A Christmas Written In The Stars

Book summary

In "A Christmas Written In The Stars," Star Sullivan, a magazine journalist disillusioned with her life in London, returns to her quiet Staffordshire village for a Christmas break. Amidst local dramas and community events, Star's life takes an unexpected turn when she reconnects with Flynn Hadden, a former teenage love now a country farmer. As their romance rekindles, Star faces a dilemma about her future and love life, challenging her to decide what truly matters as the new year approaches.

Excerpt from A Christmas Written In The Stars

‘You may kiss the bride!’ The deep, melodious voice of Father Andrew echoed around the stone and marble interior of the Roman Catholic church. A collective sigh emanated from the unmarried females in the congregation as Warley-on-the-Wood’s most sought-after bachelor, Bruce Foster, swept his bride’s veil off her face, tipped her backwards in a show of manly strength, and planted a lingering kiss on her petal-pink frosted lips. In the front pews, the mothers dabbed at their eyes and noses with lace handkerchiefs, their arm movements synchronised as they swiped away blue mascara-stained tears of emotion.

For both women, upholding the correct wedding etiquette was paramount. Their thoughts had been preoccupied by their children’s upcoming nuptials for the past year. Twelve months of meticulous planning; did the flowers complement the bridal party’s dresses? Were the invitations fancy enough? Were there enough tiers on the wedding cake? Would there be enough champagne to appease the two hundred guests? It was crucial to both families that the day should be a resounding, glorious success.

Rachel Sullivan, the mother of the bride, wore dusky pink satin, accessorised with lemon stilettos, a clutch purse, and a feathered hat. She had searched high and low to ensure her outfit matched perfectly, even her nail polish and belt had been chosen with the colour scheme in mind, and she’d been pleased with the looks of appreciation she had received from the other guests. It was common knowledge that the mother of the bride’s appearance was second in importance only to the bride, and Rachel was exceedingly happy with her chosen attire. ‘Classy’ was a word that sprang to mind. She was, however, annoyed that the groom’s mother had chosen the same colour shoes. Jemima Foster had obviously set out to emulate her style, but who in their right mind would pair a cherry, two-piece suit with lemon shoes? The handbag was even worse: patent black with ugly chain straps, and her hat’s feathers and netting resembled a lopsided bird’s nest on an extremely windy day. Rachel nudged her husband and discreetly pointed over in her direction.

‘Ridiculous,’ she mouthed.

Tony Sullivan gave her a baffled stare. His gentle, kind demeanour meant that he always looked for the good in people, and that included their appearance. Rachel sighed and turned her attention to her youngest daughter. Star Sullivan was at that awkward mid-teen age. A tall, slip of a girl who was quite frankly bloody naughty. She could almost hear her own mother urging her from the grave to give her a good clip around the ear, but as the headteacher of the village primary, Rachel was only too aware that physically punishing children was frowned upon in 1980s Britain. She doubted that it would work with her rebellious youngest daughter anyway. Star was entirely different from her eldest daughter; compliant Martha. You only had to brush against Star, or raise your voice, to bring on a bout of histrionics, and whenever this happened, Tony always jumped to her defence.

She was certainly a conundrum. More than once, Rachel had wished for the gift of telepathy so she could read what was going on in her younger daughter’s mind. Maybe then she would understand why she always seemed so angry. Star’s Grandad Maurice, who was sitting on the pew behind in his best navy suit, liked to proclaim that ‘Star had been spoilt rotten by her father,’ and Rachel was inclined to agree. The differences in her two daughters’ personalities often bewildered her. Martha was placid, pleasing, and sweet, a teacher like Rachel herself had been. She was a popular person whose esteem within the community had rocketed when she had also bagged one of the wealthiest men in the locality.

It was clear that her eldest daughter was well-liked by everyone. Star, in comparison, seemed unconcerned by others’ opinions and was a girl who enjoyed rebelling against authority. There was no denying she was unique, but she was also a troubled individual. With her face presently contorted into a frown, Rachel wondered what on earth was going through Star’s mind on such a wonderfully uplifting day. She reached for her spare handkerchief and dabbed gently at her nose, careful not to dislodge the powder.

***

‘Thank God they’ve finished snogging,’ Star Sullivan made a retching noise as her sister and new husband wiped at their mouths and turned to face the vicar. But Father Andrew’s attention was focused on Star.

‘What?’ Star mouthed as her mother clutched the pearls around her throat.

‘You used the Lord’s name in vain,’ Rachel Sullivan mumbled, out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Oops,’ Star let out a snicker and shrugged her shoulders in a helpless manner. ‘God forgive me.’

