A Christmas Wish and a Cranberry Kiss at the Cosy Kettle: A heartwarming, feel good romance

by Liz Eeles

  He starts drumming his heels again as though he can’t sit still, and sympathy floods through me. He’s wired with anxiety and I recognise that urge to move constantly, as though you’re trying to run away from life.

  When I reach out and stroke his arm, he calms down and the drumming slowly stops. ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me all about it.’

  Logan draws in a deep breath. ‘My boss wants to impress our select French customers with a Christmas party, to round off the day after they’ve been Christmas shopping in Oxford.’

  ‘Yes, I know. That’s why we’re pulling out all the stops.’

  ‘The wrong stops,’ wails Logan. ‘I thought his French guests would want sophistication and class but it turns out I got the wrong end of the stick and what they most want to experience is authentic Cotswolds charm. That’s what they’re expecting in bucketloads on Friday. So I’m screwed.’

  ‘Authentic charm,’ I repeat slowly, looking around my poor pimped-out café. I’ve spent hours switching decorations, ordering fussy finger foods and negotiating a fee with full-of-themselves madrigal singers. There are three shiny new patio heaters ready and waiting in the garden and Millicent’s classy dress hanging in my wardrobe. I’ve fallen out with friends, upped my stress levels and cricked my neck bending over spreadsheets. The Cosy Kettle’s authentic charm has been extinguished.

  ‘So are you telling me that you’re cancelling the party?’

  Logan sighs. ‘No, the party will have to go ahead ’cos there’s nothing else. But it’s going to be a huge disappointment ’cos it’s not authentic, my boss will throw a wobbly and he’ll give the promotion to Simon, who will make my life a misery. I really hate Simon and the feeling is mutual. Bloody hell.’

  He puts his head back in his hands and the light above him glints on his lovely blond hair. I sit back and gaze around me at the swathes of silver and white on the ceiling, the walls and the tree. It looks beautiful and cold and not how The Cosy Kettle should be at all.

  This definitely wasn’t what I had in mind when I stood at the wishing well in the moonlight. I wanted things to change for the better… and they still can. I sit up tall and pull my shoulders back. It’s time to kick my Christmas wish into gear and make it start working for me and my beloved café.

  ‘Listen up, Logan,’ I say, as resolve and confidence stir in my soul. ‘We’re going to fix this.’

  ‘How?’ he mumbles into the table. Tall, handsome Logan might exude confidence and savoir faire, but he certainly gives up easily. He could do with a wish list of his own.

  ‘If your guests want authentic charm, that’s what they’ll get.’

  ‘It’s impossible. There’s no time to change everything. I’m backed up with urgent work at the office and the party’s the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m all too aware of that fact.’ My stomach has started churning but I keep going. ‘I’ll do what I can and I’ll salvage your party.’

  ‘I so wish you could.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, I’ve had a lot of practice at making wishes come true.’

  Logan raises his head at that. ‘It’ll need a miracle to rescue the party.’

  ‘Not a miracle. Just plenty of hard work and I’ve got a few people in mind who might be able to help out. We need to get The Cosy Kettle back to how it was and involve local people because meeting them is the best way to introduce Cotswolds charm. We’ll give your guests an authentic cosy Cotswolds festive experience they’ll never forget. Believe me. It’ll be all right.’

  ‘I do believe you,’ breathes Logan, lacing his fingers through mine. ‘I knew there was something special about you, Becca, from the moment we first met.’ I have to smile because that’s total rubbish. He suddenly reaches out and touches my hair. ‘And you’ve turned into a blonde in time for the party. You look wonderful, just like your sister.’

  That’s one big fat tick for wish number six, though looking like Jasmine doesn’t seem quite such an achievement any more. It’s certainly not authentic, which is ironic seeing as authenticity now appears to be Logan’s holy grail.

  He unlaces his fingers from mine and rubs his hand across his mouth. ‘So what’s the first step in sorting out this disaster and getting my new-look party underway?’

  ‘The first step is calling in the Cosy Kettle Crew.’

