by Liz Eeles
‘I don’t mind at all. In fact, you’re right. You should get out there and do new stuff. Like what I’m doing with Logan’s party.’
‘Ah, yes. Lovely Logan.’ Zac sucks his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. ‘I think I will go to Jasmine’s party. I’ll give her a ring and tell her it’s on.’
‘She’ll be delighted,’ I call after him, slamming a spoonful of mincemeat so hard into a case, candied peel sprays everywhere.
I’m being ridiculous, I tell myself, once the pies are in the oven and I’m sitting in front of the fire with my feet up. Jazz fancies lots of men and she’s not settled down with a single one of them yet. I’m leaping ahead. It’ll be one date that will probably go really badly. And even if it doesn’t, I want Zac to be happy, don’t I? And Jasmine too. It’s a bit hypocritical of me to deny them that when I’m doing my very best to secure a date with Logan Fairweather.
In fact, the only problem I can foresee is that if Jasmine hurts kind, trusting Zac, I’ll have to kill her – and Mum would never forgive me. I’m so busy trying to make everything OK in my head, I don’t realise the mince pies are well and truly cooked until the smoke alarm starts screeching.
Nine
It’s two days later, Logan is coming into The Cosy Kettle any minute for a party planning meeting, and I can’t keep still. It’s late afternoon and the café is quiet so I’m pacing up and down in the shop. This is the fourth time I’ve walked back and forth past Flora, who’s sorting through customers’ orders that have just been delivered.
She looks up from the large pile of paperback and hardback novels. Books are a pretty safe Christmas present and people are starting to panic-buy. I should be panic-buying because we’re into December and I haven’t bought a single present yet.
‘Are you all right, Becca?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’m just waiting for Logan so we can sort out his party.’
‘That Logan is rather good-looking, isn’t he?’
Don’t blush! Don’t blush!
‘Yeah, not bad, I suppose.’
Flora’s beautiful violet eyes twinkle when she grins. ‘You look rather nice today.’
‘Thanks.’ I grin, ridiculously pleased with the compliment from Flora, who looks fabulous all the time. I wouldn’t wear what she does – fitted dresses in bright colours, smart chinos and silk blouses. I could never carry them off. But my boss always looks a picture of sophistication.
My clothes are far less smart, but I’ve made an effort today and am wearing my best jeans and a long-sleeved top that I bought ages ago and then shoved into the back of my wardrobe. It’s fuchsia pink which is a colour Jasmine often wears, and it seems extra bright against my sapphire hair, but my complexion looks less wan than usual. It probably helps that I’ve also toned down my trademark black eyeliner and put blusher on my pale cheeks.
Flora peers out of the window into the darkness. ‘I think that might be Logan coming now, along the High Street. I can see his blond hair shining under the street lights.’
‘OK, thanks.’ I scurry through into the café which is gorgeous at this time of the day. The last customer has left and the whole place smells of pine needles as I hit the switch and the Christmas lights flicker back on.
I open the back door and poke my head into the garden, to make sure no customers are loitering, and shiver because the temperature has dropped again. The weather app on my phone says snow is coming – more than the sprinkling we’ve had so far – and it certainly feels cold enough for it.
But here in the café it’s cosy and warm. Lights are glinting off the strands of tinsel and the tree lights are shining in the corner. I lock the back door and feel a wave of pride rush through me. I helped Flora do this. Together, we’ve transformed a storeroom into this wonderful welcoming place.
‘Becca?’
He’s here. I take a deep breath, plaster on what I hope looks like a confident smile, and start channelling wish number one from my list. Assertiveness and confidence. That’s what’s needed right now.
Logan is standing in the café doorway wearing a navy double-breasted peacoat and carrying a sheaf of papers. He strides in and hesitates a moment before kissing me on the cheek. Hell’s bells. There goes my vow not to blush in his presence. I really am pathetic! My cheeks start burning as he takes a seat at one of the tables and beckons for me to sit opposite him.
‘Busy day?’ he asks, glancing around the café.
I take another deep breath and pretend that I’m at home, all relaxed and talking to Zac.
