Christmas in London

by Anita Hughes

  “The closest I came to baking at the Connaught was wrapping a potato in aluminum foil and sticking it in the oven,” he laughed. “Though I did meet Alan, my publisher. He came in every afternoon and ordered John Dory and a gin and tonic.”

  “What a wonderful story!” She hugged her arms around her chest. “I can just imagine it: the struggling sous chef prepares a dessert at home and brings it to the publisher of England’s most successful cookbooks. It’s like James Dean being discovered pumping gas, or Lana Turner being noticed behind the counter at the soda fountain.”

  “That’s not how it happened. One day Alan dropped his gin and tonic and I swept up the glass,” he said. “He asked what he should order from the dessert menu and I suggested the chocolate hazelnut plume with praline cream. A waitress saved me a slice and it was excellent. A few days later, Alan returned and asked if I wanted to write a cookbook.”

  “Alan Matheson asked if you wanted to write a cookbook when you never baked anything?” she wondered.

  “The publishing houses had just started putting out those glossy coffee table cookbooks. They sold them at Harrods next to the Ralph Lauren aprons.” He ruffled his hair. “Alan thought my photo would look good on the back cover.”

  Louisa’s hands were clammy and she thought she might faint. She opened her mouth but Digby kept talking.

  “Desserts with Digby was a huge success and I was in demand on talk shows and at charity events,” he continued. “Alan didn’t want me to make a fool of myself so he signed me up for a few baking courses. I know how to bake simple things like pound cake and chocolate mousse.”

  “But you’re the king of British puddings,” she interrupted. “Your recipes for raspberry blancmange and butterscotch trifle are renowned. And you said you’d rather be in the kitchen than attending book signings and appearing on television.”

  Louisa remembered when she was a girl and discovered Santa Claus wasn’t real. If she told her mother everything she knew about him—his wife was named Mrs. Claus and he lived in the North Pole and his workshop was run by elves—her mother would say Louisa was right, he was real all along.

  “Alan writes most of the recipes.” Digby shrugged. “And I do enjoy working in a kitchen. It’s satisfying and quite mindless. After all, anyone can follow directions in a cookbook.”

  Louisa’s cheeks were pale and she was having trouble focusing.

  “Are you all right?” he inquired. “You look a little ill.”

  “It’s the central heating,” she said quickly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get a glass of water.”

  She hurried through the hallway and down the steps to the kitchen. She poured a glass of water and leaned against the sink.

  Lots of famous people came to their success from odd beginnings. You heard stories about an actor who started as a driver for a big producer and ended up a movie star. Or an author who wrote greeting cards and his entire novel was scribbled on the backs of sympathy cards. But Digby hadn’t done anything at all. His only contribution to his own success was the way he wore a blazer.

  Her eyes pricked with tears. Maybe Noah was right and Digby didn’t care about her apple crumble or rice pudding. The only reason he was interested in her was because she had a fashionable hairstyle and her eyes looked big with her new mascara.

  She opened the fridge and took out cream cheese and butter and milk. She searched the pantry and found cinnamon and vanilla and powdered sugar. She was going to make cinnamon rolls and give them to Noah with a note. She was terribly sorry she didn’t listen to him, and he was right about everything.

  She looked up and Digby was standing in the doorway.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “You went to get a glass of water and didn’t come back.”

  “I thought I’d bake cinnamon rolls until they return.” She kept her voice steady. “I always make them on Christmas Eve, they’re my favorite dessert.”

  “I can think of a more enjoyable way to pass the time,” he said casually. “I found a guestroom that’s not in use. I chilled a bottle of champagne and there’s an en suite bath with a Jacuzzi tub.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, tying an apron around her waist.

  “It’s really much better this way,” he continued. “I thought we’d have to grab a few moments in the powder room, or the backseat of the Range Rover. But now we have all afternoon and evening. Alan will fill in for me on the show; he’s done it before. And that producer of yours can take your spot. She’s very attractive with her blond hair and long legs.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Louisa wished she could close her eyes and be somewhere else.

