by Daisy James
‘It’s okay, Kirstie. I do understand. But that’s no reason to give up hope. Miracles do happen, you know. Fairy godmothers and godfathers exist, especially at this time of year. Hey, have I told you about Calvin?’
‘Who’s Calvin?’ asked Kirstie, her spirits lifting as they moved onto the safer ground of Emma’s dating exploits – always fertile pasture for gossip and giggles. Emma could often be found floating on the wings of Eros as she made her way through the eligible men of the parish. However, after two or three dates, she usually discovered some unpalatable fault that terminated the love story after the prologue. One unfortunate guy was ditched simply because he wore the same cologne as her father, another for having a lifelong passion for Formula One. She wondered what Emma would rake out of Calvin’s personality closet so she didn’t have to progress to a dreaded fourth date.
‘He’s a male model. Lives in Salisbury. I met him at a wedding I went to last weekend. The bride wanted bespoke jewellery – and a matching headpiece. Think turquoise stones encased in delicate silver filigree and snowdrop earrings. I also designed a silver link bracelet and a single charm for Archie to give to Zara on the actual day as a keepsake. You never know, maybe he’ll order another one for their anniversary or the birth of their first child, which a little bird has told me is imminent. Great marketing strategy, eh? Bond Street here I come!’
Emma’s eyes sparkled as she described her jewellery designs. Kirstie loved seeing her friend so animated about what had been her passion since high school. It was exactly how she felt about her presenting career.
‘We have to squeeze every single coin of happiness out of life – you know that more than anyone, Kirst.’
‘Sure I do. However, at the moment I just happen to be bankrupt in the happiness stakes.’
Ever the optimist, Emma shook her head sadly and laid her hand on Kirstie’s arm. The long scarlet ribbons dangling from the fluted sleeves of her home-made kaftan tickled the back of Kirstie’s hand.
‘You look exhausted, even more so than usual. Did I ever tell you that you work too hard at that TV studio?’
‘Emma …’
‘Anyway, moving on. Calvin and I are going out on a proper date tomorrow night and he has this great friend – Barnie – who I think you might …’
‘Stop. Right. There. Miss Finch. There is no way I’m going to let you set me up on a blind date the day after I arrive home with my tail between my legs having made a complete fool of myself on national television. Do you think I’m totally stupid?’
‘So the Dancing Duck is still your home, is it?’ Emma smirked.
Kirstie decided to ignore her provocation. ‘All I wanted to do was hole up here, lick my wounds for a few weeks, pin on my “Best Auntie” badge, and look after Ethan whilst Olivia did all the Christmas stuff she’s probably been planning for the Dancing Duck since Easter.’
‘Oh, yes, well everything is organized and it’s going to be amazing.’
If there was one thing Kirstie loved about Emma it was the fact that she never lingered on one subject for long: world-enhancing or mundane. Flitting from one happy encounter to the next, with a wide smile splitting her cheeks, artisan earrings flashing in the sunlight, Emma made friends wherever she went. Kirstie was more grateful than usual to have successfully diverted her friend’s attention from mandatory double-dating. The very thought made her break out in a sweat.
‘Hey, any chance of a hand down here? We are running a drinking establishment, not a Gossip Group for Grouchy Girls!’ Josh’s voice floated up the stairs, laced with barely concealed irritation.
‘Sorry,’ chorused Kirstie and Emma.
‘Why don’t I let you unpack and then you can come down and help behind the bar.’ Emma saw the grimace of panic on Kirstie’s face and laughed. ‘Okay, just come and have a drink by the fire. Josh has insisted we light a log fire every night in December and it’s so cosy. You can help us decide where to put the tree.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re putting the Christmas tree up tomorrow. Josh has ordered one from Angus up at the farm. Livie agreed that we should have a real one this year as it will be our … our last.’
Emma gulped down her emotions and scuttled off down the stairs to finish her shift, her Doc Marten boots thumping on the stairs like a kettledrum.
