I lifted the lid on the second cardboard box and took out a large red photo album with my name written across the front in marker pen. Sitting cross-legged, I placed the album in my lap and opened the first page. The caption in Nanna’s flowing script read: Charlee’s 1st Christmas. She’d clearly made it a Christmas tradition as there was a double page spread for the next two decades, stopping when I moved in with Jodie. Each year was represented by five photos all following roughly the same format: my unopened gifts, obviously taken after ‘Santa’ had visited on Christmas Eve, me in my Christmas outfit, me playing with my presents, me with Nanna, and me with Grandpa.
Returning to the start, I looked through the album again, smiling at the memories of my favourite gifts and shaking my head at presents I’d completely forgotten about. I remembered her taking lots of photos at Christmas, but I’d had no idea the album existed. What an amazing keepsake of all our Christmases together.
‘Thank you, Nanna,’ I whispered, closing the album and stroking my fingers across the cover. ‘I’ll definitely keep this.’
Standing up, I placed it on top of one of the crates of decorations and peered back into the cardboard box. There were old Christmas cards sent to Nanna and Grandpa from people I didn’t know, odd crackers which had obviously been spare and forgotten about, a box of well-used red candles, recycled gift bows, and another photo album. I lifted out the cream album and blew some dust from the cover. There was no name written on this one, but somehow I knew. It was her album.
My mouth felt dry and my hands shook as I opened the first page and read those words: Stacey’s 1st Christmas. The photos were faded, but the format was the same as mine. I stared at the grainy images, trying to spot similarities between my birth mother and me. Twisting round, I grabbed the red album and opened that on the first page too, comparing the images. Did I look like her? I’d never seen a photo of her. Nanna said she’d been angry with Stacey for leaving and had destroyed the photos she had of her. All she’d tell me was that she had dark hair like me and that she’d worn it long throughout childhood. Nanna and Grandpa had both had dark hair so discovering Stacey was a brunette hadn’t been a surprise revelation. I had no idea whether my hazel eyes, easy-tan skin and freckles were inherited from – her or my father.
Nanna never talked about Stacey and, although I’d initially been curious, I learned not to ask because it seemed to upset Nanna too much. She’d been their only child and she hadn’t just cut herself out of my life; she’d severed ties with them completely too.
Studying the albums now, Stacey’s early photos were too grainy but, as the years passed and the image quality improved, I could see similarities, but I definitely wasn’t the spitting image of her. I’d never know if I looked like my father instead because, according to the spare snippets I’d had from Nanna, Stacey hadn’t known who he was.
I wondered whether Stacey and I were similar in personality at all. We certainly weren’t in one respect: I would never abandon a child at birth and disconnect myself completely from my family from that moment. In some ways, I understood why she’d stayed out of my life, but why had she cut off her parents too? It didn’t make sense.
Sighing, I closed the albums. As Ricky had pointed out last night, I didn’t have a family anymore and I wished I did. It felt strange being completely alone. I had Jodie, Ricky and Pierre, but it wasn’t the same as having Nanna and Grandpa. I had no interest in finding Stacey. She’d had thirty years to find me – not difficult when my grandparents had never moved house – but she hadn’t bothered so why would I want to meet her? To me, she was simply the woman who’d given birth to me; she wasn’t my mum.
I placed my precious keepsake album back on top of the crates of Christmas decorations and dumped Stacey’s on the box of childhood decorations to be thrown out. Then I hesitated, picked it up, and placed it on top of mine. I had no idea where Stacey was, I had no way of contacting her, and I didn’t want to contact her, but that was a special photo album and had to have been important to Nanna, given that she’d created the same thing for my childhood. I had no intention of looking through it again, but it somehow didn’t feel right to throw it away.
Jodie stopped by after summer school finished for the day. She was a teaching assistant at Brockington School but earned extra money during the summer helping run a summer school for foreign exchange students.
‘The cavalry’s here!’ she announced, hugging me. She removed a bobble from the pocket of her jeans and scraped her long wavy hair back into a high ponytail. I loved Jodie’s hair. It was naturally dark blonde with lighter blonde and honey highlights giving it a glorious sun kissed look. My hair was too dark to experiment like that. I’d tried but blonde streaks didn’t suit me, and red tones only lasted a couple of weeks.
