by Daisy James
‘I am! Why didn’t I know anything about this?’
Miles laughed. ‘Theo trained as a chef in St Lucia. He and a friend opened a restaurant in Covent Garden ten years ago, but Theo hated the fact that he had no life outside the kitchen. He said his creative juices were at risk of running dry so he sold up and took to the road. That’s his camper van in the car park. Hey, maybe you could invite him on Kirstie’s Kitchen!’
‘I’d love that! It’s definitely going on the list for Brad.’
They sat together watching the dancing for another hour, chatting amiably about their lives and their hopes for the future, until Theo announced it was time to call it a night. Everyone helped with the clearing up and no one left until the last scrap of evidence of their presence had been eliminated.
‘Thanks for bringing me here, Miles. I’ve had a great time.’
Miles slotted his fingers through hers as they walked back to the car, and hesitated before climbing into the driver’s seat. Kirstie couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. She thought he was going to kiss her and wondered how she would feel if he did. But she would have to wait to find out because he took a step backwards and broke the spell by calling goodnight to Theo in his bright green campervan.
Kirstie was embarrassed to find that once again she had fallen asleep whilst Miles drove her back to the pub. It had been one of the longest days she could remember – with the physical exertion and emotional turmoil of the packing, then the dancing with abandon for the last two hours. She woke with a start as Miles drove into the courtyard and pulled on the handbrake.
‘Everything still okay for the Law Society dinner on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Oh, erm, yes, yes,’ she said, but a coil of doubt snaked through her chest.
‘I’ll call you to make the arrangements, shall I?’
‘Yes.’
She leaned over the gearstick, intending to peck Miles on the cheek. To her surprise, he turned his head towards her at the last minute and their lips met. She gave a start, but enjoyed the sensation of being kissed goodnight. Miles broke their connection and she was disappointed to see that he didn’t intend to continue their embrace.
‘Goodnight, Kirstie.’
‘Night, Miles.’
She jumped out of the car and waited in the courtyard until the red brake lights had been swallowed by the darkness. She glanced at her watch. Two a.m. She made her way to the door of the flat and out of the corner of her eye she caught a slight movement at the window of the bar. She squinted her eyes to focus on the spot but the place was swathed in darkness and she assumed it had been a trick of the light. But as she took a few more steps, she noticed the red Spider parked in its usual spot and the next time she looked, the silhouette in the window left her in no doubt that Josh had seen her arrive home.
A cauldron of mixed emotions accompanied her up the stairs to her bed. She had enjoyed being with Miles at the pop-up party. Whenever they were together he was upbeat, cheerful, and full of interesting anecdotes of life in Hong Kong and stories about the wild exploits his rugby friends got up to at weekends. A twist of anticipation of what lay ahead at the New Year’s Eve party sent an uncomfortable thrill into her abdomen.
As she slid between the cotton sheets and closed her eyes, a clear image of Josh appeared. In the window of lucidity between wakefulness and the oblivion sleep offered, she heard his warning not to trust Miles and a stab of disloyalty burst the bubble. She preferred not to analyse the next emotion to erupt into her exhausted brain when she thought of him waiting up to make sure she got home okay.
Chapter 27
Kirstie woke early the next morning as weak shafts of ivory light streaked through her bedroom curtains. In the cold light of day, without the mellifluous effect of alcohol to dull the sharp edges of her reasoning, she replayed the events of the previous night and explored her feelings for Miles. She found that she was looking forward to attending the New Year’s Eve celebrations with him. This was what her life in London was all about and she was keen to get back to normality.
Her brief flirtation with the possibility of returning to Cranbury was a bout of nostalgia and whilst that was okay, reality should always win through. The pub would be sold and she would resume her life in the capital with the added dimension of Miles being a part of it.
More difficult to decipher were her feelings about Josh. She was relieved she had made her peace with him, and whilst she knew he could never be friends with Miles she hoped that he could understand that what had happened had nothing to do with him. She was sad to be losing the Dancing Duck, but that was the way of the world sometimes. There was no magic wand to swipe over the cracks life caused. You just had to deal with the blows, dust yourself down, plaster a smile on your face, and move on. Nevertheless, when she thought of losing Josh from her life again, a surge of sadness swept over her.
