Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage

by Katie Ginger

  Still at the doorway, holding a tissue to her eyes, Felicity’s voice was almost childlike as she said, ‘Even though this unfounded accusation has damaged our relationship beyond repair, Esme, I’m a professional and if you apologise, I’ll try and move on.’

  Could she apologise? Could she say she was wrong and back down now? Was she even sure she was right? Esme took a deep breath but her mind was made up. Sometimes you had to be strong and stand up for yourself. It’s what her gran had taught her and she wouldn’t back down now. The secret ingredient and method were too similar, she wasn’t mistaken. Esme’s shoulders and neck hurt from the tension, even her legs ached, but she shook her head again. ‘I’m sorry, Sasha, but I won’t apologise. I’m right.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I have no choice, Esme. This counts as gross misconduct so it’s instant dismissal.’ Esme felt the tears spring to her eyes but there was no way she would cry in front of Felicity and David.

  ‘I’ve been sacked?’ Her voice sounded strange where she had to force the words past the ball of anger and hurt lodged in her throat. It didn’t seem real. Somehow Esme managed to back out of the room while her whole body sparked with suppressed rage. Visibly shaking, she edged passed Felicity and left.

  ***

  The glittering Christmas lights of London sparkled in the evening darkness. Giant snowflake lights hung high in the air, twinkling overhead, but Esme barely noticed them through her tears. She walked into someone, mumbled an apology and carried on with her head down. The heavy crowds of tourists bustled around her and snippets of Christmas songs carried on the air from the shops she passed. Instead of enjoying the wonderful Christmas vibe – that special atmosphere of excitement Esme loved most about London at this time of year – she dipped her head and marched on as fast as she could. By the time she reached her and Leo’s apartment, tears were flowing freely down her cheeks.

  Unbuttoning her heavy winter coat, she hung it on the rack then loosened her scarf, feeling drained and exhausted. Walking into the kitchen, she knew there was only one thing she could do to make herself feel better. Cook. She’d make Leo’s favourite meal. A nice thick, juicy steak, rare and pink in the middle, and a proper béarnaise sauce with lots of good French butter and fresh tarragon. She’d even make asparagus roasted with sea salt as a side dish. A small smile crept over Esme’s face as she searched the fridge for the ingredients but it was instantly replaced by a frown and cold teardrops on her cheeks. How could things have gone so badly wrong today? She shouldn’t have acted on impulse and marched in there. She should have waited and thought about what to do. Now she’d thrown her job away and her heart was filled with regret.

  Leo got up from the sofa. ‘Esme, you’re home.’

  ‘Yep. And I got fired,’ Esme replied, matter-of-fact, chopping the butter into small cubes before turning to see his face frozen in panic.

  ‘What?’ He looked even more shocked than she’d expected and walked to the window to stare out, gripping the hair at the back of his head. She’d hoped for a hug but as he stayed where he was, she poured two glasses of wine and took them over. When he turned back he reached for his wine, then his dark grey eyes gazed at her with concern.

  ‘What happ—’

  Esme bit back tears but took a deep breath. ‘Felicity stole my recipe again. One of Grandma’s. She must have overheard me talking about it with Helena at lunch yesterday and then decided to pitch it before I could. When I went to Sasha’s office this evening, she was there saying it was her family recipe. I was so upset, Leo, and I don’t know why, but I went in there and confronted her.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Esme rubbed her throbbing forehead. ‘I don’t know why I did it either. Well, I do. I did I because it was the right thing to do. She was even claiming it was from her granny and you know how long I’ve waited to share this special recipe but couldn’t bring myself to do it.’

  Finally, Leo reached out to her but didn’t pull her into a hug, he touched her hand. He was clearly struggling to process everything she’d said. ‘Are you sure you were right? I mean, I know you’ve said before about her doing this, but couldn’t it just be a coincidence? You can be a bit dramatic sometimes.’

