Christmas for One: No Greater Love

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Can’t I be the princess?’ Meg asked.

  Milly shook her head as she filled the kettle. ‘Definitely not. You don’t just turn up at the eleventh hour and get the best role of the day. I need commitment! We’ve been playing for four hours and Lucas started off as cabin boy and has only recently been appointed first mate.’

  Meg’s eyes began to well up with tears. Milly set the kettle on the side and put her arm across her back. ‘All right, all right, no need to go all wobbly on me. I didn’t realise it meant that much to you. You can be the princess if you like!’

  Meg shook her head. ‘It’s not that. I’ve had a shitty day. Piers and I have finished.’ She looked up in time to see Milly placing her palms together in a silent prayer of thanks, her eyes skyward.

  ‘I know you didn’t like him, Mills, but I did.’

  ‘No you didn’t, not really,’ Milly said matter-of-factly. ‘And it’s not that I didn’t like him; I liked him very much actually. I just didn’t like how you became when you were with him. I hated seeing you having to try so hard; it shouldn’t be like that. You weren’t yourself and that’s no good, love.’

  ‘Oh God, I know!’ Meg covered her eyes with her palms and sighed. ‘I know. You’re right.’

  ‘Come and sit down.’ Milly removed her bandana and led Meg by the hand until the two slumped down on the soft sofa. ‘Here you go.’ She handed her a tissue.

  ‘Thank you.’ Meg sniffed and blew her nose.

  ‘Darling, you can’t beat yourself up. You were still properly grieving for Bill when you met him. I reckon you weren’t firing on all cylinders and if he in some small way helped you move forward, then it wasn’t all bad, was it?’ Milly tried to be serious, but her beard and moustache were quite distracting.

  ‘I guess not.’ Meg considered. ‘I just hate the idea that I’ve upset him. Piers didn’t deserve that. He was busy making plans for Christmas and wondering how to make it perfect for Lucas—’

  Milly tutted. ‘What were you supposed to do, marry him because you didn’t want to hurt his feelings? Now that would be bonkers!’

  Meg bit her lip and didn’t confess that she had actually considered this. ‘I know you’re right and at the end of the day it boils down to one thing. I didn’t love him, Mills, and I don’t think he really loved me, not the real me.’

  Meg closed her eyes briefly and replayed the previous evening in her head. They had been about to walk into the restaurant to meet Piers’ school friend and his new fiancée when Piers had turned to her and casually remarked, ‘By the way, I told them you’re an orphan – thought that would be easier than mentioning the whole being in care thing.’ He’d then grimaced. Meg had stood in front of him and it was as if a veil had been lifted. ‘Easier for who, Piers?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Oh, Mills, I feel so stupid for letting it go on so long.’

  Milly sighed. ‘Well, you’ve found the courage now and I bet Piers will be hooked up with some suitable young filly before the New Year’s invites go out.’

  Meg ignored the churn to her stomach, unable to explain that even though she didn’t want him, she didn’t want him hooking up with someone else quite so soon either, especially not someone from the right background, with the right contacts. Someone his mother would adore and fawn over, someone that wasn’t like her.

  ‘I guess.’ She fiddled with the fringe of the scarf that lay in her lap. ‘And what about Christmas?’ she groaned. ‘We were supposed to be staying in town together and going up to his parents’ house on Boxing Day.’

  ‘Well at least you don’t have to endure that now!’ Milly grinned.

  Meg smiled. Piers’ parents hardly approved of her single-parent status or the fact that their son was smitten with someone who had gone to a comprehensive school.

  ‘Why don’t I look at flights for you both to come out to Barbados? The villa sounds plenty big enough; Pru and Christopher would love it! Just think,’ Milly chirped, ‘Christmas by the pool, a fancy lunch – lobster, the works – and a large cocktail. It’ll be fab.’

  ‘Barbarbados!’ Lucas shouted as he scooted by the open door.

  Meg shook her head. ‘Thanks, Mills, but I’d like to stay here. I love him waking up in his own bed on Christmas morning…’ Meg let this trail, unable to explain that it was the aspect of her childhood that irked her the most: no warm memories of Christmas morning with presents and a glowing fire. No afternoons on the sofa with full tummies and charades. She was determined to give Lucas a bucketful of traditional festive memories to last him a lifetime. She also wanted to take him to see Bill’s mother, Isabel, in Oxford. It was important that he retained links to his dad’s family.

