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About the Book

A self-confessed Christmas queen, Sue Montaigne prides herself on organising the annual nativity pageant in her small Cornish village of Poldore.

But this year, what with having to deal with the repairs on Castle House after it was wrecked by a terrible storm, training a new – and frankly flighty – Virgin Mary and managing a Joseph who is allergic to sheep, she is distinctly lacking a little bit of ‘me time’.

And then there are the auditions for the new Santa. But nothing prepares her for the beautiful man who turns up, a twinkle in his eye and a promise to make her Christmas dreams come true...

About the Author

Scarlett Bailey has loved writing stories since childhood. Before writing novels she worked as a waitress, cinema usherette and bookseller. Passionate about old movies, Scarlett loves nothing more than spending a wet Sunday afternoon watching her favourite films back-to-back with large quantities of chocolate.

Scarlett also writes novels under her real name Rowan Coleman. Currently she lives in Hertfordshire with her husband, five children and a very large collection of beautiful shoes.

Also by Scarlett Bailey:

Just For Christmas

Married by Christmas

Santa Maybe (digital short)

The Night Before Christmas

Writing as Rowan Coleman:

The Memory Book

Lessons in Laughing Out Loud

The Happy Home for Broken Hearts

The Baby Group

Woman Walks Into A Bar

River Deep

After Ever After

Growing Up Twice

The Accidental Mother

The Accidental Wife

The Accidental Family

Praise for Scarlett Bailey:

‘A delicious Christmas read!’ Trisha Ashley

‘Festive fun from the Queen of Christmas chick lit’ Fabulous Magazine, Sun on Sunday

‘I LOVE it! It was funny, romantic and the perfect book to snuggle up with’ Scarlett Bailey does it again! - Miranda Dickinson

‘Endearing and funny, we loved this gorgeously Christmassy romcom’ Closer

‘A light, fun and fast-paced chunk of chortlesome chick-lit’ Heat

‘an awesome Christmassy read with a lot of twists and turns ... you can’t put it down’ Chicklit Club

‘Perfect for the festive holiday, a story of love and romance and a Christmas Eve wedding gone wrong . . . Great fun’ Daily Record

SECRET SANTA

Rowan Coleman, writing as Scarlett Bailey

22 December

1

‘Jago, you don’t really mean it, do you?’ Sue Montaigne, one-time aristocrat, and self-appointed pillar of the community sat down on the bar stool next to the old man, who stared implacably into his pint of something, well, brown and murky.

‘I do.’ He nodded. ‘I been doing it for fifty years, man and boy. I retired from the boats when I was seventy, and now I think it’s the right time for me to retire from this too. I’m eighty-six, young Susan, and I don’t care if your family used to once own my family, I’m not a serf no more. Plus there’s my hip. And some of those kids these days, they’re hefty. There’s no a nice way of putting it. Of course when I was a boy, we were lucky if we got to eat every day never mind a grotto giving toys away like it was …’

‘Christmas?’ Sue suggested.

‘You know what I mean,’ Jago grumbled.

‘But, Jago …’ Sue gestured to Lucy behind the bar to refresh his glass. It was well known in Poldore that Jago was always a lot less grumpy after a pint or two. ‘It’s December already, it’s December the twenty-second in fact! Which means only two days until we open the grotto, where am I going to find a new Santa in two days?’

‘And that’s another thing,’ Jago said. ‘Santa? Since when did we all become Americans? I was Father Christmas, man and boy. I’m not a Santa, it just don’t feel natural.’

Sue thought for a moment. She was well aware that once she had her mind focused on something she could be a little overbearing, even forceful, and that some people didn’t think that was particularly her best personality trait.

‘Jago, the whole magic of your Sa—Father Christmas is that you have been there, every year, offering continuity, stability. Children have grown into adults sitting on your knee.’

‘I know and it feels like it, too,’ Jago mumbled, rubbing the offending joints to make a point.

‘But it’s always you, the same face behind the beard, the real white bushy beard, every year. You give it such authority, such authenticity. It won’t be the same without you, Jago. You are so wise, so statesmanlike. You are the master.’

Jago rubbed at his whiskers for a moment.

‘True enough,’ he acknowledged. ‘It’ll be nigh on impossible to replace me, with anyone short of the real thing. A substandard bloke might well ruin Christmas entirely for the young folk.’

