Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage: A heartwarming and funny Christmas romance

by Katie Ginger

  ‘Mum, stop it,’ she whispered. Her mum ignored her.

  ‘What? I’m not doing anything. Am I doing anything, Stephen?’

  ‘Well, we’ll leave you to it,’ said Stephen, rolling his eyes and taking Carol’s arm, pulling her away. ‘See you later, Ezzy.’ Esme didn’t think she’d ever loved her dad more than at that moment as he dragged Carol off, smirking and craning her neck to see over her shoulder. Poor Joe looked like he’d just seen the headmaster and had to go home and tell his mum. The look on his face should have made Esme embarrassed but instead it just made her laugh and before she could help it, a great big chortle escaped. Within seconds it had consumed her, and Joe too. ‘My parents are the absolute worst,’ she said in between giggles.

  ‘No, they’re not. They’ve always been amazing,’ said Joe. ‘I remember that parents’ evening you ran into the girl who’d been bullying you, and your mum threatened to punch the mum’s lights out if her daughter came near you again—’

  ‘Oh, don’t remind me.’

  ‘It was bloody brilliant.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ she said, brushing the hair from her face.

  The laughter died down and Joe inspected the tree again. ‘Is this the one?’ Esme nodded. ‘We’d better go and buy it then.’

  Esme followed as Joe asked one of the guys to wrap it and went to pay but her brain kept replaying his words. ‘Is this the one?’ She knew he meant the tree, and at only a month after her break-up it could just be a rebound thing, but her brain didn’t want to let that sentence go. And even after he’d helped get the tree inside the cottage and into a bucket, the words remained.

  Lying in bed that night she had to force herself to think of something else. But in the darkness of her room, ‘Is this the one?’ played over and over again relentlessly and wouldn’t leave her alone. And didn’t he have a girlfriend? Joe was more than confusing — she couldn’t make him out at all. He had so many different sides to his character, it was scary. But the scariest thing of all was the feeling his words had created in her heart.

  Chapter 20

  Sandchester

  The nerves in Esme’s stomach danced around. Her hands trembled and she couldn’t stop checking the clock. It was Friday night and time for the live broadcast.

  She’d made sure the lighting was set up and the kitchen gleamed and sparkled like something from a real cooking show. The spotlight illuminated the kitchen counter and she had arranged some rustic earthenware bowls, found in one of the dusty cupboards, on the countertop. One contained fruit, the other fresh sprigs of rosemary she’d collected from a bush in the garden. Esme had spent the last hour preparing all the ingredients. The parmesan had been grated and placed in a pretty pink dish, the peas sat proudly in a white bowl, their verdant green a fresh pop of colour, and the pancetta had been cubed and piled in another. The risotto rice she would pour straight from the packet and the herbs were in a small mason jar of water waiting to be chopped. On the hob in a large saucepan sat a simmering pan of chicken stock.

  Everything was ready.

  Esme sipped her tea, hoping it would help calm her down, but after two mouthfuls she felt nauseous. She cast her eyes around and focused on the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. Even in its bare, undecorated state it was still beautiful. Slowly the clock ticked down and finally, it was time to start the broadcast.

  She switched on the camera and took up her place. As the cooker was on the end wall of the kitchen, at a right angle to the camera, she was going to have to be really careful and make sure she spoke over her right shoulder while she stirred. Esme cursed herself for not thinking that aspect of it through, but it was too late now.

  ‘Hi everyone, and welcome to Grandma’s Kitchen for my first live video broadcast. I hope you’ve all had a great day but if you haven’t, the dish we’re going to cook tonight will be a real pick-me-up. It always works for me after I’ve had a bad day. Tonight, we’re going to make a gorgeous pea and pancetta risotto and believe me, it’s like a giant hug on a cold, rainy winter’s day.’

  Her nerves calmed a little, but Esme still felt queasy, more used to being on the other side of the camera.