‘It’s been manic. Everyone’s after a coffee to warm up because it’s so cold out there. And lots of cake to replace all the calories they’ve used up Christmas shopping.’
Phew, that came out OK. Channelling my relationship with Zac is obviously the way forward.
‘Urgh.’ Logan shudders. ‘Christmas shopping is the pits. I leave all that kind of stuff to my assistant.’
‘You have an assistant?’
‘Ha, I wish.’ He winks. ‘I mean my mum. She sorts out presents from me for all the family.’
‘Gosh, she sounds useful.’
‘She is.’ Logan grins, spreading his papers across the table as I wish my mum could sort out my gift dilemmas. Though Logan is a bit old still to be relying so much on his mother.
‘So tell me how the planning’s going,’ says Logan, sitting back in his chair, folding his arms and looking at me. His blue eyes are crinkled in the corners as though he’s amused.
‘Well,’ I gulp, suddenly feeling out of my depth. ‘I’ve sourced some outside heaters to hire for the garden and I’ve had a word with our baker, who’s happy to provide the food.’
‘Hmm.’ Logan leans forward, frowning slightly.
‘Is there a problem with that?’
‘I just wonder if a local baker is up to the job, really? I’ve had a bit of a rethink about the party and I’m considering hiring a chef I know to sort out the food.’
‘OK, if that’s what you want, but the cakes here are fabulous.’
‘I know but they’re not very… sophisticated. After having a chat with my boss about the calibre of guest we’re expecting, I’ve decided that we should be going for a sophisticated vibe. That’s what our French clients will be expecting. A particular blend of festive fusion: sophistication melding with tradition.’
‘Festively cosy’ was the vibe I had in mind but ‘sophisticated festive fusion’ works too. I push a vision of Stanley in full elf get-up out of my head. And maybe Dick’s Father Christmas will have to go too. That might be seen as a bit naff by Logan’s fancy French guests.
‘Anyway, these are the people who need to be invited.’ Logan pushes two sheets of paper across the table. They’re covered in lists of names and email addresses. ‘We’re all so busy at work, it would be great if you could send out the invitations and keep a tally of who’s coming and who isn’t. And this is all a bit last minute so they’ll need to go out as soon as possible. My boss asked them all a while ago to save the date, but they need to receive a formal invitation via email. Would that be OK?’
‘Of course.’
‘When you’ve designed the invitations, could you run them by me before they go out? I need to make sure they have the right kind of feel.’
‘What kind of feel are you after?’
‘You know… classy, upmarket, not very café-ish, that kind of thing.’
‘OK,’ I say slowly. ‘Though this is a café.’
‘Absolutely. But it’s going to be transformed on the day, isn’t it? For example, it would be great if we could tone down the decorations a bit, and perhaps replace a fair few of them. They’re lovely for day-to-day customers but maybe not for our clientele.’ He taps his finger against his lips. ‘Oh, and we’re going to need some music.’
‘If you let me know what sort of background music you want, I can make the right kind of playlist on the speakers.’
‘Oh, we don’t want a playlist!’ says Logan, his generous mo
uth curling into a smile.
‘Don’t we?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘What about some carols in the garden from Honeyford’s community choir? I can make some enquiries and see if they’ll sing for us. That would be lovely and Christmassy.’
Logan grimaces. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of live music from professionals, such as these.’ He pushes another sheet of paper towards me, this one bearing a photo of four middle-aged people in Elizabethan clothes. ‘They sing a range of musical styles – from madrigals to excerpts from opera classics.’
‘Madrigals?’
‘Yeah, you know,’ he says, waving his arm dismissively, ‘songs from ages ago.’ I get the feeling that Logan isn’t quite sure what madrigals are either. ‘Anyway, this lot are rather more upmarket than your average carol singers. Maybe you could see if they’d be free on the night? Do you have any other ideas?’
He watches me while I scan down the list of ideas I’d jotted down before he arrived. I’m a bit loath to share them now. I have a horrible feeling that he’ll consider serving punch to his guests – assuming I can get a temporary drinks licence – far too plebeian. He’ll probably insist on champagne. And as for having a lucky dip of gifts from Dick’s Santa… I pick up my pen and score a thick blue line through that idea.