‘So you’ll come back then?’ Sue smiled her best and most charming smile.

‘No, I’m retired,’ Jago said, taking the pint that Lucy set down for him. ‘Woman, haven’t you been listening to a word I said?’

It was chilly for Poldore, but there was no sign of snow, there rarely was. Christmas usually came and went in Poldore without a single flake, the temperatures reasonably mild for the time of year, the occasional downpour of rain the only threat, one that had shown its true destructive force in the summer’s great June floods. Thankfully though, the rest of the year had been comparatively kind, giving the badly battered town time to slowly get back on its feet.

One to know when she was beaten, Sue left the pub, and walked to the harbour front to try to work out what to do next, and she had to admit, the thought gave her a leaden feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. Any other year being charged with the mission to save Christmas would have been right up her alley, but this year … Well, this year she really just wanted to go to bed with a good bottle of wine and watch The Sound of Music on repeat. Still, needs must, and the Montaignes hadn’t lasted in this town for more than eight hundred years by giving up at the first sight of trouble. Sue sat down on her favourite bench, the one that she had had put there in memory of her father, and looked out at the flat grey sea, enjoying the relative quiet of the town, that brief lull before the Christmas tourists descended.

At least now the tiny harbour town looked a little more like itself. The floods and storms of the summer had battered it into near submission and ruined the season for so many shops and businesses. Sue was sad to say that she had seen more than one of them give up and go. For months after the June floods, the ‘Great Storm’ as everyone was already calling it, the town had looked beleaguered and broken. Sue had fully realised then how much she felt like she was the town. There had been the wonderful high of Ruan and Alex’s wedding – Ruan being Poldore’s broodingly handsome tour boat operator and Alex, the town’s first female harbour master and tomboy. Then, only a few weeks later, the most unlikely couple of all, Ruan’s fashion designer sister Tamsyn and Jed the vicar, had married, less than two months after their first meeting. The marriage should have gone wrong, already. It should have been a disaster waiting to happen, but somehow it wasn’t. There had never been a better non-believing, dress-designing vicar’s wife than Tamsyn Edwards née Thorne, and Reverend Jed Edwards had gone from strength to strength with her at his side.

It was some weeks after the storm that Sue had realised exactly what damage had been done to her home, Castle House. During the crisis itself, she had felt like it was a fortress, offering shelter to a good deal of the population of Poldore, who had been made homeless by the floods and the rain, Then, a few weeks after the storms had passed, Tamsyn, who had been cataloguing Sue’s vast collection of historical fashion in the north attic, discovered a leak in the roof. Closer inspection revealed another eight major leaks and countless smaller ones – virtually the whole rood needed repairing, at a cost that Sue couldn’t even think about without suffering from palpitations. She had cheerfully told everyone that the insurance would cover the cost, and precisely no one that last year’s insurance premium had been so high that she had decided not to renew and to simply hope for the best. She, Sue Montaigne, the worst-case scenario expert, had decided to hope for the best. Well, she’d never make that mistake again. And anyway, she’d worry about that in the New Year, first there was Christmas to get through.

There was so much to do, so much to organise for the pageant, a new – and frankly flighty – Virgin Mary to train, a Joseph who was allergic to sheep, and now she needed a new Santa. Which meant holding auditions between now and Christmas; which meant that it had to be done, well, right away.

Sue stopped herself, and took a breath. She looked out at the sea – grey, flat, calm, blending almost perfectly into the sky, except for a deep streak of azure blue that ran between them.

‘Montaignes have faced worse,’ she told the sea. ‘I mean during Mary Tudor’s reign quite a few of us got burnt at the stake.’

Sue was no fool, she knew exactly what she was doing. She was whipping herself into a frenzy over Santa and the Christmas pageant so that she didn’t have to think about the other thing. Soon, very soon, she would have to think about it, and try to work out what to do, but for now she just didn’t have the energy. Holding auditions for Santa at a moment’s notice seemed much more appealing than having to deal with the inconvenient truth that her life was falling apart at the seams.