  Twenty

  I’ve convened an emergency after-hours meeting of the book club at my house. I wasn’t sure everyone would respond when I texted the SOS, not after the fracas in The Cosy Kettle. But all five members of the club have turned up and Zac, bless him, has cancelled his evening out and is currently busy serving coffees.

  ‘So let me get this right,’ says Stanley, who’s still rubbing his knees after being folded into Dick’s ancient sports car for the journey here. ‘Logan insisted on some fancy gathering that involved patio heaters, minimalist decorations and’ – he puts the next word in finger quotes – ‘“nibbles”, none of which sounds very Christmassy to me.’

  ‘He was going for an atmosphere of festive fusion – sophistication melding with tradition,’ I tell Stanley, feeling faintly ridiculous.

  ‘Festive fusion, my arse.’

  I nod because I have to agree with Stanley. Festive fusion in a cosy Cotswolds café? It was never going to be a great fit but I shoehorned it in because that was what Logan wanted and I wasn’t confident enough to make my reservations clear. Plus, I was trying to secure a date with Logan. Well, I’ve managed that but it hasn’t made me as happy as I thought it would.

  ‘That’s all very well but why are we here talking about a party that we’re not even invited to?’ butts in Millicent, taking a sip of her coffee and grimacing. ‘It’s very close to Christmas and we all have things to do.’

  ‘The problem is that Logan’s found out that his guests don’t want a festive fusion event. They’re looking for authentic Cotswolds charm instead.’

  ‘Which is what The Cosy Kettle had in spades. Before it was’ – Millicent hesitates – ‘fusioned-up.’

  ‘Hey, Millie. I’m loving the lingo,’ says Stanley, grinning and patting her leg. ‘We’ll drag you into the twenty-first century yet.’

  Millicent harrumphs but looks quite pleased in spite of herself. She turns to me. ‘And I suppose you want our help in some way to dig you out of this hole?’

  ‘I wondered if you might…’

  ‘Typical,’ snorts Millicent. ‘We’re too shabby for The Cosy Kettle one minute and saviours the next.’

  ‘You took down Moira’s kettles and ditched Auntie Edna. You even culled Rudy!’ says Stanley.

  ‘I know and I’m sorry, Stanley. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You didn’t treat us very well, dear,’ adds Phyllis.

  Dick starts to add his two pennyworth but I raise my hand. I’m so tired and stressed and my brain is whirling. ‘You don’t owe me anything, Millicent. None of you do, and I know the recent changes have upset you all and I’m sorry about that. But I thought you might want to help because I like to think that we’re friends. And I’m not keeping count but how often do you all sit in The Cosy Kettle for hours over one cup of coffee each? Do I ever make a fuss about it, even though you’re hardly adding to the café’s profits? Do I ever complain when you’re all arguing loudly during your book club get-togethers and startling other customers? No, I don’t. And it wasn’t my fault you weren’t invited to Logan’s festive fusion party – he’s a client with a set guest list. You lot treat The Cosy Kettle as if it’s your own private club but it’s not, it’s a business and I’m doing the best I can in difficult circumstances. Now, are you going to help me or not?’

  Crikey. I swallow hard and put my hands on my hips, trying to keep hold of the indignation and anger that suddenly bubbled to the surface. I can’t believe I just spoke to the book club like that. Zac puts down the cup of coffee he’s carrying and looks at me with wide eyes.

  There’s a pause as though all the air has been sucked out of
the room, and then everyone erupts into laughter.

  ‘Well done, Becca,’ says Millicent. ‘That was magnificently assertive.’

  ‘Top class arseyness!’ chuckles Stanley beside her. ‘How did it feel?’

  ‘I don’t know. Quite good, actually.’

  ‘Liberating, isn’t it?’ Stanley reaches out and shakes my hand. ‘Welcome to the world of having the confidence to speak your mind. It’s wonderful.’

  Hmm. My anxiety levels have shot up because I’ve just insulted a group of people I care about, but they don’t seem to mind.

  I glance at Zac, who’s shovelling sugar into Dick’s tea. I can’t imagine Logan serving drinks as Stanley scratches his backside and Millicent complains that her coffee isn’t decaf so she’ll be up all night. Zac smiles to tell me that my outburst was OK. I haven’t done anything awful. His eyes crinkle in the corners like they always do, and my heart aches.

