by Kate Forster
Avian was the polar opposite of Christa to look at, she thought. While Avian was wearing black leather trousers and a tight turtleneck, Christa must have looked like a giant Christmas ham in her pink puffa jacket. She was surprised Simon hadn’t stuck cloves in her and carved her up.
The pink puffa had seemed cute on the website but when it came Simon had screamed laughing and called her blancmange for the day until she had cried and then he said sorry and told her she looked cute, which she hated. Being told she was cute was so patronising. She shivered at the word as she put a teabag into a mug and poured the water in.
The doorbell rang, and she went and pressed the buzzer.
‘It’s Selene,’ came the throaty French voice.
Selene always seemed to know when Christa needed her, even when Christa didn’t know herself.
Selene had studied at Le Cordon Bleu with Christa and Simon, and while she and Simon went into hospitality, Selene had become a restaurant critic and was now one of the most highly regarded in Europe with her own page in a luxury magazine and a column in a paper, along with her own website.
Christa buzzed her in and poured her a cup of hot water with a slice of lemon. Keeping the calories down wasn’t easy when you were eating out most days.
She knocked and Christa let her in. ‘Salut, did you return the keys?’
Christa rolled her eyes. ‘Yes and I met his new bit of thin rib: Avian.’
Selene laughed. ‘She is a little bird lady. She’s the producer on the show. All the way from the USA.’
‘She seems to have migrated for the winter,’ said Christa. ‘I hope she and Slimon fly to the warmer climes asap.’
Selene sat on the sofa and crossed her legs, her elegant frame belying that she reviewed restaurant food for a living. ‘Slimon. Very funny. I like it. He shall be known as that from here on in. So how did it go? All done?’ she asked.
Christa nodded and sighed. ‘And I have signed the papers, so I’m no longer married. I am also jobless and once I put this place on the market I will be homeless.’
Selene sipped her hot water.
‘What do you want to do next?’
‘Feed the poor? Clothe the naked? I don’t know, something to help people,’ she admitted.
Selene didn’t roll her eyes but she was nothing if not a pragmatist. ‘That takes money and connections. You will have to get a job first.’
‘I’m aware,’ sighed Christa. She had worked on enough charity events to know the huge pressure on the organisations to keep everything afloat while trying to get donations and support from wealthy individuals.
‘Someone I know asked if you wanted to cook for a rich family over the Christmas period. The lawyer for the client messaged me, all very cloak and daggers. He said he had eaten at Playfoot’s. It’s obviously someone famous or important. But the money they mentioned was ridiculously high. Out in the country somewhere, at their house.’
Christa’s ears pricked up. She needed more money to support her while she worked out what she wanted to do next in order to realise the dream that had been planted in her mind.
‘Me? They asked for me? Who are they?’ People rarely asked for her. ‘Surely they meant Simon?’
‘No, he said you by name,’ Selene said. ‘I could ask the lawyer who it is, but I doubt they would tell me unless I signed a non-disclosure agreement.’
Christa was tempted. They knew her cooking, they knew her food and they asked for her personally. It was kind of nice to be recognised for once. Especially when Simon was being featured as the best thing to happen to British cooking since Gordon Ramsay.
‘Over Christmas? I could do it. I mean it’s not like I’m going wassailing with my family.’
Selene reached over and gave her arm a rub. ‘You could come to Paris with my family but we will just drink and fight and you will not be paid for it.’
Christa thought of the holidays with Simon’s family at their country house, perfectly chic and very Sloane Ranger with the silver cutlery all lined up on the white damask cloth and Fortnum and Mason Christmas crackers on the table. The first year she had Christmas with Simon’s family she had nervously drunk too much champagne and asked when the photographer was arriving for the catalogue shoot. She knew it was rude but it was true. The perfection of the table had made her wonder about the silliness of Christmas. Simon had been furious with her little dig, which she apologised for but he had said that not everyone could enjoy the bonhomie of the shelter Christmas she had told him about. She remembered the shame then and even now it smarted to think of it.
Of course the food was also perfect. Every year it was the same. Always catered with smoked salmon to start, followed by roast Norfolk bronze turkey with all of the trimmings. Then there was a Christmas pudding with brandy custard and mince pies and a platter of cheese and biscuits to finish. It was all perfectly fine but that’s all it was: fine. There was nothing spontaneous about the day, no bustling about the kitchen or fighting over whether the turkey was done or not. So rehearsed, she felt she could have recited the conversation word for word from Simon’s parents about the cooking of turkey and how nice it was to avoid the line at Waitrose for the smoked salmon.
Christa thought back to the Christmas lunches of her younger years when it was just her and her dad. Simon might have thought it was sad but she remembered there was life, unlike in his family home. It wasn’t what everyone would want to experience for Christmas but there was a sense of being in it together. Everyone would wear the paper hats and share the small gifts as though they were priceless. It wasn’t what some children would think was a wonderful Christmas but for Christa it was generous and filled with hope.
