by Liz Eeles
‘Can I tell him?’
When I glance at Mum, she gives a tight nod. ‘Might as well. He’ll find out soon enough when I’m sleeping on your sofa.’
‘Mum’s had an argument with Dad and has left him for a little while.’
‘For good, perhaps,’ says Mum, pushing out her bottom lip. ‘I rather fear that the man I married is a dinosaur. It’s good to see you again, Zac, by the way.’
‘You too,’ says Zac, giving me a faint smile. ‘How have you been, Pauline, apart from the… um, leaving thing?’
‘Fine, thank you. Did you enjoy going to the Christmas do with Jasmine?’
‘Yes, I did, thanks.’
‘She did too. She was full of it on the phone yesterday and said you’d both had a great time. You looked very handsome in your suit. Jasmine texted me a photo of the two of you.’
‘He looked brilliant,’ I butt in. ‘But what about you and Dad, Mum? Won’t he be worried about where you are?’
‘I doubt he’ll even notice I’ve gone.’
‘Of course he’ll notice. You’ve been together for thirty years and it looks as if you’ve brought half the house with you. The two of you need to sit down and talk and try to resolve this.’
‘I don’t think I can.’
A sudden pounding on the front door makes me jump. What now? Pulling my dressing gown more tightly around me, I open the door a crack. There on the doorstep is Dad, wild-eyed and wild-haired, in jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt. And next to him is Jasmine with her coat over her pyjamas. I can see the cream silk of her trouser legs poking out underneath.
‘Is she here, Beccs?’ asks Dad. ‘Tell me the daft woman is here.’
‘Don’t let him in,’ shouts Mum.
‘Of course I’m coming in, Pauline. Don’t be so ridiculous. I’m your husband.’ He pushes past me and Jasmine shuffles in behind him. And although I’m upset and tired, my brain still registers that even make-up free and with her hair unbrushed, she looks fabulous.
‘Morning,’ says Dad, gruffly, giving Zac a brief nod as he stomps through the room and stands in front of Mum with his hands on his hips.
‘Morning,’ says Zac, walking downstairs, his bare muscular legs showing beneath his short dressing gown.
Jasmine moves to stand beside him. ‘What’s going on, Mum? I don’t appreciate Dad turning up at stupid o’clock on a Thursday morning and demanding to know if you’re hiding in my flat. And why weren’t you hiding in my flat, anyway? Why did you come straight to Becca’s?’
‘I came here because Becca is a caring and understanding person.’ Please just leave it there, I plead silently. ‘And she’s as emotionally unstable as I feel right now.’ Thanks, Mum.
When Jasmine nods as though that goes without saying, Zac gives me a sympathetic wink. He looks so strong and kind and steady, standing there in his grey towelling dressing gown with his hair all over the place. All I want is for him to walk over, put his arms around me and tell me that everything will be all right. I gulp and refocus my attention on my parents’ crumbling marriage.
‘Right, Mum and Dad, I suggest that the two of you sit here and talk things through while I make us all a drink.’
‘Talk what things through?’ demands Jasmine. ‘And what the hell have you done to your hair, Becca?’
‘I’ve coloured it.’
‘Blonde?’
‘Yeah, it’s been blue, red and green in the past and you’ve never mentioned it. Anyway’ – I bring my attention back to the family crisis playing out in my sitting room – ‘Mum’s upset because Dad has forbidden her’ – I give Dad a disapproving glare – ‘from taking the art course I told you about.’
‘Is that all? I can’t believe I got hauled out of bed for a stupid art course. I thought at the very least one of you was playing away.’
‘An affair? Never,’ says Mum, looking properly shocked at the very idea.
‘I’d never cheat on your mother. She has her faults but we love each other. Or at least I thought we did.’ The fight suddenly goes out of Dad and he sinks onto the chair opposite her.
‘So that’s all good then.’ Jasmine yawns and rubs her eyes. ‘You both love each other so you can go home together, everything will be back to normal and we can all get on with our lives. It’s really upsetting to see you both fighting like this.’
‘Sounds good to me, Pauline,’ says Dad. ‘Come home and we can forget all about this. You don’t want to cause a fuss and inconvenience everyone.’
