by Sue Watson
The Christmas Cake Cafe
A brilliantly funny, feel good Christmas read
Sue Watson
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Letter from Sue
Snow Angels, Secrets and Christmas Cake
Bella’s Christmas Bake-off
Also by Sue Watson
This book is dedicated to you.
Thank you for reading, have yourself a merry little Christmas – and whatever you do, please don’t skimp on the cake!
Prologue
The Christmas Proposal
It was Christmas Eve, the champagne was cold and sparkly, the tree was twinkling, and Bing Crosby was tinkling across the restaurant, filling the air with festive warmth and glitter. It was also the eve of my fortieth birthday, so it was extra special, and I was feeling particularly emotional looking at Tim across the table. The time was right. At last. He looked gorgeous. Not only was the candlelight warming his face, softening his big brown eyes, it was also rekindling our love. Despite the sparkle of the season I had to admit we’d been a little lacklustre on the love front recently.
‘This is just what we need,’ I sighed. ‘I know things haven’t been easy for us – you’ve been working so hard I’ve hardly seen you – but I’m glad we made this time for each other, Tim.’
‘Yes, I wanted us to spend tonight together,’ he said. ‘It’s been ten years now, and I think it’s time we talked about the future.’
A frisson of excitement bubbled up in my chest – though it may have been the champagne.
‘Yes, ten wonderful years,’ I said, smiling, gazing into his eyes and thinking of the good times. It had taken a while, and there’d been doubts along the way. It hadn’t been a bed of roses, and Tim had a tendency to put work before our relationship, coming home and burying his head in the computer, and often forgetting our anniversaries because he was so busy. But here, by the glittering light of candles, it seemed Tim was finally ready to put us first. He knew Christmas was my favourite time of year, and I’d often talked of a wedding in December, so perhaps we could organise it in time for next year? It was my childhood dream to be a winter bride, dressed in icy white, crystals and fur. I’d imagined being delivered to my soul mate by horse and carriage, cutting through a white landscape of snowy mountains and shimmering fir trees. And it looked like that dream was just about to come true, so I sat back and waited for the confetti to fall.
Tim lifted the champagne bottle from the ice bucket, tutting slightly at the drips on the table. I wiped them away with my napkin then folded it again, pushing the creases with my fingers, desperately trying to make it smooth.
‘The waitress should have brought a cloth,’ he sighed. ‘I wasn’t sure about buying this fizz anyway… it’s an inferior brand.’ He scrutinised the label then screwed up his face in that way he often did.
I smiled indulgently. How like Tim to want everything about the ‘surprise proposal’ to be perfect. We were quite alike really – both wanted a nice home, clean, tidy with a perfectly manicured lawn and a kitchen stuffed with high-end white goods. My friend Storm said we were in a rut, but as I pointed out to her, one girl’s rut was another girl’s life of domestic bliss. We both knew where we were and what the other was doing at any given time, nothing wrong with that – and we were both in bed by 9.30 p.m. every night, asleep by 9.35 p.m. I was happy; I felt safe with Tim. He wasn’t what you’d call spontaneous, but if spontaneity meant he’d run off with the first good-looking woman he saw, then give me predictable. Given our routine and the fact I knew him inside out, the proposal wasn’t going to be a surprise because I’d seen all the signs. There was mistletoe above the table, champagne in the ice bucket and deliberately vague references to it being time to ‘talk about our future’.
He’d also insisted I meet him at 6.30 p.m., which meant I had to miss taking part in the annual carol service at the hospital. My half-sister Jody was a nurse there, and I’d felt really torn about backing out – and Jody hadn’t helped with her emotional blackmail. ‘Don’t worry about the hospital charity, Jen. I mean if Tim wants an early dinner then sick patients will have to come second,’ she’d said sarcastically. For God’s sake, this was my Christmas proposal. It was everything I’d ever wanted and still she didn’t get it. I put Jody and her anger from my mind. It was my birthday tomorrow, and I was having a special Christmas Eve birthday dinner with my future husband. I looked round at the glittery lights, the mistletoe, the sparkling champagne and the man with twinkly blue eyes. I was a lucky girl.
As Tim lifted the bottle to pour our drinks, I discreetly checked the bottom of my glass flute to see if he’d popped the engagement ring in when I wasn’t looking. Tim wasn’t really a romantic – he always said grand gestures were just a desperate attempt for attention, or a cover-up for infidelity. I suppose that’s why he never bought me flowers and didn’t want to get engaged, until now. If I ever made vague suggestions about getting married (which I did, sometimes once a week) he’d always reject them quite strenuously: ‘Isn’t it enough that I come back to our shared home every evening?’ he’d say. But I knew if I waited long enough it would happen. And here we were, champagne on the table, Bing Crosby in the air – my moment had arrived.
‘So… to us,’ I said, raising my glass, looking into his eyes, offering him the moment. ‘And to love,’ I added, for good measure.
‘Whatever love is,’ he said in his best Prince Charles voice, which stung a little, but now wasn’t the time to compare our love to that of the doomed prince and princess, so I pushed forward.