Her dad had died the year she started at Le Cordon Bleu and she started to date Simon in second year. God he was handsome in a sort of posh foppish Hugh Grant way. And he could speak French and he drove a green MG and he said he went to school with one of the members of Coldplay. He was, to Christa, the most wonderful, exciting and different man she had ever known. All the girls wanted to date him but after first year, when she topped the class in everything, he chose her.
‘I’ve always been into talent over looks,’ he had told her the first time they made love and she’d thought it was romantic. Now she wanted to shake herself awake from the spell he had her under back then.
In second year she came first in everything again and Simon became even more serious about her. He was planning a restaurant, he had told her; he had investors, he confided; and he wanted her to be his sous chef.
Instead she went to Paris after she graduated, and lived with Selene’s family and worked at a Michelin-hatted restaurant, returning with a perfect soufflé recipe and a fluency in French.
It was the only time she defied Simon in their relationship but the head of her course told her she had something special. She could cook in a Michelin-starred restaurant if she worked hard enough, because he thought she had the talent. She was the only one to be offered the apprenticeship in France and, looking back, she realised Simon knew he couldn’t outshine her, so instead he would use her talent for his own gain.
Simon had then gone into full wooing mode. He came and saw her as often as he could, and he complimented her constantly on her talent and how clever she was. When she had mentioned the hotel where she worked were thinking of promoting her, he told her he supported it and he couldn’t wait for her to eat at his restaurant he was opening.
And then, just before his restaurant opened, he called her crying, saying his sous chef had pulled out. He would be open in a week. He would lose the money from the investors. What could he do? He was desperate for an idea; he needed Christa’s brilliance. And so she said she would come back to London for a while. Just until he found the right person. And fifteen years later she was still there.
She had been played by the Playfoot, she thought, stuck in the restaurant and spending every Christmas with his family, even though Christmas Eve was her birthday.
Once she had sugg
ested that she and Simon start their own tradition and he responded as though she had suggested he smother his parents in the night with an oven bag.
Instead, Christa always received a birthday present on Christmas Eve from Simon, “but something small, because it’s Christmas tomorrow”. And she had accepted it because she didn’t think she deserved anything more. Christmases and birthdays were small when she was a child because of her dad’s issues and lack of money. So to want something more as an adult made her feel like she was a materialistic, pathetic fool.
And she always received a little present from his parents, given in hushed tones away from the nativity set on the mantelpiece, as though they were worried that Jesus would be cross with them for celebrating someone else’s birthday.
Christa shuddered at the memories.
‘It’s funny how you settle in life,’ she said aloud.
‘Some do – not me,’ said Selene.
Christa smiled at her friend. She would never settle the way Christa had but perhaps it was because Selene hadn’t been through what she had.
‘I’ll do it; tell whoever it is, I will do the gig. I need to get out of London. It’s making me sad. And I want to be busy. I need space to think, you know?’
Selene put down her mug. ‘Really? Staying with strangers, cooking for them?’
‘Why not? I’m not achieving anything here, am I? I need the money. I need the distraction. It’ll be good for me,’ she said. Was she trying to convince Selene or herself? She wasn’t sure.
Selene pulled out her phone and typed onto the screen.
‘Okay, I have told them you’re interested. Let me see if I can get the price up though. You deserve birthday tax also.’
Christa laughed. ‘You’re the best non-agent I could have.’
Within a minute Selene’s phone rang and she picked it up and spoke.
‘Yes, that’s correct… Another ten. It is Christmas and she will be away from her family.’
Christa thought about her friends, all spending the time with their families. She would have been alone, not wanting to intrude on anyone’s lunch or dinner even though she knew she would have been more than welcome.
‘Correct, that should be fine. Yes. Email it through and we can review and return the paperwork and the signed NDA.’
Selene put down the phone.
‘It is done. You head to York on the third of December and stay until the third of January.’
‘God that’s longer than I thought,’ said Christa.
‘It’s also a fifteen-thousand-pound fee,’ Selene added.
‘What? Are you joking? That’s ridiculous money.’
‘I can ask them for twenty if you like.’
‘I mean that’s very overpaid.’
‘It’s what you could be earning in the restaurant though. Don’t undervalue yourself.’ Selene scolded her. Christa was silent as she knew her friend was right. She always undervalued herself in her work and in her relationships.
‘In York? You say?’ Christa sat back and tapped her chin. ‘York. Who is famous and rich who lives in York?’
‘The cast of Emmerdale?’ Selene asked and Christa burst out laughing. ‘They are sending through the paperwork now. I will forward it to you to print out. And they want your bank account details so they can pay you half upfront.’
Christa felt her eyes prick with tears.
‘How do you always know when I need help and then just show up like some sexy French fairy godmother?’
Selene shrugged. ‘We are soul sisters, Christa. I will always support you. I chose you not Slimon in this divorce so whatever you do, I’ll cheer you on.’
Christa closed her eyes and felt her body relax for the first time since she and Simon split. She had a plan, even if it was only until January the third; but it was something to do and she was needed, and that was enough for now.