Mum’s wavering, I can tell. She’s biting her lip and her breath is coming in short gasps. And even though it would be better for me if everyone did get the hell out of my house – I’ve got a fancy-arse party to transform, people – I just can’t go along with it.
‘No,’ I say, so loudly everyone looks at me. ‘Mum has every right to take that art course and you both need to talk about it, not sweep the whole thing under the carpet. So Mum and Dad, you’re both going to sit here and talk until it’s sorted out.’
‘When did you get to be so bossy?’ mutters Jasmine.
‘I’m not being bossy, I’m being assertive. It’s Dad who’s the bossy one in our family. Mum’s the rock. You’re the golden girl and I’m…’ I don’t know what to say. I’m the screw-up, the disappointment, the person who’s trying so hard to change? ‘… I’m not sure who I am. But the point is, people don’t always have to do what you want, Dad.’
‘I’m not bossy,’ he protests.
‘Yes, you are,’ says Mum, quietly, ‘and I’m proud of Becca for having the courage to say so. I’ve gone along with what you want for years and now I want something for myself so we need to talk properly about it, without you flying off the handle and laying down the law.’
‘I didn’t lay down—’
‘Yes you did, Dad. You said Mum was forbidden to take the art course, which is outrageous. She’s allowed to make her own decisions. So will you sit here and properly discuss the options with her?’
‘I s’pose so.’ He uses the same sullen tone of voice as Jasmine.
‘Great,’ says Zac. ‘Now that’s sorted, I’ll make some coffee.’ He beats a hasty retreat towards the kitchen.
‘And I need the loo,’ says Jasmine, following him. ‘Dad was in such a state I didn’t have time to do anything except put a coat on. There’s one out the back, isn’t there?’
‘Yeah, past the kitchen, by the back door,’ I tell her, glancing at Mum and Dad. He’s moved to sit on the sofa so they’re side by side, but they’re not touching. Are they going to be all right? I know I’m in my mid-twenties but I’m not sure I can cope with my parents splitting up.
Is that me being a wuss? Zac would know. Suddenly, more than anything, I need to talk about what’s just happened with my best friend and have a hug. I need Zac to put his strong arms around me and tell me that everything will be all right. I want to bury my head in his chest and feel his hands in my hair.
‘We’ll be fine, love,’ Mum tells me, with the ghost of a smile. ‘You go and get yourself ready for work. I’ve held you up enough.’
‘I’ll give Zac a hand with the coffees first.’
I scurry out of the room and burst into the kitchen.
‘Zac, are you…?’
I stop dead. Jasmine and Zac are locked in an embrace, illuminated by the light from the open fridge. His strong arms are around her and her head is resting on his chest. It’s like a physical blow to my heart. Zac is definitely Jasmine’s now.
This has got to be the worst run-up to Christmas ever. There’s a party to rescue and a marriage to save, and now I stumble across my sister and my best friend, the man I can’t deny I’m head over heels in love with, having a moment in the kitchen.
‘Oh, Becca, there you are.’ Jasmine steps away from Zac. The belt of her coat has come undone and her satin pyjamas are on show. I’m suddenly hideously aware of my cheap cotton PJs and towelling dressing gown that’s gone bobbly in the wash. Of course Zac would be interested in Jas
mine and see me as nothing more than a good friend.
‘Jasmine was upset about your mum and dad,’ says Zac.
‘So Zac gave me a hug. Anyway, I’m feeling better now and I’d better go and see how the parents are doing. Honestly, what is Mum like with all this empowerment crap?’ She eye-rolls me as she leaves the kitchen.
‘That was a bit awkward,’ says Zac, turning to spoon coffee into the mugs lined up on the counter. ‘Jasmine was tearful and kind of…’
‘It’s all right. It’s fine.’
Zac stops with his spoon mid-way between the coffee jar and a mug. Granules of coffee fall onto the work surface. ‘You really don’t mind if I hang out with your sister, do you?’
‘Why would I?’ I say, as cheerily as I can muster. ‘What you and my sister do is none of my business.’
The spoon moves again and coffee falls into the mug. ‘Good to know. I guess you’re getting excited about your date with Logan.’
