Page 4 of Christmas at the Movies

She jotted down a reminder to pick up something from the butcher’s for dinner tomorrow, and to tidy the house.

Then she slid the rubber band off a rolled-up film poster.

She stretched the elastic between her thumb and her forefinger, pulling it taut.

That’s how she felt these days – like a rubber band, about to snap.

Between the cinema and home, her mum and the kids, she was stretched to breaking point.

From remembering birthdays, making doctor’s appointments and finding missing socks, to filling out school forms, ironing uniforms and keeping the fridge filled, everything to do with running the family seemed to land on Sarah’s plate.

She worked less hours at the cinema than James did, but the emotional labour of running the family was never-ending.

Suddenly, Sarah felt a wave of anxiety engulf her like a riptide. Intense heat crept up her torso, rising to her face. In seconds, her arms and chest were drenched in sweat.

Here we go again …

Grabbing the poster, she hurried outside. The cold air felt blissful as it blasted her overheated body. She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths and waited for her internal thermometer to stop thinking she was in a sauna. Sarah rested her damp forehead against the glass door.

Opening her eyes again, she saw her reflection in the glass – a tall woman in jeans, a striped sweater and white trainers.

Her brown hair was in a messy bun, there were bags under her eyes and a groove between her eyebrows even when she wasn’t frowning.

Her sister’s dental practice offered Botox, and Meg had encouraged her to try it, but Sarah had so far resisted.

Maybe I should, she thought, smoothing the groove with her finger. I look so old.

Turning away from her reflection, she unfurled the poster and hung it in a glass case outside the cinema. As she did so, a name jumped out at her. The screenwriter was Jack Greenstreet, someone she’d worked with at the BBC.

Sarah stared at the poster, amazed that her former colleague had penned a blockbuster starring Eddie Redmayne.

Good for him, thought Sarah, trying not to feel envious.

How long had it been since she’d done any writing herself? Years and years. Could she even legitimately call herself a writer any more?

When they’d quit their jobs in London to buy the cinema, the plan had been to hire a full-time manager so Sarah would be able to finish her screenplay.

But somehow that had never happened. Then the kids had arrived, and in between running the cinema and raising a young family, there was never any time to write.

The kids weren’t little any more, but there still wasn’t any time to write.

Not now that she had her mum to look after as well.

Sarah didn’t regret the time she’d devoted to her family; her kids were her most important – and rewarding – creation. But a tiny part of her wondered if it could have been her name on a movie poster, if only she had kept at it. If only she had made the time to write.

Sarah shook her head. There was no point dwelling on the past. She’d ended up working in movies, just not quite in the way she’d imagined.

Shutting the glass case, she turned and saw that volunteers from the Plumdale Beautification Society were busy decorating the market square for Christmas.

Not that the village needed much beautification.

The perfectly preserved buildings lining the high street were made of golden Cotswold stone and nestled in a picturesque valley of rolling hills.

Plumdale had just about everything you could want – two nice pubs at either end of the high street, an organic butcher’s, a baker’s, and, yes, even a candlestick maker’s.

Cotswold Candles, a few doors down from the cinema, had recently opened, selling tapers made of locally sourced beeswax and other overpriced knick-knacks.

Even the postboxes in the village were well turned out, sporting knitted toppers made by members of the local craft circle.

The one outside the cinema was jauntily adorned with knitted snowmen.

‘Hiya, Sarah,’ called a man in jeans, scuffed work boots and a plaid shirt. He was halfway up a ladder, putting lights on the Christmas tree.

Sarah crossed the road to say hello. ‘The market square looks good, Ian.’ The volunteers had hung wreaths with red bows on every lamp post. She could still remember what she’d said to James their first Christmas in the village: ‘It looks like the set of a Hallmark movie!’

‘We can’t let Stowford win the Cotswolds Christmas Village title again,’ he said, glancing at the cinema pointedly.

Plumdale and its neighbour, Stowford, were perennial rivals for the crown of prettiest village in the Cotswolds. Sarah thought both villages were equally beautiful – not that she’d admit it to Ian, who had lived in Plumdale his entire life and would consider it tantamount to treason.

‘We haven’t got around to decorating the cinema yet,’ Sarah said. ‘But we will. I promise.’

Christmas was yet another thing to add to her bottomless to-do list.

Just then, Ian dropped the star he was putting on the top of the tree.