She knew the next few days would be difficult as they continued to sift through her parents’ belongings. She had no idea what gems they were going to find in the loft that would spark painful memories and she anticipated tears of both laughter and pain. Yet, with Olivia by her side, she knew she could cope with anything.
When they attended their appointment with the solicitor on Friday they would be able to confirm they had almost completed the task of removing those possessions they wanted to keep. The final haul would be taken away to either Greg’s garage or Angus’s farm over the weekend so that the pub would be clear by the time the sale went through, ensuring that nothing of any sentimental value would be dumped unceremoniously into a skip as Miles had suggested. She just couldn’t bear that.
‘Coffee. And Harry’s made scrambled eggs if you want some?’ said Olivia striding into the bedroom and handing her a welcome mug of morning elixir.
‘Thanks.’
‘How was last night?’ Olivia took a sip from the mug she clutched in her palms, but kept her eyes trained on Kirstie over the rim, searching her face for evidence of her feelings.
‘It was fun. We went to a pop-up restaurant run by a guy called Theo March. He’s a really talented guy – a chef, a guitarist, a singer. I’m thinking about inviting him to do a guest spot on the new show.’
‘And Miles?’
‘Great company,’ replied Kirstie, catching herself before she volunteered the fact that she intended to see him again. She didn’t feel up to a lecture from her sister so early in the morning.
‘Okay. Good. Anyway, Angus will be here in an hour to take the first load of furniture up to the farm. Josh is working in the bar today; so is Harry. So, is it okay if you coordinate the operation? Make sure everything goes to the right place? He has also offered to drop off the bags destined for the charity shop in Maltby.’
‘No problem.’
Kirstie sprang out of bed. Within thirty minutes she was helping Angus to load up his van with a selection of mahogany drawers, two matching bedside cabinets and a dressing table, along with a Victorian porcelain sink, a highly decorative mirror that would never have fit in the pub, and a variety of upholstered chairs and footstools. It took all morning to manoeuvre the heavy furniture from the loft into the van and three trips up to the farm until everything was cleared. They then made a start on the superfluous furniture in the restaurant.
It was with a huge sense of achievement that Kirstie and Angus stumbled into the bar for a well-earned drink at six o’clock. They had shifted enough stuff to furnish a stately home. Angus had stood open-mouthed as they lifted item after item down through the loft hatch and had taken the opportunity to recount his favourite stories of Don and Sue purchasing the more bizarre objects. Kirstie enjoyed the reminiscing and the fact that she felt like her parents could still be downstairs, serving the regulars their favourite pints from behind the bar.
She had hugged Angus and thanked him for being such a good friend to their family – not just that week but over the years as well. They had also had several arguments over whether certain items should be destined for the auctio
n or the charity shop. When Kirstie had laughingly accused Angus of supplying their habit, he had been adamant in his protestations that at least fifty per cent of the furniture had not originated from his showroom.
He had promised to come back on Saturday morning with his brother Alistair to take the last couple of loads, including the bronze statues, any auctionable ornaments and vases, and the oil and watercolour paintings that were still hanging on the walls in the bar.
‘You look exhausted!’ Olivia said with a smile as she handed Kirstie a glass of Merlot. ‘Perhaps you should treat yourself to a bubble bath and an early night? We’ll have to be up early in the morning if we are to get to the solicitors by nine o’clock. Have you booked your train ticket up to London?’ Her sister’s expression made it abundantly clear that she wanted her to stay longer. Kirstie wanted to stay too, but she had her meeting with Brad to get to.
‘No. I’ll do it now, but I still haven’t heard back from Brad. I’ll give him a call.’
She dialled Brad’s number and waited. Again, the line rang and rang but wasn’t answered so she decided to text Bridget.
Hi, Bridge. Coming up to London to see Brad tomorrow to talk about new show ideas. Fancy a coffee afterwards?
