by Sue Watson
‘Is there something wrong?’ I asked.
‘I think perhaps your dress might be a little… cold? For… here?’ He was looking at Lola’s lovely red jersey dress with an uncomfortable expression on his face and I looked down and in an instant saw exactly what he meant. I’d been in such a hurry that morning I hadn’t had a chance to check myself in the mirror, and the dress that had seemed like fine jersey on the coat hanger was completely transparent on the body! I yelped and grabbed at the fur coat from the back of my chair and quickly covered myself. I had, in effect, been sitting in a lovely rustic Swiss café with the handsome tour guide in just my bra and pants. Well, not even mine – because I was wearing Lola’s purple bra stuffed with tissues under the red see-through dress, which I could now see left nothing to the imagination.
I should have known that Lola would never have worn a simple red dress. How stupid of me not to check the mirror, but I’d been in such a hurry.
‘This is someone else’s dress,’ I said, like that made perfect sense. I tried to avoid mention of the enormous purple bra but explained about my suitcase and he seemed to find it all rather amusing.
‘Damn those baggage handlers,’ I said, after we’d talked through my catalogue of wardrobe malfunctions.
By now a large tray of cookies and cakes had been delivered to our table and, still giggling about my cow onesie with swaying velvet udders, he talked me through the different confections.
‘Here is the Sachertorte,’ he said, taking a forkful and putting it to my lips. I opened my mouth, trying not to dribble – that wouldn’t be a good look – and as I took that deep, rich chocolate into my mouth I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
‘Oh my God!’ I said, groaning with pleasure as the chocolate danced with my taste buds and filled my mouth with something like stars. He was amused at my rapture and offered me another morsel. ‘These are the Zimtsterne,’ he said, holding a perfect, glittery cookie star, covered in icing and tasting of cinnamon.
‘That’s pure Christmas in a cookie,’ I said, moaning and crunching and enjoying the combination of sweetness, spice and crunch. Next we tasted the Schokoladenkuchen – German chocolate cake covered in feathery icing, like a spider’s glittery web. The taste was thick, rich chocolate – yet it melted in the mouth and is, to this day, the best chocolate cake I’ve ever tasted.
‘Good yes?’ he said, as we embarked on Chräbeli cookies, flavoured with anise that looked like tiny tree branches. Beautiful and aromatic, they were crisp and sweet with an echo of fennel and liquorice. Once or twice my moans of pleasure were perhaps a little too enthusiastic, and as one or two of the other customers glanced over, I became aware I might have been recreating the orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally.
But I couldn’t help it. These were new and exciting flavours for me, and I loved the deep, rich, sometimes surprising essences baked into the cakes and biscuits. ‘These are cookies, but not as I know them,’ I said, and smiling he offered me more.
I was reminded of a time when Tim and I had visited Belgium on holiday and the gorgeous little boutique chocolate shops selling every kind of chocolate.
‘Food often tastes better abroad,’ I said to Jon. ‘In Belgium the chocolate was divine – flavoured with everything from fruit to mint to spice.’ I’d wanted to try it all: the deep, dark seventy-per-cent cocoa was bitter and beautiful, the white was creamy and delicious and the milk was just chocolate heaven.
‘Yes, I love Belgian chocolate. I always use Belgian chocolate chips when I make the cookies,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘My grandfather was a baker and taught me how to bake the lightest cookies, the deepest chocolate cake. My mother, she used to say, “Jon will eat chocolate and cookies and cake any time of the day – even breakfast.”’
‘That sounds like a delicious breakfast,’ I said, smiling, remembering how Tim had scolded me for eating too much chocolate in that Belgian shop.
‘I don’t know why you’re eating those – they’ll make you fat,’ he’d said as I paid for a beautiful box filled with a mixture of chocolates. I’d planned to share them with him but I never did – and when I got home they sat in a cupboard for two years until one day I opened them and they were white with age. I’d thrown them away.
‘You are feeling sad?’ Jon said, his head to one side, concerned.