3
The city disappeared behind her as Christa sipped her coffee while she drove her Jeep along the A1. She had Christmas songs playing in the car to try and get into the Christmas spirit but she had the feeling that she might have bitten off more than she could chew.
Once she had signed the NDA and the money entered her account, a list of food to be avoided for some meals came through, including anything with gluten, onion, garlic, certain berries and fruits, and even spices.
She still didn’t know who she was cooking for but judging from the list of prohibited food she imagined they were very used to having things just the way they liked them and nothing else would suffice.
*
She stopped in Leicester for some lunch. The wind was biting when she got out of the car so she headed to the nearest café for a toasted cheese sandwich and a cup of tea to warm her up. Sometimes simple food was the best kind. Not every chef would admit they ordered takeaway food or made toasted sandwiches as often as they do. The last thing Christa felt like doing was cooking for herself when she was at home.
Now she had a month of cooking in a place far away from Simon and the memories of London. She loved cooking for people, although the list of banned food was a red flag. Probably Americans, she thought, maybe a movie star who was on a strict diet for a new role. She tried to guess who it might be as her stomach rumbled, reminding her she needed to eat.
The café she stopped at was very old-fashioned and the old tables looked like there had been forty years of news passed across them, but the tea was hot and strong. The best food often came from old places like this, which focused on what they were good at and ignored the trends. She could have done without the television suspended from the wall but at least the sound was turned down.
Christa bit into her sandwich when she saw a television advertisement playing for the new cooking show and Simon’s face came on screen. He was smiling at her as she ate her lunch, as though he was a benevolent food angel above her, sending blessings to the small café. She stared out the window of the café, thinking about all the times she let Simon have the spotlight because she didn’t think she was worthy of being proud of her work. God, she wanted to slap herself.
There was food critic also judging, a pompous git who was Selene’s rival in the world of restaurant reviews. Christa hated his braces and the cravats that he now wore and the way he licked his fingers as he looked at the camera. Ewww. The final judge was a YouTube cook who became famous for cooking in the woods behind his mud-brick house, handmade by him of course.
None of the judges were women, which Christa found surprising when there were many women who were making their mark in the culinary world. But she also knew from her female friends in the industry that it was hard to work in a restaurant and have children. She had wanted children but Simon didn’t, which is why she didn’t have any.
She paid the bill and picked up some homemade lemon curd for sale on the counter.
‘I’ll take one of these,’ she said to the woman serving her.
‘I made it myself,’ said the woman. ‘I had too many lemons this year. I couldn’t give them away – all my friends said they hadn’t used the ones I’d already given them.’
‘You know the saying though,’ said Christa. ‘If you have to buy lemons then you don’t have any good friends. Your friends should know how lucky they are to have you.’
The woman handed the change back to Christa. ‘Oh I like that. I might remind them for the next batch. Have a good day, love.’
Christa hopped into her car and, filled with tea and a fine sandwich, she drove towards York feeling better and her thoughts clearer.
Leaving London was obviously good for her. Perhaps this was what she had needed all along. Some space to think and be open to possibilities. Anything could happen, she told herself as she drove through the countryside.
Simon had moved on, and she needed to as well. She didn’t want what he wanted, perhaps she never had, but he made her path smooth so she didn’t have to worry about food shelters and the heating bill and lining up for supplies on cold winter days.
<
br /> What she couldn’t understand, she thought as she drove, was why she forgot she could do those things and survive. She was resilient but Simon had made her dependent on him and she hated that she had allowed it to happen. She was once a brave child, a courageous teenager, the best in her class at cooking school, and somehow she had forgotten who she was when around Simon.
The nerves she had felt about driving to the job dissipated because she remembered the one thing her dad always said about her: ‘Christa, you can do hard things. Not everyone can but you can.’ And he was right. He would have hated Simon. She laughed to herself.
She was thankful Simon never met him. He wasn’t Simon’s sort of person, with his rough smoker’s voice and lack of decorum about people whom he called piss-elegant. No more piss-elegant, she told herself. No more hiding behind a man. No more not being herself and saying what she wanted in life. This was the new Christa Playfoot, ready to do hard things.
Feeling empowered, she checked the sat nav directions and realised she hadn’t paid attention and missed the turn-off.
Maybe she could do hard things but reading a map or listening to directions wasn’t one of them, she thought, giggling as she took the next turn-off to get back onto the right path. The journey back to self might take a few wrong turns, she reminded herself but at least she had a sense of where she was going now.
*
The map was sending Christa off the road and onto a gravel driveway. She drove slowly, the large oak trees creating a tunnel of branches, while a light rain began to fall. The address she put into the GPS had told her she was heading into a forest, and as though proving the fact, she saw a large stag standing by the side of the drive. She slowed down so as to not startle the magnificent animal but perhaps she was the one startled, she considered as she caught its eye as she passed. She could have sworn it dipped its head in greeting.
