How to be Angry at Christmas

By Beth Rain

Holly Billingham is in seventh heaven - it's her favourite time of year – and she's determined to celebrate it properly. Her pine-scented house is festooned with tinsel and dripping with mistletoe… and no, she won't apologise!

All this sparkle is for her. Just her. And that's okay. Really it is.

Holly had almost forgotten what it felt like to celebrate Christmas. Her ex-husband, Colin, was the biggest scrooge she'd ever met. Now that she's finally free of him - she's got a lot of making up to do for all those barren, tinsel-free years.

Bouncing into Billingham's Finest Chocolates, Holly can't quite wrap her head around why everyone else looks like they've been bitten on their behinds by something far less fun than the festive spirit.

Her grandad's gorgeous little chocolate factory is her favourite place on earth. Sure… it's taking her a while to get to grips with the fact that it's her factory now… but she's sure the rest of them will warm to her… eventually!

Her grandad's old workforce is a well-oiled machine – admittedly one that still runs on steam power – but they know better than her how to handle the holiday rush. Holly's determined not to get in the way… until she hears something less-than-festive muttered on the breeze… something to do with Colin.

Cue one seriously cute locksmith, an ancient Labrador with a thing for Christmas jumpers, and a whole lot of yuletide chaos as Holly makes it her mission to ensure that even the most ardent grump feels the full force of her season's greetings.

A feisty, funny, festive romance... for anyone in serious need of some holiday spirit! For fans of Heidi Swain, Holly Martin and Polly Babbington.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beth Rain
• Release date: Nov 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798227972026

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

’TIS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY, BUT IF YOU'RE NOT FEELING IT – LET THE BAH HUMBUGS OUT TO PLAY!

‘I know you’re up here somewhere!’

I eyeball the deep darkness in front of me, doing my best not to wobble. My legs are starting to shake and my kneecaps are protesting from being rammed against a rung as I attempt to stay anchored to the ladder.

I’m halfway through the hatch that leads to the attic, peering into the chilly gloom ahead of me. What on earth was I thinking, coming up here in the middle of the night?! A shiver tiptoes down my spine. Maybe this isn’t such a great idea after all? Shapes loom in front of me and my breath catches in my throat. I really don’t like this.

I’ve got two choices - I could chicken out and head straight back downstairs. It’s warm down there and there’s a mostly-decorated Christmas tree waiting to greet me. Or… I could woman-up and get on with my mission.

Option two. It has to be option two!

I haul myself through the hatch onto the dusty boards and take a long, slow, calming breath. I’ll find that package if it’s the last thing I do!

‘Worst choice of words ever!’ I gulp, fumbling around for the heavy torch I tossed up here before white-knuckling my way up the ladder.

As my fingers find its reassuring bulk, I hurry to flick the switch - desperate for the comfort of some light. The narrow beam does little to calm my fears… if anything, it makes the attic look even more like the set of a horror movie.

I swallow as a headless dressmaker’s dummy catches my eye.

‘Come on Holly,’ I mutter. ‘It’s just an attic!’

Just a dusty, dark, slightly creaky attic. There isn’t anything to be scared of up here. That dummy – or Freaky Frieda as my best friend Linda named her - is nothing more than a reminder of a hobby that lasted all of three seconds. Oh - and the fact that I really shouldn’t be allowed access to my credit cards after watching TV programs full of super-crafty people who just happen to be ridiculously talented too.

I am not crafty… and the less said about my talents - or lack thereof - the better!

‘Focus Holly!’

All I need to do is find the package I came up here for and then I can hot-foot it back downstairs. I might even treat myself to a sherry as a reward for my bravery. Or… another sherry I should say!

Scrambling to my feet, I keep my head slightly bent so that I don’t end up headbutting one of the low rafters. I swing the heavy torch in a giant arc, doing my best to illuminate as much of the attic as I can in one go. Dusty boxforts jump out at me from every direction as I do my best to get my bearings.

‘Don’t freak out, don’t freak out!’ I chant in a kind of mantra as my eyes rake the jumble in front of me.

