A Vintage Christmas Read Online Free PDF

businesses like Angelo’s will close because of the recession. ‘So, no’, he finishes firmly. ‘I’m not selling them today or any day. Thank you and goodb—’
    I think it’s pure desperation on my part, empathy for him and passion for what I do that makes me blurt out my final plea. ‘Oh but please Mr Angelo, sir, please could you at least consider meeting me at the shop? Honestly, I’d make a very good offer – better than you can imagine – and they’d go to a wonderful home. I’ve just never seen such a beautiful design, the hand-beaded details are just beautiful, the lock-stitching divine. I’d love to meet the craftsman whose father designed and created these beautiful pieces and then passed on his incredible talent to you.’ I gaze at them again. ‘I’m guessing these were made somewhere around 1955, is that right?’
    ‘18th February 1955, yes’, he says in a tone far warmer than he’d spoken in before. He pauses. ‘Well, you certainly know your stuff, Miss. It doesn’t change anything you know, though—’
    I hear some muffled noise down the line, but after a few seconds there is the sound of the dialling tone and I feel my heart sink down to my shoes (ironically).
    He’s put the phone down.
    ‘No joy?’ Sam says, looking up from his phone, slipping his arm around my waist and dropping a kiss on my shoulder.
    I shake my head and lean it against the shop window, pressing my face and hands against it like I’m Tiny Tim Cratchit from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol . So close, and yet, so far.
    ‘Well don’t just stand there gawping at them, come in and have a closer look!’
    I jolt in surprise as I see a pensive looking, dark-haired man with a neat goatee and bright blue eyes standing in the open doorway. He’s wearing the middle-aged, middle class uniform of a cardigan over a shirt with jeans. I can’t help but glance down at his feet – his brown brogues are the shiniest I have ever seen.
    ‘I thrust out my hand. ‘Evie,’ I say with a bright smile, ‘and this is my... partner, Sam.’
    Sam steps forward and holds his hand out to shake, but David ignores him. I look back up at him and see that he has noticed where my gaze has landed.
    ‘My grandfather always used to say that no matter what, shoes should be worn like manners – polished to perfection.’
    ‘And do you agree?’ I ask with a raised eyebrow, thinking of the brisk exchange we’ve just had on the phone – and Sam’s missed handshake. He looks at me and then lets out a laugh. It is rough and sharp, like it’s been a long time since he had a reason to let out a joyful sound. It seems to even take him by surprise. ‘Do you know, Miss, I think manners are highly overrated and that you can tell more about a person by what they wear on their feet than what comes out of their mouth. Now are you coming in or not?’
    I smile as I step inside the shop. ‘So what’s your verdict on me then Mr Angelo?’
    ‘David is fine,’ he replies briskly. He rubs his beard thoughtfully as he studies my feet appraisingly. ‘Well Miss...’
    ‘... Taylor,’ I say. ‘But just Evie is fine, too.’
    David looks up quickly and settles his eyes on mine. ‘No one should prelude their name with “just”; it is an inconsequential, worthless excuse for a word. None of which you are, judging by your shoes. Which, by the way, tell me you are thoughtful, sincere, hardworking, creative, driven, loyal and loved.’ I see that Sam has looked up from his phone, straightened up, and has taken on a possessive stance.
    ‘And you can tell all that by my shoes?’ I laugh in astonishment.
    He nods and grins, his frown lines disappear and he instantly loses a decade. I realise that he’s probably not that much older than Sam and I. Mid to late thirties perhaps. And despite his loquacious turn of phrase and dapper style, he’s attractive – in a very heterosexual, Mediterranean way. Maybe that’s why Sam has put away his phone and is hovering