Christmas in London

by Anita Hughes

  Women crossed the lobby swathed in cashmere and carrying Harvey Nichols bags and Louisa felt a building excitement. She reached forward and kissed Noah on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry I complained, I want to thank you for bringing me to London,” she said. “I’ll be the best chef Claridge’s ever had, and I’ll do everything you ask.”

  “Let’s start by getting out of here.” He guided her to the revolving glass doors. “If we miss your appointment with the private shopper, you’ll be appearing on television in a sweater and moccasins.”

  They passed the snowy expanse of Hyde Park and chic galleries on Bond Street. Piccadilly loomed in the distance and taxis were plastered with advertisements for Cadbury chocolates.

  The bus stopped on the corner of Brampton Road and Louisa caught her breath. Across from her was a five-story building with stone turrets. It reminded her of a chocolate marzipan cake with HARRODS scrawled in gold frosting. She looked more closely at the store windows and had never seen anything so unusual.

  Reindeer were dressed in knitted sweaters and red booties. Instead of pulling a wooden sleigh, they were attached to bright-red sports cars. There was a Lamborghini brimming with presents and an Aston Martin adorned with a gold bow. Fake snow dusted the tires and silver ornaments dangled from the bumpers.

  “I thought I was jet-lagged and seeing things,” Louisa laughed when they crossed the street. “How did they get the cars into the store, and whoever would have imagined a reindeer pulling a sports car?”

  “No department store in the world celebrates Christmas like Harrods.” Noah glanced at his watch. “Can we admire the windows later? We have to get to the fourth floor.”

  “I have to send Ellie a picture.” Louisa handed Noah her phone and stood in front of the display. “Her daughter, Chloe, is seven. She’ll think I landed in some incredible version of Santa’s workshop.”

  “You’re not wearing makeup and you haven’t done your hair.” He hesitated. “Why don’t we take photos later?”

  “I don’t care what I look like. I’m at Harrods at Christmas!” She waved at the window. “Just take the picture.”

  Noah snapped the photo and they entered double brass doors. The throng of shoppers was so thick, Louisa could barely see the counters. Men in overcoats carried giant shopping bags and women wearing knee-high boots examined lipsticks and perfumes.

  “Look over there.” Noah took her arm.

  Louisa pulled her eyes from a display of Christmas crackers and followed him to the middle of the store. The Christmas tree was five stories tall and seemed as wide as an ocean liner. Every branch was decorated with ornaments: teddy bears hanging from gold ribbons, and snow globes and toy trains. There were painted reindeer and a red telephone box.

  “That looks like Cinderella’s slipper.” She pointed to a slipper on a lower branch. She peered closer and gasped. “It can’t be made of real diamonds!”

  “It is made of diamonds. And there are ruby angels and stockings made of emeralds and sapphires. You can see every ornament after we choose your wardrobe.” He steered her toward the escalator. “It’s going to take us ages to get upstairs. The escalator is more crowded than the subway at rush hour.”

  They reached the fourth floor and entered a lounge with plush carpet and high-backed velvet chairs. There was a plate of scones and glasses of apple cider.

  Louisa sank onto a chair and pushed a stray hair from her forehead. She looked at Noah and her eyes sparkled.

  “You promise not to wake me?” she asked.

  “What do you mean ‘wake you’?” His cheeks paled. “You can’t fall asleep now!”

  “I mean don’t wake me from this whole dream,” she laughed. “A suite at Claridge’s and the whole afternoon at Harrods. Any minute I’ll wake up in my apartment with the radiator spitting water and cracks in the ceiling.”

  “You’re not dreaming,” Noah said and Louisa noticed his eyes were bluer than she remembered. He was about to say something when a woman in a navy suit appeared.

  “It’s a pleasure to have you join us.” The woman nodded. “Where would you like to begin? Some gorgeous Herve Leger dresses just came in, and we have a fabulous selection of Balmain blazers.”

  Louisa followed the woman and her shoulders tightened. Cashmere sweaters were piled to the ceiling and there were racks of wool slacks and silk blouses. Mannequins wore satin evening gowns and glass cases were filled with patterned scarves.

