Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall

by Kate Forster

  Even with the heater on in the car, she could feel the temperature dropping outside as the sky became darker and the rain heavier as she came to the end of the driveway. In the not so far distance was a house that was beyond anything she had imagined she would be staying in. An enormous palatial building that looked like a wealthy child’s doll’s house had been blown up one hundred per cent and then some more.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she said to herself as she stopped the car at the top of the driveway to fully take in the view. She expected Mr Darcy to run down the stairs to see if Lizzy had returned home but sadly it was just her and no Mr Darcy was to be seen. The rain turned up its setting to pouring now and a clap of thunder announced her arrival, followed by a bolt of lightning that made the house glow for a brief moment.

  She dialled Selene.

  ‘I’m working at Downton Abbey but on steroids,’ she said as soon as her friend answered. ‘There is a storm and a deer on the side of the road and I’m not sure if I am in some gothic horror film or walking into my own death.’

  ‘Are you serious? That’s amazing, babe. Take photos, lots of them. I want to see but I have to go right now. I’m heading out to an early event. Text me, yeah?’

  Christa drove up to the house and parked next to a large four-wheel drive Bentley. Simon wanted one of those, she remembered, thinking how much he would love the house and it’s grandiosity. Stop thinking about Simon, she told herself. He was gone. He didn’t think about her every minute so why did she think about him? She was so used to conferring with him about everything to make sure he was happy that she forgot to think about herself. No more, she told herself. She closed her eyes for a moment to rebalance her mind. Simon was gone. She was here and never the twain shall meet again.

  Opening her eyes, she took in the whole house – well as much as she could with the enormous wings and stairs and columns. There were so many windows.

  It was magnificent but Christa wondered who would clean it. So much to Hoover, she thought as she reached for her umbrella in the back seat. She opened the car door as a gust of wind blew so fiercely that the umbrella flew out of her hand and was out of sight in a moment.

  Taking her chances, she ran from the car up the many front steps to the front door just as the thunder crashed again. Banging on the door with both hands and then ringing the bell next to it, she shivered as the rain hit her back like a cat o’ nine tails.

  Just as she was about to give up and run back to her car, the door opened to reveal a young boy on rollerblades with a hockey stick in his hand.

  ‘Hey,’ he greeted her in an American accent.

  Christa was about to speak when another child appeared, who was identical in every way – including the accoutrements on his feet and in his hand – except he held a small, space-age-looking video camera.

  ‘Are you the chef?’ he asked, pointing the camera at her.

  More lightning and thunder so close Christa screamed. Was she in The Shining? What was happening?

  ‘Seth, Ethan, let her in for God’s sake,’ said a booming voice with a Californian drawl.

  Christa stepped inside the foyer of the home and looked up to see a man standing at the top of the staircase. He was tall or maybe that was because he was looming large above them all, like an omnipotent god in a hoodie, jeans and sneakers. He leaned over the railing to peer down at her.

  ‘You’re Christa the cook? Yes?’

  ‘Chef,’ she corrected.

  ‘Chef, okay, sure,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want to be called.’

  For some reason his dismissive comment felt like he had scolded her. She was sick of being overlooked, invalidated, and patronised by men, and this person was giving her the same energy as Simon.

  ‘Actually, I earned that title,’ she said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back further so he could see she was serious.

  ‘Pardon?’ He frowned at her, dark blonde hair falling into his face, and he pushed it away.

  ‘I’m not a cook, I’m a chef. I worked in a Michelin-hatted restaurant in Paris and owned a restaurant in London for over ten years. And the Sunday Times said my hot cross bun ice cream served with spiced wine-soaked quince tart was a miracle and resurrected the once maligned fruit.’

  As Christa was speaking, she heard herself and tried to stop but the words just kept coming out of her mouth.

  ‘So yes, I am a chef. Not a cook,’ she finished, feeling weak at the knees from looking upwards for so long and feeling her blood pressure rising.

