Christmas in London

by Anita Hughes

  * * *

  Louisa paced around the living room of her suite and blinked away tears. The Tower of London had been a disaster. Kate had to rush back to Claridge’s and Louisa continued without her. The guard snapped at Louisa for getting too close to St Edward’s Crown. And just when the cameraman was satisfied with her pose in front of the Sovereign’s Sceptre, a group of schoolchildren walked into the shot.

  She asked the cameraman if she could check the footage and was appalled. How was she to know that if she smiled too wide she resembled the Cheshire cat? And her yellow crepe dress made her look like she was recovering from cholera. If Noah had been there he would have noticed right away and told her to wear something else.

  Now she was supposed to be in Claridge’s kitchen in half an hour and they hadn’t rehearsed. Noah promised to help her practice answering questions: Who were her influences as a chef, and which spices were in her pantry?

  What if she got nervous and forgot her croquembouche recipe? Or her throat closed up and she couldn’t say anything at all?

  There was a knock at the door and she opened it. Noah stood in the hallway. He wore a wool coat and carried a red Liberty bag.

  “How nice of you to show up, but you missed the whole morning,” she snapped. “At St Paul’s Cathedral, I had to enter the crypt and almost had a panic attack. And at the Tower of London, I got too close to the glass case and set off the sensors. The guard was so furious, I expected him to lock me up.”

  “They don’t actually use the Tower of London as a prison anymore.” Noah took off his coat.

  He noticed the way her hair curved around her chin and her cheeks were brushed with powder. “Your hair is different and someone did your makeup.”

  “I did it myself.” She touched her hair. “I was trying to make your job easier. I even ordered a picnic so we wouldn’t have to eat salad sandwiches, and bought Mentos so you’re not always rummaging through your pockets. But then you didn’t show up and Kate was busy, and there was no one to direct me.”

  “You’re right, it’s my fault,” Noah said. “I left you in the lurch and I apologize.”

  “You do?” Louisa turned around and the afternoon light reflected off the glass coffee table.

  She was reminded of how stunning the suite was. The walnut sideboard was freshly polished and the scarlet sofa was scattered with silk cushions. A silver tray was set with a porcelain coffeepot and platter of soft cheeses.

  “I had to get the camera lens fixed. It’s very fragile, one has to handle it like a baby.” He handed her the shopping bag. “But then I stopped at Liberty and bought you a present.”

  “You bought me a present?” she asked.

  “For the show, of course,” he clarified. “You were so enamored by the nut splitter, I decided you need a signature baking utensil. Martha Stewart wears her striped aprons and Bianca uses mixing bowls given to her by the pastry chef at the Ritz in Paris.” He pointed to the bag. “Go ahead and open it.”

  Louisa unwrapped tissue paper and discovered a silver cake server.

  “It’s for your croquembouche.” He turned it over. “I had your initials engraved on the handle.”

  “It’s gorgeous.” She looked up and her eyes were bright. “I never had anything like it.”

  “I didn’t think the bakery on the Lower East Side came equipped with sterling silver utensils.” He grinned. “But you’re at Claridge’s now. You need something special.”

  Louisa was about to kiss him on the cheek and stopped. She remembered the kiss on the Giant Observation Wheel and suddenly felt like a girl who was too old to have sleepovers with her male best friend.

  Big Ben chimed in the distance and she gasped. “We’re supposed to be downstairs, and I haven’t brushed my hair. Is my lipstick okay?”

  “You look perfect the way you are,” Noah said. “I was wondering if—” Noah’s phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen. “It’s a text from Kate. The missing camera arrived at Heathrow and she wants me to get it. I’ll have to join you later.”

  Louisa wanted to say it wasn’t just his direction that she’d missed this morning. Exploring London wasn’t as much fun without him. Perhaps they could do something tonight: see a pantomime or listen to Christmas carols at Westminster Abbey. But Noah was already walking to the door.

  “Thank you for the cake server,” she called. “I can’t wait to use it.”

  “The other chefs may have fancy cookbooks but you have something unique.” He turned around.

  “What’s that?” she wondered.

