As always, thumbing through my books and planning a menu chills me out and the memory of Mimi Blenkinsop’s smirk begins to fade.
When the doorbell rings, I walk through to the hallway, still drooling over a full-colour photo of tagliatelle with pesto and courgettes.
When I open the door, Erin is standing there with a big grin, holding up a bottle of prosecco. ‘Surprise!’
‘Oh. What’s this for?’
‘Your promotion?’ From her expression – a half-frown – I can tell she’s already realising she’s got a bit ahead of herself. ‘Yes? No?’
I shake my head. ‘No. But who cares?’ I force a smile. ‘I’m cooking tagliatelle tonight!’
‘Yum. Can I come in?’
I grin at her. ‘Yes, as long as you bring that.’ I point to the bottle.
It’s open in a trice and we make short work of it, with Erin lounging at the table while I cook the pasta dish, make garlic bread, and bring her up to date on my horrendous day. Later, after we’ve eaten and I’ve kept some to heat up for Harrison later, I fetch another bottle from the fridge, sloshing more prosecco into our glasses as Erin spins the open Italian cookbook round to face her.
‘You know what? That witch, Mimi, has done you a big favour.’
‘Has she? How on earth do you make that out? She stole my job!’ I’m sounding loud, even to myself, and stabbing the air with my finger, having drunk far more than I’m used to. But I’m feeling a hundred times better!
‘Yes, but I bet she can’t cook like you can. I bet she can’t make the most amazing Italian food like we’ve just eaten. I bet she’d be sick as a chip if you did a dinner party for Mrs Morelli and it was so great everyone in the surrounding area wanted to hire you!’
‘Ha! Sick as a chip! You’re right! I’ll show her. Mimi Bloody Fish Eye Blenkinsop!’
‘You will?’
‘Why not?’ I fling my arms into a dramatic shrug and knock the prosecco bottle over, which makes me giggle uncontrollably. I’m all fired up. Ready to prove Martin and Mimi wrong. I have talent! I can cook amazing food! And I should stop being timid about it!
Chapter 6
‘Shall I tell her you’ll do it?’ asks Erin, when she eventually stumbles out into the cold night air around eight.
‘Sure.’ I beam at her. ‘I’m going to be a cook!’
‘You are, love. I’m going to phone Mrs Morelli now.’
My eyes open wide in alarm. ‘Now?’
‘Let’s strike while the iron’s hot,’ says Erin firmly. ‘You’re on the brink of a new adventure. And it’s long overdue, if you don’t mind me saying.’
The words ‘long overdue’ trigger a vague memory in my hazy, alcohol-soaked brain. I stab the air. ‘Need to phone that man. Tell him he got the wrong number.’
‘What man?’
‘Jedward.’ I giggle.
‘Who?’
‘He’s called Jed Turner. Incredibly sexy voice. Invited me for Christmas.’
Erin’s eyes open wide.
‘Except it wasn’t me he was inviting to share his hot tub. It was Clemmy. He thinks he left the message on her phone so I need to let him know.’
‘Oh.’ Erin peers at me curiously. ‘I hope you did the “last-number redial” thing?’
‘Course I did. I’m not stupid. I put it in the pocket of my jeans and … oh bugger, they’re probably in the wash!’
Laughing at my panic, Erin hurries off into the cold night while I charge upstairs to investigate the jeans situation. Luckily, they’re in the wash-basket and the phone number is still in the pocket. Carefully, I deposit the slip of paper in my bedside table for safety then go down to the kitchen to start clearing up.
My phone rings half an hour later. It’s Erin and she sounds excited.
‘Poppy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Get that Christmas apron ironed!’
‘What do you mean?’ I’ve actually stopped breathing.
‘I just popped in to tell Mrs Morelli you’re free on Saturday night after all, and guess what? She’s really pleased because the other caterers were going to charge an arm and a leg. You’re on!’
‘So the only reason I got the job is because I’m cheap?’ I squeak with fake indignation as my heart bumps around madly in my chest.
She snorts. ‘Well, it had to come in handy eventually.’