Logan suddenly glances at his watch, grabs his coat from the back of his chair and starts shoving his arms into it.
‘Sorry, Becca. I didn’t realise how late it is and I’ve got to be somewhere else in half an hour. Why don’t you send me your ideas? Here you go – that’s my private email.’ He scrawls his address on the back of the guest list. ‘I love your top, by the way – that colour really suits you.’ Leaning forward, he peers at me more closely. ‘And I’ve just noticed that you have the most amazing cheekbones.’
Logan Fairweather thinks I have amazing cheekbones! I suck my cheeks in as he gives me a wave and rushes off. He’s almost reached the café door when he looks back and adds, nonchalantly: ‘Do feel free to invite Jasmine to the party if she’d like to come along. She had a touch of French chic about her so I’m sure she’d fit in with my VIP guests.’
I stop sucking and sigh quietly. ‘I could ask Jasmine but she’s usually out with one of her boyfriends.’
Great! Not only have I invented a romantic partner for Jasmine in a rather pathetic attempt to put Logan off, I’ve made it romantic partners plural.
‘In that case, never mind.’ Logan hesitates. ‘Thanks for coming to my rescue, Becca. I’m really excited about the party – it’s going to blow everyone away.’
I nod and smile because blowing everyone away with my party planning skills is exactly what I have in mind. Though Logan has quite grand ideas for a small community café.
Anxiety starts gnawing at the pit of my stomach as Logan disappears into the gloomy bookshop, but I’m going to make this work. I have to if I’m serious about making my Christmas wish come true. Pull off the perfect party and my parents will be proud of what I’ve achieved for a host of fancy French guests; Logan will be delighted, and The Cosy Kettle will benefit. Plus, I’ll get a much-needed confidence boost – and possibly even a date, now Logan thinks Jasmine is already taken.
Should I be making up stuff about my sister? I wonder, as my conscience starts prickling. Nah, it’s fine – she has her pick of eligible men. So it’s win-win all round.
Ten
By the time I get home, it’s started spitting with rain – so much for the snow forecast – and I’m damp, chilly and agitated.
The meeting with Logan didn’t go exactly to plan, I’ve spent the last hour trying to work out how to make The Cosy Kettle more sophisticated, and my confidence is draining away. At least a chat with Zac will cheer me up. I’ve got a slice of Christmas pudding wrapped up in my handbag for him, seeing as my home-made mince pies were a culinary disaster. He ate the least burned ones but I’m pretty sure that was only for my benefit.
He’s a very kind man, I think, putting my key in the lock. And the only person who really ‘gets’ the authentic, unimproved me. It suddenly strikes me that, in many ways, he’d be my perfect partner, but it’s just as well we don’t fancy each other. Sexual attraction, particularly if it was one-sided, could wreck our friendship that means so much to me.
Murmured voices are coming from the kitchen when I step into our tiny sitting room and close the front door behind me. It sounds like the radio’s on until I get closer and recognise Zac’s deep voice. Then I hear a woman talking, and tinkly laughter that sounds a lot like Jasmine.
I hurry into the kitchen and stop dead. Zac is spooning coffee into two mugs and Jasmine is standing very close to him, reaching into the cupboard above the worktop. Seeing her here, unexpectedly, makes me feel slightly disorientated, as though two separate worlds are colliding.
‘Hello. What are you doing here, Jazz?’
She spins around, almost dropping the tea plates she’s holding.
‘Becca, you’ve got to stop creeping up on people like that. You’re going to give someone a heart attack.’
‘I didn’t realise you were calling round.’
Zac starts pouring water into the mugs and doesn’t catch my eye.
‘I was passing and thought I’d call in to give you that.’ She points at my grey jumper which is draped over a kitchen chair. ‘You left it at Mum and Dad’s on Sunday so I thought I’d drop it in for you.’
‘That’s kind but there was no need. I could have picked it up the next time I was round at theirs.’
‘It was no problem. Anyway, I wanted to sort out a few arrangements for Friday with Zac.’
