She could tell that he was in heaven, as long as he put out of his mind the fact that he would be recreating this dish on live national television in three days’ time, he was having a wonderful time tinkering about with the contents of the spice rack. This was how he spent most of his spare time anyway, just pottering about the kitchen wondering what tarragon and cinnamon tasted like mixed together. Not nice, apparently. Even when they went out for dinner he tried to guess every single ingredient in each dish, which sounded like it should be annoying, but she never found it so. She had tried to join in at first, but after getting pork and chicken confused in one of their early games, she felt that her input lacked credibility.
‘Why don’t you make those awesome cranberry muffins you made last Christmas? They were yummy.’ It had been so sweet, it was their first Christmas together and he’d hidden his phone under his pillow so when the alarm vibrated it wouldn’t wake her, then he’d piled a tray full of goodies, warm muffins, champagne – the real stuff, not the fizzy imitation of their first date – and a little stack of parcels neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with raffia string and a little sprig of mistletoe and brought it into the bedroom, wearing nothing but a Santa hat and a smile.
‘No, Jamie Oliver has cornered the market on breakfast muffins, Gordon Ramsay owns eggs and smoked salmon, so I’m thinking that I’m going to go with gingerbread and treacle butter. What do you think?’
‘Sounds amazeballs. Can we wait a couple of hours until the next tasting session, though, I need to lie flat for a while.’ He laughed as she jumped off the bar stool and pretended to waddle like a sumo wrestler out of the room, even turning sideways to walk through the door.
She was just at the part of the film where Colin Firth’s manuscript has blown into the lake and the Portuguese girl has stripped off and is diving in to get it when the front door slammed and Rachel came bounding up the stairs.
‘Jeez, you know it’s Christmas when Love Actually gets dusted off.’
‘You know it. And shush, I love this bit – come under here and watch it with me.’ Jayne lifted up one side of the fleecy blanket and Rachel snuck under it. Jayne crinkled her nose. ‘You smell of booze.’
‘It was the Christmas party last night. I’m allowed to.’
‘But it’s 11am.’
‘I haven’t had a shower yet.’
‘That’s really skanky.’
‘I know,’ Rachel yawned, ‘I’ll go in a minute, just after Hugh Grant knocks on all the doors. I like that bit.’
‘So who was the lucky man this time?’
‘I stayed at Kyra’s.’
‘Really?’ Jayne knew that this was a very unlikely story, consuming alcohol and sleeping alone never usually happened on the same night for Rachel.
Having such an unstable upbringing had affected the sisters in different ways – Jayne yearned for an aga, estate car and golden retriever, whereas Rachel was showing all the signs of having their mother’s attention span when it came to romance. But of course Jayne would never say that to her.
She didn’t actually know why Rachel wanted to sleep with so many men. In every other aspect of her life she was so self-assured and poised, and yet she seemed to need this added clarification from strangers as to her attractiveness, or maybe she was just reading too much into it, and it was merely to relieve a bit of boredom. She knew that watching box sets with her and Will every evening had a shelf life, and maybe indulging in one-night stands was a just a fun way to break the monotony of another season of Mad Men.
‘Really.’ Rachel replied. ‘What? You can phone her and ask her if you like!’
‘Steady on, I was only asking.’
‘Sorry, I’m hung-over and stinky, and desperately need a shower and to brush my teeth, but now I never want to move from this blanket.’
‘It’s okay. And you’re in luck, Will is preparing the best hangover cure ever at this exact moment – gingerbread and treacle something.’
‘Is that what he’s cooking for the show?’
‘He thinks so. He’s been trying different things out this morning, but that’s the current favourite. He has to give them the recipe tomorrow morning so their cooks can make ‘the one he made earlier’.’
‘Hang on,’ Rachel shifted position so she was facing her sister, ‘so when they take something out of the oven and say ‘here’s one I did earlier’, they’re lying?’
‘Of course they are. You didn’t think that the chef had been in the kitchen for hours making the same dish twice?’
