by Kate Forster
By Kate Forster
The Sisters
Starting Over at Acorn Cottage
Finding Love at Mermaid Terrace
Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall
CHRISTMAS WISHES AT PUDDING HALL
Kate Forster
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
This edition first published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Kate Forster, 2021
The moral right of Kate Forster to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PB): 9781801108034
ISBN (E): 9781801108010
Cover design © CC Book design
Aria
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For Josie Cameron, who asked me to keep writing.
Thank you for reading.
Contents
Welcome
Copyright
Dedication
Entrée
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Main Course
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Dessert
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Two Years Later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
ENTRÉE
1
Christa Playfoot shivered in the cold December air as she adjusted the heavy bag on her shoulder. Checking the pocket of her pink puffa coat once again for the keys, she noted that the silver spoon key ring that Simon had given to her when they opened the restaurant was cold to the touch. She had always said he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, so he attached it to the keys to their restaurant as a joke. Only he had laughed.
Looking at the restaurant from a distance, she saw the navy gloss wooden features on the outside of the old building, with white window boxes she had filled each season with different flowers. Magenta pink geraniums in the summer. Pots of creamy butter-coloured daffodils in the spring. Warm amber violas for autumn, and vibrant red poinsettias for Christmas. Now the window boxes were empty and there was a For Lease sign above the blue and white striped awning. She had once dreamed of having a restaurant in London, and now letting go of the dream was proving to be more painful that she had ever imagined.
Her thumb ran over the bowl of the spoon in her pocket. She had always felt this gift was actually a little dig at her for coming from poverty and was Simon’s reminder she would be nothing without his silver touch.
Perhaps that was true. Simon’s family had bankrolled the restaurant and she had been so excited to build something with him, she had ignored the fact there were no specific ownership papers.
And now she was handing back the keys in exchange for almost nothing. Maybe enough to put down a deposit on a flat in London but she didn’t have a job, only restaurant reviews that mentioned him first in every single one. No bank would loan her money because she made a wonderful soufflé, even if minor royals had taken a photo of it for Instagram when they came to Playfoot’s.
Now Simon no longer wanted to work in the restaurant, because he had a fancy new role as a television judge on a cooking show called Blind Baking. Never mind that she was the pastry chef in the relationship, her desserts winning awards and acclaim, instead the production company had called Simon because he was posh, witty, and handsome. Not to mention he had been voted ‘Spiciest Man in Cooking’, wearing an apron and nothing else on the front cover of a magazine.
She should be a judge on a TV show called Blind Dating where she could advise the female contestants to never give over their financial choices to a man who spends more time in the bathroom than you before you go out and asks how he looks before he comments on your outfit.
When Christa had seen the magazine cover of Simon stripped bare, she knew their marriage was truly over. Simon was on a trajectory to fame and Christa was still trying to decide if being a chef was her true calling now she had lost the restaurant. She loved to feed people more than anything else but all the pomp and ceremony of restaurants made her anxious. She much preferred a meal around a kitchen table with wine and laughter, swapping stories with friends until late in the evening.
The streetlamps switched on above her and Christa noticed the Christmas decorations were up in the street. The red bows and green garlands usually cheered her but today her heart ached. There was a hollow feeling that sometimes took her by surprise when it returned unannounced like now. The sense of a piece missing inside her but she did not know what to put there. It had followed her around ever since she could remember, popping up uninvited.
She walked to the front of the restaurant where the lights were off. Pressing her face against the window she saw Simon sitting at the table with a bottle of wine open in the dim light and a woman sitting opposite him. They were laughing and the woman’s hand was on his knee.
She opened the door and stood in the doorway inviting the cold air in. The weather report was threatening snow for Christmas but she would believe it when she saw it. Every year they said it would snow and it never came until after New Year when she would have to be back at work.
‘Christa, come in, you must be freezing,’ Simon said benevolently, giving her a look as though she was the little match girl down to her last strike.
‘No thanks, I’m late for something,’ she lied.
Simon gestured to the woman sitting opposite him. ‘Christa, this is Avian. She’s a producer on my new TV show.’
His new TV show? As though it was all about him. God she hated him.
The woman looked Christa up and down and she saw a little smirk on her face.
‘Oh, hey babe. So, you’re Christa. Simon speaks of you with such good vibes.’ Her California hippy act wasn’t fooling Christa. Oh yes, they were definitely together.
Christa couldn’t help herself. ‘Avian?’ she asked. ‘What an unusual name.’