Kirstie stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror in her sister’s kitchen-diner. Emma was right. She did look tired – and older – and Emma wasn’t the first to have mentioned it that week either. But exhaustion was just an inconvenient side effect of putting every last ounce of effort into making Kirstie’s Kitchen the best it could be.
However, she refused to dwell on her obligatory sabbatical. What she had to concentrate on now was coming up with a believable excuse for not joining in with the tradition she had managed to avoid for the previous two years running – decorating the very last Harrison Christmas tree in The Dancing Duck.
She felt a dose of flu coming on.
Chapter 6
Kirstie woke up the next morning to a sound she couldn’t quite place. Had someone left the radio on? If so, who? It took her a few moments to calm her raging heartbeat and realize that it was birdsong and her feathered friends were well into their second chorus. Splinters of ivory light sliced through the gap in the rosebud-adorned curtains her sister had hand-stitched when she decided to redecorate the guest bedroom at the same time as creating a nursery for Ethan.
Kirstie knew what a heartbreaking task that had been for Olivia, painting over the wallpaper she had chosen as a teenager – with the help, no, more like hindrance, of their mother – and adding a funky border depicting a traffic jam of trains, planes, and lorries.
As she pushed herself out of bed, regret surged through her veins that she hadn’t made the trip down to Cranbury to lend a hand with a paintbrush. She should have been there to support her sister in the last month of her pregnancy, to reminisce about the time their father had turned up with the most hideous brown and orange lampshade that he’d acquired at one of the ubiquitous auctions he frequented and the look of genuine surprise on his face when it had been summarily rejected.
She would bet her favourite Bijoux Baubles earrings on the fact that the same lampshade would still be lurking around somewhere in the loft. Her parents had stoically refused to part with any of their treasure, and neither she nor Olivia had been able to face the task of sorting through everything since their deaths.
She set the kettle to boil to make a cafetière of coffee and recalled what Olivia had said to her on the phone. Her sister expected her to have a rummage through that same treasure and decide if there was anything she wanted to keep – otherwise it was destined for Miles Morgan’s skip. A skip! As though it was all useless rubbish. Okay, her parents had been self-confessed hoarders, and yes, some of the things they collected – well, most of the things – could be classified as junk.
Yet, every item had been carefully selected and their preference for ‘previously loved items’ was an integral part of their characters, of their history, and therefore also part of Kirstie’s and Olivia’s lives. She couldn’t allow it all to be chucked away so carelessly by a stranger. But conversely, she couldn’t contemplate dredging up the courage to go through the cornucopia of cast-offs she knew loitered in every available closet and cabinet, every bookcase, shelf, and cupboard in the property her parents had lived happily in for over thirty years. No, she just couldn’t do it. And certainly not without Olivia by her side.
A familiar spasm of guilt shot into Kirstie’s chest. As she had not been there for Olivia during her decorating spree, it seemed only fair that she should step up to the challenge this time. She had to do this for her sister, and she had to do it before Olivia returned from Ireland.
She treated herself to a long, hot shower and some of Olivia’s Molton Brown shower cream. She washed her hair and left it to dry naturally into its signature corkscrew curls that she insisted were never tamed, even fo
r her TV show. It might be the current trend to have locks that flowed like liquid silk, but no matter how hard she tried, or how much product she smeared onto her tresses, her hair had a mind of its own and refused to be controlled.
Kirstie refilled her mug from the cafetière and drifted over to look out of the kitchen window at the Old Barn across the cobbled car park, wondering what to do with the rest of the day. The weak December sunshine bathed the whole bucolic scene with a golden glow. In the distance, beyond the patchwork of fields that encircled the village, a light breeze tickled the canopy of oak trees to the rear of the Anderson farm. The farm’s surrounding outbuildings had been sold off and converted into homes, except for one, the largest, which Angus Anderson used as his business premises.
