Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall by Kate Forster

3

The city disappeared behind her as Christa sipped her coffee while she drove her Jeep along the A1. She had Christmas songs playing in the car to try and get into the Christmas spirit but she had the feeling that she might have bitten off more than she could chew.

Once she had signed the NDA and the money entered her account, a list of food to be avoided for some meals came through, including anything with gluten, onion, garlic, certain berries and fruits, and even spices.

She still didn’t know who she was cooking for but judging from the list of prohibited food she imagined they were very used to having things just the way they liked them and nothing else would suffice.

*

She stopped in Leicester for some lunch. The wind was biting when she got out of the car so she headed to the nearest café for a toasted cheese sandwich and a cup of tea to warm her up. Sometimes simple food was the best kind. Not every chef would admit they ordered takeaway food or made toasted sandwiches as often as they do. The last thing Christa felt like doing was cooking for herself when she was at home.

Now she had a month of cooking in a place far away from Simon and the memories of London. She loved cooking for people, although the list of banned food was a red flag. Probably Americans, she thought, maybe a movie star who was on a strict diet for a new role. She tried to guess who it might be as her stomach rumbled, reminding her she needed to eat.

The café she stopped at was very old-fashioned and the old tables looked like there had been forty years of news passed across them, but the tea was hot and strong. The best food often came from old places like this, which focused on what they were good at and ignored the trends. She could have done without the television suspended from the wall but at least the sound was turned down.

Christa bit into her sandwich when she saw a television advertisement playing for the new cooking show and Simon’s face came on screen. He was smiling at her as she ate her lunch, as though he was a benevolent food angel above her, sending blessings to the small café. She stared out the window of the café, thinking about all the times she let Simon have the spotlight because she didn’t think she was worthy of being proud of her work. God, she wanted to slap herself.

There was food critic also judging, a pompous git who was Selene’s rival in the world of restaurant reviews. Christa hated his braces and the cravats that he now wore and the way he licked his fingers as he looked at the camera. Ewww. The final judge was a YouTube cook who became famous for cooking in the woods behind his mud-brick house, handmade by him of course.

None of the judges were women, which Christa found surprising when there were many women who were making their mark in the culinary world. But she also knew from her female friends in the industry that it was hard to work in a restaurant and have children. She had wanted children but Simon didn’t, which is why she didn’t have any.

She paid the bill and picked up some homemade lemon curd for sale on the counter.

‘I’ll take one of these,’ she said to the woman serving her.

‘I made it myself,’ said the woman. ‘I had too many lemons this year. I couldn’t give them away – all my friends said they hadn’t used the ones I’d already given them.’

‘You know the saying though,’ said Christa. ‘If you have to buy lemons then you don’t have any good friends. Your friends should know how lucky they are to have you.’

The woman handed the change back to Christa. ‘Oh I like that. I might remind them for the next batch. Have a good day, love.’

Christa hopped into her car and, filled with tea and a fine sandwich, she drove towards York feeling better and her thoughts clearer.

Leaving London was obviously good for her. Perhaps this was what she had needed all along. Some space to think and be open to possibilities. Anything could happen, she told herself as she drove through the countryside.

Simon had moved on, and she needed to as well. She didn’t want what he wanted, perhaps she never had, but he made her path smooth so she didn’t have to worry about food shelters and the heating bill and lining up for supplies on cold winter days.

What she couldn’t understand, she thought as she drove, was why she forgot she could do those things and survive. She was resilient but Simon had made her dependent on him and she hated that she had allowed it to happen. She was once a brave child, a courageous teenager, the best in her class at cooking school, and somehow she had forgotten who she was when around Simon.

The nerves she had felt about driving to the job dissipated because she remembered the one thing her dad always said about her: ‘Christa, you can do hard things. Not everyone can but you can.’ And he was right. He would have hated Simon. She laughed to herself.