  ‘Most people think risottos are difficult to make, but they’re actually very simple. They just take a little time. I love this recipe for an everyday meal, but it is so delicious it even works well for a Christmas Eve supper with friends. Just imagine everyone chatting while you stir the pot, glass of wine in hand. Or it’s great for a comforting New Year’s Day dinner when you’ve maybe had a bit too much to drink the night before. The first thing I’m going to do is fry the pancetta. Pancetta is fantastic but you can just use bacon instead. Or if you’re a veggie, just leave it out altogether.’

  She began sautéing the pancetta, then once it was crispy took it out, placing it back in the dish. In the pot, she added the onions, leeks, a little butter and a splash of stock. ‘You don’t want the onions to colour, so I always add a little stock. It helps get all those flavoursome gnarly bits off the bottom too, and stops the onions frying and going brown, which is fab in a burger, but not what we want for our elegant risotto.’

  Esme’s heart slowed to a normal pace and the sickness subsided as the delicious and comforting smell of cooked onion wafted up. She took the tea towel from her shoulder and tossed it into the corner of the worktop. Things were going well. She remembered to look at the camera more, not in a pouty Felicity Fenchurch kind of way, but like a proper TV presenter.

  ‘Now, add the risotto rice and mix it around, making sure it gets coated in the oil. This’ll help give it a great flavour. So all you have to do, for about twenty minutes or so, is add a ladle full of stock and stir it until it’s disappeared. The way you tell is to drag your spoon across the bottom of the pan and the risotto should part but there won’t be lots of liquid left. If there is, just stir a bit more until it’s absorbed then try again.’ The repetitive motion of adding stock then stirring, made her shoulders relax. ‘Some people think making risotto is way too time-consuming for a weekday supper and while there are quicker meals you can make, this one doesn’t take that long and I adore this part. It helps me process the day – all the good things and bad things – and put it behind me.’

  An odd smell reached her nostrils and she checked she wasn’t burning anything in the pan. Everything was fine. Esme realised she’d been silent for almost a minute, which was a long time in TV-land so she began to speak, trying to remember her script.

  ‘This wasn’t one of grandma’s recipes. To be honest, I don’t think she ever had risotto in her life, but I’m pretty sure she would have liked it. I learned to make this when I was at university, living with one of my best friends—’

  The strange smell hit her again. It was like something burning. She checked the underneath of the pan wondering if something was stuck to the bottom. Nothing there. Out of the corner of her eye a flash of yellow and orange drew her attention and her heart rate shot up. She spun around and saw the very end of the tea towel she had thrown to one side was on fire. It must have caught light from the low heat underneath the saucepan of stock.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Esme shouted, running towards it. She searched for her tongs, grabbed them from the utensil jar and picked up the other end of the tea towel then threw it into the old butler’s sink where it was thankfully out of sight and extinguished by the water left in the bottom. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,’ she said, without thinking.

  Esme turned to the camera and remembered this was all being broadcast live, to the entire world. Her chin trembled and she felt clammy. She was sure they wouldn’t be watching anything more after that. Esme’s face froze and her brain kept screaming ‘fire!’. She bit her lip. What would a real TV presenter do? After a deep breath, Esme lifted her chin and smiled at the camera. ‘Umm … sorry about that. But it just goes to show that sometimes accidents happen in the kitchen and the key thing is not to panic.’ She shrugged but her hands were shaking as she said, ‘I migh
t have panicked a little, but, you know, never mind. Disaster was still averted.

  ‘So now we just need to add the peas. Frozen ones are fine, you don’t need to buy fresh ones and pod them. God knows life’s hard enough, isn’t it? We don’t need to put more pressure on ourselves. And also, I should tell you, this stock is from a stock pot. I could make my own and I do sometimes, for very special occasions, but who can be arsed unless like, the Queen’s coming round, or your mother-in-law or something?’

  Leo’s mum was a very nice lady, but she was so proud of Leo, he could do no wrong, and she was very particular. That was probably where Leo got it from. But Boxing Days spent with Leo’s family were nowhere near as fun as the Christmas Days spent with her own, crazy tribe. Esme cooked the peas in with the risotto, added the parmesan, then chopped and added the parsley, and the result was a delicious-smelling risotto. ‘So, there you go. Pea and pancetta risotto. I wish you could smell this. It really does smell delicious. It’s even masking the smell of burnt tea towel!’