‘Not any more – but I’m afraid I’ve had a bad year and sometimes it just hits me,’ I started.
He asked me why and I ended up telling him all about Tim (yes, everything – from the empty champagne glass on Christmas Eve to the fact there were now rumours of a new girlfriend). I explained how it was my dearest wish to be a mum, but that Tim had never wanted children and I’d foolishly believed we could work round that – and now it was probably too late for me.
‘I can’t believe I’m telling you all this,’ I sighed. ‘I feel like I have to keep apologising for my behaviour – first my dress and now the fact that I’ve just told you my life story without taking a breath. I’m not usually so self-obsessed, honestly.’
He smiled and I saw genuine kindness in his eyes – which made mine fill with tears.
I’d been thirsty for this, the Christmas nostalgia, facing up to my sadness and the strange, comforting feel of having someone who listened without offering me advice or telling me I had issues. I needed the girls’ counsel and valued it – they were always telling me to pull myself together and offering all kinds of unsuitable men for me to date while at the resort. But I wasn’t ready for any of that – I needed to find my feet, to pace myself and do it all in my own time.
‘You will find another… you are lovely,’ he said and smiled.
I blushed again. He made me feel all warm inside. It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he said it. Yes, I was rusty and certainly no expert with men, but he seemed genuine.
‘Oh, I don’t know – men my age usually want younger women.’
‘Not always. Some men are quite grown up enough to be with a real woman,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye.
I looked back at him and returned the twinkle, wondering if there might be something here between us other than a table full of cake.
I’d just told him all about my love life, but he hadn’t offered any information about his own situation.
‘Men my age often have baggage,’ I said, hoping this might prompt a response. ‘You know, an ex-wife, kids…’
‘I understand,’ he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘I hate the sadness luggage too – a broken relationship… much hurt.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m guessing we’re a similar age. It’s harder to meet people the older you get, isn’t it?’
He nodded, but I doubt he really found it hard to meet people. He was a good-looking guy in a ski resort, and there were plenty of twenty-and thirty-somethings who I’m sure would have been delighted to go out with him.
‘I suppose it’s harder for women,’ I added, acknowledging that he may not quite be in the same boat as me. ‘For a start there’s the issue of children…’
‘Ah, the children…’
‘Yes. I was an only child and I always wanted a sibling, then as I grew up, I wanted a baby. Now I feel it’s too late for me to have children. Jody, my half-sister, says it would have to be quick – a whirlwind romance. I’d have to meet someone who’s also single and wants what I want – and then we get down to it… Oh I didn’t mean… that.’ What was I saying? I really liked this guy, but I was turning this into a speed-dating experience, desperately trying to find out if he was single and if he wanted kids – with me. Now. I really had to calm down.
‘Yes, it can be difficult to find someone who wants the same as you.’
‘Yes, I just don’t have time and I don’t need someone else’s baggage.’ He nodded slowly. I think he understood, but then for him things were different; even though he was probably my age, he had plenty of time to have children.
Then, out of nowhere, big, wet tears dropped o
nto my cheeks. At first the tears were for lost chances, but then, as these things do, my tears reached further. I cried because all my clothes were still sitting somewhere in Zürich, and I cried because I couldn’t ski like everyone else and even though I made out it was hilarious, I also wanted to feel that wind through my hair as I swooped through the snow. Then the tears became very dark and distant and I cried for my mother, abandoned by my dad as she dressed the tree, and my own loss the previous year when Tim had abandoned me too. Throughout this whole process I said things through my tears like, ‘Zürich… Mum… Christmas… and Tim, the bastard,’ which didn’t make any sense to anyone – especially a Swiss German I’d only just met.
‘Hey… hey…’ Jon got up from his seat and sat in the chair next to me. Putting his arm on my shoulder, he gently rubbed it. ‘Please don’t cry…’
‘I am so stupid,’ I said, hating myself. ‘I’m upset – but honestly I’m happy too. I never thought a place like this existed… the village, the mountains and this perfect little café.’