She was thankful Simon never met him. He wasn’t Simon’s sort of person, with his rough smoker’s voice and lack of decorum about people whom he called piss-elegant. No more piss-elegant, she told herself. No more hiding behind a man. No more not being herself and saying what she wanted in life. This was the new Christa Playfoot, ready to do hard things.

Feeling empowered, she checked the sat nav directions and realised she hadn’t paid attention and missed the turn-off.

Maybe she could do hard things but reading a map or listening to directions wasn’t one of them, she thought, giggling as she took the next turn-off to get back onto the right path. The journey back to self might take a few wrong turns, she reminded herself but at least she had a sense of where she was going now.

*

The map was sending Christa off the road and onto a gravel driveway. She drove slowly, the large oak trees creating a tunnel of branches, while a light rain began to fall. The address she put into the GPS had told her she was heading into a forest, and as though proving the fact, she saw a large stag standing by the side of the drive. She slowed down so as to not startle the magnificent animal but perhaps she was the one startled, she considered as she caught its eye as she passed. She could have sworn it dipped its head in greeting.

Even with the heater on in the car, she could feel the temperature dropping outside as the sky became darker and the rain heavier as she came to the end of the driveway. In the not so far distance was a house that was beyond anything she had imagined she would be staying in. An enormous palatial building that looked like a wealthy child’s doll’s house had been blown up one hundred per cent and then some more.

‘Are you serious?’ she said to herself as she stopped the car at the top of the driveway to fully take in the view. She expected Mr Darcy to run down the stairs to see if Lizzy had returned home but sadly it was just her and no Mr Darcy was to be seen. The rain turned up its setting to pouring now and a clap of thunder announced her arrival, followed by a bolt of lightning that made the house glow for a brief moment.

She dialled Selene.

‘I’m working at Downton Abbey but on steroids,’ she said as soon as her friend answered. ‘There is a storm and a deer on the side of the road and I’m not sure if I am in some gothic horror film or walking into my own death.’

‘Are you serious? That’s amazing, babe. Take photos, lots of them. I want to see but I have to go right now. I’m heading out to an early event. Text me, yeah?’

Christa drove up to the house and parked next to a large four-wheel drive Bentley. Simon wanted one of those, she remembered, thinking how much he would love the house and it’s grandiosity. Stop thinking about Simon, she told herself. He was gone. He didn’t think about her every minute so why did she think about him? She was so used to conferring with him about everything to make sure he was happy that she forgot to think about herself. No more, she told herself. She closed her eyes for a moment to rebalance her mind. Simon was gone. She was here and never the twain shall meet again.

Opening her eyes, she took in the whole house – well as much as she could with the enormous wings and stairs and columns. There were so many windows.

It was magnificent but Christa wondered who would clean it. So much to Hoover, she thought as she reached for her umbrella in the back seat. She opened the car door as a gust of wind blew so fiercely that the umbrella flew out of her hand and was out of sight in a moment.

Taking her chances, she ran from the car up the many front steps to the front door just as the thunder crashed again. Banging on the door with both hands and then ringing the bell next to it, she shivered as the rain hit her back like a cat o’ nine tails.

Just as she was about to give up and run back to her car, the door opened to reveal a young boy on rollerblades with a hockey stick in his hand.

‘Hey,’ he greeted her in an American accent.

Christa was about to speak when another child appeared, who was identical in every way – including the accoutrements on his feet and in his hand – except he held a small, space-age-looking video camera.

‘Are you the chef?’ he asked, pointing the camera at her.

More lightning and thunder so close Christa screamed. Was she in The Shining? What was happening?

‘Seth, Ethan, let her in for God’s sake,’ said a booming voice with a Californian drawl.

Christa stepped inside the foyer of the home and looked up to see a man standing at the top of the staircase. He was tall or maybe that was because he was looming large above them all, like an omnipotent god in a hoodie, jeans and sneakers. He leaned over the railing to peer down at her.

‘You’re Christa the cook? Yes?’

‘Chef,’ she corrected.

‘Chef, okay, sure,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want to be called.’