After she’s gone, I collapse onto the sofa to catch up on the soaps, but I find I’m staring at the TV without taking anything in. Rita could be suggesting a threesome to Norris and Ken Barlow and I wouldn’t even notice.
What a difference a day makes.
It began with hope, veered into total and utter humiliation at the hands of Spunky Mimi Blenkinsop, then did a smart about-turn and morphed into a landmark watershed day in my life. I’m going to be a caterer! In business for myself! There will be no more ‘far too timid’. There will be ‘astonishingly brave’ instead. And I’m going to start right now by getting that number and phoning Jed Turner.
No shilly-shallying. I’m just going to do it!
Smiling, I push myself off the sofa, stagger slightly to the right and nearly cannon into a nest of tables. It takes a while to remember where I put the piece of paper but eventually, I’m dialling the number.
Someone picks up.
‘Hello, Jed Turner?’
‘Er, hi!’ It’s definitely him. I’d recognise those deep, velvety tones anywhere. ‘I hope you don’t mind me phoning. I – um – just wanted to let you know that I can’t stay at yours for Christmas, even though it sounds lovely what with the hot tub and the log fire and everything.’
There’s a brief pause.
‘Shit, sorry,’ he says. ‘You’re obviously not Clemmy.’
‘No, ’fraid not. I’m Poppy. You got the wrong woman.’
‘Ah, well.’ He gives a throaty chuckle. ‘That sounds like the story of my life right there.’
I laugh. ‘It’s like that, is it?’
‘Sadly, Poppy, it is. But things can only get better.’ He doesn’t seem sad. In fact, he sounds quite cheerful about it.
‘Very true,’ I agree, thinking of Clemmy, who he’d seemed pretty keen on.
Clemmy is such a pretty name.
‘So, Poppy, I’m really glad you phoned me.’
‘It was no problem at all.’
‘If I hadn’t discovered the mistake, my carefully laid plans for a merry Christmas would have gone right up in smoke. I must have hit a wrong digit. Did I get the area code right, at least? Are you in Surrey?’
‘I am. I live in Angelford?’
‘Ah, yes. In that case you’re very close to my uncle’s holiday home. Which is where we’ll be for Christmas. Lovely area.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. It’s just when you live in a place, you quite often don’t appreciate its beauty as much as other folk.’
‘That’s true. Do you think that also applies to people living within spitting distance of the Eiffel Tower? Or over the road from the Grand Canal in Venice?’
‘Over the water, you mean.’
He laughs at my very feeble joke. ‘You’ve got an exceptional café in Angelford, if I remember rightly. Best chocolate-fudge brownies in the world. Am I right or am I right?’
‘You’re right. We do. Although, can I suggest you try the raspberry-cream-and-white-chocolate cheesecakes next time?’
‘I’ll make sure I do that.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Then we can compare notes.’
‘You won’t regret it. I tried to make them myself but nothing tops their version.’
‘Are you a good cook, then?’
‘Er, not bad, I suppose. The kitchen’s my favourite room in the house.’
‘Yes? What sort of things do you make?’
I smile, wondering if he’s just being polite. But I don’t think he is. He sounds genuinely interested.
‘Everything, but Italian food is my speciality.’
‘Can you make pasta from scratch? And ti
ramisu?’
‘I can. Actually, I’m making tiramisu for a special dinner party,’ I say, deciding on the spot that this is what I’ll make for Mrs Morelli’s dessert.
‘My mouth’s watering. This sounds like it’s far more than just a hobby, if you don’t mind me saying. Are you a chef?’
His question stops me in my tracks. I’m not a chef. But if Erin has her way, I’ll certainly be cooking for a living. The pints of prosecco I’ve drunk make me bold. I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’m a caterer, specialising in Italian food. I do private dinner parties.’
My heart gives an odd little thump. Just saying those words makes me feel like a different person. More confident and self-assured, somehow.
‘Sounds amazing. Are you working tonight?’
‘Er, no, not tonight.’ Suddenly I feel like a fraud. I’m very glad Jed Turner can’t see the burning heat creeping into my face. ‘My – um – next engagement is on Saturday.’ Why am I trying to impress a man I don’t even know?