  The man laughed. ‘This is Christmas, not Easter, so you can leave your hot cross bun ice cream for next year. But thanks for the CV. I am sure you will chef for us very well,’ he said, putting emphasis on the word chef, which annoyed Christa, but she had already said too much.

  This whole taking charge of her life thing wasn’t going quite to plan.

  ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ she said, holding her ground.

  ‘I didn’t throw it,’ he said and she stared at him, her eyes narrowing, as she tried to take in this level of arrogance and entitlement.

  He paused and she saw his shoulders drop. ‘Marc, Marc Ferrier,’ he said in a softer tone.

  She nodded her acknowledgement, trying to recall if she had ever heard his name before but it drew a blank.

  Two men in raincoats ran up towards the door, one holding a fancy green umbrella with a gold handle.

  ‘God, it’s hideous outside. We’re drowning,’ called one of the men in a booming voice, also with an American accent. A crack of thunder was heard closer than Christa would have liked.

  The children were skating on the marble floors, which she was pretty certain couldn’t be good for the floors, or the children if they fell.

  ‘Stop skating on the marble,’ yelled the man above, as though reading her mind. ‘And shut the door – it’s freezing.’

  ‘Shut the door,’ one of the children yelled.

  ‘Shut the front door,’ yelled the other and Christa couldn’t stop herself.

  ‘Stop yelling. You don’t get anything done faster or better by yelling, okay? There will be no yelling at me or around me or I will leave. Shut the door, stop skating and stop dripping water everywhere,’ she said to the men in raincoats.

  Everyone stared at her and Christa wondered if she should turn and head back to her car and drive back to London.

  The man at the top of the stairs looked over the ornate bannister at her.

  ‘I thought chefs liked to yell.’

  ‘Not in my kitchen,’ she answered, tipping her head to look up at him again and feeling the blood rushing to her face.

  He caught her eye. ‘And not in my house – you’re right. I hate yelling,’ he said and he gave her a slight nod and then walked away as though he had her approval despite the unorthodox entrance.

  The children were already skating away now the small disturbance in the atmosphere had settled.

  ‘You’re Christa, yes?’ one of the men said while taking off his rain jacket and hanging it on the array of hooks near the front door.

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Sorry about that but it was all very chaotic. I don’t like chaos.’

  The man looked her up and down and then laughed a little but not meanly. ‘Then you better get prepared for when his ex visits. She is the original Goddess Discordia.’

  Christa stared at him. ‘When does she arrive?’

  ‘Whenever she pleases,’ he said. ‘She’s the one with the list of intolerances.’ He gave Christa a knowing look and she smiled respectfully in response.

  It wasn’t for her to say what was an allergy, intolerance or disordered eating, but God knows, every year there were more and more requests at the restaurant for accommodations and substitutions. Perhaps the world was becoming more intolerant in general, she often reflected.

  ‘I’m Adam, Marc’s lawyer, and this is my husband Paul. We’re here for Christmas also. I have to make some calls. Paul, can you show Christa to her room?’

&n
bsp; Adam was gone in an instant but she could hear his voice barking down the phone as he left.

  Paul smiled at her kindly and she felt herself relax.

  ‘Hey, Christa, grab your things and I’ll take you to your room. We usually have a housekeeper but she’s gone in to York to get some supplies. FYI, she’s terrifying.’

  Christa laughed. ‘That’s something to look forward to. Don’t worry about my things – I can get them when the rain stops,’ Christa said. She looked around the foyer and didn’t see any Christmas decorations.

  This foyer was crying out for a tree and some cascading pine branches and bows down the bannister.

  ‘Did you just arrive?’ she asked Paul.

  ‘No, we’ve been here about a week but Marc and Adam work all the time. I’m the corporate wife, so I’ll be hanging around the kitchen, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ she said, meaning it. Paul had a pleasant demeanour and was more relaxed than the other two men.