Okay, I know I’m being ridiculous right now. This is my cottage and I’m a grown woman. But… to be fair… I’ve recently come to the conclusion that this doesn’t mean the same thing as grown-up - as evidenced by my incredibly dodgy decision to climb a rickety ladder and embark on a solo adventure to the attic when there’s no one else around.

Still… that’s the joy of being single, isn’t it? There’s never anyone around these days… other than old Eileen in the cottage next door, and I doubt she’d be able to hear me if I did need to shout for help!

I have to admit – coming up here on my own is a bit of a… bold move. Especially as it’s gone midnight and I’ve been quite enthusiastic about toasting Grandpa Alf’s memory with his favourite sherry while trimming my Christmas tree.

That’s what kicked off this little adventure in the first place. Waiting for me downstairs is the first Christmas tree I’ve had in years. A proper, real tree. The kind my idiot ex wouldn’t let anywhere near the house. It’s big and bushy and smells divine – and it deserves the best of the best when it comes to baubles. Unfortunately for me – those are hiding up here somewhere in one of these boxes. It’s where I stashed all Gramps’s things when I lost him… so they’ve got to be here somewhere!

I take another deep, calming breath and then promptly start to cough as I inhale about a decade’s worth of dust.

‘Nice!’ I splutter. ‘Very calming!’

The sooner I get this done, the better. I turn to the stack of boxes closest to me and do my best to hold the torch steady so that I can see what’s scrawled on them in thick, black marker.

‘Colin kitchen. Colin toys. Colin personal!’ I mutter as my eyes become accustomed to the half-light. You know, I could swear I told that cheating, conniving-

I take another deep breath and cough again. There’s no point getting worked up. I refuse to get angry – it’s just not my style. But I distinctly remember threatening my ex-husband with a skip if he didn’t remove all his shi- rubbish before the end of September.

It’s now December.

Late enough in December that we’re coming up to the last Christmas posting date. It’s definitely time for that skip… or maybe I could have a bonfire instead - that would be a lot more fun!

Either way, it’s not going to help me right now, is it?! The fact that there’s still a ton of Colin’s junk up here is just going to make my mission even harder. I aim a little kick at one of his boxes as I creep past them towards a pile of old suitcases.

‘Git!’ I mutter.

Considering this is my first Christmas on my own, I’ve been doing pretty well at keeping all thoughts of my idiot ex-husband firmly at bay so far. Or almost-ex, I should say. The divorce is well and truly underway - but I can’t wait to get that final paperwork signed, sealed and settled. I know there’s not much chance of it happening in time for Christmas now, but still… a girl can dream. It would certainly be a much better present than the one I got last year!

‘Deck the halls with boughs of HOLLY!’

Even though the horrifically off-key warble comes out of my own mouth, it’s so loud in the confined space that I jump and send a stack of old diaries tumbling off their perch.

‘Idiot!’ I laugh.

The loud noise does the trick, though – for a moment or two, at least. I’ve managed to banish the collywobbles and - more importantly - I’m not thinking about him anymore. I’m right in the middle of spending a pretty magical evening in my own company - and there’s no way I’m going to let that good-for-nothing grinch ruin my twinkle-fest. Not this year!

‘Fa la la la LAAA!’ I add for good measure, scootching down so that I can rummage through some smaller packages that have been shunted right to the edge of the space under the eaves. None of them look quite right, though. I’ve got a feeling I’ll know the box I’m looking for the minute I spot it. After all – Gramps wrapped it, so it’s bound to be covered in his signature brown paper and knotted-string combo!

Even so, I flip open one of the flaps on the box nearest to me and do my best to angle the torchlight so that I can peep inside. Nope. It looks like it’s just a nest of spare tea towels.

Scuttling backwards like a crab, I straighten up as far as I can without getting covered in cobwebs. Then I let out a huge yawn for good measure. I’m tired, and the idea of disappearing back downstairs is getting more tempting by the second.

I’d forgotten how much of Gramps’s stuff I stashed up here without sorting through it. At the time, I just didn’t have it in me – not with my marriage busily imploding just to add to my misery.