Sarah went to pick it up, but Hermione de la Mere – the candle shop’s owner – got there first. She had just stepped out of the beauty salon, where her long blonde hair had been blow-dried into a cascade of bouncy waves.

Sarah was pretty sure they were both in their late forties, but Hermione, in her tan cashmere poncho, white jeans and Barbour wellies, looked much younger.

Botox, she could hear Meg’s voice saying in her head. That, and not having kids.

‘Here you are.’ Hermione handed the star up to Ian.

‘Make a wish,’ he teased.

‘Pardon?’ said Hermione, sounding confused.

‘On the star,’ replied Ian, placing it on top of the tree. He came down and smiled at Hermione, his elbow resting on one of the ladder’s rungs. ‘It’s good luck to wish upon a star.’

‘Do you two know each other?’ asked Sarah.

They both shook their heads.

‘Ian, this is Hermione, owner of Cotswold Candles.’

‘Oh, dear!’ Ian shook his finger in playful admonishment. ‘Your shop’s not decorated for Christmas either.’

‘Ian owns the antique shop and is the president of the Plumdale Beautification Society.’ Sarah lowered her voice to a stage whisper. ‘He takes his responsibilities very seriously.’

‘I’m afraid I’m just not feeling very Christmassy this year,’ said Hermione. ‘It’s my first since getting divorced. I’m dreading being alone.’

Although Hermione had lived in the village nearly as long as Sarah, they’d always mixed with different crowds.

Hermione had been married to a wealthy banker – a stalwart of the local polo set.

According to village gossip, he’d left Hermione for one of the grooms at the stable.

In the aftermath, they’d sold their house and Hermione had opened her shop, moving into the flat above it.

‘Maybe the Twelve Films of Christmas will help you find your festive spirit,’ said Ian.

‘Oh, yes! Good idea. What movies are you showing this year?’ asked Hermione.

‘If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise,’ said Sarah, smiling mysteriously.

Over the month of December, the Picture Palace screened a festival of surprise Christmas films. It was like a cinematic advent calendar – the audience didn’t know what they were going to see until the movie started.

But with only two weeks to go until December, Sarah and James still hadn’t picked the twelve movies – they hadn’t even had a moment to discuss it.

‘It’s such a lovely tradition,’ said Hermione.

Tickets for the Christmas films were free, with an optional donation to a different charity at every screening.

For some local families, it was the only time they could afford to go to the cinema.

The Christmas film festival was Sarah and her husband’s way of giving back to the community that had embraced them so warmly from the cinema’s very beginning.

Ian climbed down the ladder. ‘I’ve got some spare wreaths.’ He pointed at a pile of greenery. ‘Shall I hang one on your shop’s door?’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Hermione.

As Ian and Hermione headed to the candle shop, Sarah went back inside the cinema and searched for James.

She finally tracked her husband down in the projection room at the top of the cinema.

The small, stuffy room housed both the projector and the sound system – a tall column of amps that controlled the speakers and their output.

James was fiddling with the controls on the projector, surrounded by bowls of ice.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked him over the noise of the projector’s fan.

James barely glanced up. ‘The extraction fan is overheating. I’m hoping the ice cools it down.’

Great, thought Sarah. Now their most expensive piece of equipment was on the fritz. Yet another thing to worry about.

‘Don’t worry – I’m dealing with it,’ said James, tinkering with the equipment.

‘Ian reminded us about decorating the cinema for Christmas,’ said Sarah.

‘I know, I know,’ replied James distractedly.

‘And the school rang.’

James looked up. ‘What’s wrong now?’

She filled him in on her conversation with Mr Wu.

James frowned, running his hand through his hair. ‘Let’s not panic. It’s early days. And it sounds like the school is being supportive.’

‘It’s been nearly a term.’ Sarah’s eyebrows knitted together with worry. ‘I hate that Nick doesn’t have any friends.’

‘We can’t always be fighting Nick’s battles for him,’ said James. ‘And I’m not sure hiding out in the library is going to help him make friends.’

‘Well, what else was I supposed to do?’ demanded Sarah, her temper flaring. James sounded like her mother. ‘Nothing?’

‘It took him a while to settle into primary school as well. He’ll make friends in his own time,’ countered James. ‘We don’t have to blow this out of proportion.’

He turned his attention back to the projector, and anger coiled inside Sarah.