  The twins were rollerblading away, their war cries and slapping of the hockey sticks competing with the storm outside.

  ‘Come to the kitchen then,’ said Paul. He had a New York accent and wore a beautiful cashmere jumper, and she followed him through the house that was impeccably decorated but without a whisper of the time of the year. There was a mix of modern and period furniture, muted tones of grey and indigo and black, with art to match. It was certainly elegant but very masculine and impersonal.

  ‘Will Christmas be celebrated?’ she asked looking around.

  ‘Of course,’ Paul said as he pushed open the door to the kitchen. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s just that there aren’t any Christmas decorations,’ said Christa, wishing she had kept her mouth closed.

  ‘Marc isn’t the festive type,’ said Paul with raised eyebrows that silently spoke volumes. He gestured to a beautiful professional kitchen, big enough for six chefs to make a banquet for fifty people. ‘They usually do Christmas at their house in San Francisco. I think that was more the ex-wife than him. I do remember them having holiday décor when I went for a cocktail party, but it was all very silver and blue, not my style. I’m more of a traditional, Martha Stewart style.’

  ‘Oh my gosh, me too – I love traditional decorations. The more old-fashioned the better,’ Christa agreed. ‘I did a big tree covered in tartan ribbons last year. My ex hated it.’

  Paul grabbed her arm. ‘Oh that’s perfect.’ He sighed. ‘It’s hard for me. I’m an interior stylist. I keep turning around corners in the house and see where a gorgeous Yuletide moment could be.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, have a look around and let me know if you need anything else and I can let Adam know.’

  Christa looked around the space. Stainless steel was mixed with wood panelling and marble countertops for baking. It was better than the kitchen at Playfoot’s. Simon would be green with envy at this space.

  Christa opened a drawer and saw Alessi cutlery lined up in perfect order.

  ‘How many will I be cooking for each night?’ she asked.

  ‘For now, it’s myself, my husband Adam – the lawyer with the loud voice – the twins and Marc.’

  ‘No dinner parties or cocktail events? Christmas drinks?’

  ‘No, we don’t know anyone here and Marc isn’t the event type. Hates dinner parties.’

  What a shame, Christa thought looking at the kitchen set-up. ‘What time is dinner?’ she asked.

  ‘Seven is fine. Usually, the twins eat in the kitchen and the adults sit in the dining room. It’s very formal.’

  ‘Wow, okay.’ Christa couldn’t understand when people didn’t want to eat with their children. How would they learn manners or appropriate behaviour if they didn’t have good role models? That’s why she always admired the French and them taking children out so early in life to cafés and letting them sit at the table like young adults.

  ‘What do you want me to make for dinner?’ she asked as she heard Adam’s voice calling Paul.

  ‘I should go,’ he said but he turned as he was leaving the kitchen. ‘Selene said you’re amazing, so surprise us.’

  ‘Love her,’ said Christa.

  ‘Same!’ said Paul.

  ‘Sorry about yelling about the dripping from the rain – I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,’ she said. ‘I worried about the boys on their skates with the marble and the water.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘No offence taken. I didn’t think about them actually, so it was good you did. They don’t always get thought of first in this house,’ he said he with a wry look at her.

  He walked to the door. ‘Sing out if you need anything. I’ll be around.’

  And then Christa was alone again, wishing everything about the arrival had gone differently and wondering how she would make it through the next few weeks.

  4

  Walking through the hall to go downstairs, Christa wondered about the house and its belongings. Everything was artfully placed and expensive, from the carpets that sunk under her feet, to the art in the elegant frames that were probably by famous artists she didn’t know and the furniture that all seemed to be covered in silk and beautiful prints.