For some reason his dismissive comment felt like he had scolded her. She was sick of being overlooked, invalidated, and patronised by men, and this person was giving her the same energy as Simon.

‘Actually, I earned that title,’ she said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back further so he could see she was serious.

‘Pardon?’ He frowned at her, dark blonde hair falling into his face, and he pushed it away.

‘I’m not a cook, I’m a chef. I worked in a Michelin-hatted restaurant in Paris and owned a restaurant in London for over ten years. And the Sunday Times said my hot cross bun ice cream served with spiced wine-soaked quince tart was a miracle and resurrected the once maligned fruit.’

As Christa was speaking, she heard herself and tried to stop but the words just kept coming out of her mouth.

‘So yes, I am a chef. Not a cook,’ she finished, feeling weak at the knees from looking upwards for so long and feeling her blood pressure rising.

The man laughed. ‘This is Christmas, not Easter, so you can leave your hot cross bun ice cream for next year. But thanks for the CV. I am sure you will chef for us very well,’ he said, putting emphasis on the word chef, which annoyed Christa, but she had already said too much.

This whole taking charge of her life thing wasn’t going quite to plan.

‘I didn’t catch your name,’ she said, holding her ground.

‘I didn’t throw it,’ he said and she stared at him, her eyes narrowing, as she tried to take in this level of arrogance and entitlement.

He paused and she saw his shoulders drop. ‘Marc, Marc Ferrier,’ he said in a softer tone.

She nodded her acknowledgement, trying to recall if she had ever heard his name before but it drew a blank.

Two men in raincoats ran up towards the door, one holding a fancy green umbrella with a gold handle.

‘God, it’s hideous outside. We’re drowning,’ called one of the men in a booming voice, also with an American accent. A crack of thunder was heard closer than Christa would have liked.

The children were skating on the marble floors, which she was pretty certain couldn’t be good for the floors, or the children if they fell.

‘Stop skating on the marble,’ yelled the man above, as though reading her mind. ‘And shut the door – it’s freezing.’

‘Shut the door,’ one of the children yelled.

‘Shut the front door,’ yelled the other and Christa couldn’t stop herself.

‘Stop yelling. You don’t get anything done faster or better by yelling, okay? There will be no yelling at me or around me or I will leave. Shut the door, stop skating and stop dripping water everywhere,’ she said to the men in raincoats.

Everyone stared at her and Christa wondered if she should turn and head back to her car and drive back to London.

The man at the top of the stairs looked over the ornate bannister at her.

‘I thought chefs liked to yell.’

‘Not in my kitchen,’ she answered, tipping her head to look up at him again and feeling the blood rushing to her face.

He caught her eye. ‘And not in my house – you’re right. I hate yelling,’ he said and he gave her a slight nod and then walked away as though he had her approval despite the unorthodox entrance.

The children were already skating away now the small disturbance in the atmosphere had settled.

‘You’re Christa, yes?’ one of the men said while taking off his rain jacket and hanging it on the array of hooks near the front door.

She nodded. ‘Yes. Sorry about that but it was all very chaotic. I don’t like chaos.’

The man looked her up and down and then laughed a little but not meanly. ‘Then you better get prepared for when his ex visits. She is the original Goddess Discordia.’

Christa stared at him. ‘When does she arrive?’

‘Whenever she pleases,’ he said. ‘She’s the one with the list of intolerances.’ He gave Christa a knowing look and she smiled respectfully in response.

It wasn’t for her to say what was an allergy, intolerance or disordered eating, but God knows, every year there were more and more requests at the restaurant for accommodations and substitutions. Perhaps the world was becoming more intolerant in general, she often reflected.

‘I’m Adam, Marc’s lawyer, and this is my husband Paul. We’re here for Christmas also. I have to make some calls. Paul, can you show Christa to her room?’

Adam was gone in an instant but she could hear his voice barking down the phone as he left.

Paul smiled at her kindly and she felt herself relax.