  Esme wiped a tear from her cheek. Leo was always saying she was being dramatic when she lost her temper or got upset. His clear, decisive mind didn’t get her passionate, emotional one, and maybe she was being dramatic, but it didn’t stop her being right. ‘A coincidence? No. That’s what she’s claiming but she even said about using maple syrup and chilling the mixture first. She could only’ve known that if she was ear-wigging.’ Esme thrust her hand into her mop of ragged curls. ‘It’s one thing to steal a recipe but another to steal a grandma. She probably doesn’t even have one anymore. I bet she devoured hers like a praying mantis. And she’s tried to make it three layers instead of two. It won’t work as triple layers, it’ll just slide about then fall over, not unless you make the sponge thicker or use something other than double cream as a filling.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ He turned to face her, his expression tense.

  Esme feigned a hopefulness she didn’t feel. ‘I’m sure I’ll pick something else up quickly, in a few months; or worst-case scenario, I’ll go freelance.’ Suddenly, Leo took her hand and led her to the table.

  ‘Esme, can you come and sit down, please? I need to talk to you.’ Esme paused. His face was serious as he placed his wine glass down, and her heart thudded in her chest. For the last few months he’d been secretive and she and her friends thought maybe he was going to propose. Was this the moment? Sat on the chair, next to their tiny dining table, he knelt down in front of her and Esme’s heart rocketed up into her throat. She took a big breath in and bit the insides of her cheeks to stop herself grinning like a fool.

  ‘Esme, I’m sorry, I should have done this weeks ago, the timing is terrible.’ She wanted to shout that it wasn’t. It wasn’t at all. It was perfect timing. Leo raked a hand through his hair and she watched, hoping his hand would reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a tiny box. ‘I know today’s been difficult for you and I …’ He shook his head. ‘I should’ve done this before now.’

  Esme bit her lip. She was going to get married!

  ‘I think we should break up,’ Leo announced.

  Her mouth opened then closed again as she stared at him in disbelief. What? What had just happened? Everything fell silent except for the blood pounding in her ears and her short gasps of breath as she tried to control her emotions. Leo’s eyes dropped and he stood up.

  ‘I just feel we’ve become friends more than husband-and-wife material, don’t you? And I think it’d be the best thing for both of us if we just moved on. Don’t you think so?’

  If he’d hoped for some kind of agreement from Esme, he was going to be disappointed. ‘But it’s nearly Christmas,’ she said quietly.

  ‘It’s not even mid-November, Esme. It’s nowhere near Christmas.’ Leo went to the window. His slightly curmudgeonly attitude to Christmas suddenly seemed far less endearing and much more Scrooge-like, and as if to confirm it, he said, ‘I can give you a few days to move your stuff out, you don’t have to go right now. I’m not a monster.’

  Dazed, Esme tried to think but she couldn’t, she could only feel – and all she felt was that she had to get out. She stood and placed her wine glass on the table, then went and picked up her handbag from the sofa. As she retrieved her coat from the rack, Leo said, ‘Esme, where are you going? We can still have dinner and—’

  She closed the door softly behind her.

  Esme trudged through the rain to the Singapore Sling, ignoring it soaking her hair and running down her face, mixing with her tears. She’d left her hat and scarf at the flat, but wasn’t going back for them. She’d rather get wet. Every fibre of her being felt crushed. As she descended the steps to the cellar bar, leaving the world behind, a drop of rain fell from the sign and trickled down the back of her neck. She wanted to hid
e. To hibernate below ground and never come out.

  After an emergency call to Helena, her friends were with her in half an hour. Esme’s heart, pounded and punched by the day’s events, felt broken and bruised. When she thought of Leo, the last thread of love snapped and her heart deflated like a burst balloon. She could even picture it in her chest all floppy, sad and wrinkled.

  Mark, Lola and Helena gathered around Esme, open-mouthed and with drinks untouched as she told them all the details of her day from hell. Dance music thumped in the background and harsh neon lights lit their usual table in the corner. At least the DJ wasn’t playing Christmas songs. The last thing Esme wanted right now was Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ blasting out while her life hit an all-time low. Having finished, Esme couldn’t stop the great sob that emerged in a high-pitched puff of air, making Mark and Helena jump.

