The Great Christmas Knit Off by Alexandra Brown Read Free Book Online

into the enormous squishy bed in my ditsy floral-themed bedroom.
    After Clive and I had made it back down the tiny stairs and into the saloon bar area earlier, the woman in the poncho, who it turns out is called Molly and has a pet ferret which she walks around the village on a lead – it was under the pub table apparently, and I didn’t even notice – anyway, she’s Cooper’s wife, and she kindly rang the only B&B for miles around. It’s located in the valley on the far side of the village and doubles as a hair salon too, apparently. As luck would have it, there was one room left, and dogs are very welcome, so Pete, who I later found out farms cattle – ‘three fields over near Cherry Tree Orchard which supplies apples to all the major supermarkets’ – loaded me, Basil and my suitcase into the cab of his tractor, I kid you not, and then trundled us all the way down the hill in the snow and right up to the front door that doubles up as the B&B and hair salon reception.
    So now I’m wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe trying not to think about the contents of my suitcase. All of my clean clothes, pyjamas, underwear – the whole lot’s soaked in red wine.
Ruined
. Even my almost-finished knitting project, a lovely little Christmas pudding, is now stained a vivid claret colour and stinks like a barrel of rotten grapes. The top on the bottle wasn’t screwed on properly so had come off and seeped wine into everything. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, in my rush to escape London and the wrath of Mr Banerjee, I left my make-up bag and hairbrush behind on the hall table, so I will now have to spend the whole weekend wearing my super warm, fleece-lined Ho Ho Ho jumper and snow-sodden jeans.
    I say good night to Basil and switch off the lamp – the electricity in the village flicked back on, just like magic, as Pete and I left the Duck & Puddle. I was climbing into the tractor when the festive fairy-tale scene literally took my breath away. The pretty red, gold and green Christmas lights twinkling all over the tree on the village green before cascading the length of the High Street, with a grand finale – the cross at the top of the tall church steeple illuminated in silver as if bathing the whole village in a ray of tranquillity and spiritual peace.
    I lie in the silent night of the countryside, except for the intermittent ter-wit-ter-woo of an owl and try to let everything wash over me: Jennifer Ford, Mr Banerjee, Mum and her ‘make do with whatever’s left over’ implications, Luke the tool,
Star Wars
, Princess Leia buns, Chewbacca and, worst of all, the betrayal by my very own twin sister. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive her; men come and go, I know that, but
my own sister?
How does one deal with that? It’s not as if I can just cut her out of my life! What would that do to Mum and Dad? And it would certainly make things very awkward at family events. But then again, Sasha did this, not me. And I can’t help wondering if she has difficulty sleeping at night too!
    I breathe in and out, desperately trying to slow my racing thoughts, in the hope of actually getting to sleep and making it through to the morning without waking up for once. It’s been ages since I managed to get a proper night’s sleep. Soon after the wedding-that-wasn’t, my GP prescribed sleeping tablets, saying they would help with the ‘overwhelming feelings of sadness too’ and they do, a bit, I guess. Which reminds me. I sit bolt upright and switch the lamp back on. Basil stirs before settling again at the end of the bed. I reach over to my handbag and check the inside pocket, but I already know the answer; the packet of tablets are on my nightstand at home. I’ve forgotten them too.
    Sighing, I lie back down and focus on breathing in and out, desperately trying to evoke a sense of calm. Basil moves up the bed and snuggles his chin onto my shoulder as if willing me to relax too, but it’s no use. I fidget and plump the pillow over