished, because with the new management team sorted, it’s not like I’m needed for the day-to-day running of the hotel, but Chad came for dinner last week and guess what? He’s starting on a palazzo over in Monterosso in the new year, and he wants me to come in on it with him!

  It’s going to be so good to see you all, we just can’t wait. Luca’s counting the days. He’s really missed Dad since he went back in the autumn, they spent loads of time fishing together, and every time I saw them, they were talking and joking around. They’re so alike it’s ridiculous.

  As for me, I’m massive! Rafa can hardly get his arms around me. The doctor in the port gave Luca a stethoscope and he listens to his sister’s heartbeat every night before bed. It’s so sweet.

  Anyway, must stop nattering or we’ll have nothing to tell you when you get here. See you next week, masses of love,

  Your sister,

  Clem xxxx

  P.S. Can you have a word with Stella? She’s really convinced that neon is the way to go for midnight mass.

  Acknowledgements

  In part, the idea for this book was prompted by a trip I took to Italy last May to read at a prestigious literary festival in the spotlit ruins of Ancient Rome. It was one of the most daunting and spectacular nights of my life, and I will never forget it. I would like to offer thanks to Maria Ida, the festival organizer, and my Italian publishers, Newton Compton, for making everything feel so effortless – though I’m sure it can’t have been – and for making me feel so welcome, particularly Rafaello Avinzini, Anna Voltaggio and Fiammetta Biancatelli.

  It was on this trip that I visited Portofino, researching ideas for a possible book – I know, it was tough – and really fell in love with a country that I had been flirting with for years. But possibly the moment of capitulation happened in San Benedetto del Tronto, where I did a short book tour and was treated to Italian hospitality at its very best. Mimmo Minuto, Cinzia Carboni and Sandra Libbi, I will never forget your kindness and generosity, thank you so much!

  A huge debt is owed, as ever, to Amanda Preston, my long-suffering, chic, indomitable agent; to Jenny Geras for steering me so expertly into these deep, calm waters; to Caroline Hogg for taking the helm, and Jeremy Trevathan, Natasha Harding, Wayne Brookes, Katie James and the rest of the team at Pan for their unstinting support.

  But as ever, I’m saving the tears for my family. I’d like to thank my parents for the selfless support they gave me last year; my sister (even though she steals my clothes and teaches the children rude jokes); my children, who grow funnier, more delectable and – God help me, hungrier! – by the day, and last, but the opposite of least, my husband Anders, the best man I ever met.

  Karen Swan Author Q&A

  1) What inspired you to write Christmas at Claridge’s?

  Each book usually evolves in one way or another from the one preceding it, and in this instance, I wanted to write about a character who was everything that Laura, from The Perfect Present, wasn’t. Laura was an emotionally vulnerable character looking for safety in mediocrity and her journey was about finding the courage to embrace life again. This time round, I wanted to write about the girl who has it all – the charisma, the looks, the lifestyle, the background. Everybody loves her, but we quickly learn she’s vulnerable too. The difference is, her pain is her own fault. Her secret is a very dark one – almost unforgivable really – and the challenge for me was to try to ease the reader past the golden-girl image and encourage them to find a sympathy and understanding for her actions. It’s a book about forgiveness.

  2) Is the character of Clem based on anyone you know?

  No, but out of all my characters, she is the girl I would most like to be myself (her wardrobe, not her life). I really had her worked out in my head very early on. With some characters, it takes almost an entire book before I feel I know them – Laura in The Perfect Present for example, really only came together for me as I wrote the closing scenes – but I saw and understood Clem by the end of the first chapter. She pretty much came to me fully formed.

  3) What are your top tips for shopping at Portobello market?

  Always go on Fridays as that’s when the best stalls are up; carry cash; wear clothes you can change out of easily (most of the stalls share changing facilities that consist of little more than a woman shielding you with a coat!), and try to keep your hands free for rifling through the rails, so preferably carry a bag with a long strap that you can sling over your body.

  4) Was there a particular reason for setting part of this book in Italy?