‘What about on Blue Peter when they did that thing with yoghurt pots?’
‘Same thing. Didn’t you notice how the one they were meant to have done earlier was always better than the one they were doing in real time? That’s because it was a proper artist person doing the earlier one.’
‘No. You’re making this up. I’m going to ask Will. When I can be bothered to move.’
They both then sighed as a desperate Emma Thompson listened to Joni Mitchell after finding out that Alan Rickman had bought his secretary a necklace.
‘Bastard.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Oh Jesus, is it Love Actually time again? Didn’t you just watch this?’ Will was balancing three plates as he backed into the living room, ‘Here, try this. I don’t know if the ratio of ginger and mixed spice is quite right. I put in nearly two tablespoons of ginger, but it might need more of a kick.’
Each plate had two slices of warm gingerbread cake on it, a dollop of treacle butter with tantalisingly small bits of honeycomb melting over the top of it.
‘Oh. My. Gob, piff if amabing,’ Jayne picked up a crumb from the sofa where it had fallen out of her mouth.
‘Do you really think so? Is it good enough for TV, do you think?’
‘Yes, absolutely, it’s gorgeous. Now look, Jayne’s starting a vicious rumour about the one chefs prepare earlier. Is it true that it’s all a big con?’
Will put his hand up to stem Rachel talking. ‘No comment. All questions now have to go through my agent.’
A blanket of remarkable calm had descended over the flat in the run-up to the show. Jayne knew that Will had been rehearsing his patter in front of the bathroom mirror because a) she’d heard him through the door and b) he’d left a small saucepan and a stopwatch next to his toothbrush. She’d offered to tape him rehearsing so he could watch it back to see it for himself, but he said that would make him more nervous if he could see what an idiot he probably looked. He was due to be on just after the regional news at 11.08, and they’d told all their friends to watch.
Rachel was in the sports bar over the road from her office with her colleague Kyra – they’d persuaded the manager to turn off re-runs of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and tune into Good Morning, which the handful of alcoholic racing enthusiasts weathered with surprisingly good humour.
Over at Pine Grove, Helen had commandeered the TV in the residents’ morning room and was holding a coffee morning, with Will as the entertainment. Michaela and Darren were out on the studio floor, sandwiched behind the row of cameras and in front of a group of mesmerised A-level media studies students on a field trip. Duncan had taken the day off and was keeping Jayne company in the green room while Will was being walked through the set and having some foundation and bronzer put on his face, much to his best friend’s mirth.
‘Duncan, sit down, you’re making me nervous,’ Jayne said, chewing what was left of her nails.
‘Sorry, this is just so exciting.’ He bounced up and down on the blue sofa, ‘Who do you reckon has sat in this exact seat?’
‘Everyone – they even had David Cameron on a few weeks ago.’
‘Never mind him, what about Kelly Brook?’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘Why’s it called the green room and it’s not green?’
‘I think it dates back to theatres in olden times, or something, do you want a croissant?’ Jayne walked across to the table where fresh pastries and big jugs of juice
and water sat alongside coffee and tea. She thought she might actually throw up if she ate anything, but just sitting watching Will get his microphone clipped onto his new v-necked t-shirt via the big wall-mounted monitor was making her heart beat loudly in her chest, so she had to do something to stop herself staring at the screen.
All the way to the studio he’d been buzzing, like a little kid high on sugar and e-numbers, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his man bag, his mouth alternating between whistling and humming, but now, seeing him on the TV making the final check of the ingredients in front of him, he looked completely serene. Standing there, beautifully cool and coolly beautiful, mere seconds away from addressing the nation, Jayne realised this was exactly where he was supposed to be.
‘Ten seconds to air, nine, eight …’
Will ran his tongue over his teeth again, he didn’t know why. He hadn’t eaten yet today so there’s no way any stray spinach could have jumped up into his mouth without him noticing. The host, Clarissa, was standing so close to him, he could smell her perfume: a cloying floral scent he didn’t recognise.