She smiled ruefully – she had Angus to blame for encouraging and prolonging her parents’ obsession with collecting useless bric-a-brac – for he was not only the local farmer but also the local auctioneer. Whenever he stumbled across a painting or a mirror or even an old-fashioned bicycle that he thought his old friend Don Harrison would like, he would tip him off so he could bid for it at the auction. That was why the Dancing Duck looked more like an auction room that Angus’s barn did!
A kernel of an idea curled into Kirstie’s mind, but she immediately discarded it as much too painful an option. But perhaps it was a solution. Maybe she should approach Angus to ask him to help out his best friend’s daughters by removing the paraphernalia of his friends’ lives and holding a huge auction in their honour. Perhaps she could look into donating a percentage of the monies to a charity that supported hoarders to declutter their lives. She knew Angus would agree readily, but could she do it? The answer was, at the moment, a resounding no.
She didn’t want to think about it, so she decided to go down to the bar and help out with the morning cleaning routine, then she would ask Leon if there was anything she could do for him in the kitchen. She would do what she always did whenever she was faced with difficult emotional issues – throw herself into a whirlwind of activity to chase away the demons. It was one of the reasons she lived such a frenetic life in the capital.
Kirstie was looking forward to spending time with Leon, chatting about the world of food. She loved the volatile French chef who had come to their rescue on the back of a Harley Davidson in those dark, dreadful months after her parents’ deaths. However, the Dancing Duck had Josh to thank for the serendipitous arrival of the potential Michelin-starred maestro. Josh had met Leon Blanchard in a seedy back street restaurant whilst backpacking around Thailand and they had hit it off straight away over copious samplings of Singha beer.
Leon had told Josh all about graduating from Le Cordon Bleu cookery school in Paris and his decision to broaden his culinary horizons by taking a tour of Southeast Asia before settling down to a real job. Unfortunately, the chef had only got as far as Pattaya when he had been robbed at knife-point and was biding his time until his Embassy had sorted out his replacement passport and he could return home.
Ever the food obsessive, he had turned a negative into a positive and offered to work in a local café to learn about Thai cuisine. He had loved it so had stayed on. However, when he met Josh he had confessed that the novelty was beginning to wear off and he planned on working in the UK. Josh suggested he contact Olivia and Harry and the rest, as they say, was history. The food at the Dancing Duck’s brasserie was the best that French cuisine had to offer for miles around and trade flourished – just not enough to keep the rest of the business afloat.
Kirstie knew Leon would find a job without any difficulty when the pub was sold, but there was one thing stopping him from jumping from the deck of a sinking ship before absolutely necessary and that was a certain quirky, jewellery-obsessed barmaid by the name of Emma Finch.
When Kirstie thought of Emma her spirits lifted. She slotted her feet into a pair of Olivia’s sparkly flip-flops, resisting a sudden urge to snap a picture for Instagram – why would anyone be interested? She selected a pair of bronze earrings Emma had donated to her sister so she could show them off to the patrons of the Dancing Duck, and rushed down the stairs. It was only when she reached the bar that it hit her with a force she wasn’t expecting, whipping away the joyous mood and the anticipation of spending a blissful morning talking culinary gossip with Leon.
Piled high in the middle of the floor were six huge cardboard boxes, their flaps open and three little words scrawled in her father’s handwriting – Christmas Tree Decorations. Garlands of lurid pink and green tinsel hung like feather boas over the backs of the chairs next to the fireplace, along with tangles of multi-coloured tree lights waiting to be unravelled, and a miniature Christmas tree made out of silver tinsel – so beloved of the 1970s and adored by her mother.
God, no! It was the Christmas Tree Debut Day! No way was she getting sucked into that agonizing scenario. She couldn’t cope with the inevitable reminiscing, especially after what had happened on Kirstie’s Kitchen two days previously. Clearly, she still had deep-seated issues she needed to deal with, and as she didn’t have the time or the inclination to focus on those now, she would just have to employ her usual avoidance tactics.
She spun on her heels to creep stealthily back up the stairs but she hadn’t moved swiftly enough because she had only taken two steps before she came face to face with Josh.