  She served it into a basic white pasta bowl as she wanted to show off the beautiful colours of the peas and crispy pancetta. Her hands were still quivering as she sprinkled on a little parsley and grated parmesan, then cleaned the rim of the bowl with a piece of kitchen roll. She would have used a tea towel, but her mind was such a confused mess she didn’t think she’d be able to find another one. ‘Bon appetit everyone. Give it a try and let me know what you think on the blog.’

  She waved as she walked out of the kitchen to the camera to turn it off. As soon as she had replaced the lens cap, she poured herself a large glass of wine and called Mark.

  ‘Well done, sweetie. You did great! Apart from setting that tea towel on fire, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Esme took a large gulp of wine and sat down on the sofa to check her blog and see what the reaction was.

  Comments were coming in already, which was great – it meant people had been watching along. Some were nice and kind about the recipe, others commented on how funny she was which, considering Esme hadn’t intended to be, wasn’t necessarily a compliment, but at least they enjoyed it. Then the angry ones started.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mark. ‘What’s that noise?’

  Esme sniffed then found a piece of kitchen roll in the pocket of her jeans and blew her nose. ‘I can’t do anything right.’

  ‘What? Why do you say that? Sweetie, it was great.’

  ‘Some woman has just posted a comment saying she was watching it with her 3-year-old daughter and now she’s running around the house shouting, “shit”. She says I’m a disgrace and I should have put a parental advisory notice up or something.’

  ‘Well, she needs to chill the fuck out. You were fab and we all do things like that from time to time. I bet she’s sworn in front of her kid before. Anyway, it’s eight o’clock, don’t little humans go to bed before now? I think her child should have been asleep, she shouldn’t be shouting at you.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ said Esme. ‘You’re rambling, trying to make me feel better.’

  ‘I am. Sorry. Is it working?’ She could hear the smile in his voice.

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘But honestly, darling you were really, really good and that risotto looked so delicious my mouth is watering. I only had my dinner an hour ago, but it’s made me hungry again.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘And the lighting was spectacular,’ he continued. ‘That’s something to be glad about. We nailed the lighting and your kitchen looked like something from a fairy tale.’ Another tear fell down her cheek and she sniffed. ‘Right,’ said Mark. ‘Ready the beds. I’m gathering everyone and we’re coming down first thing for damage limitation.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Esme, her heart lifting. She still felt desperately lonely being so far away from her friends.

  ‘Of course,’ Mark replied. ‘I’ll hire a van and bring your chest of drawers while I’m at it. I had to plonk it in our hallway and you know how small that is. Helena had to mount it to get her scarf yesterday.’

  Esme giggled. ‘You guys are the best.’

  ‘I know, sweetie. Make some of your delicious choccy pancakes, won’t you? We’ll be there for breakfast.’

  ‘Okay,’ she replied, wiping her nose with the scrunched-up kitchen roll. Knowing Mark would be on the phone to Lola as soon as she’d hung up, and that they’d be with her for the whole day tomorrow, made her heart lighten. But before Mark could hang up, Esme quickly shouted, ‘Bring wine!’ because judging by the latest comment that had popped up, they were going to need it.

  *

  Joe sat back at the end of the vlog and puffed out his cheeks. That was quite a show.

  Somehow he’d expected something practised and polished — a toned-down, subdued version of Esme, rather than the real thing. Instead, it had been the best cookery show he’d ever seen. It actually made him want to try and cook the recipe. It made him want to get up and cook something for himself instead of relying on the greasy takeaway down the road or meals that came in plastic trays with depressing little sections. There was something so alive about Esme when she cooked. A sparkle came to her eyes when she was happy and doing what she loved; the burnt golden flecks suddenly glittered. Was it wrong to wish he could be the one to make that happen?