  Suddenly she wished she was sitting in the bathtub or curled up on the sofa writing Chloe’s recipe card. The last thing she wanted to do was stand in front of a mirror and fiddle with zippers and buttons. But Noah trailed after them like an overprotective parent and she didn’t have a choice.

  “That dress looks nice.” She waved at a kelly-green knit dress. “I guess we can start with that.”

  The woman led her to a dressing room and handed her Burberry sweaters and Alexander McQueen dresses. There was a sequined sheath that was so sheer, Louisa was embarrassed to look at her reflection. She slipped on a magenta evening gown and a coatdress made of Shetland wool. Finally the saleswoman carried away her selections and Louisa joined Noah.

  “Most women would give anything to be handed St. John dresses without worrying about the price tag.” He looked up from his clipboard. “You look like you had a tooth filled at the dentist.”

  “I wore a gorgeous dress to my cousin’s wedding and it’s important to dress up for birthdays and Christmas.” She shrugged. “But I’m happiest when I’m baking. You can’t wear a pretty blouse when you’re making crust for a peach tart. It will end up covered in peach juice.”

  “Is baking the only thing you care about?” he asked curiously.

  “I love romantic movies. And I adore animals, though I’ll never have a pet in Manhattan.” She paused. “But there isn’t time to be passionate about more than one thing. If you want something in life, you have to sacrifice everything else to get it.” She looked at Noah. “Aren’t you passionate about something?”

  “I’m passionate about the law, I guess,” he answered. “It’s fascinating to read hundred-year-old cases that affect our laws today. When I’m in the midst of a case study, I don’t think of anything else.”

  “You see, we’re the same,” she mused. “We’re both happiest when we’re doing what is important to us.”

  “What about love?” he asked suddenly.

  “What do you mean?” she wondered.

  “Most people our age want to get married and have babies.”

  “I haven’t thought about it,” she said slowly. “I don’t have time to fall in love.”

  “But if you did?” he prompted.

  “I don’t know,” she replied and suddenly the room felt a little warm. “Right now, I’m too tired to think about anything except going back to Claridge’s and taking a bath and finishing my recipe card.”

  “You can’t show up for cocktails at the Fumoir in moccasins.” He glanced at her feet. “First we’ll tackle Harrods’s shoe department. Then you can take a bath.”

  They rode the escalator to the second floor and entered the shoe department. Noah pulled out silver stilettos and satin pumps and ankle boots made of the softest suede. There were ballet slippers with diamond bows and a pair of red Louboutin pumps with a jeweled sole.

  “You want me to try on all these?” she asked dismally. “Can’t you choose? I’ll close my eyes and you can pick whatever you like.”

  “You can’t stand on the set with pinched toes. And if you don’t practice walking in high heels, you’ll fall on your face,” he insisted. “Shoes are very personal. You have to try them on.”

  “If they’re so personal why can’t I wear the ones I have?” she grumbled. “No one will see them on television and the chefs at the cocktail party won’t notice. We’ll all be busy discussing the Christmas Dinner menu.”

  He took a pair of Gucci pumps out of the box and handed t
hem to Louisa. “Don’t you ever worry about what you wear?”

  “I don’t have time to go out to dinner, and I’m always too tired to go dancing,” she explained. “Besides, a pair of designer pumps costs a week’s salary.”

  “Well, tonight you’re having cocktails at Claridge’s.” He handed her the pumps. “Please hurry. We have to be at Daniel Galvin’s in an hour.”

  Louisa tried on shoes until her ankles burned and she could barely walk. Finally Noah was satisfied and gave the tower of boxes to the salesgirl.

  “Kate just sent me an urgent text.” He pulled out his phone. “I need better reception. Stay here and I’ll be right back.”

  Louisa leaned against the cushions and closed her eyes.

  “One more thing.” He turned around.

  “Yes?” Her eyes flickered open.

  “I just wanted you to know, you look lovely in moccasins.” He grinned. “I’m only doing my job.”