‘Sue!’ Sue smelled Buoy, the ancient and life-battered old mongrel who’d so rudely impregnated her poodle, before she heard Alex, his current owner, call her name, and briefly she contemplated making a run for it. Alex was so happy, so loved-up, she positively glowed with it, even in that baggy old jumper, which was half dog hair. She looked completely radiant and had done since she’d married Ruan Thorne in the summer. But that was the price to pay for being the busiest body in all of Poldore – you couldn’t avoid people when you’d been preventing them from avoiding you for years.

‘Alex?’ She twisted in her seat and forced a smile, as Alex sat down, her younger dog, Skipper, scrambling into her lap and enthusiastically licking Sue’s ear, which as Sue was the owner of Skipper’s mother, Duchess, she supposed was a bit like a toddler greeting his (very young) granny.

‘Thought we needed some fresh air,’ Alex said. ‘Seems awfully stuffy in the harbour master’s office today and not just because Buoy has so far managed to avoid a bath for nearly six months. I’ve also got to work out how to tell people some really big news …’

‘Yes, it’s close, isn’t it?’ Sue said. ‘Colder tomorrow the forecast says.’

‘So what’s up?’ Alex asked her.

‘How do you know that something’s up?’

‘Well, it’s two days before the pageant and you’re sitting still and making small talk about the weather. You haven’t told me that I should just sedate Buoy and then put him through a car wash, and you don’t want to know what my big news is. This is the third Christmas pageant that we have been involved in now, and I know you. I know that sitting still and not being nosey, sorry, curious, is not an option.’

‘Well,’ Sue sighed. ‘Santa has retired, and now I need a new one, and it’s got to be the perfect replacement and I’ve got a day and half to find him. I mean you know that I have nothing but respect for Poldore’s older residents, but I could batter Jago into a coma with a cod fish for waiting until now to tell me that he thinks eighty-three is a bit old to be Santa. I mean honestly.’

‘Right.’ Alex exchanged a look with Buoy’s one good eye. ‘Is it really that bad? It’s just finding someone to put the suit on, right? What about our esteemed mayor and landlord of the Silent Man, Eddie? He’s certainly got the belly for it.’

‘I just don’t think Santa would be smelling of beer and fags, or have a gold tooth,’ Sue sighed. ‘Call me old-fashioned.’

‘What about Mr Figg?’ Alex snatched at the first name that came out of thin air.

‘Mr Figg the chemist? He is even older than Jago! And recently sometimes thinks he is a rodeo rider called Memphis.’

‘OK, well … I could get Marcus to come down and do it?’ Alex offered the services of her one-time unrequited crush, and old friend. ‘He’d love it. And he could bring Milly and spend Christmas, Dad and Eleanor are coming – that’s when I’m going to announce my big news. And Marcus would make a very jolly ginger Santa.’

‘Dear Alex.’ Sue patted Alex’s knee. ‘You know that I have met Marcus, more than once. I will never forget the time he lifted the Bishop aloft for a laugh at Tamsyn’s wedding and then dropped him. And neither will the Bishop. No, he’s a health and safely nightmare.’

‘Or elf and safety, geddit?’ Alex grinned, but Sue did not respond.

‘No, I need to think laterally,’ she said. ‘This is Poldore, we’ve got actors, writers and musicians coming out of our ears. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we didn’t have actual Santa living here, during the summer season.’

‘Good point’ Alex said, dragging Skipper away from Sue, as he was threatening to gnaw on her fiery curls. She threw a chew toy for him towards the harbour wall. ‘What about your movie director friend, the one who always sorts the snow for our pageant?’

‘He’s not here this year, he’s making a film. So inconsiderate, although he has sent snow and a team of special effects experts from Elstree in his stead … I know!’ Sue jumped up. ‘Blake Fletcher!’

‘Blake Fletcher?’ Alex smirked.

‘Yes, he’s in town for the season!’

‘I’m not being funny, Sue, but he just won an Oscar for his last film, I’m pretty sure he’s not available for Santa.’

‘No, I know. But he will get the buzz going, won’t he? If I can persuade him to audition prospective Santas with me, then people will come just to see him. I can send out an email tonight to the parish council – they’ll spread the word. We can start auditioning tomorrow. I’m sure that Jed will squeeze us into the church hall, and it will all be sorted. Excellent.’

‘But, Sue,’ Alex said, ‘you haven’t even asked him yet. What if he says no?’