‘It’s French for bird,’ said the woman as though Christa was an idiot. ‘My mother lived in Paris for a year.’
‘No, it’s English for birdlike,’ corrected Christa. ‘L’oiseau is French for bird. I worked there for two years in fine dinin
g before Simon and I opened this.’ She gestured around her at the restaurant.
‘Avian loves food, don’t you, babe?’ said Simon.
Looking at how thin this woman was, Christa doubted this morsel of information very much.
She was so thin it pained Christa to see the bones on her chest jutting out like a ladder. With her long hair and a face carefully made up in the artful way that looked like she wasn’t wearing any makeup she was a beautiful woman and the exact opposite of Christa. Christa pushed away the comparisons because she liked how she looked, with her short dark hair, cropped in a pixie cut, and bright blue eyes with eyelashes usually only bestowed on undeserving boys. And she was healthy and didn’t really drink very much and had never smoked, so all things considered she was in pretty good shape, she told herself.
Simon used to tell her she was chubby. He had called her Chubs at Le Cordon Bleu, which he said was cute. It wasn’t cute.
Christa wasn’t angry with this woman, she reminded herself, she was angry with Simon and she was angry with herself for staying so long when she knew the marriage was over a long time ago. What she couldn’t work out was why she had stayed so long in a loveless marriage that was purely a business relationship – except she didn’t have equal shares – until it was too late.
‘So you’re a TV producer? That’s amazing,’ said Christa, trying to be nice but wanting to run as far away as she could.
‘Is it?’ asked Avian who then picked up her phone, showing Christa their brief tête-à-tête was over.
Simon glanced from Christa to Avian and back again. He was terrible with uncomfortable moments. She paused to make him do the work for once. She was forever filling in the gaps in their marriage, their business and their communication. Let him carry the weight of this moment with his little bird-inspired friend. He shifted in his chair. ‘So, you all set then?’
The question sounded like he was enquiring as to whether she had all her things for a school trip, not the end of the last ten years of their life together.
Christa threw the keys at him from the doorway. He panicked and dropped them. He never was good at ball games – only mental games.
‘As set as a jelly,’ she said and she paused. ‘Okay, well, bye then. Good luck with the show.’
Avian glanced up at Christa and gave her a sliver of a smile while Simon seemed to see something interesting on the floor.
‘Ta,’ he said, and she turned and walked away from the place and person she had poured her heart and soul into, feeling the tears stinging her eyes. She wasn’t enough for Simon. He had used her all those years and traded off her skills and talent and then claimed them as his own.
Outside on the street, she leaned against a wall and took several deep breaths. Ta. He ended their marriage and business with the word ta.
Her stomach churned as she put the heavy bag at her feet, as she tried to focus on her surroundings to keep her present in the moment. For the past twenty years and more, she had thought this feeling would never return. All the work she had done to make sure that her life was shored up so these feelings of anxiety and uncertainty couldn’t find their way aboard. And yet here she was with no job, no direction, and nothing to anchor to now that Simon had pushed her out of the life they’d built together.
She felt the hot flush of shame of not having enough, of not being enough. Just like when she was twelve and she had stood in line at the food bank. Her dad had been sick, coughing all the time and hadn’t worked for a week. She had a list of things they needed but with no money and little in the house, that had been their only option. With a letter from her dad and a shopping bag, she tried to stand tall to give them impression she was older than she looked.
She tried to push the memory away but it insisted on being acknowledged.
It had been cold, just like today…
‘Next,’ said the man at the food bank.
Christa walked towards the door but the man stopped her.
‘Where’s your parent?’
‘He’s sick; he’s at home,’ she said and shoved her hand into her shopping bag. ‘I have a letter from him with his number.’
‘We don’t allow kids to come down on their own. Tell him to come down and you can get what you need.’
Christa started to argue but the man was gesturing to the person behind her.
She turned and walked to the back of the line, feeling tears welling, wondering how she was going to get the food until her dad recovered.
Crying, she hated herself for not being older and being able to get what she needed for them.
She had vowed then to never let this happen to her ever again.
And here she was, thirty-five years old, without a plan or a direction. Simon had been her safety net for so long, she had put up with more than she should have to be secure but at what cost?
She realised that she had put her security into the hands of someone else, and instead she should have woven her own net. Whatever she needed to learn before was back to remind her that she still didn’t get it. That hiding behind Simon was avoidance. And now she had to do the work. She had no one to blame but herself for not standing up to him more, for not insisting on looking at the paperwork, for not owning her talent and asking to be recognised for her contribution to Playfoot’s.