‘And I definitely need the cavalry. It’s not going well.’ I led her into the dining room.
‘This is all to go to the tip?’ she asked, pointing to a pile of crates, boxes and bags at one end.
I grimaced and pointed to the opposite end. ‘No. That’s the pile to go.’
Jodie looked towards the two cardboard boxes – one containing the childhood Christmas decorations and another with a few broken items and dodgy lampshades that I’d found gathering dust in the attic – and laughed.
‘You weren’t kidding when you said you needed my help. What’s in the crates you’re keeping?’
‘Christmas decorations.’
‘In all of them?’
I shrugged ‘Pretty much.’
Jodie sighed and shook her head. ‘What am I going to do with you?’
The tears I’d managed to hold back for most of the day found their escape and spilled down my cheeks. ‘I miss them so much, Jodie.’
‘Aw, I know you do.’ She put her arms round me and hugged me. ‘But keeping everything they’ve ever owned is not going to bring them back.’
She made me a mug of tea then led me upstairs and into Nanna’s bedroom, clutching a roll of binbags. She fixed her blue eyes on mine. ‘I know it’s hard, but it has to be done,’ she said gently. ‘And we have to be brutal. Is there anything of your Nanna’s that you could imagine wearing? And if you say any of her flowery nylon dresses, I’ll throw this roll of binbags at you.’
I thought for a moment. ‘There are a couple of snuggly cardigans which I bought her for Christmas last year and the year before. I love them, but that’s about it. Does that sound awful?’
‘Of course not. You’re thirty and she was eighty-six. I’d be slightly concerned if you did have the same taste in clothes.’
Jodie ripped two binbags from the roll while I took the two cardigans out of Nanna’s drawers. She billowed out one and handed it to me.
‘We’ll bag everything else up. Everything. You take the wardrobe and I’ll take the drawers. The easiest way to do this is to just systematically fill the bags, as quickly as possible. Don’t pause to look and remember because that will just break your heart.’
She was right; doing it quickly was better like ripping off a plaster. But my heart still broke into a thousand pieces.
4
‘Charlee! Welcome back, ma petite chocolatière!’ Pierre greeted me with a kiss on each cheek and a hug then stepped back, smiling at me.
‘Thank you. Good to be back!’
At sixty-five, Pierre was one of those men who’d become even more handsome with age with a full head of grey hair, a neatly trimmed beard and warm dark eyes. He was well over six feet tall – maybe six foot three – and had broad shoulders and a flat stomach thanks to a passion for cycling. I knew for a fact that some of the regulars – male and female – came for more than the chocolate. A flash of his dazzling smile and his dulcet French tones had them floating out of the shop on a happy cloud. To me, he was a wonderful boss, friend, mentor and the closest thing I had to a father figure since Grandpa died.
‘You have had a good week?’ he asked, following me into the large room at the back of the shop, which we used for choco
late-making parties.
I shrugged off my jacket and pulled on my apron. ‘Not really. It’s been a tough week. I finally did it. I scattered Nanna’s ashes on Tuesday.’
‘Oh no. I am sorry. You did this at Spurn Point as she wished?’
I nodded. ‘She’s with Grandpa now.’
‘They were a lovely couple. Ted and Louisa-Jane were very lucky to love so deeply. It is a rare and beautiful thing. If only—’ His face fell.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Has something happened to Lillian?’ His wife had been seriously ill over the winter with bronchitis. She hadn’t been right since, suffering from a series of chest infections and a couple of asthma attacks.
‘Please sit down.’
I perched on one of the wooden stools surrounding the preparation table, feeling anxious at the formality. What was he about to tell me?
‘I have news. Lillian. She is not well, but she is not worse so do not fear. She will, however, not improve while we live in this cold place. We have made a difficult decision. We will return to La France.’
My heart thumped as my mind raced with what this meant. It was a relief that Lillian hadn’t taken a turn for the worse and, for them, it was absolutely the right thing to do for her health and wellbeing. But for me, did it mean that I was out of a job?
