One Christmas Star Read online

  Also by Mandy Baggot

  One Last Greek Summer

  One Christmas Star

  Mandy Baggot

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Mandy Baggot, 2019

  The moral right of Mandy Baggot to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (PB) 9781789544329

  ISBN (E) 9781789544282

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One: Stretton Park Primary School, London

  Two: Well-Roasted Coffee House, Islington

  Three: Stretton Park Primary School

  Four: Harley Street, Marylebone

  Five: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Six: Earl of Essex, Danbury Street

  Seven: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Eight: New North Road, N1

  Nine: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Ten: Stretton Park Primary School

  Eleven: Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen: The Breakfast Club, Camden Passage

  Fifteen: Stretton Park Primary School

  Sixteen

  Seventeen: Islington

  Eighteen: The roof terrace, Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One: Stretton Park Primary School

  Twenty-Two: Marylebone

  Twenty-Three: Stretton Park Primary School

  Twenty-Four: Ladbrokes, Islington

  Twenty-Five: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine: Stretton Park Primary School

  Thirty: Ladurée, Covent Garden

  Thirty-One: Stretton Park Primary School

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Thirty-Six: St Martin’s Chambers

  Thirty-Seven: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Thirty-Eight: Barnard Park, Islington

  Thirty-Nine: Harley Street, Marylebone

  Forty: Stretton Park Primary School

  Forty-One: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Forty-Two: Clean Martini Bar, Soho

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Forty-Six: Hyde Park, Winter Wonderland

  Forty-Seven: MP Free Studio, Islington

  Forty-Eight: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Forty-Nine: Leadenhall Market

  Fifty: London Bridge

  Fifty-One: Stretton Park Primary School

  Fifty-Two: MP Free Studio, Islington

  Fifty-Three: Stretton Park Primary School

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six: New North Road, N1

  Fifty-Seven: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine: Harley Street, Marylebone

  Sixty: Stretton Park Primary School

  Sixty-One: Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  Sixty-Two: The Albert Hall

  Sixty-Three: MP Free Studio, Islington

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five: Stretton Park Primary School

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine: The Michael Munday Hospital, London

  Epilogue: The Freedom Music Festival

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  For Justin Edinburgh

  One of my first romantic heroes.

  Sleep tight. Shine bright.

  One

  Stretton Park Primary School, London

  Late November

  Concentrate. Con–cen–trate. You are a crafting guru…

  Emily Parker’s tongue was out of her mouth, pressed to her top lip, eyes narrowed and focused as she held the tiny crown made from modelling clay between a pair of tweezers. She moved her lips and blew upwards, hoping to rid her eyelashes of her slightly too-long auburn fringe.

  It was before 8 a.m. and her classroom, for now, was currently quieter than a chapel of Benedictine monks. Her hand was shaking, like she was performing open-heart surgery and not simply adding the finishing touches to a ‘What Christmas Means to Me’ tableau. Yesterday, her Year Six children had made sensational sparkling stars with glitter and tin foil, attaching them to wire coat hangers that were now suspended from the ceiling. They twirled and whirled and decorated the painted walls with shimmering lights. Emily was still slightly terrified one (or all) of them were going to drop onto this precious model she was helping to construct.

  ‘Don’t squash it, Miss Parker, ’cause it’s good again now.’

  ‘I know,’ Emily breathed. ‘You made it really, really well, Jayden.’ The encouraging words were for one of her pupils who lived in the ironically named Riches Tower – an awful seventies-style building that housed some of the poorest members of their Greater London community. This latest sculpture was Jayden’s second attempt at the model, under her guidance before the school day began. The first model had succumbed to Jayden’s fist-happy father who had thrown it at the wall of their kitchen. Emily had been to the Jacksons’ flat only once, when she was worried about a ‘sick bug’ that was keeping Jayden off school for over a week. She had only made it as far as that dated kitchen – the first room after the front door – before Mr Jackson had pushed past Mrs Jackson and ordered her out.

  Emily took a breath, her fingers trembling. Positivity. Something had to go right for this boy. It was almost December, the festive spirit was rapidly arriving. Emily flashed an eye to the ceiling, and the swaying mobiles, before blowing out the breath she’d been holding so intensely. She was determined to fix this crown on without incident. Lowering her implement, she reached her target, pressed… and then, finally, released.

  ‘Wow,’ Jayden exclaimed, scooting his chair closer to his work of art. ‘D’you think I’ll win the competition, Miss Parker?’

  Emily swallowed. He couldn’t win. He shouldn’t win. She had helped him quite significantly over the past week. But, out of her class of thirty-three, Jayden was one of the students who probably deserved the chocolate selection box prize the most…

  ‘I think,’ Emily said, looking to the ten-year-old, his greasy dark hair clinging to his forehead, eyes under his fringe so full of hope, ‘you have an excellent chance of winning.’