The rush of awareness made her head hurt but it was the clearest thought she’d had in six months. Whatever she was going to do next wasn’t in London and it wasn’t with white tablecloths and a wine list.
She heaved the bag back onto her shoulder and started to walk down the busy street, seeing some of the usual faces who often came to the back door of the restaurant.
‘Hiya, Sam,’ she said to the man in the overcoat and she reached into the heavy bag on her shoulder, pulling out a container of her best chicken stew with rice and vegetables, pressing it into his hands. She had cooked it low and slow and always stirred with a little hope that the people she gave her cooking to would find some care and support.
‘And a little sweet treat for after, because I know you love the lemon slice with coconut.’
Sam smiled a toothless grin at her.
‘You’re a good egg, Chrissy. We’ll miss you.’
Christa felt her eyes prick with tears. ‘I’ll miss you also, Sam.’
‘Here comes Darryl and Allen,’ said Sam and soon Christa had walked up the street and handed out her containers of food, with little care packages of wet wipes, and plastic cutlery, Chapstick and some deodorant, and sanitary items for the women.
It wasn’t much but it was her goodbye present. For ten years she had been feeding the homeless six nights a week from her kitchen door. She would worry about them, and though Simon told her they had choices and were like human seagulls, Christa viewed them as her community and it eased the burden of the waste that she saw in the kitchen.
‘Where you off to then?’ asked Mary, scooping stew into her mouth with the wooden spoon that had been taped to the side of the container. Mary had been on the streets since Christa had been at the restaurant and she was as wise as she was erratic, but if you got Mary on a good day she could have given Brené Brown and Oprah a run for their money in life advice.
‘No idea yet – I’ll see what comes up,’ she said.
‘Whatever you do, cook with love. I can taste the sadness in this stew. He’s not worth it, love. Used to tell us to piss off when you weren’t around.’
Christa wasn’t surprised at this titbit of information about Simon. She had heard it before from others on the street. ‘Not enough salt in the stew?’ she asked, avoiding Simon as a topic.
Mary smiled at her, her long grey hair matted to her scalp. ‘Cooking is like love. You should fall into it with complete abandon or not at all.’
‘That’s very poetic, Mary,’ she said.
Mary shrugged. ‘I didn’t write it, I read it somewhere, but you can tell when someone doesn’t like cooking, you can taste it in their food, I reckon. My gran’s golden syrup dumpli
ngs were always sweeter than my mum’s. She hated us kids; that feeling flavoured everything she did.’
Christa looked at the homeless woman who was spooning the food into her mouth, and wondered if you ever stopped thinking about the painful times you endured as a child. How those times changed the course of your life and how you could run from them and then the reminder would come disguised in a simple dish, or the scent of something simmering on the stove, in a song or a saying from a stranger. And she knew deep inside her that she had avoided confronting her past because Simon made it easy for her to ignore it by taking control of her life. She had no idea who she was anymore, let alone what she wanted, but she knew she needed to do something that made a difference to the twelve-year-old Christa, and to the Sams and Marys of the world, and if it was with food then that would be what she did, because food had given her a lifeline once upon a time and she suspected it might just do it again if she trusted whatever was to come next.
2
Christa walked back to the flat she’d once shared with Simon and entered the perfectly beautiful and minimal space – carefully curated by him, of course. Christa preferred a more eclectic environment, but Simon had said it suited their aesthetic for the restaurant and would get them more magazine coverage.
And he was correct. Their home and restaurant were covered in every important interiors magazine with them looking smug, leaning against their expensive joinery and sitting on the arm of their Italian sofa.
They looked so perfect and yet they slept on opposite edges of their shared bed and were polite but cold to each other. They were such different people. Christa wondered how they had ever thought to get married.
But people change and she doubted she would even speak to Simon if she met him now at a party. Once she had been impressed by his money and confidence. Now she wanted to see what people cared about and how they helped others.
Christa turned on the kettle and looked out the window. A sparrow was bouncing around the bird feeder in next door’s tree and she thought about the woman called Avian with Simon. What a terrible name to give a child, she thought. There was no doubt Simon was a flirt but now she wondered if he had seen other women during their marriage. The waitresses who smiled a little too long at him, or the patrons who seemed to always want to play with their hair or adjust their breasts in his vicinity.