by Katie Ginger
‘Oh, honey, I know that. She was fond of you, even after the break-up. She wished you could have made it work too, but some things just aren’t meant to be. She didn’t hate you. She wasn’t angry with you.’
Joe sat on a bench and, underneath the stars, he cried his heart out.
‘There now, Joe, come on,’ Siobhan said after a few minutes. ‘She wouldn’t have wanted you beating yourself up about this. Not after all this time.’
‘I know,’ he replied, again wiping his cheek on his already damp sleeve. ‘I know.’
‘She’d have wanted you to be happy. And Jackson and I do too.’
‘Thank you, Siobhan. Thank you.’ Joe tried to gain control of his erratic breathing. ‘You were always kind. It’s where Clara got it from.’
‘She did.’ He heard the amusement in her voice. ‘I’m guessing this conversation means you haven’t found anyone yet?’
‘No. No, I haven’t. Not yet.’
‘Then you’d better get out there, sweetheart. Life’s too short. As we both know.’
‘I know,’ he replied, nodding. ‘Siobhan?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Thank you.’
She paused. ‘Merry Christmas, Joe.’
He stared up at the stars trying to stem his tears and focused on the one shining brightly, the one he hoped was Clara. As his heart lightened, he finally replied. ‘Merry Christmas, Siobhan.’
Chapter 26
London
At half past eleven in the morning, Juanita sat with her feet up on the antique suitcase coffee table wiggling her toes in the little white socks Felicity made her wear. Laying back on the large comfortable sofa, she examined the ridiculous maid outfit, like something from a costume drama. She’d only worn it because Felicity sometimes sent people to check on her when she was away. But they only ever came to the door, enquired after Felicity and left, pretending they hadn’t known she wasn’t there.
She wiggled her toes again, smiled and picked up a handful of crisps from the giant bowl on her lap and threw them into her mouth. By now Juanita was expected to have cleaned the living room, kitchen, downstairs bathroom and be making her way up the stairs, polishing the large wooden staircase and vacuuming the carpet with the latest handheld device that made her feel like an astronaut ascending into space. Instead though, she was just finishing watching an action movie on the fifty-two-inch telly. It had a very handsome man in the lead and she was enjoying herself thoroughly. If she didn’t work so hard the rest of the time, she’d feel guilty about not working today, but the beautiful house was spotless. A couple of days without a clean wouldn’t hurt. Juanita munched on another crisp.
Felicity had run off to the Maldives, or as she put it, was having a ‘well-deserved break’. Her energy levels were zapped, apparently, and her manic schedule was causing her chakras to misalign. Juanita giggled to herself at how stupid Felicity thought she was. Juanita knew perfectly well that the show’s producer was called Sasha, and Sasha had been furious when a triple-layer chocolate chestnut cake had been a disaster. Felicity had been sulking ever since that day’s shooting had gone so wrong. Then, a couple of days after the call to the solicitor, Juanita had overheard Felicity on the phone to her sister sobbing about how everyone was laughing at her and how she thought someone called Esme was out to get her. Felicity told her sister that she’d simply borrowed the recipe from this girl, but now she thought the girl had told her the wrong thing as a trap to set her up for failure. And if there was one thing Felicity Fenchurch couldn’t stand, it was feeling a failure, or worse, looking like one.
The impromptu holiday to the Maldives was definitely a case of running away while the fire died down. And, as she was away until the New Year, it couldn’t have come at a better time for Juanita, who had been on the verge of resigning and finding something else. How could one person be expected to act as a live-in maid, cook, cleaner and housekeeper in such a large house? She was even expected to clean the door knocker every day until it shone, just in case any paparazzi should call. Felicity didn’t want them snapping a photo of a dirty knocker.
As Juanita popped another handful of crisps into her mouth, a few fell down her front and landed on the floor amidst the others that hadn’t quite hit their mark. She smirked at the gathering pile. Never mind, she thought with a grin. It was the day before Christmas Eve and she deserved a break. She’d simply clean it up later when she could be bothered.