  * * *

  Louisa peered over the marble balustrade and saw the Food Hall with its gleaming glass cases and festive decorations. The scent of mulled wine and gingerbread drifted up the escalator and people milled around as if they were at a symphony opening.

  The delicacies she had read about! Scottish salmon and suckling pig and thick slices of ham. There was a chocolate shop with chocolate teddy bears and a chocolate Santa Claus with a white frosting beard. A patisserie baked éclairs like you found in Paris and an Indian counter sold curries that made your eyes water.

  She couldn’t leave Harrods without visiting the place she had been dreaming of since she became a pastry chef. It would be like waiting months for a reservation at Eleven Madison Park and leaving before dessert.

  It would only take several minutes to walk around the Food Hall. She wouldn’t see everything, of course. But she could sample sticky puddings and bittersweet-chocolate tarts.

  The shoeboxes were stacked on the counter and she told the saleswoman she’d be right back. The escalator deposited her at the entrance and she was so excited, she wanted to hug every vendor in his striped apron and colorful cap.

  The ceilings were painted with gorgeous frescoes and the floors were black-and-white marble and iron grillwork covered the walls. But it was the food displays that took her breath away. All the Google images didn’t prepare her for pyramids of cheeses and buckets crammed with lobsters and fruit stalls stocked with kumquats.

  She sampled a ricotta cheese that was as creamy as the finest ice cream. The chamomile flower tea made her feel like she was in an English garden, and the Turkish coffee was the strongest coffee she’d ever tasted. And the pastries! There were trays of custards and vanilla slices and raspberry cheesecakes.

  She noticed a familiar packaging and stopped. It was the French butter she had discovered in Normandy. Ever since she returned to New York she had tried to replicate it. But American butters were plain and thick, like processed cheese on white bread.

  “Can I help you?” a man asked.

  “Is that really Echire butter?” she wondered. “I ate it one summer in Normandy. I never had French butter before, it was the best thing I ever tasted.”

  “It’s because of the amount of butter fat,” he explained. “And French butter is made from partly soured cream to give it a tangy flavor.”

  What if she bought a package and kept it in the suite’s minibar? The croquembouche she was baking for Christmas Dinner at Claridge’s would be superb. But the line at the cash register snaked halfway down the Food Hall. If she weren’t in the shoe department when Noah returned, he’d be furious.

  “Would you like to buy some?” the man asked.

  “Perhaps another time.” She hesitated. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “We run out quickly during the holidays.” He shrugged. “It’s a popular ingredient for Bûche de Noëls.”

  Noah had every minute scheduled; she might not return to Harrods for days. And she still had time—her makeup appointment wasn’t for an hour.

  “I’d like two pounds of butter please,” she announced, ignoring the nervous flutter in her stomach.

  Louisa clutched her package as if she’d won some incredible prize. But the wait at the cash register was even longer than she thought and it took ages to pay. When she returned to the shoe department it was an hour later and the stack of shoeboxes was gone.

  “Have you seen my boxes?” she asked the salesgirl anxiously. “I left them right here.”

  “The gentleman came back to collect them,” the woman said.

  “The man wearing a navy sweater?” Louisa gulped. “Do you know where he is?”

  “He was here, but then he left,” the woman answered.

  “Did he say anything?” Louisa urged and a prickle ran down her spine.

  “He didn’t look very happy,” the woman remembered. “Is something wrong?”

  “Just a silly misunderstanding.” Louisa flushed and hurried down the escalator. She raced across the marble floor and through the revolving doors. But Noah wasn’t in front of the window or underneath the Harrods sign. She didn’t see him at the taxi stand or the bus stop across the street.

  Her phone hadn’t been switched to international calling and she couldn’t remember the name of the makeup artist. Jet lag engulfed her and tears pricked her eyes. She had made a mess of her first afternoon in London.

  But Noah would understand when he tasted her croquembouche. After all, she was replacing Bianca at the most important culinary event of the year. He would want her dessert to be delicious.

  The sun filtered through the clouds and she suddenly felt brighter. She was in London at Christmas; of course she wanted to do some sightseeing. And Christmas Dinner at Claridge’s wasn’t for six days.