‘Friday?’
‘That’s when we’re going to my work do together. It’s black tie, Zac. Is that OK?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ says Zac, though I’m not sure he owns a decent suit.
‘Plus, I wanted to see where you’re living now, Becca, seeing as you’ve been here for ages.’
She says it as though she’s never been invited, even though I issued an open invitation when I moved in months ago. But I always end up going round to her modern, minimalist flat on the outskirts of Oxford.
‘Perhaps you could show me around your cute little cottage, Zac,’ says Jasmine, giving him her best angelic smile.
‘Why don’t I give you a tour while Zac’s making you a coffee? We can start in the sitting room.’
Before Jasmine can protest, I link my arm through hers and guide her out of the kitchen.
‘This is the very functional passageway that leads to the kitchen. And this is the sitting room which you’d have already seen when you came in.’
‘Yeah, it’s very old. I like the wood on the walls.’ Jasmine points at the carved oak panelling that covers the wall behind the sofa. ‘It looks a bit like a museum in here. Don’t you find it a bit…?’ She wrinkles her nose.
‘A bit what?’
‘Spooky.’ Jasmine blows air through her cherry-red lips and wraps her arms around her waist. She’s wearing a long black skirt and a fluffy blue angora jumper. Next to the pale, soft wool her face looks luminous, like a model in one of Flora’s fashion magazines.
‘I’ve never been spooked here. It’s a happy house – a bit draughty and creaky, but that’s all. If you think downstairs is spooky, upstairs will really freak you out. Follow me.’
She follows without a word up the narrow wooden staircase and along the landing with its old uneven floorboards. The dim light swinging from the beamed ceiling casts moving shadows and Jasmine shudders.
‘This is where I sleep,’ I say, flinging open my door and wincing because the room is a mess. I quickly make the bed and pick my dressing gown up off the floor.
‘This is nice.’ Jasmine wanders over to the window and looks out into Weavers Lane. ‘And you’ve got a good view. You can see right across the park and down to the river. But I bet it gets really cold with no double glazing.’
‘A bit chilly but the walls are pretty thick
so it’s not been too bad so far. We’ll see what it’s like when we get snow.’
‘Let’s see the rest then.’
Jasmine follows me out of my room and into our small bathroom with its enamelled tub and old-fashioned basin. It’s nothing special, and the shower over the bath is ancient, but it’s functional and clean.
‘This is fine,’ she says, running her fingers across Zac’s shaving cream on the shelf. She picks up his deodorant, takes off the top and gives it a sniff. ‘You couldn’t swing a cat in here, but the bath looks nice and deep. So what else is on this floor?’
She wanders onto the landing and nods at the only other door. ‘What’s in there?’
‘That’s Zac’s room.’
‘Let’s have a look, then.’
Before I can say anything, Jasmine has opened his door and gone in. I follow behind, feeling faintly uneasy. This is Zac’s space and I tend to keep out of it. It’s such a small cottage, it’s become a kind of unwritten rule that our bedrooms are off limits.
‘Well, I say. This is very macho.’ Jasmine sits on Zac’s bed and looks around the room. It’s much tidier than mine and more bare, with no prints on the walls. His duvet cover is white with grey stripes, and there’s an open book on his pillow – a thriller by Robert Harris.
‘Good heavens, what’s this?’ asks Jazz, pulling her hand out from under the duvet cover and holding up a pair of blue checked pyjama shorts.
‘Stop it, Jazz. Put them back.’
‘Have you seen Zac wearing these?’ she teases.
I have actually because I occasionally bump into him on the landing, early in the morning. Though I’m always too half-asleep to take much notice.
‘Well, have you?’ she asks, waving them at me.
‘Of course not.’
‘Shame.’
‘Please put them back and let’s go downstairs. Your coffee will be getting cold.’
‘If you insist, spoilsport. I was just about to root through his knicker drawer.’
Jasmine shoves the shorts back under the duvet, with a grin, and gets up off Zac’s bed. She’s almost reached the door when I push it closed and stand, arms folded, with my back to it.