‘Yeah, I can hardly wait,’ I say, though at this precise moment I honestly don’t care whether wish number five comes true or not. ‘Do you need any help with the coffees?’
‘No thanks, I can bring them in.’
‘OK.’ I stop at the kitchen door and take a deep breath. ‘Look, Jasmine is a lovely person. I know I’ve bitched about her sometimes but she’s vibrant and fun and decent. And so are you, Zac. You’re my best friend. Anyway,’ I gulp, tears filling my eyes. ‘Best get back to the war zone.’ And I flee, back into the sitting room.
The summit seems to be going fairly well. Dad is listening, at least, while Mum sets out her case for taking the art course. So Jasmine heads home and I go upstairs to get dressed and ready for a full-on day of crisis management at work. It’s been a stressful morning and a year or so ago I’d have crumbled when faced with so many problems. I did crumble, as my family are only too quick to point out. But now, though I feel under pressure, I also feel fired up – to take action and make things right, to speak up for myself and stand up to my dad, and to do the best for the people I love, however much it hurts.
My Christmas wish seems to be coming true but not in the ways I expected. I seem to be making myself proud as well as other people, which is wonderful. But when I made my wish under the stars, I thought achieving all those goals would make me happy. Now I’m not so sure.
Twenty-Two
The Cosy Kettle rescue plan is underway and running like a military operation. This is in part due to the actions spreadsheet I hammered out in the early hours of this morning. But it’s mostly down to Dick, an ex-army man, who’s stepped up to the plate and is bringing his military training to the fore. He’s standing at the back of the café, barking out orders and everyone is doing what they’re told. I think they’re a bit frightened not to.
‘He’s like Captain Mainwaring in Dad’s Army,’ mutters Millicent, mutinously. But she collects the empty boxes from the attic to store the fancy decorations all the same – just as she’s been ordered to do.
As for me, I’ve already cancelled the finger food from Logan’s posh chef. He didn’t seem too bothered when I agreed to pay him a cancellation fee. And I’ve got John, The Cosy Kettle’s usual baker, on board to provide a range of mini Christmas cupcakes tomorrow night.
I’ve also cancelled the madrigal group – which involved another cancellation payment from Logan’s firm to keep them sweet – and I’ve been in touch with local choir, the Honeyford Warblers.
‘They sing at the old people’s care home in the village up the road,’ says Phyllis, when she hears what I’ve done. ‘They’re a bit amateur, to be honest. Slightly tin-pot.’
But tin-pot or not, they’re going to sing carols for us in the garden. If Logan’s guests want to experience an authentic small-town Cotswolds Christmas, that’s what they’re going to get – bum notes and all.
Stanley disappears halfway through the morning and reappears after lunch with a large bag under one arm and a beaming smile on his face.
‘What have you done?’ I ask him, nervously, because when it comes to Stanley, anything’s possible.
‘Don’t look so stressy, babe. I nipped to the fancy-dress shop to pick up some threads for me and the sergeant major over there. What do you reckon?’
From the bag, he pulls a sack-like red tunic edged in what looks like cotton wool. Four big black buttons have been sewn down the middle of the garment and there’s a wide black belt with a gold buckle attached to the belt loops.
‘There’s a hat too for The Cosy Kettle’s very own Father Christmas. I didn’t bother with the beard because it wasn’t as impressive as Dick’s own. And here’s what I’ll be sporting on the night.’ He pulls out a lime-green tunic and worn red leggings that bag at the knees. ‘I got these too so I’ll look right on fleek.’ He proudly shows me a battered pair of green shoes that narrow to a point and curl up at the ends. ‘Elf shoes!’
‘They’re… exceedingly elfy.’
‘I know, right? What do you think?’
‘I think it’s totally naff and absolutely magnificent.’
‘We’ll give Mr Fairweather and his fancy guests more authenticity than they know what to do with,’ says Stanley, with a wink.
Mary and Phyllis nip out to buy up loads of cheap, plastic gifts for Santa’s lucky dip sack – as per my spreadsheet and Dick’s orders – while I continue taking down the silver and white decorations.