  Well, partly I loved the fact that they are iconic locations, evocative the world over, and I know from the emails I get that my readers love being taken on journeys to glamorous places. But the main inspiration was that I started out loving the echo of the names: Portobello–Portofino. They sound so similar and yet are poles apart in terms of lifestyle and aesthetics: Portobello is gritty, urban, cool and young; Portofino is luxurious, sophisticated, European, old-world glamour. I kept thinking about how different the women would be from each place (a train-of-thought hangover from Christmas at Tiffany’s) and before I knew it, I was trying to come up with a character who could somehow belong to both.

  5) How did you become an author?

  Mainly due to persuasion, from people who know better than me, to have a go at writing stories! I was a journalist beforehand and had studied English at University, so I suppose becoming an author was a fairly predictable outcome, but it took me a long time to really believe I could think up stories, plots and characters that people would care about. Nothing thrills me more than when readers tell me I made them laugh or cry. It means they believed in the world I gave them on the page.

  6) Describe your typical working day

  It starts with the school run for my three children, then a walk in the forest with my two dogs, where I really let my mind wander into a lucid, free-thinking state. I’m not always trying to think about the book but that’s invariably where my mind ends up – focusing on plot niggles or what scene I have to write that day. I try to be sitting down and writing by 9.30 a.m. – fine, 10 a.m., then – but I’m up again at eleven for my first coffee of the day. I always get up and put the kettle on if I become stuck on something – moving around seems to help physically dislodge ideas that are stuck in my subconscious. I have to collect my daughter from school at 3 p.m.; the school is only a ten-minute drive away, but often I’ll be working until 2.49 p.m., desperate to get down just one more word. From then on, I’m just Mummy again until 9.30 a.m. the next morning. OK, 10 a.m., then. Whatever.

  7) Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

  Plenty! If you want to write a book, don’t talk about it, just do it. Don’t wait for inspiration to strike – it never does – the best ideas usually come whilst you’re writing something else, so force yourself to sit down and stare at the screen or page until something comes to you; it will, eventually. If an idea surprises you, explore it, go with it – if you’re surprised, your readers most likely will be, too. Finally, edit to the point of OCD and ask someone you can trust to be brutally honest, to read it. Kindness is no friend to an author.

  8) What do you hope readers will take away from your novels?

  Laughter, hope, and the feeling of having been in the company of good friends. All my characters feel like friends to me. I so wish they were real.

  9) What does Christmas mean to you?

  An obscenely early start, thanks to my over-excited children, cooking the turkey overnight in the Aga, my children wriggling around in the giant stockings I made for each of them for their first Christmas, and a smelly donkey being walked down the nave for the Christingle service on Christmas Eve. This year�
�s was particularly thrilling because, for the first time, the donkey properly lost its temper. No one listened to a word the poor vicar said about baby Jesus. The donkey was the star.

  10) Can you tell us a little bit about the book you will be writing next?

  It’s a summer book based around a group of strangers in a house-share in the Hamptons. My main character has a ‘family media’ company, cataloguing other peoples’ DVDs into short films, their photos into beautiful photo books and so on. Through this, she becomes intimately acquainted with the lives of people who remain strangers to her on the street. One family in particular draws her fascination, and as she trawls through their digital archives, she uncovers a private tragedy. Weaving around that will be a mix of glamour, romance and friendships set to backdrops of beach barbecues, polo parties and tennis tournaments.

  Players

  by

  Karen Swan

  ISBN: 978-1-4472-2373-3

  Friendships are strong. Lust is stronger . . .

  Harry Hunter was everywhere you looked – bearing down from bus billboards, beaming out from the society pages, falling out of nightclubs in the gossip columns, and flirting up a storm on the telly chat-show circuit.

  Harry Hunter is the new golden boy of the literary scene.

  With his books selling by the millions, the paparazzi on his tail and a supermodel on each arm, he seems to have the world at his feet. Women all over the globe adore him but few suspect that his angelic looks hide a darker side, a side that conceals a lifetime of lies and deceit.