Flicking channels after the movie ended, Juanita found a re-run of Felicity’s last television series. Seeing her pouting and flicking her hair while looking lustfully at the camera, Juanita felt that familiar tingle down her spine. She recalled the draft pages of Felicity’s new recipe book were still on her desk and a heavy dread threatened to derail her good mood. Her recipe book still lay at the bottom of the box in her room with the nail varnish stain dirtying its pages.
After a quick sip of her mojito, made from a secret recipe, Juanita went to the study. Sitting in Felicity’s ergonomic chair, she pulled the large pages of Felicity Fenchurch’s Fabulous Fiestas in front of her and began reading through the recipes. She’d always found Felicity’s sudden interest in Spanish food strange but had put it down to her following a sudden fad. As Juanita read on, she found, with mounting anger, special recipes from her own family cookbook, the one kept in her bedroom in her flat.
Felicity’s version of her Spanish empanadas was an insult to her culture and her upbringing. Not to mention an insult to Juanita’s mother, who had taught her the recipe and how to make the pastry herself. Felicity’s version used low-fat cottage cheese and a high-protein filling. They were a disgrace. Where was the avocado mixed with chilli and lime juice? Where was the salsa made by hand with fresh tomatoes, shallots, cilantro and jalapenos? Where was the sour cream to cool it down as it hit your mouth? She’d tried to make it different enough to be a different recipe, but Juanita knew it was based on hers. Some things were the same. The recipe for the pastry was exactly the same, as was the technique to make it. It had to be. Felicity wasn’t skilled enough to figure out a different way.
Juanita felt the strong muscles in her arms tighten. How could she prove that Felicity had stolen her recipes? Who would believe her if she showed them her own messy notebook? She knew very well what Felicity was like. She would pretend it was all a coincidence, or an out-and-out lie – that Juanita had told her the recipes but couldn’t remember doing it. A heavy stone of disappointment settled in her stomach. Who would believe a mere cleaner?
But then there’d been that telephone call between Felicity and her slimy lawyer. And in the call to her sister she’d said the girl’s name – a girl she was clearly stealing recipes from too – the same as she was doing to Juanita. Perhaps she could be exposed without Juanita having to actually say anything and risk losing her job? She’d leave as soon as she got another though. There was no way she was staying here now.
Searching Felicity’s desk for some information on this girl, Juanita moved the papers and flicked through other assorted letters. The drawers were locked, but she knew where Felicity kept the key. It was always under the old-fashioned ink well in which Felicity used to stub out her cheeky cigarettes. But after opening the drawers and searching, Juanita found nothing and exasperated, she pushed the chair and stood with her hands on her hips.
Felicity loved her study but she would often print out emails and read them in bed, drafting replies in pen while she sat propped up against the pillows. Many times Juanita had cleaned up scraps of paper thrown on the ground, with Felicity being too lazy to put them in the bin. She went to the rubbish bins. Luckily, they weren’t due to be collected for another day – there might be something still there. Searching through the rubbish wasn’t a pleasant job, but she’d dealt with worse. Like the time Felicity had suffered from thrush again and refused to see the doctor, knowing he would tell her off. Juanita was told to buy large tubs of natural yoghurt which Felicity then smeared all over her nether regions and Juanita had t
he pleasure of picking up and washing her smelly, yoghurt-coated knickers. What she was doing now paled in comparison, but Juanita still shuddered at the memory.
At last, Juanita found some papers. She read them and discovered the one she was hoping for – an email from Sasha Crawford. A name she’d heard cursed often enough. The email asked her to confirm that Esme Kendrick was mistaken regarding the recipe for a chocolate cake. The response was there too, drafted in pen in Felicity’s scribbly hand. Felicity denied it. Categorically and wholeheartedly. She had not stolen that recipe. And reading on, Juanita saw that the poor girl had been fired for it.