The priest’s face turned beetroot red, he cleared his throat, and glared at Star with sanctimonious disapproval. Star ignored him, reaching inside the silly bridesmaid bag Martha had insisted she carry, she extracted a lipstick and snapped off the lid. Her mum stared in horror at the black matte point. Before Star had a chance to apply it over the sickening pink lip gloss she had been forced to wear, her mother whipped it out of her hands.

‘Don’t think you’re putting that awful mess on your mouth during your sister’s wedding.’

Star blew out an agitated breath of air.

‘I am never getting married,’ she hissed. Rachel’s mouth tightened into a taut line.

‘Be quiet. Have some respect for your sister.’

Star crossed her arms over her chest and shivered as a blast of icy wind hit her bare shoulders and arms. The cold spring temperature made goosebumps pucker her skin. This church is freezing, she thought with outrage. It was alright for Father Andrew in his long robe; he was obviously warm enough, but the rest of the congregation were visibly shivering. What a stupid idea to hold a wedding in April, thought Star. Last night an inch of snow had fallen and the weather presenter on the television had warned that a storm was impending. Star could hear the wind now, rattling and whirling around the church roof. When she’d followed her sister up the pathway, she had noticed the church spire wobbling precariously. A gory vision of it toppling down and impaling one of the guests had occupied her mind, like that scene from The Omen. Now that would be exciting.

To add to the spooky atmosphere, the trees in the adjacent graveyard had been swaying back and forth like macabre monsters, their branches reaching out like garish fingers. The setting was more like a funeral than a wedding. If it hadn’t been for the annoyingly cheerful photographer telling her to ‘smile for the camera,’ she could almost have envisioned she was stuck in one of the Victorian Gothic novels that she loved.

Star glanced around at the guests, contempt curling her upper lip. It was so obvious they were only here for the free alcohol and food. A congregation of over-dressed toads, which consisted of distant relatives and local people that her sister hardly knew. Parasites who’d been invited to make up the numbers in this whole ridiculous charade. It was all so false, so middle class and shallow. What was the point of marriage anyway? Thought Star with a sneer. It was an outdated institution that repressed women, and Star was determined that she’d never wed anyone. Oh, she liked the male species, but she wanted to live in sin with a bohemian, mature man who wouldn’t be threatened by a successful career woman and who’d encourage her to be independent. Together they’d go on demonstrations, travel the world, make impassioned speeches against capitalism and animal cruelty, and generally stick two fingers up to the dominant conformism of conservative Britain.

In a fit of teenage self-importance, Star popped her chewing gum. It sounded like an explosion in the suddenly deathly quiet church. Father Andrew’s surprised gaze swivelled in her direction, and the entire congregation’s attention moved from the bride and groom to focus upon her.

‘Star!’ Her mum hissed like an unravelling snake, her tongue flicking between cracked lips; she looked ready to attack, and Star regretted her defiance.

‘Here.’ She shoved a crumpled piece of tissue into Star’s hands, while casting demure, apologetic eyes at Father Andrew.

The priest made a growling sound, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and the congregation held their breath, anticipating another biblical quote, but to everyone’s relief, he smiled and proclaimed, ‘Please join me in singing the last hymn.’

The organist jolted out of his nap, splayed his fingers, and brought them down heavily on the keys. Deafening out-of-tune music filled the church. Star could have sworn that the pulpit was shaking in time with the haphazard tempo. She sniggered, removed the gum from her inner cheek, and opened her mouth to join in with All Things Bright And Beautiful.

Finally, the service was over. While her sister and her joke of a husband went to sign the marriage certificate, Star questioned yet again why she’d had the misfortune of being born into a Catholic family. If her sister had been atheist, then they could have gone to the local registry office, and it would have all been over in fifteen minutes. Instead, she’d had to sit through almost an hour of God-fearing fire and brimstone. Father Andrew possessed a predilection for the word ‘sin.’ He’d interjected it into his service more than twenty times. Star had counted, and to her, it seemed odd at a joyous celebration. But then there was a rumour circulating that the priest was a tormented man who relied on alcohol to ease the burden of life. Indeed, any aftershave he wore was blatantly overpowered by the stench of single malt whisky.

According to village gossip, he’d once been so inebriated he’d almost toppled into an open grave and, during a christening, he’d been so lackadaisical from liquor he’d almost dropped a wailing infant into the font. This was a major source of amusement to Star, but she also acknowledged that it all seemed rather hypocritical of Father Andrew, but then who amongst the guests wasn’t a fornicator? Even outwardly pious Martha indulged in risqué behaviour: sly cigarettes and beer, sexual relations before wedlock, the frequent use of expletives, and blasphemous outbursts. Martha, however, was an expert at portraying a specious façade. It annoyed the hell out of Star that in her family’s, and it seemed the entire community’s eyes, ‘angelic’ Martha could do no wrong.