  “Your cinnamon rolls are the best in New York, but it’s more than that.” He paused. “I saw the footage and your smile lights up the screen. You made the camera fall in love with you.”

  “You picked out my clothes and arranged my haircut and scheduled my makeup.” She fiddled with the tissue paper. “I just did what you told me.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s working.” He grinned. “Let’s not change a thing.”

  * * *

  Louisa entered Claridge’s kitchen and felt as excited as when she visited FAO Schwarz as a child. The space had creamy stone floors and yellow plaster walls and a range with a mosaic backsplash. Gleaming surfaces were scattered with carving knives and ceramic mixing bowls and rows of sparkling stemware.

  The pastry area had silver whisks and a selection of rolling pins. And the measuring cups! They were stacked together like miniature houses and there were so many, she’d never have to rinse one mid-recipe. Usually no matter what she did, a little flour stuck to the bottom of the cup.

  There was a fridge bigger than the bathroom in her apartment and a stove that turned on so easily, it must be magic. She remembered coaxing the stove at the bakery to turn on like a lover rekindling a lost love. Eventually she would grab a match and hope she didn’t burn down the whole kitchen.

  The other chefs appeared and they sat at a wooden table and discussed the menu. There would be the usual Claridge’s Christmas starters: roasted goose salad and salt-baked parsnip. Pierre would make his single oyster in a consommé with fennel and wild mushrooms, followed by blue lobster in a foaming bisque with turmeric and cauliflower.

  Andreas was going to prepare saddle of venison with spice bread and carrot puree. There would be pigeon with onions and rhubarb, and side dishes of sweet-and-sour plums and fruit chutney.

  Then it was her turn and she remembered when she was in first grade and forgot to bring something for show and tell. The other children displayed a guinea pig in its cage or favorite doll. Louisa pulled the ribbon out of her hair and mumbled something about the pretty colors.

  She took a deep breath and explained how she learned to make croquembouche during a summer in Normandy. The eggs came straight from the chicken, and the butter was the best she ever tasted. The pastry cream was mixed with semisweet chocolate and espresso powder.

  She described how she let the caramel simmer until it hardened and arranged the puffs in a pyramid. The whole thing was wrapped in spun sugar like a Christmas tree decorated with priceless yellow diamonds.

  It was only when someone’s cell phone buzzed that she realized the whole kitchen had gone silent. Everyone was listening to her as if she was a famous opera singer.

  “I would fast all day so I could enjoy that croquembouche,” a male voice said. “And I’m usually a terrible snob about French desserts. They’re all butter and flour, without any flavor.”

  She looked up and Digby Bunting leaned against the door frame. He looked like a movie star in a black leather jacket and tan slacks. His shoulders were broad and he had a cleft in his chin.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” He entered the kitchen. “I seem to have missed the most delightful dessert. Perhaps Louisa can let us sample her croquembouche.”

  “I couldn’t bake one now.” She flushed. “I don’t have all the ingredients and it takes ages to make the puffs. They have to be so hard they crunch in your mouth.” She paused and realized she was rambling. “Croquembouche me
ans ‘crunchy’ in French.”

  “I’m fascinated.” Digby sat beside her. “Tell us how you get the pyramid not to collapse.”

  Louisa wished Noah were there. He would tell her not to reveal her secrets. But she couldn’t say no to Digby. Sitting so close to him was like being asked on stage at a rock concert.

  “Surely there are other things to talk about: whether we should make traditional sides like cauliflower cheese and whether we’ll serve a Christmas pudding.” She glanced around the table. “I know we’re all from different places, but Christmas Dinner at Claridge’s has to include a Christmas pudding. That’s what a British Christmas is all about.”

  Louisa gulped and put her hand over her mouth. What if Digby planned on making one of his impossibly complicated desserts: a velvety chocolate mousse with almond frangipane or molasses gingerbread cake with mascarpone cream?

  “I didn’t mean we should change the menu,” she said hurriedly. “I’m sure everything will be perfect.”