A grin edged its way onto Juanita’s face. Though it would still be her word against Felicity’s and she may not be able to prove that she’d had stolen her recipes or this girl Esme’s, as Felicity often said, mud sticks. She made her way back to Felicity’s desk. Felicity was terrible with technology and insisted her PA copy all the contacts from her mobile phone to a handwritten address book at least once a month, just in case. Juanita read through and found the details for one of the food critics Felicity sometimes used for spreading rumours about the new, up-and-coming presenters. Anything to try and maintain her position at the top.
Sitting down in Felicity’s chair, Juanita spun herself around before turning on the computer and entering the password Felicity kept noted down on a piece of paper. Slowly, Juanita created a new email account using a pseudonym and wrote a message to the critic. She sat back with a warm glow of contentment and spun once more in the chair, lifting her legs and whizzing around with childlike glee. Perhaps another mojito was in order.
Chapter 27
Sandchester
Esme had spent the day making Christmas presents for her friends and family, trying to save money. She’d bought something for Daniel – a drum kit – which Alice would hate, but it would make them all laugh, and Esme had made foodie gifts for the rest of them. She loved making presents like that. It felt so much more personal than grabbing something off a shelf along with ten other people. You could really tailor things to an individual’s tastes. If they liked something sweet you could make them chocolates, if they liked savoury things you could make them chilli-fried nuts. Or you could make booze, which was always a hit with Mark.
Hunching forwards and wrapping presents was beginning to give her a crick in her neck, so Esme stood and stretched before making lunch. Settling down again, holding a hot bowl of soup in a tea towel, she snuggled down on the sofa to reply to the comments on her blog. Most were asking for alternative ingredients and there were more kind things from Penny85. She’d even started some great conversations with the rest of the commenters. Her little blog was beginning to build a community, and a lot of it was down to Penny85. Looking back, Penny85 had commented on every post and every video. Always in an encouraging and friendly way. This time she was asking where she could get harissa paste from.
Esme spooned the homemade vegetable soup into her mouth, trying not to dribble it over her keyboard and responded, saying which aisle it was usually in at the supermarket. Her own local supermarket didn’t have it so she suggested some alternatives. Within seconds Penny85 had responded again. She’d scoured her local store but couldn’t find it. She asked if a wholefoods shop like Pepperson’s would have it?
Esme went to type but something Penny had said caused her to hesitate. Pepperson’s was a specialist shop in town, not a chain store found on every high street. There weren’t any more of them as far as Esme was aware. After a quick search online her suspicions were confirmed – there weren’t any other shops with the same name. It must mean that Penny was local. Esme chewed the inside of her cheek. Could she ask her or would that be prying? Esme sat back and tapped her lip with her spoon. Something in Penny’s posts made Esme want to know her better. She’d always been so supportive and kind and if she was local, Esme would love to meet her. Perhaps if she was local, she already knew Esme or her family?
Esme decided to risk it and ask, and typed the question before she could change her mind. For a while there was no answer and Esme worried she’d gone too far or that Penny would think it weird and creepy and Esme had scared her off. Had she crossed some invisible line? Some law of internet etiquette she didn’t know about? Esme replied to some of the other comments to keep herself occupied but kept glancing back to Penny’s.
An hour later, Penny replied confirming that she was from the same town. As soon as the reply popped up, Esme read and scoured her mind for anyone she knew called Penny. She had no idea how old Penny was and had presumed the 85 was her age. If it was the year she was born, she could be a friend from school. Regardless, Esme still wanted to meet her and thank her for being so supportive. Penny may not realise it, but she meant a lot to Esme.
Esme swallowed down her nerves and asked the question, reading aloud as she typed. ‘Penny85, thank you so much for all the support you’ve given me on the blog. As we’re from the same town, would you like to meet up after Christmas? I’d love to buy you a coffee and a cake!’ She waited for a reply but yet again the response didn’t come straight away. Keeping herself busy, Esme tried to keep her eyes from the screen until after another hour the answer came that she’d love to.