‘Looking forward to it?’
‘Yes! At least, I think so.’
He laughs. ‘You don’t sound sure.’
‘I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all,’ I confess. ‘The woman I’m cooking for was born in Italy.’
‘Ah, so there’s that extra pressure to deliver genuine Italian flavours,’ he murmurs, hitting the nail right on the head.
‘Absolutely!’
‘Well, you sound very passionate when you talk about cooking and that’s a great sign. I’m sure you’ll impress on Saturday.’
‘Thank you.’ My face flushes even redder with pleasure.
‘I’ll keep your number,’ he chuckles. ‘Just in case I ever have an Italian-food emergency. I live over the border in West Sussex, but an emergency is an emergency.’
‘Especially if Italian food is involved.’
‘Well, exactly. Getting spaghetti hoops out of the can without a decent tin opener can be a real challenge for a bloke like me.’
‘I just happen to have a range of excellent can openers.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, Poppy.’
There’s a brief pause and I rack my brains for something to say. It’s been such fun talking to Jed Turner …
‘So are you going to call Clemmy?’ The question escapes before I can stop myself. I close my eyes, feeling like a right idiot.
‘Er, yes. I definitely will.’
‘I hope she accepts your invitation after all this palaver.’
He laughs. ‘I have a feeling she will. She’s a lovely girl. Cute and adorably accident-prone. She just needs to believe in herself a bit more.’
‘Oh?’ It sounds like he likes Clemmy a lot.
‘Yeah. She was bullied at school for having blazing red hair and being on the plump side, and these things stick.’
‘Kids can be horrible. Does she live in Surrey as well?’
‘Yes. She doesn’t have a car so she can meet me off the London train in Easingwold and I’ll whisk her over to join the gang at Westbury Edge.’
My heart snags.
Westbury Edge?
I swallow hard. An image of the lake in the tiny hamlet of Westbury Edge flashes into my head, with the little whitewashed cottage on its shores mirrored perfectly in the glasslike surface of the water. It’s eighteen years since I was last in that cottage – but it’s burned on my brain as if it all happened only a week ago …
‘Poppy? Are you still there?’ Jed Turner asks.
‘Yes! Sorry, the connection’s not great,’ I say, crossing my fingers and hoping he doesn’t think I’m completely weird. ‘You – er – work in London, then?’
‘Yes. It’s been crazy lately, but I’m leaving at lunchtime on the nineteenth of December. So, come hell or high water, I’ll be on that two p.m. train heading home for the Christmas holidays!’
‘Sounds good.’ My legs are still shaking from hearing the name Westbury Edge after all this time. I grasp the arm of a chair and sit down.
‘It’ll just be great to relax. But what about you? This is probably the busiest time of year for a caterer?’
‘Er, usually. But this year, it’s not too busy at all.’ I’m actually not lying!
‘Good. Well … I hope you have a very merry Christmas.’
‘Thank you. And I hope you make the two p.m. train.’
He laughs. ‘You bet your life I will! Bye, Poppy. Good luck on Saturday.’
*
Erin is practically as thrilled as I am at the prospect of my first proper catering job, and I love her for that. But bearing in mind his aversion to financial risk, I’m not quite so sure what Harrison’s reaction will be.
I’ll have to reassure him that it’s just a one-off, and I’m not going to do anything rash like hand in my notice at the hotel.
I might have been feeling all bold and daring with Erin the other night, fuelled by pints of prosecco, but in the cold light of day, I’m realising that my dream of becoming a full-time self-employed caterer is likely to remain just that. A lovely fantasy.
When I finally break the news to Harrison about Saturday night, I’m really surprised at his response.
‘Good for you.’ He pats me enthusiastically on the back. ‘Really well done, Puss.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile happily, cheeks flushing.
He beams at me. ‘It’s worked out very nicely.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I’ve actually been invited to a meeting of grid enthusiasts on Saturday night.’
I arrange my face into a pleased expression, which I hope hides my bafflement. ‘Gosh. That’s wonderful.’