‘I’m not giving up!’ I huff, even as I realise it could take forever to find what I’m looking for up here. But… I’m not a quitter! I’ve promised myself a wonderful Christmas – and Christmas won’t be Christmas without this final festive touch.

I turn towards the monstrous mannequin at the far end of the attic and roll my eyes. It’s bound to be over there somewhere, isn’t it? As much as I hate the idea, it looks like I’m going to have to get up close and personal with Freaky Frieda.

‘Come on Gramps, help me find it so I can go back downstairs!’ I whisper, creeping across the creaking boards as though I might disturb the snoozing mannequin if I’m too loud.

I climb carefully over a pink plastic washing basket filled to the brim with ancient VHS tapes. Why I saved this lot is anyone’s guess… maybe it’s not just Colin who needs a bit of skip-action in the new year!

Grabbing the frayed handle of a giant, squashy laundry bag, I’m just about to start shifting it out of the way when my foot catches in the corner of an old, motheaten throw, and I give it an almighty yank. There’s an ominous grinding sound.

‘Noooo!’ I gasp, dropping the torch as I turn to lunge for the ornate mirror that must have been hiding underneath the dusty cloth. I just manage to catch it before it crashes face-down onto the boards.

Phew – disaster averted!

Getting a better grip on its heavy wooden frame, I shift the mirror and lean it safely against yet another stack of cardboard boxes. I’m just about to cover it with the throw again when I catch sight of something reflected in its depths. Right at Freaky Frieda’s feet – illuminated perfectly by the beam of light from my dropped torch – is a box. It’s covered with faded brown paper, held in place by several loops of knotted string.

‘Bingo!’ I say with a grin. ‘Cheers Gramps!’

CHAPTER TWO

ANGER IS LIKE SHERRY - TOO MUCH, AND YOU'LL REGRET IT!

The minute my feet leave the ladder and hit cosy hallway carpet, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve made it out of the attic in one piece, and what’s more – so has my precious package! For a second, I stand and stare at the ladder. It wouldn’t hurt just to leave it where it is and put it away in the morning, would it?

‘Maybe not!’ I mutter as an image of Freaky Frieda making a break for freedom pops into my head. Without wasting another second, I release the catches and fold the ladder up out of the way. Then - with much grunting and a couple of less-than-festive swear words thrown in for good measure – I manage to wiggle the hatch cover back into position, blocking her escape route.

‘Ha! So long Frieda!’ I say, shooting a triumphant little salute at the ceiling before grabbing my box again and heading for the stairs.

As soon as I catch sight of my newly-Christmassyfied bannisters, the last of the shivery, dusty darkness falls away. I grin at my gorgeous decorations. Sure, they might be a little bit wonky here and there, but I’m super-chuffed with them. They are… a lot! I’m pulling out all the stops this year. Now there’s no one here to stop me – I can finally let my little festive freak flag fly!

Floating down the stairs, I brush my hand lightly over the tartan garlands dotted with golden pinecones and fresh, deep-green boughs. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve properly celebrated Christmas.

What was I thinking?

I know hindsight is a wonderful thing, but I’m not sure I’d have agreed to marry Colin in the first place if I’d realised how much the idiot hates Christmas! He is anti-decorations, anti-presents, and definitely anti-fun! The man has this incredible ability to suck all the joy out of my favourite time of year…okay, okay - out of any time of year, if I’m being completely honest!

Of course – his shenanigans last Christmas were his pièce de résistance – a true masterpiece in misery.

‘Anyway, moving on!’ I say in a loud, cheerful voice. Sure… it’s a little bit forced, but I’m done wasting any more time thinking about him. Plus, I’ve got a tree to finish off… and what a tree it is!

Getting the ginormous Norwegian Spruce home from the Christmas market was interesting, to say the least. The guys I bought it from were very helpful and tied it to the top of the car for me. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite factor in the fact that I’d have to drag it back down on my own. It was… an experience - one I’ll be reminded of every time I