by N/A
“Poppy, I know you’re cooking something up.”
“Well, a little French birdie told me that François and his brother Phillipe will be there, and I might just have happened to mention that I have a gorgeous single friend with a halo of sunshine-coloured curls who’s a whizz at knocking up a kaleidoscope of macarons, and who also just happens to be half-French too.”
“Poppy! I can organise my own love life, thank you very much.”
“Clearly not, as you haven’t had a date since you got back from St Lucia two months ago. I know you profess to be over Luke, but the only way to prove it is to start dating with a vengeance. Open your heart to the possibility that there is someone amazing out there waiting to make you happy! And what better time to start than Christmas? All you have to do is trust your friendly neighbourhood Cupid and agree to a double-date with a certain chocolate-eyed Frenchman, with skin the colour of liquid caramel and a penchant for dousing himself in an excessive amount of spicy cologne.”
“Poppy…”
“Look, Millie, just go to the Cotswolds, have fun at Claudia’s cookery school, and if nothing happens with Zach, you can zoom back here on Christmas Eve ready to enjoy the festive season sprinkled with a little Parisian amour!”
Chapter Two
With the tinkle of Frosty the Snowman still ringing in her ears from the cab ride, Millie made her way across the concourse of Paddington Station. A curl of excitement, mingled with a generous dose of trepidation, wriggled through her chest as she contemplated what the week ahead would hold. Could she really be about to present a cookery course to eight enthusiastic foodies in the presence of the celebrity cookery book writer, Claudia Croft – in the kitchen of her fabulous manor house in the Cotswolds?
The previous night, she and Poppy had googled Stonelea Manor in Berryford and had been astonished at its picturesque splendour. Set against a Turneresque backdrop of rolling lawns and thick woodland, the Grade II listed building looked as if it had been dusted in a generous pinch of cinnamon. However, it wasn’t its architectural magnificence that had caused Millie to pause and drool, but the photographs of the kitchen. She recognised it immediately from Claudia’s cookery books and couldn’t believe that on Monday morning she would be standing behind the marble-topped workstation issuing instructions on how to craft the perfect meringue.
A sudden blast of arctic air walloped her in the face, whipping the breath from her lips and bringing her back to the present. Goose pimples rippled over every inch of her skin and her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Much worse were the curious glances she was attracting from her fellow travellers at the ridiculous attire she had chosen to wear to brave a British winter.
She dragged the sides of her flimsy cotton cardigan around her chest, cursing the fact that she had left all her winter clothes at her sister’s after the emergency evacuation from Luke’s flat in April and hadn’t had time to retrieve them. However, as she lived two storeys above the place where she worked, a down-filled jacket had not been high on her list of essentials, especially when there was such limited storage space. Her thoughts scooted back to her sojourn at Claudia’s villa in St Lucia where she had been fortunate enough to spend some time lounging by the pool in a bikini, sipping strawberry margaritas to a backing track of reggae rhythms rippling through the sun-drenched air. Paradise! She had always been a sun worshipper - a fact she put down to being a July baby - which was the reason she had planned to spend the Christmas holidays with her mum in Provence, even if it had meant she would have to partner her at her weekly Salsa classes.
However, the wintery temperature was a small price to pay for the opportunity to spend quality time with an accomplished chef, so Millie grabbed the handle of her wheelie suitcase and stalked towards the flashing Departures board, relieved to see that her train to Berryford was already waiting at platform three. She hitched her canvas bag higher up her shoulder, surreptitiously tapping the contents to make sure her trusty scrap box of recipes that went everywhere with her was safely stowed, and went in search of her carriage.
She selected a window seat and slumped into the corner, rubbing her palms on her thighs and blowing on her fingers in an effort to warm up. The train left on time and almost immediately she felt a veil of lethargy descend. Houses flashed by, their dark facades dotted with rectangles of amber light, highlighting the silhouettes of families gathered around the television or computer screen. As the urban sprawl melted into fields, the rhythmic rocking encouraged her to close her eyes for a few seconds, allowing her to savour the solitude of being in transit.
