Bestselling writer India Knight explores the inevitable panic that family and Christmas bring in her side-splittingly funny and honest novel Comfort and Joy.

‘I’d say Christmas was about hope. Yeah. Hope. And optimism. It’s like the fairy tales in the window: for families, every Christmas is a new opportunity for Happy Ever After. No pressure, then. . . ’

Oxford Street, two shopping days left to Christmas, and wife and mum Clara Dunphy is desperately, madly trying to make everything, not perfect, but just right for her extended family on the greatest day of the year. But then she gets distracted. . .

‘Will make you laugh, maybe make you cry and keep you reading past bedtime’ Lauren Laverne, Grazia

‘A hilarious, bawdy, yet touching portrait of Christmas’ Jilly Cooper, Guardian

‘Hilarious and honest; the dialogue is sitcom-snappy and the opening scenes in Oxford Street positively Joycean’ Daily Mail

In addition to Comfort and Joy, Sunday Times columnist India Knight is the author of two hilarious novels, My Life on a Plate and Don’t You Want Me?, The Thrift Book – a guide to spending less, but living just as much, and Neris and India’s Idiot-Proof Diet and its accompanying cookbook – Neris and India’s Idiot-Proof Diet Cookbook. Follow India on Twitter or on her blog at http://indiaknight.tumblr.com.

» Read the first pages of Comfort and Joy by downloading the Penguin Taster here

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'Breathless, colourful, hilarious and honest; the dialogue is sitcom-snappy and the opening scenes in Oxford Street positively Joycean,' Daily Mail

'Fabulous. Laugh-out-loud funny, moving and as cuddly as Santa Claus, this is perfect for snuggling up with over the Christmas holidays,' Cosmopolitan

'Riotously high in laughs and glamour. I defy a festive grump not to be cheered by it,' The Independent

'A wickedly funny, painfully honest look at families, festivities and romantic love.' Marie Claire

‘Is this seat taken?’

I glance up briefly. There’s one of those interchangeable men in suits standing there, pointing at the club chair opposite mine.

‘No, no – have it,’ I say, looking down at my present list again. They had really nice stripy cashmere scarves at the shop down the road from home – I’ll get her one of those in the morning. And some books. And maybe some pants, so Jake doesn’t feel victimized. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Not at all,’ I say, still looking at my lap and scribbling ‘T – scarf + pants’ on my list. ‘I’m going in a minute, anyway.’

‘I’m grateful. It’s very busy in here,’ the man says. ‘May I get you another drink?’

‘No, thank you. I think I’d better . . .’ I look up properly for the first time. ‘Oh.’

He is raising his eyebrows, and smiling.

It feels like about twenty minutes go by, in slow motion. I am looking at the man. He is looking at me. Nobody is speaking. I can hear the old ladies laughing, though they sound very far away.

‘Another drink?’ he repeats.

I realize that, for the second time today, my mouth is slightly open. I snap it shut, only to open it again. ‘I, er. I. No. I have to go. I can’t. I. Yes. NO!’ is what comes out, humiliatingly. I can literally feel the blood rising to the surface of my skin. I am about to become puce.

‘Have one more. For Christmas,’ he laughs. ‘Same again? I promise I’ll leave you alone with your, ah, paper-work.’

I say ‘Okay’ in a weird squeaky voice.

To me, the man is the most attractive man I have ever seen. I don’t know what else to say: it’s a simple statement of fact. I, Clara Dunphy née Hutt, have literally, in my life, never seen anyone so handsome. It’s subjective, of course. But . . . it’s not just handsomeness. I know handsomeness, from interviewing the odd film star and so on for work: it takes you aback initially, but you adjust to it very quickly and just feel annoyed when you go back into the real world and find everyone walking about with their plain old faces. You don’t, as I do now, feel like you’ve been winded, punched, jacked out of time. And that little stab in my stomach. I know what that is. That’s not good. That’s not supposed to happen to the old-lady wife and mother. I mean, it’s been years. How weird.

‘He’s bringing them over,’ the man says, coming back and sitting down. And then, gesturing to my ratty little list, ‘Please. Don’t let me put you off.’

‘It’s just my list, you know, for presents,’ I say, pretending to write something important down on it. What I actually write is ‘HELP’, not in letters so large that he could see them from across the table, but as a useful aide-memoire to myself.

‘Ah yes. I’ve been doing some of that too.’

‘I was in Oxford Street,’ I volunteer pointlessly, and then, as if that piece of banality wasn’t enough, I add, ‘I had two pigeons walking on either side of me. We were like a gang.’

He looks mildly surprised by this, as well he might. Surprised doesn’t even begin to cover how I’m feeling. A little voice in my head says, ‘Leave. Go home. It was fun, the drink in the Connaught, but it’s over now.’