Carmen tried to tell herself the city was only so lovely because it was filled with annoying rich people who wore red trousers and had surnames as first names and were all snotty show-offs like Sofia.
But it wore you down, the magic. Even now, only in November, when night fell so early it felt like every street was beating back the dark every way it knew how: early trees appearing in windows, glowing gold, in the smart New Town apartments and the big bay windows of the West End terraces; lights garlanding every road and stretching across the wide bank of George Street, with its expensive shops and bars wreathed in holly and lights; the pillars of the huge Dome restaurant swathed in metres of foliage and lights sparkling and twinkling; the Ivy restaurant transforming its doorway into the cupboard doors of Narnia which took you into a snowy scene. Up on the Royal Mile was a cathedral built entirely from light which you could stroll through and hear the carol singers. From every tiny coffee shop in every nook and cranny came enchanting smells of gingerbread and cinnamon, and over the Christmas market, with its the smell of mulled wine hanging in the air. At the top of the mound, which Carmen passed every day, was the tallest Christmas tree she had ever seen, and a huge rainbow of lights. It didn’t matter how low you thought you were, thought Carmen. It was still pretty nice.
Mr McCredie was looking at her gingerbread latte with some consternation.
‘What … ? I’m not quite sure I understand.’
‘It’s coffee that tastes of gingerbread. You should try it: it’s delicious.’
He frowned.
‘I don’t think I would like that.’
Fastidiously, he stirred the slice of lemon in his tea in a dainty cup and saucer with a willow pattern and a tiny handle.
‘No,’ smiled Carmen. ‘Maybe you wouldn’t.’ She looked around. ‘But I have to say, your filing system came up trumps. Look! Everything about Christmas!’
Mr McCredie frowned.
‘So you’re saying we only sell books about Christmas?’
‘I think it has potential,’ said Carmen bravely.
They looked at each other. Carmen wished he wasn’t putting quite so much faith in her.
The shop had started to look like a shop, but it still wasn’t getting many people through the doors. Carmen dusted and attempted to look cheerful over the following week, but people would still ask her for the new Jack Reacher or Richard Osman and she’d have to look apologetic, or they’d ask for something incredibly esoteric and difficult, and Mr McCredie would suddenly appear at the desk from his nook and contentedly spend hours discussing with the person （generally a man） their area of interest and what they’d read around the same subject which, although it often would not end in a sale, clearly made Mr McCredie very happy.
One morning, a long shadow fell across the floor. It couldn’t be that late already, thought Carmen, looking up from where she was practising her wrapping, which was still terrible. It was just an idea, in an idle moment, that they could offer gift-wrapping. Unfortunately, if it took ten thousand hours to become an expert, she thought, she had probably done it already with gift-wrapping, but she still wasn’t very good at it, even though – crucially – she was only wrapping flat square things. She was slightly regretting her suggested innovation.
One of the tallest men Carmen had ever seen slouched through the door, with a couple of boxes at his feet. He looked at her, bemused.
‘Hello?’ said Carmen.
‘Um. Hello. Where’s young Mr McCredie?’
‘He’s busy … reading.’
The very tall man frowned.
‘Well, yes.’
Carmen expected the man to start browsing, but instead he folded his arms and just stood there, leading Carmen to the ridiculous but inescapable conclusion that he wouldn’t buy a book from a woman. He wasn’t an older man either, although in his cords, tweed shirt, worn muddy-coloured jumper, cap and waxed jacket, he certainly looked like one.