  “A traditional Christmas pudding soaked in brandy is an excellent idea.” Digby nodded. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

  Pierre and Andreas said goodbye and Louisa gathered her purse. She was about to leave when Digby stopped her.

  “I apologize for last night,” he said. “My cat was hit by a bicycle and I had to take him to the vet.”

  “Your cat!” Louisa exclaimed. “I thought—”

  “That I got a better invitation,” he laughed. “That’s the problem with being a celebrity, people assume the worst. I would never stand someone up without a good reason.”

  “I hope your cat is all right,” Louisa offered.

  “His name is Felix and he’s fine. If he wasn’t a bit shaken, I’d be furious at him. He forgets he’s an indoor cat and roams around the pavement.”

  “We’re getting wonderful footage of London.” Louisa noticed the perfect half moons on his fingernails. “Today we filmed at St Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower of London.”

  “Why don’t we have afternoon tea?” Digby suggested. “Claridge’s afternoon tea is the best in London. They’ve been serving it at the Foyer for 150 years.”

  Noah didn’t have anything scheduled this afternoon, but he wasn’t fond of Digby. He wouldn’t be happy if he crossed the lobby and saw them eating cucumber sandwiches and sipping oolong tea. But that was silly. Meeting Digby was one of the reasons she came to London.

  “You can’t say no, it’s a British tradition.” He propelled her toward the entrance. “Everyone drinks tea from porcelain cups and eats raisin scones with Cornish clotted cream and Marco Polo jelly.”

  “In New York people just grab a Twix on the subway,” Louisa laughed. She couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Digby had so much to teach her. “I would love to have afternoon tea. I packed a picnic lunch and didn’t have a moment to eat it.”

  The Foyer dining room was more impressive than the Plaza in New York or the Ritz in Paris. Marble floors were scattered with ivory rugs and a gold harp stood in the corner. Chairs were upholstered in gray silk and there were great urns of roses. A white Christmas tree was decorated with silver stars and twinkling lights.

  Louisa had never seen so many cakes. Platters held lemon buttermilk cakes and dark chocolate sponge cake and white chocolate éclairs. And the sandwiches! Dorrington ham with whipped brown butter, and chicken with smoked tomato, and smoked salmon on soft white bread.

  “Afternoon tea is all about the details,” Digby said when the waiter had steeped Ceylon tea leaves in water that was heated to exactly 175 degrees. The waiter let it sit for three minutes and served it in striped cups.

  “Claridge’s uses bone china with a jade-and-white pattern. The cakes are served on a specially designed stand and the stemware is Waterford crystal.” He picked up an egg mayonnaise sandwich. “Notice the bread on the sandwiches: it’s sliced to the exact thickness of its filling so that it’s pleasing to the eye.”

  “I remember when I read the Eloise books and wrinkled my nose at the sandwiches. How could any little girl choose watercress when she could have peanut butter and jelly?” Louisa laughed. “But these are wonderful. The flavors are delicious and the bread melts in my mouth.”

  “When did you know you wanted to be a pastry chef?” Digby asked.

  Louisa tried to hide her surprise. Noah said Digby only liked to talk about himself. But he was genuinely interested in her. She was glad she came. She’d already learned so much: that you spread clotted cream on the scone before the jelly, and cucumber sandwiches were served on white bread because in the nineteenth century white bread was a delicacy.

  “Ever since I was a child,” she began. “But I knew for certain the summer after high school. I stayed at a bed-and-breakfast in Normandy and one afternoon there was a wedding in the garden. The bride wore a lace dress and carried a bouquet of calla lilies. I stood on my balcony and watched the ceremony, but it was when they cut the cake that I got a funny feeling. I could see my whole life in front of me as clearly as a sign on the highway.

  “It was like a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream: floral centerpieces and crystal champagne flutes and rose petals strewn across the lawn. The cake had its own table and was buttercream with royal icing and mimosa blossoms. The groom served the bride the first slice of cake and you could see the love in their eyes. All the guests clapped and I’d never seen two people so happy.

  “I realized I wanted to create desserts that were beautiful and elegant and the best thing people have ever tasted. I tore up my application to NYU and applied to the Culinary Institute in Hyde Park.” She sipped her tea. “I’m very lucky. Not many people get to do what they love.”