  “Of course you do.” Digby selected a green apple from a bowl. “Why else would you have signed up for my master class? You don’t need me to teach you how to make chocolate mousse. You brought me rice pudding when I was wearing a robe and slippers, and you accepted my diamond earrings.” His lips curled in a smile. “I’ve known it since we had afternoon tea at Claridge’s. You’re attracted to me, and want to go to bed together as much as I do.”

  “I don’t want to sleep with you! I signed up for your master class because you are a renowned pastry chef,” she stammered. “I brought you the rice pudding because I wanted to show you it wasn’t lumpy. And the earrings weren’t a gift, they were a prop for the photo shoot.” She took the velvet box out of her purse. “I was going to return them but didn’t want to offend you.”

  “Keep the earrings.” He waved at the box. “They were given to me by the manager at Harry Winston.”

  “I don’t want the earrings.” She placed them on the counter. “All I wanted was to be taken seriously as a pastry chef. I learned so much from you: why an Eton mess has a funny name, and how to make the berries keep their shape in a blackberry fool. When we were together I felt like I could achieve all my goals: open a restaurant with gorgeous décor like the chocolate shop on Pimlico Road, and write a cookbook as good as the ones on your bookshelf.” Her mouth trembled. “I liked being around you because you made me feel like a proper chef. If I worked hard, I could get everything I wanted.”

  “I’m not interested in any of that, I get recipes in the mail every day. Aspiring chefs leave marmalade cake and strawberry meringue on my doorstep. Somebody once climbed a tree and left a key lime pie on the ledge outside my bedroom window.” He moved closer. “What I am interested in is a lovely American with eyes like a young deer and a waist I can wrap my hands around.”

  “Please don’t come closer.” Louisa stepped back. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood, there can’t be anything between us. I’m seeing someone.”

  “I don’t care if you have a boyfriend.” He shrugged. “I’m not looking for anything serious, I just want to have a little fun. Why don’t I pop open the champagne and you can take off that apron and relax.”

  “I care very much!” She gathered a baking tray and measuring cup and mixing bowl. “I’m quite busy. I think you should leave.”

  “If you remember, that’s the one thing I can’t do,” he said with a little laugh. He looked at Louisa and there was a flicker of pain behind his eyes. “In fact, I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to finish that bottle of brandy. Getting drunk in the afternoon seems like an excellent plan.”

  Louisa waited until Digby left and then turned back to the counter. She hadn’t done anything wrong; Digby made the whole thing up. Anyone could see she was only interested in him as a fellow chef; she never gave him a different impression.

  Tears pricked her eyes and she wanted to curl up like the kittens she saw in the pet store window at Christmas. But she couldn’t let Digby’s words affect her. That wouldn’t solve anything.

  She greased the baking tray and turned on the oven. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and fresh cream like a farm in the French countryside. When someone returned, she would beg them to take her to London. Then she would hand Noah the cinnamon rolls and he would say they were the best he ever ta
sted.

  Chapter Eighteen

  KATE SAT IN THE LIVING room of her suite at Claridge’s and tapped at her laptop. It was midafternoon and the wintry sun filtered through the drapes. Poinsettias flanked the marble fireplace and a crystal vase held yellow tulips.

  She hoped she could remember everything about her suite when she returned to New York: the striped drapes that were made out of a fabric as stunning as any ball gown, the eggshell yellow satin walls, the art deco furniture. And the little touches she couldn’t imagine having in her own apartment: scented soaps next to the bathtub and expensive lotions and a cashmere robe hanging in the closet.

  There was a silver tray of finger sandwiches and scones on the coffee table. She wasn’t the least bit hungry, but she hadn’t been able to resist ordering afternoon tea. She was leaving tomorrow night and when would she have the chance again to eat roast chicken with Pommery mustard and cucumber with mint cream cheese and fresh scones?