‘Oh, darling—’ Sue sprang up feeling purposeful and invigorated once again ‘—that is just a technicality. You know, the last person to say no to a Montaigne was—’

‘Beheaded.’ Alex said. ‘Well, OK, I wish you luck.’

‘Right, well, then I’d better get up there, as soon as possible. Can’t stop.’

‘Sue?’ Alex called after her. ‘You didn’t ask me what my big news was!’

‘Oh, didn’t I?’ Sue waved a hand over her shoulder. ‘Text me.’

2

Sue’s purposeful march slowed somewhat as she reached the top of the hill, which was known locally as Millionaires’ Row, although in fact the cliff top was dotted with only four dwellings, which hardly constituted a row of anything. Blake Fletcher’s was the biggest, and was concealed behind ten-foot security fences, a gate and quite a lot of CCTV. It was fair enough, Sue supposed, if a world famous celebrity was going to choose Poldore as his not so secret bolt hole then he’d want to go to some lengths to make sure it stayed that way. Not that the people of Poldore ever talked about their celebrities with outsiders, or indeed treated them any differently from any of the more usual part-time residents, which was partly why it was such a popular destination for the rich and famous, including Blake Fletcher, owner of the most famous face in the whole world right now.

It happened to be the face of an extremely handsome man in his forties, rugged, with those crinkly sort of eyes, like melted chocolate, a square jaw and an old-style movie star dimple in his chin. He had a smile that had made millions of women of a lesser constitution than Sue Montaigne swoon on the spot.

And he was American.

But under the circumstances she couldn’t hold that against him.

She pressed the button on the intercom, which didn’t make any discernible noise, and peered up at the camera, wishing that she’d thought to bring her glasses with her, and actually, now she came to think of it, maybe done something with her hair, although there was not a good deal that could be done with her riot of tight flaming red curls, but she could at least have brushed the muddy paw prints off her jeans, perhaps rooted out some mascara. However, she was here now and there was nothing else for it, she was just going to have to face the official Hottest Man in Hollywood, looking like a forty-something-year-old mother of three, with an ageing castle and control issues, which is what she was.

Except that no response of any kind came from the intercom.

Resisting the urge to give up and go home, Sue pressed the silent button again, harder and for longer this time, as if the duration might somehow be more likely to elicit a response. Still nothing. Her nanny, and the youngest Thorne sister, Cordelia, would have brought home the children from school and nursery by now, they’d be sitting in the kitchen eating their tea, feeding the dogs and pursuing their quest to bring the always implacable Cordelia to the verge of a nervous breakdown. Suddenly Sue missed them terribly – their cheerful certainty that everything was always going to be all right, their tolerance of her raft of extra-curricular activities and, most of all, their faith in the existence of Santa. How much simpler life would be if Santa was really real.

Her children’s happiness, Sue thought anxiously, their sweet fragile, childish happiness rested completely on her shoulders, and somehow she had to find a way to tell them something that would break their hearts. And yet here she was, standing on the doorstep of a celebrity instead of being at home with her children. She really would go to any lengths to avoid facing the truth.

Turning on her heels, she began to walk away from the gate, determined to get home by what Cordelia laughing referred to as bedtime, but a disembodied voice stopped her in her tracks.

‘Hey you, where are you going? You can’t get a man out of bed, and then just walk away.’ The male voice was as familiar to her as if had been her husband’s or even Jago’s. It was the same voice that had seduced a million women or more, and inspired the same amount of men into imagining themselves to be just like him. It was Blake Fletcher.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said. ‘Come back here and tell me what you want.’

Sue straightened her shoulders a little and marched back to the camera. She knew how to deal with Americans, even the famous ones. Drop a title, posh it up, refer to the Queen on a first name basis and they were putty in your hands.

‘Good day to you,’ she said. ‘My name is the Right Honourable Susan Montaigne, I am the owner of Castle House in the centre of Poldore. My family has been resident in the town for over—’

‘Oh, Sue, it’s you, come on in!’ A buzzer sounded, and the gate swung slowly inwards. What did he mean ‘Oh, Sue, it’s you’? As far as she was aware, they had never met or spoken before. She paused for a moment, before looking over her shoulder, suspecting perhaps that she might the victim of some sort of elaborate prank, and walked down the long driveway towards the house.

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