‘I wonder what our future holds?’ I said, with a questioning but coquettish look, along with another rather blatant cue.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’ I put down my glass, still smiling. Was he teasing me? It wasn’t like Tim to tease – he was usually very serious.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot lately and tonight I want to share my thoughts with you,’ he started.
I shimmered with excitement and, taking another gulp, I waited as he took a sip of his champagne. Now would be good, I thought – this would be the perfect memory with the candles and the musical accompaniment. Bing was reaching a climax – a few more festive lyrics and he’d be gone, leaving only cutlery clatter and murmured conversations. The Christmas proposal had to have a backdrop of good Christmas music, and I was worried about what would be piped through next, because I didn’t want this moment drowned by a shrieking Mariah Carey wailing about what she wanted for Christmas. I felt like a film director, longing to shout ‘Action!’ so it would all fall into place here and now – everything perfect, even the timing. You had to grab these perfectly framed moments so you could hold on to them forever.
And then he spoke. ‘We’ve had ten good years together… and the thing is… tonight I wanted to say… thank you…’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘But… but I think we’ve reached the end
of the road.’
And my Christmas world stood still. Baubles stopped sparkling, candles went out – and Bing Crosby left abruptly, taking his white Christmas with him.
This wasn’t in the script. Tim was now supposed to be on one knee placing the ring on my finger as the restaurant erupted around us in applause. My mouth was suddenly very dry, and I took a large gulp of champagne before asking, ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not happy.’
‘Happy? Not happy?’
‘No… I don’t want this life… with you.’
My throat closed up and I couldn’t speak, breathe or swallow – my whole world had crashed, taking my past and future with it. No sparkly ring in my glass, no flower-framed wedding photos of the two of us smiling, my bouquet thrown in the air, my life fused with his.
I looked into his cold eyes, a tiny cell in my body still hoping against hope this might be an elaborate joke. But Tim didn’t do jokes.
‘How long have you felt like this?’ I asked.
‘Years.’
‘Years? YEARS?’
‘Yes… don’t shout, Jennifer.’ He looked over at the couple on the next table, giving them an embarrassed smile.
‘Oh I’m sorry, you’ve just thrown a bomb into my life, forgive me if I embarrass you by shouting,’ I snapped. ‘Tim, what the hell…?’
‘I’m sorry. I just haven’t felt… love… for you for a while now.’
This was a final stab to the heart. ‘But it’s Christmas… and it’s my birthday…’ I said, desperately searching for reasons for him not to do this, like it was illegal to dump someone at Christmas or on their birthday.
‘Why this… now?’ I asked, gesturing towards the champagne, the glittering candles, the perfect bloody setting for a perfect bloody proposal.
‘It’s your birthday. We always go out for your birthday. I wanted it to be pleasant…’
‘Pleasant? PLEASANT?’ I raised my voice again.
‘Ssshhh, you’re making a scene,’ he said, looking round furtively.
‘A scene? A SCENE? I yelled, aware I was simply repeating key words and saying them more loudly, but it was involuntary. ‘You dump me after ten years… my best years… We were on the cusp of marriage.’ He was shaking his head, but I wasn’t taking this on.
‘You’ve taken my youth, my fertile years – I wanted a baby, Tim.’
‘I’m sure you’ll meet someone…’ he started.
‘I WON’T. No one will want me. You’ve had the best years, the childbearing…’
‘Please stop shouting about fertility and childbearing in here.’ He was hissing, more concerned about how we looked to the rest of the diners than the fact my heart was splattered all over the table.
‘You’ve taken away my future, you bastard!’ I shouted this and in my rising fury picked up the bottle of champagne and hurled the rest of the contents at him. He yelped like a dog, and then the manager came over and asked if he could help.
‘Yes, kick him in the balls for me,’ I shouted, and grabbing my bag, I rushed out in a flurry of tears and heartbreak – just as Bing Crosby suggested we have ourselves a merry little Christmas.
Chapter 1
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Ten months later
I’d always assumed I’d be married with children in a perfect home in a perfect life by now, and my Decembers would be filled with advent calendars, nativity plays and children’s excited laughter. But of course that wasn’t the case. It was now October and this Christmas I would decorate my tree alone and wrap what few presents I’d need to buy, including one for myself and for Mrs Christmas, my cat. She liked to tear the paper off with her claws and I’d convinced myself she knew it was Christmas. It didn’t take a psychologist to work out she was my child substitute.
I’d bought her as a gift for Tim three Christmases before he dumped me, but she’d never really taken to him, nor he to her. And when she clawed at his best cashmere jumper, he threatened to send her back to the cat-rescue centre. But I had refused. I loved Mrs Christmas, and I knew how it felt to be abandoned; my own father had walked out on me and my mum when I was just ten, and the very idea of doing the same to Mrs Christmas appalled me.
So Mrs Christmas was extra special. I loved the way she’d purr and swish her tail when I came home from work, and when I settled down on the sofa she’d push her head into my neck, happy to have me back.