  She remembered all the times she brought Trevor raisin scones with strawberry jam when they were at St Andrews and grimaced. The memories would fade as soon as she stepped off the flight in New York. She would have so much to do: choose menus for next week’s show and go over wardrobe suggestions with Bianca and sift through an endless stack of papers.

  Did Trevor return to Claridge’s after he left the gallery or was he wandering around Trafalgar Square? No matter how she tried to stop thinking about him, she kept imagining him in a black tuxedo.

  How could she allow herself to fall in love? It didn’t matter; Trevor made it perfectly clear it wasn’t going to work. And it had been a wonderful week: attending the ballet and shopping on Bond Street and dining at the Dorchester. Now it was time to concentrate on Christmas Dinner at Claridge’s.

  There was a knock on the door and she answered it. Noah stood in the doorway, clutching a Harrods bag.

  “Come in, thank you for picking up the aprons.” She ushered him inside. “You look positively frozen. Next Christmas we’ll have to do the show in the Maldives or St. Barts.”

  “There might not be a show next year.” He stood next to the fireplace. “Louisa has disappeared. I can’t find her anywhere and she’s not answering her cell phone.”

  “Didn’t she tell you? She assisted Digby Bunting this morning,” Kate said. “She’s probably sitting in a hot bath in her suite. It’s the perfect place for her. She must be nervous and a bath will help her relax.”

  “I asked the maids to check her room and she’s not there.” He shook his head. “I contacted all the staff in the hotel. The last person who saw her was the doorman when she climbed into Digby’s Range Rover this morning.”

  “It’s three o’clock,” Kate said, checking her watch. “She said she’d be back by 2:00 p.m.”

  “I’m afraid she is still with Digby, and I have no idea where they’ve gone.” He rubbed his forehead.

  “Louisa seems very responsible, she wouldn’t let us down,” Kate assured him. “They’re probably stuck in traffic and she’ll rush through the lobby any minute. Taping doesn’t start until seven. There’s plenty of time for hair and makeup.”

  “I just have a funny feeling.” He hesitated.

  “What kind of funny feeling?” she asked, picking up a smoked salmon sandwich.

  “That she isn’t coming back,” he admitted.

  “That’s ridiculous. The whole reason Louisa is in London is to film Christmas Dinner at Claridge’s,” she scoffed. “She’s very focused on her career; she’s not the kind of girl who would run off with a man. Why would you think she isn’t coming back?”

  “Something happened,” he said uncomfortably. “And it’s my fault.”

  “I know you feel responsible for hiring Louisa. But I am the producer and the show’s success depends on me,” she reminded him. “Whatever happened, I’m sure it can be fixed.”

  Noah looked up and his eyes were dark. “I fell in love with her and I think she felt the same.”

  “Oh, I see.” Kate put the sandwich back on the plate.

  “I know it’s unprofessional and I fought it as long as I could,” he began. “But Louisa is special,” he said with a sigh. “It’s terrible timing. I’m studying for law school and she’s saving money to open a restaurant, so we tried to remain friends.”

  “I know what you mean,” Kate said thoughtfully. “But what does that have to do with Digby?”

  “From the beginning I thought Digby had his eye on Louisa, but she was positive he was only interested in her skills as a chef,” he explained. “It caused some friction between us.”

  “Digby is rumored to be a bit of a lothario, but Louisa is very talented,” Kate replied. “Why would you have doubts?”

  “All sorts of things.” He shrugged. “He invited her to the Winter Wonderland and took her shopping at the Christmas markets and offered her a place in his master class. Then he asked her to assist him today and I told Louisa she shouldn’t go.”

  “But today was a great opportunity, Town & Country was going to be there,” Kate said. “And maybe Digby was just being kind, everyone needs help at the start of their career.”

  “I apologized to Louisa this morning and said she shouldn’t miss out.” He took a deep breath. “But then I noticed the diamond earrings he gave her.”

  “Diamond earrings!” she gasped.