  Digby spread jelly on a scone and Louisa bit her lip. She should have said how Paul Bocuse had been her idol or she dreamed of receiving a Michelin star. Instead she babbled about love like a teenager.

  “I quite agree,” he said finally. “When you dine at the finest restaurants: Alain Ducasse at the Connaught or Per Se in New York, it’s the little things you notice. A sprig of parsley on a milk-fed lamb or an edible golden apple on top of a cheesecake. The lamb would have tasted just as good without the parsley, and the golden apple probably ended up on the side of the plate. But the chef was in love with his creation. He could as soon send it out unadorned as he could appear in the dining room naked.”

  Louisa’s cheeks burned and she had never been so happy. Someone understood her and she really was a chef!

  “I hold a series of master classes at my flat in Mayfair.” Digby finished his scone. “It’s usually full with a waiting list, but I happen to have a cancellation.” He looked at Louisa. “Would you like to come?”

  “You want me to attend master classes taught by Digby Bunting?” she gasped.

  “I should hope I teach my own course,” he laughed. “The classes are on British puddings. The kitchen is state of the art and the other students are quite accomplished. At the end of each session, we sample the desserts accompanied by glasses of sherry.”

  Noah probably had the whole day planned. She could hardly say she wasn’t available to visit the British Museum because Digby was going to teach her how to make chocolate ganache.

  “It sounds wonderful, but my day is tightly scheduled.” She fiddled with her napkin. “I’m supposed to tour London from the top of a double-decker bus.”

  “The first class is tonight at seven o’clock,” Digby urged. “Surely you have an evening off.”

  “Tonight?” Louisa looked up.

  Noah hadn’t scheduled anything for tonight. She breathed a sigh of relief. She could attend Digby’s master class without ruining Noah’s plans!

  “Here’s my address.” Digby took a card out of his pocket. “I’d be so pleased if you came.”

  “All right, I’ll be there.” She slipped the card in her purse.

  “You’re going to be a wonderful addition.” He smiled and his eyes were the color of sapphires. “I’m glad you can come.”

&
nbsp; * * *

  Louisa entered the living room of her suite and slipped off her pumps. She had three hours to take a bath and get ready for Digby’s master class. Noah still hadn’t returned and she was dying to tell him about her afternoon.

  He would have been proud of the way she described her croquembouche. And they were going to follow her suggestion and serve a Christmas pudding! She was part of Christmas Dinner at Claridge’s, and it was going to be the event of the holiday season.

  The silver cake server rested on the coffee table and she picked it up. What had Noah been about to ask her? It was probably nothing: Would she wear the red dress tomorrow or did she need more mascara? It couldn’t have been anything important. After all, he said whatever she was doing was perfect; they shouldn’t change a thing.

  She was glad she hadn’t asked Noah if he wanted to do something fun tonight. She would have to cancel; she couldn’t miss Digby’s master class. The pale light filtered through the drapes and she felt like a kid on Christmas morning. She was at Claridge’s at Christmas and all her dreams were coming true.

  Chapter Eight

  KATE PEERED OUT THE WINDOW of the black cab and caught her breath. She and Trevor were on the way to Covent Garden and London glided past them like pages in a glossy coffee table book. They passed the Savoy Hotel with its striped canopies and Balthazar London with its picture windows and the Noël Coward Theatre. And the shops! She was dying to sample the fragrances at Jo Malone and stroke the supple leather goods at Aspinal. Just seeing the patterned silk blouses at Ted Baker was like reading a copy of Vogue.

  Her hair was knotted in a loose chignon and she felt like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries. A silver box had arrived at her suite while she was getting ready. Inside was a pair of long white gloves with a note from Trevor saying he was looking forward to their evening.

  She couldn’t possibly wear them with her black cocktail dress, so she made a quick trip to Harvey Nichols. She tried on a rose-colored Jenny Packham gown and teal strapless Alexander McQueen. She finally settled on a floral embroidered pink satin gown and paired it with silver pumps and diamond stud earrings.