She must have fallen asleep because when she peeled her eyes open and glanced out of the window a bolt of shock crashed into her chest. The scene beyond the glass came directly from a Hollywood producer’s demand for a typical English winter backdrop – and boy had those set designers delivered! A soft blanket of white had been tossed over the fields and rolling hills, obliterating the undulations. Huge, feather-like snowflakes fell languidly from the leaden sky, adding another layer to the wintry scene.
A glance at her watch told Millie it was almost three o’clock. Dusk was beginning to tickle the horizon with a crimson-purple hue, and the whole vista looked Christmas-card perfect, especially when a lone church spire punctured the swathe of snow reminding her of childhood Christmases when her father was still around. However, it was one thing to appreciate the scenic charm of the landscape from the comfort and warmth of a train seat, quite another to have to actually set foot in the loathsome white stuff.
A shiver cascaded down her spine as she did a mental inventory of the clothes she had stuffed into her suitcase. Feeling she should make an effort to look the part when standing at Claudia’s side, she had packed her favourite Hobbs tops and a lovely crimson silk dress she planned to debut at the celebration party on the last day of the week-long course. Even if she wore every last stitch, she’d still freeze to death on her trek from the train station to the car Claudia had said she was sending to collect her. Her heart sank to her toes as the train pressed further into Oxfordshire and the gentle drift of snowflakes morphed into a blizzard. Visibility from the already opaque train window was nil.
At the nearest station to Berryford, an obliging commuter helped her to lift her luggage down from the train to the platform and she smarted at the amusement in his eyes.
“I’d put a coat on if I were you, love.”
Millie glared at him for stating the obvious before bestowing him with one of the typically Gallic shrugs she and her sister Jen had inherited from their mother. Unlike Jen, who had embraced all things English when their family had relocated to her father’s home town from Lourmarin, Millie still struggled with the resurgence of her French roots whenever she was stressed, angry or had overindulged on Prosecco. She had no problem whatsoever with that; she loved the trace of French in her accent that reminded her of the sunshine-filled childhood she had enjoyed in the south of France, where the necessity of owning a winter coat was non-existent.
She made her way towards the waiting room, dragging her wheelie suitcase in her wake, and lunged through the door, where, to her delight and tear-inducing relief, the central heating was on full blast. She slumped down into a seat to recover her breath and for the first time wished Claudia had decided to run her Festive Feast cookery course in her St Lucian villa high up in the hills above Soufrière, overlooking the spectacular sight of the twin Pitons, the emerald pyramids of rock poking out of the Caribbean Sea like the spines of a sleeping dinosaur.
She sprung the lock on her suitcase and grabbed another cardigan, shivering like a baby kitten and cursing her lack of forward planning. A few seconds later, her vivid stream of weather-themed invectives was interrupted by a buzz from her pocket and she fumbled with frozen fingers to answer her call.
“Hey, it’s Maddening Millie! Welcome to Gloucestershire! Where are you?”
Millie rolled her eyes, but the sound of Zach’s voice was like nectar to her ears. “I’m sitting in the waiting room tr
ying to get some feeling back into my hands.”
“Stay there. I’ll come and get you.”
A splurge of warmth that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature spread through Millie’s chest as she replayed an image of Zach in his figure-hugging black tee-shirt and denim shorts as they explored the exotic sights of St Lucia together. Despite her denials to Poppy, she couldn’t ignore the fact that a large part of the attraction of spending the week in Berryford was so that she would be able to spend time with Zach again. Just being in his presence made her nerve endings zing, yet she struggled to describe the relationship niche into which they had fallen. Was it friendship, companionship or something altogether more complicated? She was leaning more towards the third option and maybe spending this week together in more mundane surroundings would help her to figure it out.
A flurry of snowflakes danced in the air as an elderly couple stumbled through the waiting room door, clad in sensible fleeces, waterproof cagoules and robust walking boots with thick woollen socks turned over at the ankle. They glanced in her direction, ready to exchange a cheery seasonal greeting before performing a comedic double-take at her unsuitable attire. She gifted them a confident smile and they quickly averted their eyes.