  ‘The offer’s there if you change your mind.’ Milly smacked the arm of the sofa.

  Meg looked at Milly. ‘Truth is, Mills, I’m scared of being lonely.’

  ‘Lonely? Don’t be ridiculous. How can you be lonely when you’ve got Lucas? And besides, you’re at the threshold of life, about to jump in. Take it from one who knows about loneliness, you’re just starting out.’ Milly folded her arms across her chest as if to emphasise her sixty-nine years on the planet as a single woman. ‘There would be nothing more ’orrible than being saddled with someone you didn’t love or who didn’t love you exactly the way you were.’

  Milly let this point linger. Meg cringed a little. Had it been that obvious that Piers had tried to mould Meg into his ideal woman?

  Milly continued. ‘It wouldn’t have been fair on either of you. If you had stayed with Piers it would have been a half life and that is no life at all, not for you or the boy.’

  Lucas, having abandoned his scooter, ran into the room on cue. Meg smiled at her son.

  ‘I know you’re right. I keep telling myself to man up and get on with things, but I quite liked being someone’s girlfriend. It wasn’t like it was with Bill, not cosy or special, but it made me feel good nonetheless.’

  ‘And you will feel like that again.’ Milly patted her leg. ‘But next time, don’t settle for someone just because he makes all the right noises and is perfect on paper. Go for someone who knocks your socks off and gets your knickers in a spin.’

  ‘A bit like Dimitri and Anna,’ Meg muttered to herself.

  ‘Knocks your socks off!’ Lucas shouted loudly as he charged around the room with his dagger held high.

  Meg looked at Milly and laughed, relieved that Lucas had chosen that part of the phrase to repeat.

  2

  Meg walked briskly along Piccadilly, blowing out foggy breath into the crisp, cold day. Nearly home. She now felt entirely comfortable in this postcode, where, years ago, she had felt like an interloper, looking over her shoulder in case she got turfed out and sent back to her cousin’s grim flat in Marylebone. Home was still the apartment above Milly’s, and Meg wondered, as she did on occasion, whether she should spread her wings and move from the safety of Curzon Street. But with Milly on the floor below and her friend Guy in the bakery, always ready to natter over a cup of coffee or amuse Lucas at a moment’s notice, there was nowhere she’d rather be.

  A small part of her felt she should fly the nest that had kept her safe during the worst of her grief over Bill. But as Pru had once told her, the road to recovery was more like a dance, with steps left, right and backwards; as long as you arrived at happiness, Pru had advised, no one would give a fig how you’d got there. It was now December the second, about forty-eight hours since she and Piers had broken up, and bar a couple of drunken texts sent in the wee small hours, in which he’d declared his undying love and suggested they meet, there had been no contact between them. Her hectic schedule as Plum Patisserie enjoyed its pre-Christmas surge meant Meg hardly had time to think. But Lucas was happy and seemed quite oblivious to his mum’s working hours.

  In the last two years, Plum Patisserie had opened new bakeries and cafés in towns and cities all over Britain, as well as branches in Barcelona and Auckland. It was Meg’s responsibility to oversee them. She had been a
t the Windsor store that day, one of several she’d visited in the last couple of weeks. Since Pru had stepped down from day-to-day operations, spending more and more time with her new husband in Salcombe, Meg and Milly had worked side by side, taking the business to new heights. Pru and Milly both agreed that Meg’s energy and ideas had given Plum Patisserie the shot in the arm that was needed to expand. And expand it had, all the while remaining faithful to the spirit and style of the Curzon Street flagship. Meg loved the way that in each of their outlets, whether in Bath with its beautiful Georgian façade or Edinburgh where the café nestled within walls of dark grey stone, the interior always echoed that of the Mayfair original. The brass and glass display cabinets, dark wood, bistro panelling and vintage lighting were all replicated perfectly. She felt at home in every one of them.

  The recipes for the cakes, tortes, buns and breads sold in each store and café were also executed to Plum’s exacting standards. Finding the right calibre of staff had been easy. Plum’s reputation went before it and bakers and pâtissiers of note sent their applications by the sackload, keen to be part of the growing success story that was Plum Patisserie.