‘Ready?’ She flashed him a quick, genuine smile before replacing it with the fixed toothy beam familiar to the viewers. ‘And welcome back! Today we have a real treat, a chef who’s taken the Internet by storm with his short film series of delicious dishes, and he’s here today to show us how to make an indulgent breakfast for Christmas morning. It’s Will Scarlet. Hello and welcome, Will.’
‘Hi Clarissa. Thank you for having me.’ Smiling warmly, straight into the camera he said, ‘And hello to everyone at home. Today I’m going to make some lovely soft gingerbread with a very decadent treacle butter. It’s going to fill your house with those gorgeous festive aromas – ginger and cinnamon, as well as being a truly debauched start to the day, which if you can’t have on Christmas Day, when can you?’
Picking up little bowls of butter, sugar, treacle and syrup he started tipping them all into a pan, ‘You need your oven heated to 170 for this, so it’s a good idea to do this breakfast just before you pop your turkey in, and remember to warn little people zooming about the house on their new roller skates that the oven’s hot. Okay, so once this mixture has dissolved completely, sift together the flour and spices and in another bowl – one like this is perfect – whisk together the eggs and half a cup of buttermilk. Most grocery stores stock this in the dairy aisle – if you can’t find it, don’t worry, it’s super-easy to make yourself: one cup of milk mixed with one spoon of white vinegar or lemon juice. Then you just need to fold the syrup mixture into the flour, and then the butter, pour it into a loaf tin and bake in the oven for about thirty minutes. Now Clarissa, I’m going to get you involved now. I’m hoping that you’re a bit of a pro with a food processor?’
‘I can press the on button if that’s all that’s needed?’ she simpered, fluttering her eyelash extensions.
‘Well, that’s about the level of expertise you need for this, so that’s excellent! Okay, just whizz together slightly crushed honeycomb, butter and treacle for a few seconds, not too long as you don’t want to drown out the Christmas radio for too long do you? That’s all part of the experience.’
‘Speaking of Christmas music, what’s your favourite festive song, Will?’
He put on some oven gloves and expertly removed the cake the crew did earlier from the oven. ‘Well, it used to be The Pogues, until I really listened to the words and realised that after twenty years of singing it it’s actually got very depressing lyrics, so my guilty Christmas favourite is actually Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas,’ He looked up into the camera. ‘But please don’t judge me for that! But to be honest, in my house the Christmas CD goes on somewhere around mid-November, so even Cliff’s ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ gets a fair amount of air time in my kitchen! Okay, and we’re almost there – now just slice the bread into inch-thick slices and dollop a generous spoonful of this sumptuous butter on top, and look, you can see it starting to melt and ooze down the sides now – and there you have it, a stunningly simple but incredibly luxurious start to the festivities.’
‘Will, thank you, it’s been an absolute pleasure,’
‘Thank you for having me. I’ve really enjoyed it, and happy Christmas.’
‘To you too. We’ll be back after this short break with some fabulous fashion for the over-forties, so stay tuned for some glam party looks that are sure to turn heads.’
As the red light went off on the three cameras in front of them the studio buzzed into action. Assistants ran onto the set setting up an impromptu catwalk and two harassed-looking women from the costume department started frantically dabbing at the front of Clarissa’s shirt where a fleck of stray butter had landed. Clarissa’s co-host, who had been sitting on the side during the cookery segment sauntered over holding out his fake-tanned hand, ‘Hi Will, I’m Graham. You’re a natural, that was great. Looks like I’m going to have competition with the ladies if you become a regular on the show!’
Clarissa smiled amidst the flurry of activity around her chest, and a make-up artist who was now unnecessarily topping up her blusher. ‘Will, that was incredible. I think I may now be a little bit in love with you.’ She laughed a little bit too loudly for a little bit too long.
‘I really enjoyed it. Thank you for having me.’
‘Thirty seconds to air, twenty nine …’
A clipboard-carrying assistant came onto the set to chivvy Will back to the green room, where Duncan and Jayne were hugging each other, bouncing around the room. Jayne flew at him as soon as he walked through the door, clasping him tight and covering him in kisses. ‘Darling, you were amazing! Beyond amazing! Absolutely brilliant!’