  Jayden smiled then, poking the last portion of the cream cheese and bacon bagel she’d brought in for him into his mouth. ‘Look at my dad.’ He laughed, pointing at the scene. ‘He looks wasted even in Pl
asticine.’

  What did you say to that? There were no words. But she had to come up with something. Something positive. ‘Maybe your dad will be proud he’s taking centre-stage in your tableau.’

  ‘He won’t see it,’ Jayden announced, through chewing. ‘He can’t come to the presentation. He’ll be working.’

  ‘He’s got a job!’ Emily exclaimed. ‘Jayden, that’s wonderful.’ Mr Jackson worked about as much as Jeremy Kyle’s lie detector did now.

  ‘It won’t last,’ Jayden answered in matter-of-fact tones. ‘My mum says she gives it a fortnight.’ He grinned then. ‘I didn’t know what a fortnight meant before she told me. I thought she was on about the game.’

  ‘Well,’ Emily began, taking a tissue from her pocket and wiping at the corner of Jayden’s mouth to remove cream cheese. ‘You know, in this class, we listen, and we don’t judge, and we give everyone a second chance, don’t we?’

  Jayden made a begrudging noise, shaking his head away from Emily’s attempts to clean him up. ‘Rashid’s on his third chance with me now.’

  ‘Has he been mean to you again?’ Emily asked. Rashid Dar came from a seemingly wealthy family who owned a chain of Indian eateries. She had wondered, ever since Rashid joined her Year Six class in September, why he didn’t go to the local private school instead of Stretton Park. Maybe creating phall feasts wasn’t quite as lucrative as it appeared to be or, perhaps, they simply didn’t want to shell out on private education. But, like with her class rules, it also wasn’t her place to judge anyone. However, it was her place to try and ensure all her pupils worked at being the best version of themselves. She was their teacher for that last important year before they left for secondary education. Emily had always thought that was the time when they really changed. The time when she watched them going from infants to tweens, finding out who they really were and who they wanted to be…

  ‘Rashid said there was so much grease in my hair,’ Jayden said, ‘that his dad could probably deep-fry samosas in it.’

  She felt herself bristle. Despite her best efforts, Rashid’s self-confidence did come across as cocky and arrogant and at ten years old it was slightly worrying. ‘Did he now?’

  Before her cogs began whirring as to how she could attempt to tackle Rashid’s verbal bullying, the door of the classroom burst open and in walked the headteacher, Susan Clark, arms full of heavy files, glasses slipping down her nose, lipstick a fluorescent pink, too-tight skirt straining with every step.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Parker. What seems to be happening here?’ Susan marched towards the table Emily and Jayden were working on with all the determination of an army general about to engage in battle. One of the star mobiles suddenly came unstuck, dangling precariously now from one small sliver of Sellotape.

  ‘We were…’ Emily began tentatively. She stopped speaking then and internally cursed herself. What was it about this woman that constantly made her feel inferior? She wasn’t inferior. She should actually be heading up a school herself now. She re-started, trying to project more confidence. ‘Jayden got here early to hand in his “What Christmas Means To Me” project.’

  Emily could see Susan’s blouse literally weep for mercy as the headteacher dumped the files she was carrying on a table and then took a deep breath, sniffing the air around Jayden’s model.

  ‘Have you made it out of cream cheese?’ Susan asked, pushing her glasses up her nose, the amber-beaded chain they were attached to catching the light.

  ‘No, Mrs Clark,’ Jayden was quick to answer. ‘That was from the bagel Miss Parker gave me.’ He grinned. ‘It was banging.’

  Emily bit her lip. She’d be encouraging a cold sore if she wasn’t careful. And now she was going to be in trouble. Susan had told her – twice – that she wasn’t to give food to impoverished students as it set a precedent and, apparently, a bad example. Besides, they already get free school meals and there are things called food banks…

  ‘I see,’ Susan answered, recoiling from the project and setting her eyes on Emily. Susan saying ‘I see’ really meant she didn’t see at all.

  ‘Jayden,’ Emily said, taking control. ‘Why don’t you go out into the playground now? It’s eight o’clock, you can play some football until the bell goes.’ Perhaps she would get a tick against the food faux pas by encouraging physical activity…

  ‘Alright,’ Jayden answered, never needing much of an excuse to turn to sport rather than education. He got up from his seat, picked up his rucksack with the broken strap – held together by gaffer tape – and made his way out of the room.

  Emily figured then she may as well head things off with Susan as best as she could.

  ‘Before—’

  ‘You made this model, Emily, didn’t you?’ Susan interrupted and the volume of her boss’s voice cancelled out the fact that Emily had even started speaking at all. Another star mobile came unstuck, dangling right over Susan Clark. If one hit her head, Emily knew she could kiss goodbye to promotion thoughts for this whole school year. She swallowed, her mind drifting away to a memory. A memory of Simon. Simon had always been her biggest supporter in her campaign to achieve headteacher status…

  ‘No,’ she said immediately. Except she was pretty sure potential headteachers weren’t meant to lie.