  Guy and his managers personally trained every team of bakers and whether they were in Solihull or Lymington, everyone used the same ingredients and followed the prescribed methods. Pru and Milly had insisted on this. ‘Quality and presentation are everything!’ Meg had had this drummed into her and could now at a glance tell if the sirop de citron was made with fresh lemons, just by the colour of the glaze on a bun. And if a cherry, no matter how hidden in its almond-infused crème pâtissière, was not the dark, dark colour required, it would be rejected. Canned or frozen substitutes just wouldn’t do.

  This year, every one of the outlets was carrying the Plum Patisserie Christmas range that Meg and Guy had spent hours perfecting. The results were stunning: spiced apple and mincemeat tarts with flaky pastry tops dusted in powdered sugar; brandy-infused mini Christmas puddings with tiny crystallised pomegranate berries garnishing their shiny domes; chunky individual cranberry and walnut loaves that came wrapped in Plum Patisserie waxed paper and were best eaten warm, when the moist crumbs melted on your tongue; soft-baked cinnamon and oat-crusted Christmas cookies threaded with chunks of dark chocolate and crushed macadamia nuts. There was a whole range of festive drinks to accompany them, including pumpkin-spiced cinnamon latte and cranberry and orange tea. Meg’s favourite, though, was the luxuriously rich chocolat chaud – just perfect on a cold day. Made from the finest bittersweet organic French chocolate, it was served in a large white bowl that required both hands for sipping. It arrived in front of grateful customers with dark curls of mint-infused chocolat noir scattered across the surface. These stuck to the roof of the mouth and sent one’s tastebuds crazy. Each drink came with a generous paper twist of candied peel and nuts, just one of the little touches that set Plum Patisserie apart from its rivals.

  Meg yawned. It had been a long day; her train from Windsor had arrived in Waterloo an hour ago. She had battled through the windswept city, trying to hide her face from the light rain that fell. En route she had been tempted by yet another gift for Lucas. This time it was a brightly coloured jack-in-the-box that caught her eye. She knew that when the lid flipped and the garish clown popped his head from the tin her little boy would shriek and make her do it again and again. She couldn’t wait to give him all his gifts on Christmas morning. She loved the fact that he now properly understood Christmas and was as interested in his presents as he was in the wrapping paper and boxes they arrived in. It gave her so much joy to see Lucas having the type of Christmas that she had only ever dreamt of. Her thoughts flew to the three-bedroomed semi-detached house in Tall Trees Avenue and a stuffed pink unicorn that had been hers for the briefest time.

  Nipping into Babbo’s in Mayfair, Meg picked up two hearty portions of chicken parmigiana; that would be plenty for the three of them. Lucas would love the spaghetti and she and Milly would scoop the garlicky tomato sauce, thick slices of milky mozzarella and crunchy breaded chicken on to warm, fresh-baked crusty bread. She considered buying a bottle of red but decided against it, knowing her capacity for alcohol was limited and she had another busy day tomorrow.

  The last time she had drunk had been at a pub lunch with Piers, at the Old Red Cow in Smithfield. They had shared a cheese board, with pear chutney and oat cakes, as they sipped at cold pints of strong dark ale. Piers had tutted at her choice of drink, asking if she wouldn’t prefer something a little more ladylike. She had snorted her laughter and asked what he would suggest – Babycham? She felt the familiar cringe and wave of sadness wash through her. She had tried too hard to be the girlfriend she thought he wanted and in doing so had lost part of herself. Never again. She would heed Milly’s advice and the next time would only jump for someone who got her knickers in a spin and knocked her socks off, someone who loved her exactly how she was. She smiled at the idea of taking advice from a woman who drew moustaches on her face with indelible ink and spent hours of each day dressed as a pirate. No wonder she was single.

  Meg’s knee-high boots clicked on the icy pavement. Gathering her warm, camel-coloured coat about her neck, she lowered her head against the cold wind that whipped up the leaves and sent the litter in the gutters swirling. She slowed as she approached the display window at Plum’s. ‘Evening, Dimitri, Anna. Still smiling? Good, good. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think that triple salchow is really coming on.’