‘Mate, that was top. Really good,’ Duncan pulled him in for a hug and some manly backslapping.
‘Are you sure I didn’t look like a pillock?’
‘No, and I would tell you,’ replied Duncan honestly.
‘You were brilliant, baby, as though you do this all day every day.’ Just then the door opened and Michaela glided in, followed by a grinning Darren, who was laden down with his rucksack and Michaela’s own handbag and folders.
‘Will, darling, you were sensational.’ She gave him two enthusiastic air kisses, ‘I’ve just had a quick chat with the executive producer and he wants to book you for two more segments in the run-up to Christmas, so next Tuesday and the one after that as well. He’s calling me with more info after the show ends, so keep your phone with you this arvo and I’ll revert then.’ Two more air kisses, ‘Sensational, darling. A superstar is born.’ Jayne had never seen someone swoosh out of a room while wearing a trouser suit before, but apparently it could be done.
Will turned back to Jayne and swung her around, ‘Two more shows! Did you hear that! He liked me! Oh my God, this is incredible!’
‘Champagne! We need champagne!’ Duncan boomed.
A jubilant Rachel, Kyra and Marco, who had told their bosses that designing bars necessitated an immediate field trip to one for ‘research’ soon joined the three of them. Erica had promised to come after dropping the boys at football practice and Abi was stuck elbow-deep in a papier mâché project with year eight until 2pm, but had demanded that a glass filled with bubbles be waiting for her upon her arrival.
Following Will’s express orders, Bernard had put the closed sign on the deli’s door and was currently arguing with Jayne over whose credit card should be used to cover another two bottles and some nibbles. She reluctantly let Bernard foot the bill for this round, on the basis of his harsh-but-fair reasoning that his monthly pension probably outweighed her annual teacher’s salary.
‘Here you go, guys,’ she said, substituting a full bottle for the upended empty one in her sister’s wine bucket.
‘We were just saying how photogenic Will looked on camera,’ Kyra smiled. Jayne had only met Kyra a few times before and only then in passing when she’d swung by the flat to pick Rachel up before one of their big nights out that invariably ended in Rachel’s room not
being slept in. She wouldn’t necessarily have picked her out as a potential friend for her sister, not that she knew her well enough to say something like that. She was actually just basing her assumption on appearances, which she never normally did, but Kyra just grated on her slightly. Perhaps it was the fact that she was the same height as Jayne but weighed easily twenty kilos less, or the fact that her honey-coloured hair seemed to just cascade down her back, unlike her own, which frothed out in all directions. Jealousy is an ugly trait, she told herself, shaking her head and plastering on a big grin to go with her polite reply. If Rachel liked her, then so would she. It would just be easier to if she didn’t look like Barbie’s better-looking sister.
She glanced over at where Will was being fawned over by Marco, who had decided that green wasn’t his colour after all, so had substituted envy for ecstasy. Will caught her eye and gave her a small wink. Even after nearly two years together he could still summon up the butterflies inside her with a well-timed smile meant only for her. She was beyond proud of him. All the way through the broadcast she had been transfixed, hands together as if in prayer, silently, telepathically urging him to succeed, to smile, not to forget what to say, not to blend his fingers instead of the butter.
On screen he’d looked like her Will, but also didn’t at the same time. Gone were the faint worry lines that sometimes appeared in moments of his self-doubt, and the bright studio lights seemed to make his piercing blue eyes appear even brighter. A few of the salt-and-pepper strands of grey that had started to infiltrate his temples had been lovingly painted back to their original black by the effete Fernando, and even the stubble that they’d both rallied against made him look suave rather than just too lazy to pick up a razor.
Across the busy bar Will held his flashing phone aloft, mouthed ‘Michaela’ and gestured for Jayne to join him outside on the street to take the call. She grabbed their coats from under Rachel and Kyra, where they were perched majestically like two Cleopatras, and rushed after him.
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