  She strolled down Brampton Road and noticed tour buses stopping in front of iron gates. She looked more closely and realized she was in front of Buckingham Palace.

  What if she entered the grounds and had a quick look around? She already missed the makeup appointment and there was plenty of time to take a bath before cocktails. She couldn’t pass Buckingham Palace and keep walking!

  She called the front desk of Claridge’s and left a message for Noah telling him she would be back soon. Then she bought a ticket at the kiosk. The woman handed her a guidebook and she followed the signs to a marble corridor. The State Rooms had ornate mirrors and dazzling chandeliers and silver candelabras. Paintings in gilt frames lined the walls and the ceilings were so high she had to crane her neck to see the gold-flecked frescoes.

  She saw the Throne Room where the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge took their wedding photos, and the White Drawing Room where the royal family gathered before official engagements. There was a whole exhibit of Queen Elizabeth’s fashions including her wedding dress designed by Sir Norman Hartnell and the lace gown she wore to her coronation.

  And the Royal Mews! She could have spent hours in the stables with their sleek horses and black-and-red carriages. She fully expected Cinderella to descend from a horse-drawn carriage and meet her Prince Charming.

  A clock chimed five o’clock and she gasped. How did it get so late? She only planned on taking a quick tour. She raced down the palace drive and strode the few blocks to Claridge’s.

  “Good evening, Miss Graham,” the valet greeted her. “I hope you had a pleasant afternoon.”

  “London is wonderful, but there’s so much to see.” Louisa sighed. “The whole day flew by.”

  A fire flickered in the lobby’s fireplace and bellboys carried packages wrapped in silver paper. Guests in chic evening wear mingled around the Christmas tree and there was the heady scent of pine needles and expensive perfume.

  She took the elevator to the fifth floor and fiddled with her key. The door of the suite opened and Noah stood in the living room.

  “What are you doing in my suite?” she demanded.

  “What am I doing here?” he seethed. “I waited in the shoe department for thirty minutes and then searched every floor of Harrods. I spent a
n hour humoring one of the most important makeup artists in London. I’ve been sitting here so long, I memorized the books on the bookshelf.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late. But you could have waited in the lobby,” she said, wondering if she’d left out any bras or underwear.

  “And have you sneak by like some international spy?” he spluttered. “You’re not late. Late is missing your subway stop and arriving ten minutes after a meeting started. Late is hitting the Snooze button on your alarm and calling your boss to apologize. Late is not disappearing from the shoe department of Harrods and arriving at your suite three hours later.”

  “I couldn’t call, my phone didn’t work.” She sank onto the sofa. “I was only going to take a quick look around the Food Hall, but then I discovered they had Echire butter. I couldn’t leave without buying a package.”

  “You stopped to buy butter?” He wrinkled his brow.

  “It’s from France and it’s the best butter in the world,” she insisted. “It’s because of the rich soil they feed the cows. I’m going to use it in my croquembouche.”

  “In half an hour you’re supposed to be at the Fumoir and you’re wearing slacks and moccasins,” he fumed. “I don’t care if it was the butter Marie Antoinette ate with her last omelet, you could have bought it another time.”

  “I’ve stood in the pouring rain at the Chelsea market to buy peaches and took the train to Brooklyn to get the perfect baking chocolate.” Her eyes flashed. “I’m a chef. There is nothing more important than my ingredients.”

  “If you remember, I borrowed two trays of cinnamon rolls and ended up giving Bianca an allergic reaction. Then I promised Kate you would be the perfect replacement and she paid your airfare and accommodation. Now there is a camera crew waiting to film you at a cocktail reception.” He jumped up. “I don’t care if your croquembouche is made of Styrofoam. If you’re not downstairs in half an hour, I’m out of a job.”

  Noah paced around the room and suddenly Louisa felt guilty. What had she been thinking? Just because clothes and makeup weren’t important to her didn’t mean she could ignore them.

  “Where are the boxes from Harrods with all the dresses and shoes?” She glanced around the suite.