  “From Harry Winston.” He nodded. “Louisa said he gave them to her for the photo shoot but I didn’t believe her.” He fiddled with his collar. “I insisted she not go. She accused me of not trusting her and putting my feelings before her career. We got into a raging fight and she stormed out of the hotel.”

  “That is a bit of a mess,” Kate agreed. “But she wouldn’t jeopardize everything because you got into a fight.”

  “Digby can be very persuasive,” he persisted. “What if he convinced her to skip the show and stay in some luxurious country hotel? Or they could be on their way to Scotland or on a flight to Paris.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing drastic.” Kate tried to stay calm. “Call anyone who might know where Digby is: his hairstylist and tailor and publisher. Find out the name of his dentist, maybe he’s laid up with a toothache. And call his doctor, he could have had an emergency appendectomy.” She paused. “And try his mother. But don’t tell her Digby is missing. No mother wants to think her son disappeared on Christmas Eve.”

  “I’m very sorry.” Noah walked to the door. “I didn’t mean to cause you so much trouble.”

  “I don’t want your apologies, you need to fix this,” Kate said sharply. “Call Town & Country and ask them the location of the shoot. If we don’t find Louisa, we’ll need to get an understudy for the understudy and we only have four hours until the show.”

  Kate waited until Noah left and stood at the window. A gold Rolls-Royce idled on the pavement and the hotel canopy was dusted with snow like frosting on a cake.

  Noah was right: falling in love was a terrible burden. It kept her awake at night and made her favorite scone with orange marmalade taste like cardboard. But she could as easily ignore it as she could fly the plane from Heathrow to JFK by herself.

  It was Trevor’s idea in the beginning not to talk about the past. It had been easier to just enjoy drinks at Claridge’s bar and dinner at the Dorchester. She had to make him see what they had was worth fighting for. Love was as rare as the most perfect diamond. If you were lucky enough to discover it, you cherished it forever.

  She gathered her purse and entered the hallway. The elevator door opened and she pushed the button for Trevor’s floor.

  “Kate!” Trevor said when she knocked on the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.” She suddenly remembered the scene at the gallery. Could she really confront Trevor when he had just rejected her?

  “I’m busy,” he said evasively. “Can it possibly wait until another time?”

  “It will only take a minute.” She entered the suite. The coffee table was set with a silve
r teapot and porcelain cups. There was a plate of shortbread and bowl of mixed berries.

  “Help yourself.” He waved at the tray. “The maid keeps bringing food and I’m not hungry.”

  “I feel the same,” Kate replied. “It’s a shame not to have an appetite the day before Christmas.”

  “Kate, I feel awful but nothing has changed.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “You’re right.” She faced him. “Nothing has changed, we’re in love with each other. We have been ever since you corrected my algebra homework and I helped you study Beowulf. Do you know how rare it is to find the person you want to spend your life with? Love can be more painful than the worst stomachache but it’s useless to fight it.”

  “I disagree,” he said stiffly. “I’ve been quite happy.”

  “You couldn’t have been in love with your wife. You’ve been separated for a week and don’t even miss her,” she fumed. “The only pictures you have are of your dogs, and you’re going to spend Christmas Day alone.”

  “It wasn’t the closest marriage, but it had some good moments,” he recalled. “And many people feel strongly about their pets. I don’t mind being alone at Christmas, I’ve always enjoyed my own company.”

  “It’s fine being alone if someone cares about you,” she urged. “Remember the semester when we didn’t see each other for days because you were taking an impossibly difficult analytics course and I was writing a paper on Chaucer? We knew all we had to do was walk down the hall to see a friendly face.” She stopped. “It’s different when the only thing you come home to is Netflix and take-out Thai noodles.”

  “I’d rather be mildly content than live with a permanent pain in my gut,” Trevor said. “You hurt me and I can’t get past it.”

  “You never let me explain what really happened,” she said. “If you had only waited, everything might have been different.”

  “What do you mean?” he wondered.