It was a short response and less effusive than her other posts. When nothing more was added, Esme worried that Penny had felt pressured into meeting. Whether she did or she didn’t, there wasn’t anything Esme could do about it now. But Esme planned to take her to the new café at the old end of the high street, the one with all the books and homemade chocolate brownies. It would be her treat.
Just as she cleared away her lunch and returned to wrapping gifts, listening to Christmas songs on her laptop, a knock at the door made her start. After their meeting in the pub yesterday, she hadn’t expected to see Joe. Normally when a bloke had an emotional moment they disappeared for a while – that’s what Leo had always done. ‘Hey,’ Esme said with a smile, glad he was there.
‘Hi. I … umm.’ He scratched the back of his head, then thrust both hands into his jeans pockets. ‘I just wanted to ask if you fancied coming to a Christmas Eve party with me tomorrow night?’
‘With you?’ repeated Esme, wanting to check she’d heard right. She hadn’t planned on going out but here Joe was, asking her, and he looked so nervous and vulnerable, her heart gave a double beat. She wanted to say yes but was she ready to? Was he? His jaw was covered in thin, dark stubble but there was something different about him this afternoon. His face seemed younger and less worn down. And when he followed his question with a shy lopsided grin, her muscles pulsed. There couldn’t be any harm, could there? She hadn’t seen the brunette the last time they were at the pub and he hadn’t mentioned her at all. They must have finished. She liked Joe’s company and as she’d said to herself many times before, if she could help him, she would. Maybe he just didn’t want to be on his own and was asking her as a friend, or to stop her being lonely. ‘That sounds fun,’ she said at last. ‘Where’s the party?’
Joe’s terrified face relaxed. ‘It’s a friend of mine. He owns a new wine bar in town. It’s only just opened. It’ll be fun. And besides, no one should be on their own on Christmas Eve.’
Ah, there it was, she thought. with a slight sinking feeling she tried to ignore. Just as friends. ‘That sounds great,’ she replied, remaining cheerful but disappointment bit at her.
Joe smiled and nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll pick you up at seven then, if that’s all right?’
‘Yeah, okay.’ Slowly, he edged away, still grinning and Esme closed the door behind him. She felt 15 again. Joe, the school bad boy who all the girls fancied, had asked her out, like she’d imagined so many times when she was younger. Okay, so this wasn’t exactly a date, and maybe it was only so neither one of them would be on their own, but still, she went back to wrapping presents with a grin pulling at her face.
Esme spent the next day dancing around her cottage. She couldn’t help it; she was excited to go out with Joe. They’d got on so well wh
en he came to take the pictures, and that night he had met her friends. Every time they’d been together it had felt so easy and natural but special somehow. She couldn’t deny it anymore, she fancied him. Not in the teenage crush way she had at school. Well, not totally. He was still completely gorgeous. But knowing now how much he’d been hurting just made her want to ease that pain.
Then Esme started to panic. Her mind still ran back to thoughts of Leo at every available opportunity. Playing over all the times they’d been happy and in love. It was hard to let that go. And what if she made a fool of herself? She hadn’t been out with anyone new who hadn’t seen her at her worst – drunk, hungover, ill and grumpy – for such a long time. What if she couldn’t make conversation? What if she had something in her teeth from dinner? What if the zipper on her dress broke halfway through the night? Everything was fitting a bit more snugly than it had before. Joe was very handsome – what if someone turned up who was prettier than her, cleverer than her, more successful than her? It wouldn’t be hard to achieve those things, thought Esme dismally and, in an instant, her excitable mood faded to a dreary dullness where nothing was right. Esme gave herself a mental shake. Mark always said, ‘Fake it till you make it’ and that was exactly what she’d do. Though she wasn’t feeling confident, she’d pretend to.
As the afternoon light became watery and pale, she poured a glass of wine and went upstairs for a long hot bath. Before long she was dressed in her favourite little black dress, tights and black heeled boots. She added a deep red purse and pink lipgloss. With a flick of eyeliner and two coats of mascara she was ready to go, her curls tamed, elegant and chic.