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      He shrugs again but I can tell he’s being careful this time because it’s a muted shrug, and I want to ask him if he’s okay again, but he doesn’t seem like he’s going to elaborate either way. ‘I don’t know, it’s nothing to do with me. All I’ve been told is that the new owner’s selling off stock and needed someone to man the shop.’

      ‘It’s not his to sell!’

      ‘Well, if he’s bought the place, technically it is his and he can do whatever he wants with it …’ He sounds cautious, like he’s waiting for me to yell at him.

      ‘Have you met him? Do you know who he is? He sounds like an absolute monster.’

      ‘No.’ He shrugs with a blank look on his face. ‘Like I said, I’ve just got a job here until after Christmas. I needed to get out of the office for a while.’

      ‘And you thought this was the ideal place for someone who hates Christmas?’

      He pushes his floppy hair back again. ‘Look, I may not have thought it through properly, okay? I needed to do something different while I still can, and this came up and I grabbed it. It was only afterwards that I realised what I’d be doing and how festive it’d be.’ He pulls a face.

      While he still can? It makes it sound like he’s dying … Or like he’s a magical nutcracker come to life for a limited time … No. I have to keep repeating it until I believe it myself – he is not a giant nutcracker come to life who’s going to turn back into a wooden soldier on Christmas Eve. ‘What does that mean?’

      ‘Nothing. Forget I said anything. I think we shook hands for so long that I feel like I’ve known you for months, not minutes. Ignore me, I probably hit my head harder than I thought.’ He rubs his forehead at the spot where he clonked it on the shelf.

      I smile because, despite hating the thing I love most, there’s something about him. Something that makes me wish we were still shaking hands. Something that makes it impossible to look away from his brown eyes and hesitant smile. He must be in his late thirties, probably a couple of years older than me, and he’s definitely from around here because he’s got a local Wiltshire accent that’s warm and animated.

      ‘It doesn’t seem right that you’re selling stuff that doesn’t belong to you. Nutcracker Lane is all about handmade goods and shop owners who really care about their products, make bespoke orders for customers, and put their heart and soul into every festive season.’

      ‘Well, I’ll put my heart and soul into getting rid of this festive tat. Does that help?’

      ‘It’s not festive tat.’

      ‘No? God help the person who sees that Macarena-ing Santa and thinks, “That’s it! That’s what’s been missing from my life!” and rushes in to throw money at me and then Macarenas all the way home with it.’

      His sarcasm makes me laugh and I let out a very unflattering snort that makes him smile his Flynn Rider smile again, and I really do have to stop staring. I force myself to turn away and my eyes fall on the miniature mechanical nutcracker factory in the window. ‘That used to mark the spot between Nutcracker Lane and the factory next door, and now you’re selling it for £96. And that snow.’ I point upwards as another flake of fake snow floats down from an unseen machine in the ceiling. ‘Nutcracker Lane used to have a snow machine but it broke down.’

      ‘I know, I mended it.’

      ‘You mended it? I thought you only picked up your keys an hour ago.’

      Something flashes across his face but it’s gone in the space of a blink. ‘I’m a fast worker.’

      I’m not sure I believe him. It took him ten minutes to inch his way up off the floor, but he has been missing from the shop for ages; it’s not unfeasible that he could’ve been out the back mending a broken snow machine. One-handed.

      I’m distracted from the line of thought as singing reaches my ears. ‘The carollers are back!’

      James groans, but I rush to the open door to see them. One of my favourite things about Nutcracker Lane was always the carollers. A group of women and men in full Victorian dress, carrying lanterns and singing traditional Christmas carols from sheets. When I was young, they were employees of Nutcracker Lane, paid to walk up and down during opening hours. They always carried spare lyric sheets and anyone who wanted could join in and walk with them or sing along when they passed, but the budget for carol singing was cut by Mr E.B. Neaser years ago, and now they’re just a group of five volunteers who come by whenever they’ve got time.

      I hum along to “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” as they come into view from the end of the lane and wave excitedly as they get nearer, glad to see that other shopkeepers are in their doorways doing the same. Now they don’t get paid to do this anymore and their number has dwindled over the years, everyone is expecting the day when they don’t come back, and it’s heart-warming to see that customers have stopped to join in too. Maybe if enough people get behind them, we could convince the new owner that it’s worth adding carol singers back to the budget.

      I wave and shout “hello” as the group of carollers get nearer. The leader of the group is a wonderful woman called Angela who handmakes all their Victorian clothing and has been doing this for longer than I can remember, and she waves back, unable to stop to chat mid-song, but she points towards Starlight Rainbows and gives me a thumbs up, looking slightly confused that I’m in the wrong doorway.

      I turn around at a noise and see James throwing and catching a resin reindeer in his one hand as if testing the weight of it. ‘What are you doing?’

      He holds it up to his head. ‘Debating how much force it would take to knock myself out until it’s over and if it would be worth the pain of getting up from the floor again.’

      ‘I really hope you’re joking.’

      He grins, letting me know that he is.

      ‘Don’t you think that’s lovely?’ I force myself to look away from his smile because it’s doing something to me. ‘You don’t have to like Christmas to appreciate nice music and talented singers.’

      ‘Pardon? I can’t hear you over that racket!’

      He’s deliberately winding me up now. ‘You must like some Christmas music. You have The Nutcracker score playing in your shop.’

      ‘I’m left with no options. The only tolerable Christmas music are songs without any words in them. I don’t know how anyone can bear this lot waltzing around with their constant “Hosanna in Excelsis-ing”. They need to fa-la-la off.’

      I’m trying to be annoyed but I can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes at his turn of phrase, and he smiles back at me, and I lose track of everything for a minute as we smile at each other across the shop, and by the time I come back to myself, the carollers are off in the distance and have moved on to “Away In A Manger”.

      ‘Well, your shop is amazing so you must be doing something right …’ I pause for a minute and then blurt it out anyway. ‘Other than the name. And what’s with the weird pricing?’

      ‘When people try to haggle, I can knock a six or twenty-six off and customers think they’ve got a bargain. It works better when it’s not a round number.’

      ‘Shrewd.’

      He bows his head like it’s a compliment. ‘And what’s wrong with the name?’

      ‘Tinkles sounds like something you need the bathroom for.’

      ‘I hadn’t even thought of that. I was thinking of Tinker Bell, you know, fairies on top of Christmas trees and stuff like that …’

      ‘Well, other than that, it looks like a real winter wonderland – just like Nutcracker Lane used to be.’

      ‘I hear things are changing now …’

      ‘Yeah,’

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