  Meg looked up at the foggy window of the café. It was twenty minutes until closing time and Guy looked dead on his feet. She knew he had had quite a day; the team from Good Housekeeping magazine had been in to photograph the Plum Patisserie range for Valentine’s Day – as always, they were thinking and planning ahead, crucial if they were to meet the long lead time of the glossies. The shop and café were packed and a queue of customers, both tourists and locals, snaked down Curzon Street. Everyone was eager for some warm freshly baked boules de campagne and a few slices of the ever-popular, deliciously crumbly winter-spiced tarte aux pommes.

  Guy caught sight of Meg and knocked on the window. She let herself in, to the accompaniment of the little brass bell that tinkled overhead on the doorframe. She inhaled the smell of freshly ground coffee, hoping it might give her a lift.

  ‘Hey, chérie! How was Windsor? Has the Queen been in to the new store yet?’ Guy smiled.

  ‘Not yet!’ Meg laughed. ‘Busy day?’

  ‘Phew! You are not kidding.’ Guy mopped at his noticeably un-fevered, powdered brow. ‘It’s been crazy! I’m looking forward to a hot bath, a foot rub and a large glass of gin – not necessarily in that order.’ He giggled. ‘Want to see the photos we got today? The Valentine’s Day range is simply magnifique!’

  ‘Ooh yes!’ Meg called on the last of her energy reserves and followed him down the back stairs to the floor below. Guy raced ahead so that when she entered the office he was already standing there with his arms spread wide and two large prints dangling from his hands. They showed a beautiful selection of romantic fancies: cupcakes crowned with fondant red hearts, white chocolate tortes with pink mallow hearts falling in a decadent flutter from tier to tier, and brioches baked in heart-shaped moulds and dusted with sliced strawberries and icing sugar.

  ‘Oh, they look wonderful!’ Meg enthused.

  ‘They do, don’t they? I had to sample them all.’ He patted his flat stomach.

  ‘You get all the good jobs, Guy. Mind you, if I ate what you did every day, I’d be the size of a bloody bus!’

  Swooping forward, he kissed her forehead. ‘You would be the prettiest bus in Mayfair.’

  ‘Thanks. I think.’ Meg laughed. ‘Better be getting back. I’ve got supper here and Lucas will be getting hungry.’ She lifted the bag of chicken parmigiana.

  ‘That poor child will think all food comes in brown paper bags. Do you ever cook for him?’ Guy tutted.

  ‘When I have the time!’ Meg replied without hesitation.

  ‘Tou
ché. Ooh, give him this from me!’ Guy reached behind her and plucked one of the Valentine’s cupcakes from the shelf. ‘Tell him his Uncle Guy made it from scratch. Or should I put it into a paper bag so he knows it’s food?’ He winked.

  ‘You are so not funny.’ Meg inhaled the rich vanilla-scented sponge and lightly prodded the thick pool of fondant icing. ‘And I can’t lie. I haven’t eaten all day and this will probably not survive the walk up the stairs.’

  ‘I’ll be checking – Lucas tells me everything!’ Guy turned on his heel and swept out of the office. Meg laughed. He was right, he and Lucas certainly shared a lovely bond.

  She walked into the flat to find Milly on the phone and pacing the hallway as she tutted and shook her head in response to the caller. Meg waved and pointed at the bag of supper. Milly rolled her eyes and pointed to the sitting room, indicating that that was where she would find her little boy.

  Over the four years Meg had lived in the flat, she had stamped her own personality on the interior; gone were some of the fusty oil paintings, replaced by big, bold prints that added a splash of colour to the neutral decor. An enormous leather beanbag sat in pride of place in the sitting room and Lucas’s toys were dotted around, bringing just the right amount of hominess to the grand Georgian design.

  Meg leant against the wall and pulled off her boots, flexing her newly freed toes against the marble floor, enjoying the coolness of the tiles beneath her tired feet.

  ‘Lucas!’ she called, holding the cupcake out like bait.

  ‘Mummy!’ He ran from the sitting room.

  ‘Hey, baby.’ She bent down and smothered his face with kisses. ‘Guy sent you a cake. You can have it after your tea, okay?’

  Lucas nodded and went back to the telly. Having grown up with fine patisserie and fresh baking all around him, such a gift was nothing special.

  She switched the oven on and removed the lids of the foil containers, releasing the glorious smell of garlicky chicken parmigiana into the room before placing the food on the top shelf to heat through.