‘I think that’s the right decision for you both,’ I said. ‘I really do. Please pass on my love to Lillian.’
‘I will. I do not wish to leave England but Lillian, she needs to. I have little choice, n’est pas?’
‘When do you go?’
‘Lillian will leave tomorrow and stay with her sister. I will follow in three, four… maybe five weeks.’
I gulped. First Ricky, now Pierre. Why was everyone leaving me? And why so quickly?
‘I expect you are wondering about the chocolaterie?’ he asked. ‘I am not selling so your job is safe.’
My stomach lurched. If my job was ‘safe’, that meant…
‘Gabby will be the new manager here.’ Pierre’s wide beam told me what a proud father moment this was for him. He had absolutely no idea that his daughter was conniving, vindictive, and absolutely hated me. She always put on a good act in front of her parents, pretending we were friends, and I’d never had the heart to suggest to Pierre that everything was not as it seemed.
‘Really?’ I tried to keep my voice even. ‘Gabby’s going to be in charge?’
He nodded. ‘I asked her to keep all staff and she says of course.’
Hmm. And I bet she had her fingers crossed behind her back when she said that. There was no way she’d keep me on. At least it was her day off today so I’d have an evening to psyche myself up to facing her smugness.
‘She will be in later,’ Pierre said. ‘I will make the chocolate now and, after that, the chocolaterie will be my Gabby’s and I will step back with my hours.’
She was in today? She was going to be in more frequently and Pierre less? That was going to be hideous. But Pierre was looking at me, evidently waiting for a response so I nodded vigorously, not trusting myself to speak for fear a sob would escape instead.
He patted my hand. ‘Do not look so sad. This is not goodbye, ma petite chocolatière. I will stay in touch.’
‘You’d better.’ Tears clouded my eyes and I was grateful to melt into his hug so that he couldn’t see how upset I was. The news that Gabby was taking over was bad, but I was more concerned about Pierre’s departure. I’d miss him so much.
‘I promise I will. You are welcome to visit France. Our door will always be open to you, Charlee.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for being the best boss, ever. Well, second best boss after Grandpa, that is, but very close.’
Pierre laughed. ‘I cannot be offended. This is high praise indeed.’
I paused for a mug of tea mid-morning and took the opportunity to text Ricky:
✉︎ To Ricky
Unexpected news this morning. Pierre and Lillian are moving back to France and Gabby’s taking over. Glad you’ve found a new job because I think I might be about to lose mine Hope your 1st day is going well. Missing you already xx
* * *
✉︎ From Ricky
That’s crap. It could be great, though. You know you can’t work for that woman, so this is your last tie to Hull gone. Time to move to the coast? Charlee and the Chocolate Shop. Sounds good! xx
Ricky certainly deserved ten out of ten for persistence. Was he right? Should I take this as a clear sign that the chapter of my life in Hull was over and I needed to start a new chapter in Whitsborough Bay?
I felt her eyes on me a little after 2 p.m. and gulped as I resealed the bag of chocolate drops then turned round with a fixed smile on my face; the one that I reserved especially for her.
‘Gabby! I hear congratulations are in order.’
She scowled. ‘Papa told you? I wanted to have that pleasure.’
I ignored the cruel tone to her voice. ‘It’s a good move for them. I think it will make such a difference to your mum.’
‘Did I ask for your opinion?’ She planted her hands on her hips and glowered at me. She was only an inch taller but had perfected the art of looking down on me – usually with a sneer on her face like right now – making me feel significantly smaller than her. Her short dark hair was dyed bright red with a long fringe swept across her eyes and she wore her signature style of large, hooped earrings and crimson lipstick. She was effortlessly stylish and would be considered beautiful… if only she would smile instead of snarl all the time.
‘We’ve got a children’s party at four,’ I said, picking up the booking diary. ‘Do you want to run it, or would you like me to?’
‘How old are the kids?’
‘The birthday girl’s turning seven, so I’m guessing mainly six or seven. We’re expecting twelve of them.’