  ‘Christ, sweetie,’ said Mark, ‘you need more than just a drink after all that.’

  ‘I don’t think I can stomach one right now.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he replied. ‘What you need is an enormous cocktail with a little umbrella in.’ His bright blue eyes popped against his dark hair and olive skin. ‘And as for that witch, well—’

  Esme sobbed.

  ‘And Leo is a complete knob,’ said Lola. ‘I can’t believe after five years together this is how he treats you.’

  ‘What will you do now?’ Helena asked sympathetically. Esme simply shrugged. ‘Tomorrow you need to go out and register with agencies,’ she commanded. Helena was scarily matter-of-fact and dealt with everything with an almost military attitude. Esme watched the bubbles fizz in her glass. She had no idea what life beyond today would look like. She didn’t yet know if she’d make it to tomorrow. ‘You can stay with us as long as you need to,’ Helena added, glancing at Mark as they were housemates. But Esme didn’t fancy sleeping on their sofa for the foreseeable future. And Eric, Lola’s other half, worked from home so their spare room had been turned into an office. She let out a giant sigh.

  ‘I’ll have to move back home for a bit, won’t I? I can’t rent in London without a job and I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get another one. I haven’t got any savings and I can’t scrounge off you guys indefinitely.’ She leaned forward and rested her head on the table as a raindrop dripped from her soaking wet hair onto her nose.

  ‘It wouldn’t be scrounging, you’re our friend,’ replied Lola. ‘If Felicity Fenchurch walked in here right now, I’d punch her on the nose.’

  Helena rubbed Esme’s back. ‘From what you’ve said, back home isn’t exactly—’

  ‘London?’ offered Esme. ‘No, it’s not. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Could you freelance and commute in?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Too far and too expensive.’

  ‘What about some catering work? You know, weddings and stuff?’ suggested Helena.

  Esme hesitated. ‘Yeah, maybe. But I’d still need a good reference and I don’t think I’m going to get one of those now.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lola. ‘You could write that cookery book you’re always talking about.’

  Lola had been Esme’s best friend since school and knew her inside out. They came from the same town, went to the same university and had moved to London when they’d finished their studies, living together in a grotty two-bedroom flat above a kebab shop. She was also eternally optimistic, which was both helpful and, at times, annoying. ‘You need to see this as an opportunity, not a setback. Okay, so you move back home for a bit. Without having to pay stupidly high London rent, and without your time being taken up by Felicity, you could write your cookbook and get it published. This is your chance to focus on it.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ asked Esme, who felt a tiny spark of hope in the darkness of the last few hours.

  ‘Of course you could,’ agreed Helena. ‘You’re the best food tech around. Not only that, you’re great at creating recipes too.’

  Mark nodded. ‘You look at this mess. Felicity thought your recipes were so good she wanted to steal them. And when I think about all the dinner parties where you’ve cooked for us, OMG! That salmon thing you made when I split up with Andrew? Trust me, it made it all worthwhile.’

  Esme smiled and nudged Mark with her shoulder. ‘What would I do without you guys?’

  ‘Die of thirst, probably. I’m going to get another round.’

  ‘Where will you stay tonight?’ asked Helena, taking Esme’s hand. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to go back to the flat.’

  ‘She’s staying with me and Eric, aren’t you?’ said Lola. ‘But you’re not borrowing my pants like you did at university.’

  ‘I had an excuse then,’ Esme replied. ‘I didn’t know how to do washing.’ But suddenly her face clouded in concern. ‘There is one thing.’

  ‘What?’ asked Mark, pausing on his way to get more drinks. ‘After everything you’ve been though today, I can’t believe there’s anything worse to deal with.’

  ‘Oh yes there is,’ replied Esme, resting her head on the table and speaking from under her arms. ‘I still have to tell my mother.’

  ‘Well, you’re on your own there, love,’ said Helena, smiling. ‘I’ve met your mum and she is batshit crazy.’