  Susan gave her a look through her lenses that said she believed her as much as anyone believed that the UK trying to leave the EU had been easy.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Emily continued. ‘I mean… I may have… made suggestions to perhaps… enhance the overall aesthetic but…’ Why was she bothering? Susan knew. Susan always knew. Whether it was some sort of dark magic, or simply her infinite years in teaching, there was literally nothing that got past her.

  ‘OK,’ Emily started. ‘His horrible, aggressive, nasty father threw his original tableau at the kitchen wall. Then he stamped on it.’ She knew her face was reddening, and she also knew that when Jayden had come to her and told her about the incident, tears spilling from his eyes, she had wanted to throw Mr Jackson against a wall and stamp on him. Not that she condoned violence at all. Nor was she attached to any of her pupils. Because attachment wasn’t allowed. It was up there with budget restraint and political correctness… and, apparently, buying bagels.

  ‘I see,’ Susan said.

  She still didn’t see. And she didn’t want to see either. Oh well, Emily could handle any reprimand that was coming, as long as she kept her job. With her flatmate and best friend, Jonah, moving out, her boiler making noises like it was an expensive coffee machine and Christmas on the way, she really did need to keep the money coming in. The smallish lump sum she’d received unexpectedly wasn’t going to last for ever, unlike the devastation that had come before that bank transaction…

  ‘I’ve been you, Emily,’ Susan said, sliding her bulk onto the table, hips almost catching the side of Jayden’s sculpture. ‘I was you for almost twenty years. There wasn’t a nose I didn’t wipe or a knee I didn’t put a plaster on. But, Emily, as much as it saddens me, and it does sadden me… those days are gone.’ Susan leaned forward, her large face determined to force its way into Emily’s sightline. ‘You understand, yes? Because it isn’t as if we haven’t had this conversation before.’

  Softly, softly and then the death punch. It wasn’t the first time. Emily was bending the rules. Not listening to Ground Control…

  Susan turned her attention back to the structure on the table, adjusting her glasses as if to magnify what she was looking at. ‘What exactly is it? Because it doesn’t look like any sort of manger to me.’

  ‘It isn’t a manger,’ Emily answered. ‘I didn’t go for wholly Christianity as a theme this year.’ She hadn’t wanted to go for just Christianity as a theme last year, or the year before that but as the primary school was Church of England governed, and Susan had drummed it home that the visiting diocese were expecting all things Biblical, she hadn’t had much choice. ‘As I said, it’s a “What Christmas Means to Me” tableau. Or rather, “What the Holidays M
ean to Me”, for those who don’t celebrate Christmas.’ She swallowed. ‘Frema is doing both because of her interfaith upbringing.’

  ‘Is that… a man holding a pint glass?’ Susan continued, studying Jayden’s creation even more closely.

  ‘Yes,’ Emily said. ‘Yes, it is.’ She sighed, looking at Jayden’s work. The tiny crown she had placed so delicately wasn’t for the head of a sleeping Baby Jesus, or for one of the Three Wise Men, it was for the roof of Mr Jackson’s favourite public house, The Rose & Crown.

  Susan stood up, springing away from the desk like what she was looking at was a prop from Sky’s Chernobyl. She picked her files back up. ‘Don’t forget the budget meeting after school tonight,’ she said, backing towards the door. ‘And, Emily, this pub—’ she said ‘pub’ like she was saying ‘Judas’ in front of the bishop ‘—can’t possibly win the competition.’

  Emily didn’t reply. She knew her place. Twenty-nine years old and not even the deputy. Susan whisked from the room, the door shutting with force behind her. As it closed, two of the star creations fell to the floorboards trailing tinsel like exploding comets.

  Two

  Well-Roasted Coffee House, Islington

  The music being played was all Nat King Cole and Dean Martin with a smattering of Mud and Band Aid. Way too cheerful and nothing in a minor key. Musician Ray Stone hated all that festive schmaltz. ‘Nothing festive’ had been one of the clauses he had demanded be added to his last contract with Saturn Records. Absolutely no Christmas albums. Not even if the actual Saturn froze over.

  It was literally a few weeks before December and the whole of London already seemed to have turned into a festive wonderland. Lights were being switched on by Z-list celebrities, every shop seemed to be advertising an ‘advent sale’ and eateries had started adding cinnamon and nutmeg to everything. Like this coffee Ray was drinking. He hadn’t asked for whatever syrup was swirled into its rich dark colour, but it was there and… he really wished it was something else. Something distilled by the team at Jack Daniel’s, Tennessee.