‘Hey, Christa, grab your things and I’ll take you to your room. We usually have a housekeeper but she’s gone in to York to get some supplies. FYI, she’s terrifying.’

Christa laughed. ‘That’s something to look forward to. Don’t worry about my things – I can get them when the rain stops,’ Christa said. She looked around the foyer and didn’t see any Christmas decorations.

This foyer was crying out for a tree and some cascading pine branches and bows down the bannister.

‘Did you just arrive?’ she asked Paul.

‘No, we’ve been here about a week but Marc and Adam work all the time. I’m the corporate wife, so I’ll be hanging around the kitchen, if you don’t mind.’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ she said, meaning it. Paul had a pleasant demeanour and was more relaxed than the other two men.

The twins were rollerblading away, their war cries and slapping of the hockey sticks competing with the storm outside.

‘Come to the kitchen then,’ said Paul. He had a New York accent and wore a beautiful cashmere jumper, and she followed him through the house that was impeccably decorated but without a whisper of the time of the year. There was a mix of modern and period furniture, muted tones of grey and indigo and black, with art to match. It was certainly elegant but very masculine and impersonal.

‘Will Christmas be celebrated?’ she asked looking around.

‘Of course,’ Paul said as he pushed open the door to the kitchen. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s just that there aren’t any Christmas decorations,’ said Christa, wishing she had kept her mouth closed.

‘Marc isn’t the festive type,’ said Paul with raised eyebrows that silently spoke volumes. He gestured to a beautiful professional kitchen, big enough for six chefs to make a banquet for fifty people. ‘They usually do Christmas at their house in San Francisco. I think that was more the ex-wife than him. I do remember them having holiday décor when I went for a cocktail party, but it was all very silver and blue, not my style. I’m more of a traditional, Martha Stewart style.’

‘Oh my gosh, me too – I love traditional decorations. The more old-fashioned the better,’ Christa agreed. ‘I did a big tree covered in tartan ribbons last year. My ex hated it.’

Paul grabbed her arm. ‘Oh that’s perfect.’ He sighed. ‘It’s hard for me. I’m an interior stylist. I keep turning around corners in the house and see where a gorgeous Yuletide moment could be.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, have a look around and let me know if you need anything else and I can let Adam know.’

Christa looked around the space. Stainless steel was mixed with wood panelling and marble countertops for baking. It was better than the kitchen at Playfoot’s. Simon would be green with envy at this space.

Christa opened a drawer and saw Alessi cutlery lined up in perfect order.

‘How many will I be cooking for each night?’ she asked.

‘For now, it’s myself, my husband Adam – the lawyer with the loud voice – the twins and Marc.’

‘No dinner parties or cocktail events? Christmas drinks?’

‘No, we don’t know anyone here and Marc isn’t the event type. Hates dinner parties.’

What a shame, Christa thought looking at the kitchen set-up. ‘What time is dinner?’ she asked.

‘Seven is fine. Usually, the twins eat in the kitchen and the adults sit in the dining room. It’s very formal.’

‘Wow, okay.’ Christa couldn’t understand when people didn’t want to eat with their children. How would they learn manners or appropriate behaviour if they didn’t have good role models? That’s why she always admired the French and them taking children out so early in life to cafés and letting them sit at the table like young adults.

‘What do you want me to make for dinner?’ she asked as she heard Adam’s voice calling Paul.

‘I should go,’ he said but he turned as he was leaving the kitchen. ‘Selene said you’re amazing, so surprise us.’

‘Love her,’ said Christa.

‘Same!’ said Paul.

‘Sorry about yelling about the dripping from the rain – I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,’ she said. ‘I worried about the boys on their skates with the marble and the water.’

Paul shrugged. ‘No offence taken. I didn’t think about them actually, so it was good you did. They don’t always get thought of first in this house,’ he said he with a wry look at her.

He walked to the door. ‘Sing out if you need anything. I’ll be around.’

And then Christa was alone again, wishing everything about the arrival had gone differently and wondering how she would make it through the next few weeks.