  Chapter 2

  Sandchester

  Joe Holloway made a Herculean effort to laugh at his friend Danny’s joke. It wasn’t that the joke wasn’t funny – Danny’s jokes were always funny – but laughing felt unnatural to Joe and had done for a long time.

  He stared into his pint glass and swilled the liquid around, then drained it in one big gulp. Even though it was only a normal Wednesday night, the pub was full of his friends and the people he’d known all his life, laughing and chatting. He’d been back for a few years now and everyone in the small town had welcomed him with soothing noises, but it was the pity he couldn’t stand. It still came out in the nervous glances directed his way and the gentle, careful conversation.

  Their usual pub hadn’t changed since he was a teenager, drinking underage. The only thing that was different was the music. The Britpop of the Nineties had been replaced by warbling women singing with fake husky voices, or middle-aged rock pop that made him want to grab the controls and turn it over. Danny’s hand hit his shoulder and squeezed. A squeeze that signified he was becoming morbid again. Introverted and, as Danny so kindly put it, a killjoy.

  Joe glanced up from his stool and studied the scratched wooden bar before giving a weak smile. Danny nodded towards the two grinning ladies with a cheeky wink and Joe made an effort to smile at the taller woman. He recognised the signs. Her glances from under long eyelashes, eye contact that lingered a little too long. It was getting late, almost ten-thirty, and he should be thinking of heading off. He had work tomorrow, but that hadn’t stopped him before and wouldn’t now. That ‘one quick drink’ had ended up being two or three, then four or five, and now he couldn’t remember how many he’d had. The two women Danny was chatting up were smiling and laughing, caressing wine glasses in long slim fingers. The tall blonde glanced at Joe again, cocking her head to the side so her hair fanned out. She swept it all back over one shoulder. What was her name again? She’d told him when Danny invited them over but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. Did it start with an A? Annie? Amelia? Something like that. He frowned, trying to remember as she came closer and leaned against the bar. She wasn’t dressed in a short skirt or dress, or covered in make-up – the usual Saturday night get-ups. She wore jeans and a tight jumper. She was cute.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself much?’

  Joe glanced up and studied her face. She was pretty. At least, she was pretty after the few too many he’d had. Almond-shaped eyes, nice figure. Danny nudged him again and gave him a knowing look. Joe shook his head and returned to his drink. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  He didn’t feel like saying anything else right now so tapped his finger in time with the music playing in the bac
kground. The trouble was women often took his lack of chit chat as him playing the strong and silent type. It wasn’t. He wasn’t brooding either. He was just so bloody depressed he often didn’t speak at all, for hours, days if he could help it. From the corner of his eye he saw Angela, or whatever her name was, shuffling uncomfortably.

  ‘Do you still work at the estate agent’s in town?’ she asked, running her fingers down the stem of her empty wine glass.

  Joe nodded at the barman and nudged his glass forward. Fred refilled it. He scratched his stubbled cheek. ‘Um, yeah. Do you want a drink?’He didn’t really want to buy her one, but he had that longing again. A longing to be held, a longing for physical contact, for intimacy. For sex.

  A slow smile spread over her face. ‘I thought you’d never ask. Dry white wine please,’ she said to Fred. Her hair was just like Clara’s, the colour of straw. Joe turned away at the familiar surge of nausea that arose whenever he thought of her. His throat tightened. If only things had been different.

  Fred delivered his drink and one for … Amy? Joe took his and gulped, numbing the pain. If he kept it locked away, he was able to make it through the day pretty much intact and in the evenings threw himself into video games. It was soothing entering another world where he didn’t have to be himself.

  ‘You’re not very talkative, are you? Just like when you were at school.’

  ‘We were at school together?’ he asked, not looking up.

  That was the other shitty thing about coming back. He saw all these people he’d gone to school with. All those who’d thought he was cool. Joe scoffed to himself and felt Amanda glance at him. He wasn’t cool anymore. He was a loser, the biggest loser he knew, with a giant, steaming turd of a life.