  But I’ve finally got a date with Logan, who’s my dream man, and Zac has spent the night with my sister. He’s probably thinking of her every time he looks at me and sees the resemblance that I’ve been trying so hard to enhance. Everything was fine when Zac and I were just best friends who loved each other in an uncomplicated way. Can’t I just go back to that?

  ‘Are you OK, Becca?’ asks Mary, flicking long brown hair from her face. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Sorry. I just, um…’ I watch Zac push his hands through his thick curls and sigh.

  ‘So let’s work out how we can all help out with Logan’s authentic charm offensive,’ says Dick, coming to my rescue. ‘Before Becca gives us another telling-off.’ He winks at me. ‘I can feel another of Stanley’s plans coming on.’

  An hour later, I close the front door behind the last of the book club, lean forward and rest my forehead against the wood and close my eyes. This evening has been unreal.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asks Zac softly behind me.

  I spin round so fast I almost overbalance and he grabs my elbow. His fingers close around my skin, sending what feels like little electric shocks up my arm. This is ridiculous. We’ve both slouched on the sofa together, with my legs across his lap, watching Line of Duty. He often gives me a hug when I’m feeling rubbish. That was all easy and uncomplicated, but now it feels like he’s plugged into the National Grid when he touches me.

  ‘I’m fine. Just a bit overwhelmed by the evening, really.’

  Zac grins and lets go of my arm. ‘I’m not surprised. You were pretty assertive back there.’

  ‘Was it too much?’

  ‘Nah, they can take it.’ He glances at his watch. ‘It’s getting late. We’d better start sorting the kitchen out and go to bed.’

  ‘I’ll sort all the coffee cups out in the morning. You go on up.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Zac walks to the bottom of the stairs and pauses, with his hand on the bannisters. ‘I feel the same way, you know,’ he says softly, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the dying fire.

  ‘The same way?’ I squeak, my heart hammering.

  ‘Yeah. Logan isn’t my favourite person but I know how much he means to you and I want his party to go well for the café’s sake. So I’ll help to sort things out too. You can count on me.’

  Disappointment lodges in my chest. ‘I know I can always count on you. Zac,’ I say, stepping forward, fighting the anxiety that’s threatening to overwhelm me. Keeping my feelings for him a secret is just too hard. ‘There’s something I need to tell—’

  ‘And Jazz can help too. We were going out for a drink tomorrow night but we can come along and help you instead. You’ll get two for the price of one. What do you think?’

  I think I’d almost forgotten that Zac and my sister are now an item.

  ‘That would be great,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’

  Zac goes upstairs and, when I hear him moving about in the bathroom, I go and kneel in front of the fireplace. The dying fire is casting shadows around the gloomy room and I shiver. The book club played a blinder in this room tonight and have promised me their full support but, for the first time ever, the cottage feels full of ghosts and secrets.

  Twenty-One

  There are a number of things I’d rather not see. These include Jasmine snogging Zac, Stanley in skin-tight Levi’s, and yet another talking heads programme about Brexit. They also include Mum on my doorstep with a suitcase but here she is and it’s not even – I check my watch – half past six.

  ‘Mum?’ I say blearily, opening the door. I’ve been awake for half an hour, going over the Cosy Kettle rescue plan I pulled together late last night, but I’m still in my pyjamas. ‘What are you doing here? Is Dad all right?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ declares Mum dramatically, pushing past me and hauling her large suitcase inside.

  ‘What do you mean you don’t care?’ I quickly close the door behind her because it’s freezing out there.

  Mum turns to me, her eyes red-rimmed, and sighs. ‘I’ve left him, Becca. After all these years, I’ve left him.’

  ‘You’ve left Dad? What, properly left him?’

  Mum points at her suitcase which is bulging at the seams. ‘Lock, stock and barrel. I’ve been awake all night thinking about it.’