Who in their right mind would willingly come to a place like this in the middle of a snowstorm the last week before Christmas? Millie wondered. Wasn’t there an over-heated cathedral of consumerism to meander through in search of that perfect gift for Aunt Marge? In fact, if she had known she would be battling through a snow-filled Armageddon, she too might have thought twice about accepting Claudia’s offer.
Within minutes, the door burst open again and her heart performed a flipflop of pleasure at the sight in front of her. Even with a woolly hat pulled down over his ears and a stylish Dr Who-style scarf wound artfully around the collar of his black denim jacket, Zach Barker was eye-poppingly handsome and her body’s instant reaction to his arrival told her everything she needed to know.
Unfortunately, from the look on his face, he was clearly not thinking the same. Millie watched him run his eyes over her skimpy attire and saw his lips twitch into that familiar smirk, causing the cute dimples to appear like brackets in his cheeks, and his dark eyes to sparkle with mischief.
“I see you have come prepared for a day out at the beach instead of a journey through the snowbound countryside? What’s the matter? Didn’t anyone tell you it was December? Is that your luggage?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your coat?”
Zach’s eyes rested on her sequinned Converse trainers for a few beats before flicking back up to her face, his jaw loose with incredulity. His expression couldn’t have been more amazed if she was stood before him naked.
“Erm, I didn’t bring a coat. It wasn’t snowing when I left London, and anyway, I plan on spending most of my time in the hi-tech centrally-heated kitchen of Stonelea Manor,” retorted Millie, aware of the defensive note that had crept into her voice, a familiar occurrence when speaking to super-sensible Zach. “I’ll be fine. Just point me in the direction of your car and I’ll make a run for it.”
“You’ve got to be joking? It’s minus two out there! Here, take my jacket and channel your inner Usain Bolt. Come on!”
And before she could refuse, Zach had handed her his coat, grabbed the handle of her suitcase and jogged from the waiting room towards the car park. She rushed in his wake, slotting her arms into his still-warm jacket, revelling in the familiar fragrance of his cologne that lingered on the fabric.
When they reached Zach’s car, the meteorological Gods decided to go for broke and fling everything in their armoury at them. With snowflakes lashing angrily at the windscreen like an icy carwash, Millie heaved a sigh of relief when she slammed the door and leaned her head back against the headrest.
“Urgh! I hate the snow!”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Don’t you think it has a certain aesthetic beauty? Erasing all the sharp edges and angular gables of the ugly architecture to produce a minimalist simplicity? Oh, no, sorry I forgot, I’m talking to Amelia Harper, the Queen of Clutter and Chaos!” chuckled Zach as he struggled to steer the vehicle deeper into the countryside through the ever-increasing snow drifts.
Millie had grown accustomed to Zach’s unique line in playful banter and chose not to rise to the bait. Anyway, she could see from the twinkle in his eyes and the turn of his lips that he was happy to see her.
“How far is it to Berryford?”
In reply, Zach took a sharp right-hand turn and came to an abrupt halt outside an attractive stone lodge next to a pair of magnificent carved pillars that Millie recognised from her google search as the entrance to Stonelea Manor. Visibility had improved just enough for her to get a glimpse through the windscreen of the handsome house nestled amidst a cotton wool wonderland. It was as though the property had been transported from the pages of a fairy tale and was even more beautiful than the photographs on the internet had indicated.
Apart from the honeyed stone and matching rooftiles, the building presented a pleasing symmetry, with dual mullioned windows on either side of the grand front entrance, all set against a backdrop of quite sinister woodland, a living labyrinth that could conceal a myriad of dangers. A necklace of wrought-iron lampposts meandered from the entrance gate to the front steps, but it was impossible to ascertain the precise route of the driveway.
“Why have we stopped here?” she asked, trying to ignore the squirm of apprehension agitating at her chest.