‘There’s no need to cry then… It’s all good, yes?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded through tears and he handed me a napkin from the nearby table, and I made it very, very wet.
Eventually the tears subsided and I felt calm. Here was a very handsome, probably very kind man who would have perhaps made someone a perfect boyfriend – but not me because even if he’d had a glimmer of ‘liking’ me, I had now just ruined any hope of that. I’d sobbed all over the cakes and cookies and probably scared him more than when I’d opened my coat that morning like a bloody flasher to reveal a see-through dress while shouting, ‘Look, I’m normal!’
‘I’ve just ruined a perfectly good Schokoladenkuchen,’ I said, knowing I would always remember the lovely chocolate cake with the same bittersweetness I remembered the Belgian chocolates with Tim. Thinking about that made me cry all over again.
‘You haven’t ruined anything,’ Jon said, looking at his watch. He’d obviously had enough of my whingeing and sobbing and was looking to find an excuse to escape.
‘I have to tell you something, but I think it will make you do more of the crying,’ he said.
I looked up. What could he possibly add to my list of misery?
‘Please don’t start the crying, but it’s after 5 p.m., and you’ve missed the mountain bus back to your resort.’
‘Oh God!’ I hadn’t even considered the time, and even if I had I would have assumed we were okay because I was with the tour guide.
I leapt up from my seat and gathered my bags. ‘If we run we might make it? But if not – what will we do?’ I said, now panicking. ‘Is the bus allowed to leave without you?’
‘Ah no, I’m not coming back to the resort. The driver will look after the passengers on the return. I’m staying here tonight… I live here.’
‘What? Oh of course…’ I plonked myself back down on my seat. What the hell was I going to do now?
‘I’m so sorry, it’s my fault,’ he said, once more taking the blame for my predicament.
‘No, no, of course it isn’t,’ I said, shaking my head vigorously. ‘I’m a grown woman, I should have thought – but I was having such a lovely time… crying and complaining and being generally miserable that I lost track of the time.’
He laughed; he seemed to understand my sarcasm. I hoped he also understood this was an acknowledgement of what terrible company I must have been.
I wiped my eyes and tried to sound perkier and less suicidal. ‘Is there another bus I can get?’
‘No… er, I feel bad – I kept you talking.’
‘Hardly. I’ve just given you my life story and wept salty tears all over your cake – please don’t blame yourself.’
‘It is not a problem. Don’t worry, I will drive you back to your resort.’
‘No, really, I’ll be fine,’ I said, unconvinced. This was all I needed – to be stranded in a snowbound village in a see-through dress. The girls were going to think this was hilarious. I didn’t know what to do and just stood there, clutching at all my shopping, my eyes back to their natural panda state and most probably with chocolate icing round my mouth.
Oh God, I’d sat here sobbing and going on about myself and all the time he was probably wondering when I was going to realise and go to the bus. I really needed to train myself in the art of men again. It had been such a long time since I’d been alone with a handsome stranger, I just didn’t know how to behave any more, and I hadn’t picked up any signals.
‘If the worst comes to the worst I can get a taxi. You probably have plans. You don’t want to take up your evening driving me back, it’s miles.’
‘Please, sit down. The taxi will cost too much, but I could drive you back and I will stay at the resort. I can stay with my friend.’
I bit my lip. This was looking like the only option if I wanted to get back tonight.
‘You must hate me,’ I sighed.
‘Hate? Why would I be hating?’
‘Because I just seem to have lots of drama around me at the moment – and now this. I’m stranded in a village I was only supposed to visit for the afternoon.’
‘It doesn’t have to be the tragedy,’ he said. ‘I can show you Saas Fee and we can have dinner here – then I’ll drive you back to the resort… my village, she is very beautiful by night.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The girls will be expecting me,’ I said, rather ungraciously.
‘Then I will drive you home now.’