He nods cheerfully. ‘They’re the Drain Cover Enthusiasts, Southern Division, to give them their exact title. If you’re going to be out, I’ll tell them I can be there.’
‘That’s great! Gosh, I never realised there were enough – er – drain-cover enthusiasts to make up a whole division.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, you’d be surprised!’ he calls as he disappears upstairs.
Chapter 7
The day of the dinner party dawns, and I’m so busy running through my lists and doing the prep with Erin as my right-hand woman that I barely have time to be nervous.
I know I am, though, because I’m unable to eat a thing. Except frequently tasting the food for tonight, of course. You must taste. All the time. It’s the only way to know if you’ve got the seasoning absolutely spot on. And seasoning is paramount in the perfect savoury dish.
It all goes swimmingly – especially the main course. I’ve been unable to source the casserole steak I wanted, so at the last minute, I change my carefully made plan and opt for a slow-cooked version instead. Good decision, as it turns out. The meat melts off the bone and is so good, it’s worthy of being written into my diary of champion recipes!
Afterwards, I drive Erin home and we sit outside her flat for a long time, totally exhausted but high on the triumph that was the evening. Mrs Morelli was full of praise and vowed to tell all her friends and neighbours.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’ says Erin. ‘I could open a bottle of fizz. We really should toast your very first success.’
‘Oh, thank you, but I don’t think I could get up the stairs, I’m so knackered.’ I smile at her, feeling tears prick unexpectedly at my lids. ‘I couldn’t have done this without you, Erin. You’ve no idea how much your support and your enthusiasm means to me.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’m your friend. That’s what friends do.’
I shake my head. ‘Not everyone. I love that you’re so excited for me, and that you mean every word of it. At the risk of sounding sentimental, you really are special. Mark is a lucky man.’
She colours up with pleasure. ‘Aw, shucks. Okay then, I’m brilliant.’
‘You are. And I couldn’t be more delighted that things are working out for you and Mark. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you, Erin.’
Now it’s her turn to have suspiciously shiny eyes.
&nb
sp; We hug tightly and she gets out.
‘This is just the first triumph of many!’ she says, and I smile at her, wishing it could be true.
I drive home, eager to see Harrison and tell him all about my night. He’s in the kitchen making coffee, and pops his head round the living-room door.
‘Hey, it’s my own personal Nigella!’ he jokes. ‘Want one?’ He holds up the coffee jar.
‘Yes, please.’ I flake out happily on the sofa and call through, ‘How was your night?’
‘Brilliant. They’re a really great group of guys.’
‘No females, then?’
‘No. Why don’t you come along to the next meeting and redress the balance slightly?’
‘Er, maybe.’ Is he serious? Surely not.
I always think it’s good for couples to have separate hobbies. It gives them more to talk about. But on the other hand, it would be nice to share our hobbies, too. I’m always wanting him to join me in the kitchen on a normal night, because the idea of couples chatting about their day in the cosiness of the kitchen as they chop vegetables, and perhaps open a bottle of wine and share a kiss or two, sounds heavenly to me. But Harrison always says the kitchen is my domain, just as the car maintenance is his. I don’t think he means it in a sexist way. It’s more a compliment, really, implying that my cooking is so much better than his.
He comes into the room and holds out my coffee. ‘I wasn’t being serious, you know, about you coming along to the next one.’ He smiles and sits down beside me. ‘You’d be bored stiff in under three minutes, I reckon.’
I smile at him. ‘You might be right.’
He springs up and puts on my favourite CD, then settles back on the sofa, pulling me into his side and sipping from his mug. We listen to the music for a while in silence and I snuggle into Harrison, thinking about my wonderful night and how lucky I am. If I could stop yawning, I’d tell him all about the slow-cooked beef and how pleased Mrs Morelli was with the dinner, but to be frank, it’s lovely just nestling here in companionable silence.
Before long, I hear a tiny snorting noise and turn to see Harrison’s head is thrown back. His mouth is open and he’s snoring gently. I nudge him and whisper, ‘Time for bed?’
He comes to and gives a huge yawn. ‘Yes. Bed,’ he agrees, standing up and holding out his hand to me.
Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin Page 5