“Because, as you can see, the snow is over a foot deep and there’s no way this battered old Golf will make it to the manor.”
“So how are you proposing we get there?”
“We need to transfer to a more appropriate means of transport. Forward planning – ever heard of it?” Zach teased as he swung his legs out of the driver’s seat and jogged around the back of the vehicle to open the boot, calling through to where Millie was still clinging to the warmth of the passenger seat. “However, even I hadn’t anticipated that you’d turn up dressed for a tropical cocktail party in the Caribbean.”
“I’m not dressed for…”
“Here, you’d better put these on,” said Zach, tossing a jumble of cloth into her arms.
Millie scrunched up her nose in revulsion as a whiff of dead ferret, mingled with a soupçon of ammonia, invaded her nostrils.
“I’m not wearing these!”
“You will if you don’t want to die of hyperthermia.”
“I think I’ll risk it!” she snapped, as she unfolded the garment to reveal an ancient brown wax jacket with a dung-coloured fleece hand-sewn into the lining. It was so long the hem would probably skim her ankles.
“It wasn’t a request, Millie. Put it on. The sooner we get down to the manor the better.”
She reconsidered her initial diagnosis of the origins of the pungent aroma. The smell wasn’t ammonia - it was linseed oil interspersed with horse manure and something else a little earthier. A hint of nausea scratched at the back of her throat.
“The hat and gloves are in the pockets.”
“Is this a wind-up? Because if it is, I don’t think it’s very funny.”
Knowing Zach’s quirky sense of humour and the mischievous way he had coaxed her to experience new and exhilarating experiences in the past, Millie wouldn’t have put it past him to whip out a camera as soon as she stood before him in the stupid get-up and to upload the image to his Facebook page. She scrutinised his face, a face that had frequented her dreams more often than she cared to admit, and watched him remove his hat and run his fingers through his spiky black hair then scratch at his unshaven chin; a sure sign of anxiety.
“It’s not a wind-up, Millie. We’ve got to go - now. The weather guys are predicting one of the most severe snow storms for ten years and they’re warning against all non-essential travel. We’re lucky to have got this far.”
“But… Oh, okay.”
Heaving a sigh, Millie slotted her a
rms into the coat, huddling into its folds to seek out every scrap of warmth. She completed the sartorial car crash by yanking on the knitted hat and gloves and was surprised when an image of Zach’s elegantly attired ex-girlfriend floated into her thoughts. She had met Chloe in St Lucia when she’d turned up unannounced to persuade Zach to rekindle their relationship, but her plan hadn’t produced the result she had been hoping for and, much to Millie’s relief, she’d spent the rest of her stay in Rodney Bay in the north of the island with her sister.
“Welcome to the Cotswolds, Amelia Harper. It’s great to see you again,” Zach whispered, leaning forward to tuck Millie’s hair into the collar, gifting her with a wide grin and another delicious dash of his lemony aftershave, the soft warmth of his breath on her cheeks sending sparkles of pleasure through her frozen veins. “Come on.”
Zach spun on his heels and disappeared around the back of the lodge, dragging her suitcase behind him. She followed at a safe distance, her shoulders hunched, spirals of breath pirouetting through the freezing air in front of her, aware that her lower lip was protruding like a recalcitrant teenager.
The day was well into its final act and long fissures of indigo and scarlet rippled over the horizon. She glanced up at the clouds, the colour of an angry bruise, paused briefly in their eternal cycle while they geared up for a repeat dumping of their frozen contents. Every step she took required a tremendous effort and she estimated that at the rate she was progressing, it would take an hour to get to the manor and that was without factoring in having to haul her suitcase through the snow. A blast of icy rain slapped her face, and, if she hadn’t been so completely fed up, she would have laughed. Boy, was it cold!
But where had Zach disappeared to?
A sharp blast of throttle from behind the lodge sent shockwaves through her chest, and as she rounded the corner she was faced with a terrible sight. There was Zach, enveloped in a cloud of exhaust fumes, revving the engine of a canary yellow snowmobile and proffering a matching helmet.