  Having never seen a future with anyone except for Clara, Joe had thought he would never love again. But he could picture them together in that little cottage, her teasing him while she taught him to make something delicious. Joe smiled to himself and took a sip of his beer. Maybe they’d get a dog and go walking in the woods together, wrapped up against the cold. Then they’d return home to an amazing roast with all the trimmings.

  Esme had dealt with the fire thing well. She just shrugged it off. She didn’t panic or screech or need anyone else to save her. She just handled it. And she could laugh at herself about it, even when it was live for all the world to see. Clara was always a little more highly strung. At first she’d seemed like a laid-back Australian. A cliché but it was true. But as things had worn on she’d become dependent on him, which made the break-up even more difficult. Joe felt guilty for that too. He shouldn’t have let it happen. All the times he begrudgingly agreed to organise stuff because she didn’t want to – plumbers, car insurance, you name it – he now realised made the situation worse not better. Familiar guilt gurgled in him. Why did everything end up with him thinking of Clara?

  After half an hour of staring at a blank computer screen, Joe scanned his messy little flat. Clothes lay strewn on the floor, dishes were piled in the sink and there were no pictures or personal items on display. They were all still boxed up and piled in the corner of the living room. He’d been in the flat for over two years now. It was shocking he hadn’t done anything. Esme’s cottage looked exactly that – Esme’s. She’d somehow put her stamp on it already, like she was meant to be there. With a sickening embarrassment he realised how much he’d kept himself locked away from everyone, not letting himself believe this was really his home. Why? he wondered, but he already knew the answer. Because accepting that this was really his home meant accepting the actual truth about Clara, and somehow that felt like a betrayal. Perhaps he should be braver, like Esme. Perhaps he should call Clara’s parents and apologise. It might be something they had waited to hear, that he was sorry. Maybe they were sorry as well. Maybe they understood how he felt, just as he understood how they felt. It must have been even more devastating for them. If only he could explain.

  Melbourne was eleven hours ahead. It was now quarter past ten in the UK, so it would be quarter past nine in the morning there. Early for a phone call, granted, but he’d never come this close to actually doing it and couldn’t risk stopping now. He took another swig of his beer and picked up his mobile phone, finding the number of Clara’s parents, glad now he hadn’t deleted it. He’d come close so many times, determined that he would let his past life go and move on, but anytime his fingers hovered over the keys, it felt disloyal
and cowardly, and the number had remained.

  Joe drummed his fingers while it rang. His heart beat hard against his chest and he felt a fierce heat at the back of his neck. His shoulders tensed and he tapped his heels against the floor.

  ‘Hello?’ a groggy voice answered.

  In a surge of nerves, his windpipe felt like it had been punched. ‘Umm, hi? Is that Siobhan?’

  ‘Yeah, who’s this?’

  ‘It’s, umm, it’s Joe Holloway.’

  He heard Siobhan shift around. ‘Joe? Clara’s Joe?’

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

  The line went dead. She’d hung up.

  Joe rested his head in his hands. Why? Why had he bothered? He should have known what response he’d get. He shouldn’t have tried to be brave. To be something he so clearly wasn’t. Joe lifted his head, gasping for air as tears fell. He wasn’t too manly to cry. He’d cried so many times, alone in his flat. He leaned forward and cupped his hands around his head again, trying to block out all thought and feeling. For a moment Joe couldn’t move, trapped in this terrible moment. Angrily he wiped at his eyes and stood up, taking a deep breath to try and calm his racing heart but it didn’t work. Doubled over, with his hands on his knees, he forced himself to take long slow breaths. This was all Esme’s fault. If she hadn’t come back, if she hadn’t walked into his life making him feel things again, he’d be fine right now. She’d made him think about a future, made him realise he couldn’t keep just existing in the present. She’d ruined everything. He knew he should be grateful to her, but right now a dark mist had descended again, soaking into his soul.

  Joe walked to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and a glass, and poured himself a hefty measure. Some people just weren’t meant to be brave.

  Chapter 21

  Sandchester