  ‘I can see how upset you are, but making spontaneous decisions after not sleeping isn’t always—’

  ‘It’s not a spontaneous decision,’ interrupts Mum. ‘I’ve had my case packed for a day or two and hidden in the spare room. But I’ve only just gathered the courage to actually leave, and it’s all thanks to you.’

  ‘Thanks to me? Are you sure?’

  I start racking my brains about what I said to Mum in the park. It’s never too late to change. Be the person you’re meant to be. Fulfil your potential. But I never said, throw away three decades of marriage and leave your husband.

  Mum’s face suddenly crumples and tears start spilling down her cheeks. ‘I hope it’s all right to come here,’ she sobs, ‘but I didn’t know where else to go. I don’t want to be a burden on my children.’

  ‘Of course you’re not a burden.’ I put my arm around her shoulders and lead her to the sofa. ‘I’m very glad you came to me, though Jasmine’s nearer.’

  ‘I didn’t want to see your sister,’ gulps Mum, pulling a tissue from her handbag and loudly blowing her nose. ‘Jasmine’s sorted and sure of herself, just like your father. She doesn’t understand what I’m going through. I need someone who’s kind and caring and empathetic.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say, genuinely touched by the compliment. But then she ruins it by adding: ‘I need someone who’s a worrier. I keep it well hidden but I’ve always suffered with my nerves, like you, and I feel guilty that I might have passed on my dodgy genes to you. I’m so sorry.’ She starts sobbing again, loud gulping sobs that break my heart.

  ‘It’ll be OK, Mum.’ I pat her shoulder, wondering how best to handle this family crisis. I’ve never seen my mum so upset before and it’s destabilising. She’s always been a rock – stoical and solid as life events whirl around us. ‘Try to calm down and tell me what’s happened with you and Dad.’

  ‘Your father is stifling my creativity,’ gulps Mum. ‘He found the letter offering me a place on the art course and forbade me from accepting it.’

  ‘He forbade you! I didn’t realise I had a dad from the Dark Ages.’

  ‘His exact words were, “I forbid you to go off gallivanting, Pauline. Your time is already taken up with your job and the house, and it’s selfish of you to think of rocking the boat at our time of life.”’

  ‘What does he mean, our time of life? You’re only in your late fifties. You’ve got loads of life left.’

  ‘And he said I was selfish. After all I’ve done for him and you and Jasmine. That really hurt.’

  ‘I can imagine. You’re definitely not selfish. You’ve been a brilliant wife and mother for decades. So what happened
next?’

  ‘I thought of you,’ says Mum, dabbing at her eyes. ‘I thought of what you said about having the courage to change and do something for myself after all these years. And I thought of you running that café and making a new life for yourself after…’ She pauses.

  ‘After what happened in Birmingham?’ I sigh.

  ‘Yes. And so I told your father that I was going to go to university and study art and we had a terrible row and haven’t been speaking for days, and I can’t bear to stay in the house.’ When her mouth starts wobbling, she pulls her lips tight. ‘Maybe it’s for the best. Can I stay here for a while? Please. I know you don’t have a spare room but I can sleep on the sofa.’ She glances at our lumpy sofa and winces. ‘Then I’m going to find myself a nice little bedsit somewhere.’

  ‘Of course you can stay, Mum. You’re always welcome here, and I think Dad has behaved really unkindly. But are you sure that leaving Dad is the best way to deal with this?’

  ‘I need to put some space between us. I’ve put everyone else first for such a long time and now that I finally want to do something for myself, he doesn’t give me any support. Even though I’ve supported him over the years with his work and his golf and his daft DIY projects that invariably go wrong. It doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘It’s not fair at all,’ I tell her, wondering if it would have helped if I’d actually phoned Dad and spoken to him about the art course, as I’d planned. I sigh and squash down a surge of guilt. ‘Maybe you and Dad can sit down and talk about it when you’re feeling a bit calmer.’

  ‘He won’t talk about it. He just keeps saying I’m being selfish. It’s so upsetting.’

  ‘What’s upsetting?’ Zac has appeared at the top of the stairs in his dressing gown. He yawns and pushes a hand through his tousled hair. ‘Is everything all right?’