‘Going somewhere, Harrison?’
His dark eyes bore into hers. She felt like he was scouring her soul and didn’t like what he saw there. His dark hair had been gelled into a quiff at his forehead and his jaw reflected the shadow of a beard. But the thing that caused her emotions to lurch back into the past was that familiar spicy cologne he favoured. No matter where she was in the world, whenever she caught a whiff of the same brand, a crystal-clear image of the man standing before her, his right eyebrow raised in question, swept into her mind and caused a sharp spasm of longing. That morning was no exception.
Before she could compose a believable excuse for not helping out with the tree, the front door crashed open and in walked Emma, her arm linked through the elbow of an attractive dark-haired girl carrying a huge white confectioner’s box.
‘Rachel!’
Kirstie rushed forward to hug her.
‘Hi, Kirstie. Heard you’d come back for Christmas. Sorry about what happened with the show on Monday. It must have been a complete nightmare for you.’ Rachel deposited the box of goodies on the bar and shoved her black-framed glasses up to the bridge of her nose. ‘Dad thought these might cheer you up. He knows they’re your absolute favourite.’
Kirstie peeked into the box, inhaled the satisfying aroma of sugary sweetness, and smiled.
‘Thanks, Rach,’ she mumbled, suddenly overcome with emotion at the kindness shown to her by everyone she had met since she got back to Cranbury. There had been no revelling in her embarrassment, no celebrating her stupidity, except maybe for the man watching her from the fireplace, a home-made paper chain hanging from his arm.
Kirstie lifted one of the most wonderful Red Velvet cupcakes, iced in thick, white chocolate buttercream with edible rose petals as decoration and a generous sprinkle of mini silver dragées, from the box. ‘Tell your dad I said thank you. He’s a real culinary genius.’
Rachel laughed, tucking an escaped tendril of hair behind her ear. ‘Well, I should hope so. He has been running the village bakery for the last thirty years. People travel for miles for his lavender macarons, not to mention his cream horns.’
‘I’ll go ask Leon for some plates. And maybe a cafetière of coffee. We deserve a coffee boost before Josh works us into the ground!’
A smile played on Emma’s lips as she disappeared into the brasserie kitchen next door to flirt with the chef who had adored her from a distance since he had arrived in Cranbury. It seemed to Kirstie that Emma was the only person not to have noticed. But then she did tend to inhabit a completely different universe than other mere mortals.
That morning Emma was showcasing a pair of earrings more aki
n to bangles in a gorgeous copper-coloured metal with tiny snowflakes dangling at jaw level, and a matching necklace with a row of larger snowflakes hanging from a curved wire. The effect against her plain white T-shirt was stunning, yet the colour clashed somewhat with the pink streak in her fringe.
‘How’s the fledgling wedding cake business?’ Kirstie asked Rachel, eager to put off the tree decoration ceremony for as long as possible.
‘It’s early days, but I’ve just secured an order from a couple who are getting married up at Craiglea Hall in January. We’ve agreed on the design and I’ve spent the last few weeks experimenting with sugar paste and food colouring. If this doesn’t work out, I think I could easily embark on a career as a watercolour artist!’
‘That cake is going to be amazing,’ interrupted Emma, arriving back with a pile of dessert plates and a wedge of pink-and-white dotted paper napkins. ‘It’s this cute conical design covered with delicate flowers and butterflies all made out of pastel-coloured sugar paste. It’s adorable. Show Kirstie the photo, Rach.’
Rachel dug into her denim duffel bag to locate her phone. Her hair, the colour of liquid coal, now completely tumbled from the clip that was supposed to hold it in an up-do and she flicked it irritably over her shoulder. Standing a head shorter than Kirstie and Emma, Rachel possessed a more curvaceous shape – along with the waist of a mannequin – but the force of her personality made up for her lack of stature. She scrolled through a long reel of photographs until she arrived at the wedding cake. Her cheeks glowed with pride as she held the phone out to Kirstie.