Before she had reached the bottom of the stairs her phone buzzed with a text. It was Bridget.
Love to see you, but you might want to check your meeting with Brad is still on first.
What did she mean? Anxiety nibbled at Kirstie’s gut. She tried Brad’s number again. This time it went to voicemail after three rings. An unpleasant thought occurred to her. Was Brad avoiding her calls? No, he wouldn’t do that. Why would he? Then she remembered the way he had reacted when she had called him on Christmas Eve. It was as though he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. A slice of panic shot through her like a hot carving knife.
Why didn’t he want to speak to her? What was going on?
She rang Bridget.
‘Hi, Bridget. How’re things?’
‘Hi, Kirstie. Great to hear from you. Did you have a good Christmas?’
‘I did. You?’
‘Yes.’
The stilted exchange was so out of character that Kirstie’s fear intensified.
‘Bridget, is something going on? Why did you say I had to check with Brad before coming up to London?’
‘Sorry, Kirstie. It’s just that I think he might have something else on, on Friday. I’m not one hundred per cent sure, though. You need to talk to him first, that’s all.’
‘I’ve tried to ring him but his phone goes straight to voicemail.’
‘I’ll tell him you called and that he should get back to you.’
‘Bridget …’
‘Got to go. Flora needs me. Love you, Kirstie. Can’t wait to catch up.’ And the line went dead.
Kirstie’s knees weakened and she stumbled into the nearest chair, her stomach tumbling with possibilities and settling on the obvious scenario. She knew it might happen. Brad had decided that Flora had done such a fabulous job of the Christmas Kitchen episodes that she was going to be a permanent feature. Nausea collected at the back of her throat and threatened to overwhelm her. She needed to know if she still had a job.
Then another thought wriggled into her mind, which she had avoided for too long. With difficulty, she stood up and forced her legs to carry her back up the stairs. She found her laptop under a pile of nappies and opened her YouTube account. She typed in ‘Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen’ and ‘Flora Swift’, her finger hovering over the Enter button as her head roared ‘don’t do it’ but her heart egged her on.
Click.
A picture of Flora appeared, her perfect smile glowing from the screen as she introduced herself and that day’s guest celebrity chef to viewers. Her immaculate bob, the colour of liquid caramel, swung around her jawline, every strand falling back into place as she explained which recipes would be showcased that morning.
Kirstie didn’t want to admit it, but the camera adored her. Her petite features were perfect for the television screen, and her tone was smooth and knowledgeable as she asked the Italian chef questions about his version of a chocolate chip panettone.
It seemed to Kirstie that Flora was her complete opposite. There was no way her corkscrew curls could be described as sleek and glossy. And whilst she had fun with her guests, lots of laughter and banter, Flora favoured a more professional style as she asked Gino about the origins of panettone as the Italians’ go-to version of Christmas cake.
Tears rushed to her eyes. Of course, Kirstie hadn’t wanted Flora to be a disaster – she cared too much about her show for that – but neither had she wanted her to be so fabulous that there was a risk she would become her replacement. Putting everything she had learned that morning together: Bridget’s reluctance to gossip – a talent for which she had a deserved reputation – Brad not taking her calls, and Flora’s considerable competence, she had her answer.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text and she cringed when she saw Brad’s name flash onto the screen. She inhaled a breath, gritted her teeth, and opened the missive.
Got your message. Sorry, need to cancel our Friday meet. Will call to rearrange. B.
That was it then. Suddenly her mind drained of all cogent thought. She just couldn’t process what had happened. Had she really been ousted from her eponymous show?
Chapter 28
‘Why is the traffic so bad?’ asked Kirstie as Harry inched another few feet towards the bumper of the car in front.
The monster inhabiting the dark pewter clouds had been baring its teeth since first light. Yet, as they drove from Cranbury to Salisbury, the weather reflected Kirstie’s mood. Dread and guilt gnawed at her nerves in equal measure. She had never been to a solicitor’s office before and despite the fact that she knew it was necessary, she would give anything to crawl back under her duvet and hide from the cruel, cold world.