It’s taking ages because I have to nip up the stepladder when the café’s not busy. But Millicent has been helping and plenty of our regular customers have been pitching in too. Amy from the sweetshop, butcher Vernon, unemployed Janine, who calls in every morning for a coffee and a chat, widow Gladys and Paul, who’s too unwell to work. They all get involved, and even Luna gives up her lunch break to help after Flora tells her about my predicament.
‘You seem better,’ she informs me as the last tasteful white bow and frosted bauble come off the Christmas tree. ‘Your energies are starting to settle. Your aura too, and you’re more like your old self.’
‘That definitely wasn’t the plan.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Maybe it was the right plan all along.’ Then she gives me one of her enigmatic smiles which always send shivers down my back.
I would challenge what she’s saying if I wasn’t so busy rescuing a party. But how can it possibly be the right plan – the right Christmas wish – if I’ve ended up feeling more rotten than I did before? I might be more assertive and look more polished but I know too much now. I know I’m in love with my best friend and I know he’s not in love with me. For a moment, my shoulders slump and a wave of sadness sweeps over me. But I don’t have the luxury of wallowing in my feelings because there’s too much to do if The Cosy Kettle is going to benefit from a successful party.
At last, The Cosy Kettle looks more normal again. It’s taken all day, in between serving coffees and making customers feel at home, but the café has been stripped of the carefully chosen decorations that didn’t suit it at all. Our old Christmas decorations – the ones Logan initially thought of as too tacky – still need to be put back up, but the café already seems more warm and welcoming.
‘She’s back,’ murmurs Stanley beside me, as the last silver reindeer goes back into his box.
‘She?’
‘Yeah, The Cosy Kettle is defo a chick.’
And while Stanley’s retro slang puts my teeth on edge, I agree with the sentiment. My unpretentious Cosy Kettle, just right for a tiny ancient town in the midst of beautiful rolling hills, is back. Almost…
‘Wait right there,’ I tell Stanley, before disappearing into the bookshop. I make my way up the rickety steps to the attic room, pick up a large box and manhandle it down the stairs. The contents glint when I open up the box, next to the Christmas tree. ‘Stanley, would you care to do the honours?’
‘I would be absolutely delighted.’ He bends over the box and takes out Moira’s precious kettles that glint in winter light from the back window. Carefully, he pla
ces them on the shelf where they belong before pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans. ‘They’re back, my darling girl,’ he whispers to himself, wiping a tear from his eye.
The afternoon book club have gone home after hours of sterling work, and the café is closed, but it’s going to be a late night for me. There are still lots of the old decorations to be hung, presents to wrap for the lucky dip, and the tree is bare. I sit on the floor, surrounded by boxes of rainbow tinsel and paper garlands, and start cutting out a square of Christmas paper to wrap a plastic trumpet. How on earth does one wrap a trumpet?
I’m making a pretty bad job of it when there’s a rap on the small glass window in the back door.
‘Hey, let us in,’ shouts Jasmine, when I peer outside. ‘It’s me and Zac, the cavalry.’
I unlock the door and usher the two of them inside. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Didn’t Zac tell you we’d come and help, rather than go out for a drink? Oh, blimey!’ She bends over and starts rubbing mud from her stiletto ankle boots. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time, as did coming through your garden to get in. But it’s pitch black out there and I’ve brought half the garden in with me.’ She gives up rubbing, slips her boots off and stands in front of me in her socks. ‘Go on then. Put us to work.’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask, my chest tightening at the sight of the man I love and my sister together.
‘Of course,’ says Zac, taking off his jacket and cracking his knuckles. ‘What are family and friends for if not to spend an evening close to Christmas helping a loved one wrap…’ He stares at my half-wrapped parcel and frowns.
‘A plastic trumpet.’
He grins and slaps his forehead. ‘Of course, I should have known.’
‘Obviously. Because no Christmas is complete without an eco-unfriendly facsimile of a brass instrument.’
Jasmine sighs and rolls up the sleeves of her taupe angora jumper. ‘Honestly, you two do my head in. Let’s get on with it because I’m gasping for a drink.’
‘I can turn the coffee machine on again.’
