Read Christmas for One: No Greater Love for Free Online

things right after he’d gone to bed. The fairy lights blinked and stuttered. Meg wasn’t sure if this was an effect or the result of an electrical fault; she hoped they didn’t leave them on overnight.
    The place looked like a treasure trove and wasn’t what she had expected. It was like entering a portal to the 1950s or 60s. As Salvatore rummaged on the shelf of the bureau that served as the reception desk, she studied the large stag’s head above the door and the kidney-shaped bar with optics hanging on the wall behind it. The clutter of randomly hung pictures above the fireplace looked as if they were fighting for space.
    ‘I like your pictures.’ Meg pointed at the cluster of crude oils depicting everything from a nude woman reclining on a chaise longue to the obligatory bowl of fruit.
    ‘My wife’s an artist, apparently. What she lacks in talent she makes up for in productivity. Go figure.’ Salvatore spoke from a stern mouth. Meg couldn’t decide if he was intentionally dry or was simply the most unintentionally hilarious man she had ever met. She smiled at him, either way.
    ‘What’s your name?’ Salvatore mumbled, turning his attention to the task in hand.
    ‘It’s Hope, Meg Hope. I’m here for three nights.’
    ‘You are in the garden room. There is no lift.’ Salvatore eyed her large suitcase before popping on his half-moon specs and slowly opening the red leather guest-book. His licked his fingers and fumbled with the fine gilt-edged pages that seemed to be stuck together. Meg liked his New York–Italian accent; he sounded like a gangster.
    ‘Yes, thank you. I booked the garden room because it sounded so nice when I checked it out online. I live in a flat in London and so don’t have a garden.’ She tried again to engage him with a smile, which he ignored.
    ‘Breakfast is served in the library between seven and ten.’ He waved his hand in the general direction of the back of the property. From where Meg stood, it seemed a rather grand term for the single-storey lean-to with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, plethora of tropical plants and mismatched wicker furniture. Nonetheless, it looked like a wonderful room in which to sit drinking coffee and browsing the papers.
    ‘That’s great, thank you. Although I’m off to work at the bakery – we are opening not too far from here – so I might have breakfast there.’
    Salvatore reached under the counter and produced a folded map, which he slid across the top of the bureau with two fingers. ‘This shows the closest subway and places of interest.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Meg twitched her nose. He clearly didn’t want to chat.
    ‘Hey, you must be Meg!’ came a voice from the stairs. ‘Hello, hello! I am Elene, co-owner of the Inn on 11th.’ Salvatore’s wife, the prolific artist, swept into the room, resplendent in a leopard-skin-patterned scarf, which was tied at her neck in an elaborate bow. The diminutive innkeeper was immaculate in gold pumps, tailored camel trousers and matching jacket, with a heavy gold ring on her little finger. She wore a generous smudge of kohl around her eyes and a shock of red lipstick that almost sat on her lips. Elene’s make-up was heavy and seemed to have been dabbed on in generally the right areas, suggesting that failing eyesight or an unsteady hand might be to blame. But Meg loved her look.
    ‘I saw your booking a few days ago. It’s our pleasure to welcome you here, Meg. I was in London in 1963, stayed in Earls Court. Had the time of my life! My first time away from my parents and I saw the Beatles at the Palladium. Couldn’t hear a thing apart from the girls screaming – they were going crazy. But I was as close to them as I am to you. Paul looked right at me, I swear. It was amazing! I hooked up with a guy called Joe, an East London Jew. He was adorable.’ She let both hands flop over at the wrist. ‘I was in love, of course, but his parents soon put a stop to that!’
    Meg smiled, wondering if