‘It’s usually like this at rush hour, and the sales are on so everyone is hoping for a post-Christmas bargain. Hey! Hold on to your seat! I’ve just spotted a parking space!’ Harry wrenched the steering wheel to his left and scooted into a gap between a Mercedes with blacked-out windows and a bright yellow Prius, his face glowing with a mix of perspiration and satisfaction.
In a nod to the solemnity of the occasion, Kirstie had borrowed one of Olivia’s pre-pregnancy suits – a black shift dress and short jacket nipped in at the waist – and she felt as though she was on her way to a funeral. She had spent extra time taming her wayward curls and had applied more make-up than she had the last three weeks – it was her painted mask against the sorrow caused by what they were about to do.
A whoosh of affection shot through her veins as she watched Olivia climb from the passenger seat. Her sister’s determined expression and the way she held her emotions in check told her she was handling the situation much more successfully than Kirstie. Maybe her calmness came from motherhood, the constant necessity of not succumbing to panic under pressure. Or maybe Olivia was just confident that they were doing the right thing and could approach the forthcoming appointment with positivity.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ said Harry when they arrived at the paint-blistered front door of Barton & Coulson, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.
‘We’ll be fine, thanks. But don’t you dare be late for our ten o’clock appointment to sign the contracts for the cottage!’ Olivia smiled at her husband before kissing him goodbye and watched him make his way down the street to grab a coffee at the quirky little café with its red-and-white striped awning flapping in the wind.
Arm in arm, Kirstie and Olivia made their way up the stairs to the solicitor’s reception room where there was no indication that Christmas had ever taken place. Richard Barton, the firm’s senior partner, had handled their parents’ legal affairs for as long as Kirstie could remember and yet she had never met him and she wondered what he looked like. She had an inkling that he wouldn’t be cut from the same block as
Miles as she glanced around at the faded brown curtains and frayed sludge-coloured carpet.
She found herself smiling at the drab decor despite the tumbling anxiety in her chest. She imagined the solicitor would be of a similar mould to Reverend Clarke, a studious soul hanging out among the legalistic tomes, complete with comb-over and pocket watch.
The receptionist took their names and directed them to take a seat in the tiny waiting room. The air smelled of furniture polish, old parchment, and nostalgia for bygone times, and the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of a clock, but no matter how hard Kirstie looked she couldn’t see one anywhere.
‘Kirstie, is there something wrong? Other than the obvious upset over signing the contract? I’ve been watching you and you’ve not been yourself this morning. And you haven’t told me what time your train up to London is.’
Kirstie opened her mouth, but found she had to swallow down hard on a lump that was nestled in her throat. Now was definitely not the time to spill out the whole painful transcript of the conversation with Bridget and the fact that her presenting skills were surplus to requirements at FMTV; that Kirstie’s Kitchen was either being cancelled or would have a new presenter in the new year.
‘Don’t worry about me, Livie. I’m fine. It’s just trepidation over what we’re about to do.’
Olivia snaked her arm through Kirstie’s elbow and grasped her palm. ‘I’ll always be here for you – you know that, don’t you? Whatever happens, you’ll always have a home with us.’
‘Thanks.’ Kirstie gulped. She knew she was hanging on to her emotions by her fingernails. How long would they have to spend waiting for Mr Barton in this desperately solemn waiting room? What was he doing? Didn’t he realize there was a flight risk sitting in his dust-encrusted waiting room?
Silence fell again. Olivia took her phone from her handbag and started to tap out a post on her Facebook page. Kirstie managed a smile. Clearly her sister was appreciating the peace and quiet, a few hours to herself to indulge in a social media fix. And although Kirstie knew Olivia was as upset about signing the papers for the sale of the Dancing Duck as she was, at ten o’clock she and Harry would be sitting in front of Mr Barton talking about the purchase of their new property and their plans to make it into the perfect home. In contrast, Kirstie had nothing to look forward to, apart from a tiny rented flat and the probability of a soul-destroying job search.