I thanked him and asked if he’d mind waiting while I changed in the toilets into my newly purchased cold-weather clothing. Along with one or two other items, I’d scoured the sale rails to find a jacket in bright pink, some matching waterproof trousers and a glitzy red dress that screamed ‘It’s CHRISTMAAAS’ louder than Slade. I went for ‘cute’, ‘colourful’, ‘figure-hugging’ – words I would never have associated with clothes buying before now. But in the light of recent wardrobe malfunctions I checked forensically for inappropriate logos and unexpected transparency in each item before I left the toilets. I felt good in the French navy jumper and tight jeans, topped with the pink padded jacket, and the smile on Jon’s face was definitely one of relief when I walked back into the café.
I liked how I felt as he watched me walk over to the table and lifted all my shopping bags. In my rush I’d forgotten about paying and suddenly realised as he took out his wallet. ‘No, no, no… I insist on paying for the cakes,’ I said, virtually rugby tackling him to the ground. ‘I’ve caused you enough inconvenience without you having to pay for me.’
But despite me almost literally having his arm up his back and hurling him across a table, he insisted on paying for the cakes before we left the sugary warmth of the café and braced ourselves for the icy sting outside.
As we walked out into the snowy street we began walking towards his car, which was apparently several streets away.
‘I’d love the recipe for that Lebkuchen,’ I said.
‘I have it at home. My grandfather, he wrote all his recipes in books – I have them all. He left them to me when he died and sometimes, especially at Christmas, I use them… I will print them for you.’
‘Oh thank you, I’d love that,’ I said, genuinely pleased at the offer but also noting that he planned to stay in touch, if only to deliver recipes. ‘If I lived here it would feel like Christmas every day,’ I sighed. ‘I would make a daily batch of Lebkuchen and chocolate brownies and…’
‘And Christmas cookies…’
‘And cupcakes. Everyone loves a cupcake. Your Glühwein cupcakes would sell like… hot cakes.’
‘No, not hot,’ he said, misunderstanding – but it didn’t matter.
‘No, okay.’ I smiled. ‘But with a stick of cinnamon in the top…’
‘Or a candy cane?’
I’d often had ideas for recipes when I was with Tim, but I wouldn’t have shared them with him – he wasn’t interested. I remember enthusing about a delicious almond cake we’d eaten
once in a tea room and he’d said, ‘It’s cake, Jennifer, get over it.’
We wandered through the snow chatting about recipes, ingredients, ideas – both animated, both adding to the other’s inspiration, never taking from it. On the walk to his car we shared theories and wondered aloud about interesting flavour combinations and the best kinds of syrups and toppings.
‘Perhaps you’re in the wrong job as a ski instructor and tour guide?’ I suggested.
‘Perhaps so are you in the library,’ he said, laughing.
I loved my job at the library. The customers could be irritating at times but mostly they were nice, bookish people who shared my love of books. But did I want to be there for ever? I loved sorting the books, classifying them, discovering new authors, discovering old ones – but perhaps it was time to take inspiration from those books and live a life instead of reading about one?
‘I think you’ve just given me a great idea.’ I stopped walking and looked at him. ‘I might take cake-decorating classes when I get home. No, I will. It will be my New Year resolution. I can bake, but I’ve always wanted to really bake and to ice cakes to a professional standard – you know, wedding cakes and proper themed birthday cakes, mountains of cupcakes all exactly the same.’ I liked the uniformity: like books all in a row on a shelf, I could create beautiful stories of my own – in cake. I was reminded again of The Christmas Cake Café book my mother had given me as a child, and how I’d carried this seed of something in my heart all my life – without even realising it.
‘That sounds like a wonderful idea,’ he said. ‘And I too will make a New Year resolution, to go through my grandfather’s recipe books and make everything… from his special bűndnernusstorte to Zopf to Gugelhupf.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said as we continued to walk quickly through the snow. I hadn’t a clue what he’d just said, but I nodded vigorously, lost in his enthusiasm and those flashing blue eyes.
Perhaps I should stay here with him for dinner and offer to pay? That way at least it might make up for the trouble and the petrol he’d use driving me the hour’s journey back later. And what was it Jody had said about not being so closed to new ideas? That I needed to let go and allow Christmas to come to me?