  She had seen people who were well off like Simon’s parents but this was next-level. Every room was decorated sympathetically to the style of the house but no one was in them. So many rooms unlived in, when so many people were living without a home. It felt jarring as she walked down the quiet hallway and turned at the sound of a fire crackling. She looked inside and gasped at the sight of the most beautiful wallpaper she had ever seen – gold and black with deer, squirrels and rabbits amongst ferns and flowers. The room’s furniture was all dark wood and leather, and there was a large desk and a fire in the grate.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she heard Marc say behind her.

  ‘Sorry, I was just admiring the wallpaper,’ she said and turned to him. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

  He looked at her and then the wallpaper and back to her and nodded. She felt silly for commenting. He probably looked at it every day and was tired of it, or he thought she was a snoop. Everything about this man told her he had money. His expensive hoodie with the luxury label sewn onto the left breast. Well-fitted dark jeans and the trainers she had only ever seen in magazines with the unmistakable branding. Christa wasn’t impressed by labels, but she did notice how Marc ran his hands through his dark blonde hair and that his tan seemed real. There were flecks of grey in his hair, just a few, and she respected he kept them there. He was tall and slim, and she noticed he had some bracelets on one arm. One of them spelled out Dad in beads and she felt herself soften a little at his gesture to his children.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said and she walked towards the stairs to go to the car to get her luggage and special chef knives that she took everywhere.

  ‘Is your room okay?’ she heard him ask.

  Adam the officious lawyer had shown her to the floor and had pointed at the room that would be hers for the next month.

  ‘Sure, I mean there’s no gold wallpaper of forest animals frolicking but it will suffice,’ she joked.

  Marc looked at her and frowned.

  ‘That was a joke,’ she said. God, this guy was a barrel of laughs.

  ‘Okay,’ he said and he walked into what she now presumed was his study and closed the door.

  She immediately regretted her pithy comment. What she wanted to say was her room was lovely. It was nicer than she had expected or assumed she might be afforded for her time here.

  She thought perhaps it would be a single room with a bed and bathroom. What she got was a true suite, similar to one she had stayed in on her wedding night at a fancy hotel. A large bedroom with a king-sized bed and a sitting room with a television and sofa set and new glossy magazines on the table. The bathroom was stocked with all the appropriate Penhaligon’s toiletries and a soft robe was hanging on a hook against the tiles.

  She stood at the top of the stairs and wondered, and then went back to th
e room Marc had disappeared into and knocked. ‘Come in,’ she heard and she opened the door.

  ‘Yeah?’ he asked, looking up from his laptop from behind the desk.

  ‘I wanted to say the room I’ve been given is lovely. It’s much nicer than what I thought it would be and really generous. So thank you,’ she said, feeling awkward.

  Marc leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

  ‘So you have everything you need?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And it’s warm enough? The housekeeper can get you more blankets if you need them.’

  ‘I think I’ll be okay. I’m used to the cold winters.’ She smiled at him.

  He laughed and pushed his hand through his hair again – his little habit, it seemed.

  ‘Those from California aren’t so lucky. I’m still acclimating. Those winds are brutal.’

  ‘Gloves, hats and thermals are the thing for the wind,’ she offered.

  ‘Yes, I have it all from our ski lodge in Aspen but it’s different when you’re trying to exist in it and not flying down runs, hot from the exercise.’

  Christa didn’t know what to say to that. Skiing in Aspen was so far away from her reality.

  ‘All right then, I’ll go get my things,’ she said and she turned and closed the door behind her.

  When she returned from the car with her things, she had peered out the window of her room to see fog covering extensive lawns and the beautiful silhouettes of trees in the dusk. Hopefully, she would have time to walk the property, she thought as she pulled on her work pants and chef whites then slipped on her clogs and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  It was nearly four in the afternoon, and Christa wondered what she should make for dinner since Paul had given her carte blanche in the kitchen.

  The fridges were filled with fresh vegetables and more cheese than she thought was possible for the small number of inhabitants of the house.

  Another fridge held meat and then another wine. It was ridiculous, she thought, thinking of all the meals she could make with this food to give to those who needed it most.