Tim said cats didn’t have feelings, but Mrs Christmas and I knew differently. We’d both been hurt and I loved her. Though I’d never planned to be a cat mother, it seemed like I was a natural.
With Tim now gone, Mrs Christmas was my family; both my parents were dead, and the only person who shared my gene pool was my half-sister Jody, and that was only half a pool because we had different mothers.
‘I know it’s stupid but I miss Tim… I even miss him telling me I’m silly,’ I’d said to Jody.
‘You are silly if you miss that – bloody silly,’ she’d sniped.
‘You know what I mean. My life is all over the place. Somehow he kept it in order, and I feel like I’ve nothing to hold on to. Everything’s falling apart. I didn’t make my bed this morning – I am seriously going insane.’
‘Well, if not making your bed is insane then I should be locked up,’ she said, bored with my whingeing about being single and childless.
During that first difficult year, Jody and I spent many evenings drinking wine together and talking into the night like ‘real’ sisters, and if nothing else my terrible break-up with Tim had certainly brought us closer together. I’d talk while she listened, which was a revelation, because young, irritating, fast-living Jody could be quite insightful at times, and she had become a great support to me.
‘Tim had everything,’ she’d said. ‘Good job, lovely home and, yes, on paper he was perfect – but that’s all you saw – this perfect man with this perfect flat in this perfect life. If they were casting for the next series of The Bachelor, Tim would be it. But real life isn’t like that, Jen. He was as cold as his bare brick walls.
‘I remember going round there once when you cooked dinner for us,’ she said, ‘and instead of saying “This is lovely”, which it was, he said it needed more spice and you should have cooked the chicken for a shorter time. He gave you a bloody cookery lesson in front of everyone at the table. It was embarrassing.’
‘I know, I know. I feel stupid that I let that happen,’ I said, ‘but if I’d challenged him, the evening would have been ruined.’
‘It was ruined – for you – and me for that matter,’ Jody sighed. ‘He undermined you, he was a bully,’ she said. ‘What did you ever see in him, Jen?’
‘Oh, I don’t know now. I feel like I was under a spell and it’s only recently I’ve emerged into the light,’ I replied. ‘At first he was kind and I was so scared of being abandoned again that I clung hard. I suppose he lulled me into a false sense of security.’
We both knew that my dad had started me on that particular drug when he’d walked out when I was little. I’d loved him so much, and the very idea of him not being in my life wasn’t one I’d ever considered. He was ‘Dad’ and Mum was ‘Mum’ and I was me… and that’s how it would always be – or so I thought. Dad would always give me extra presents at Christmas, saying, ‘Everyone else has birthday and Christmas, but you will have one special day all rolled into one – let’s make it twice as good!’
And he did. He would buy me double the amount of presents and make two piles – one for Christmas and one for birthday. He and Mum also made sure I always had a birthday cake and we also had a Christmas cake… until he left, and nothing was quite the same ever again. The shock of his departure left me very vulnerable and needy, and when I grew older and looked for a partner, my priority was someone I was certain wouldn’t leave me. Looking back now, I’m not even sure I ever loved Tim – I just thought he’d always stay.
‘I think my neediness fed Tim’s ego…’ I’d said to Jody whe
n we talked this through. ‘The writing was on the wall if only I’d realised it at the time – but I loved living in his beautiful, organised flat with the neat venetian blinds, the perfect lighting, the perfectly matched sofas and cushions. I’d try so hard to be the perfect girlfriend and be there in the evenings waiting for him, wine chilling, dinner ready. I’d change and put on more make-up so that when he walked in I’d be there standing in the kitchen, like a scene from a romantic film.’ The thought of me doing this now makes me feel slightly ill…
‘God – all that effort. It was a relationship not a bloody three-act play, Jen – you always love the idea of something rather than the actual reality of it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s like Christmas. You search for the perfect tree, the perfect decorations, the tastiest bloody turkey – and for what? I’ve never spent Christmas with you, but I know when I’ve met up with you in January you’re down because it didn’t turn out how you expected. And I’m not surprised. You have such big expectations of yourself and of life – how can you ever be happy?’
I shrugged, but what she said made a kind of sense – perhaps perfect didn’t exist? And that made me feel sad.
‘When I was with Tim, I always had this lovely vision of us sitting together by candlelight at the end of the working day,’ I said. ‘You know, like people do in films and books – and I’d imagine big glasses of wine, lovely food and gentle chatter segueing into mind-blowing sex…’
Jody guffawed.
‘And sometimes I’d leave work early in an attempt to achieve this,’ I continued, refusing to be put off by her laughter at the prospect of Tim and me in flagrante. ‘But after shopping, and preening and cleaning, I’d be bloody exhausted by the time he came home. I’d be totally frazzled, my hair would be limp, the pasta overcooked and I’d end up gulping the wine like lemonade I’d be so stressed. Then Tim would find something wrong with the sodding pasta so I’d drink more wine to block out his voice and he’d start on about how much I was drinking. On those “perfect” nights we’d either have a row or I’d give in and go to bed early – alone.’