Gabby shuddered. ‘Urgh! Little brats pawing at me with their chocolatey fingers. I can’t think of a more revolting way to spend my afternoon. They’re all yours.’
No surprise there. I’d never been sure whether Gabby genuinely hated children or whether she simply hated the chocolate-making parties because they’d been my idea. It was probably both. I loved them, though, so I had no problem running this afternoon’s.
Assuming that the conversation was over, I turned to put the bag of chocolate drops away.
‘Did I say I was finished with you?’
I closed my eyes for a moment and sighed inwardly. This was how it was going to be from now on, wasn’t it? Every single day. Fake smile. Yes, Gabby. No, Gabby. Three bags full, Gabby.
I turned to face her. ‘Sorry, Gabby. Is there something else you want me to do?’
She smirked. ‘There certainly is. I want you to clean the workshop.’
I frowned. ‘It’s already clean.’
‘Are you arguing with me?’
‘No. It’s just that I clean it every day and it’s only going to get messy during the party.’
She narrowed her eyes at me. I knew that she was loving this. ‘I want a deep clean. Now.’
A deep clean? Was she mad? A proper deep clean meant removing all the furniture and equipment. ‘That doesn’t make sense, Gabby. The kids will be here in in less than two hours, and I need thirty minutes to prepare for that. There isn’t anywhere near enough time for a deep clean.’
She ran her perfectly manicured scarlet fingernails through her silky hair. ‘Who’s the boss here, Charlotte?’
I hated it when she did that. ‘My name’s Charlee,’ I said through gritted teeth. I wasn’t being pedantic. Charlee genuinely was the name on my birth certificate. Stacey had chosen it before I was born and, despite her walking out, my grandparents had honoured her wishes. She’d always called Grandpa’s shop his ‘chocolate factory’ so had decided on Charlie for a boy or Charlee for a girl. Very droll.
‘And my name’s on your payslips, Charlotte,’ Gabby quipped, tapping her finger against her crimson lips. ‘If you get any more of them, that i
s.’
My stomach dropped to the floor. It was starting already. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’ve asked you to do a deep clean and you’ve refused to do it. If you’re not willing or able to carry out basic instructions, you know where the door is.’
I stared at her for a moment. The physical resemblance to her parents was unmistakable, but there was nothing of Pierre or Lillian in her personality. It wasn’t just me who saw the real Gabby. Her interactions with customers were blunt and several regulars had made a point of telling me they deliberately avoided the chocolaterie on the days Gabby was working. God help the business when she took over Pierre’s hours. She’d destroy it.
As to why she hated me so much, I wasn’t sure. I could only assume that it was professional jealousy because, no matter how hard she tried, or how much additional training Pierre gave her, she wasn’t a naturally gifted chocolatier. Everything I designed or made always sold so much better than any of her creations.
‘Are you going to do the deep clean or not?’ She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘I suggest you think carefully before you answer that.’
I bit my lip as I considered my options. I could either put up and shut up – which would be both difficult and miserable – or I could bite the bullet and start afresh in Whitsborough Bay. I’d spent the day there yesterday with Ricky before he settled in at Smurf’s flat and it had been lovely. We’d ambled along the seafront eating chips, wandered hand in hand by the shore and had a ride on the big wheel before heading into the town centre. Ricky kept pointing out empty premises and asking, ‘Would that make a good chocolate shop?’ and I had got swept up in the excitement of it all. I’d particularly liked Castle Street, a cobbled street off the main pedestrianised area, full of independent shops and cafés and, yes, the perfect place for a chocolate shop. Could I do that? Could I really set up my own business? I wasn’t sure, but as I stared into her cold eyes, there was one thing that I was sure about: I could not and would not work for Gabby. It had only been bearable before because it wasn’t every day and working with Pierre the rest of the time more than made up for the grim days working alongside his daughter. Without him in the picture, what reason was there to stick around? I could still honour Grandpa’s memory by establishing my own chocolaterie in Whitsborough Bay. It may be different premises, but the business would be built on everything he’d taught me.
Christmas Wishes at the Chocolate Shop Page 3
