Christmas Nights

by Penny Jordan

  ‘Harold won’t walk into the kitchen,’ Heaven had asserted. ‘Harold is the kind of man who boasts about barely knowing how to find the fridge door—he wouldn’t dream of visiting any kitchen but most especially not his own.’

  But despite the fact that Tiffany had already inadvertently confirmed that view by explaining apologetically to Heaven that although Harold would actually be paying her fee for the evening Tiffany doubted that Heaven would actually see him she still felt nervous.

  ‘This business deal is so very, very important to him, that I doubt he’s even going to have time for me. He rang me three times yesterday just to check on how things were going. He says it’s vitally important that he gets the Americans to sign the purchase contract for his business before the end of the year. Something to do with some patent he’s taking out on this new software he’s designed,’ she had told Heaven vaguely.

  Tiffany had in fact told Heaven rather a lot over the past couple of days, and Heaven couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, quickly coming to realise how lonely and bereft of any real friends the other girl was and how, in many ways, she was much more naive and unworldly than one would have expected a young woman of twenty-one to be. Heaven herself at only two years older felt so much more mature.

  The sound of the kitchen door being opened had her tensing and automatically turning her back towards it, but it was only Tiffany who came in.

  ‘Harold has just rung from the airport,’ she announced breathlessly. ‘They will be here within the hour; he wants dinner to be served promptly at eight-thirty…’

  ‘That will be fine,’ Heaven assured her.

  ‘It’s eight o’clock now,’ Tiffany jittered. ‘I’d better go just in case anyone arrives early. Thank goodness all the bedrooms are finished at least…’

  Heaven gave her an understanding smile. It would be interesting to say the least to discover Harold’s reaction when he found out that the elegant en suite bathrooms which complemented every bedroom might look fully fitted and finished, with their impressive reproduction Victorian sanitary ware, but that look at them was all one could do because the owner of the firm who had supplied and installed them had been so incensed by Harold’s refusal to pay him a single penny until after he had inspected everything that none of it had actually been connected up to the mains.

  ‘You do know he’s got guests staying, don’t you?’ Heaven had pointed out to the contractor who had poured out his grievances to her over a cup of coffee and a generous bowl of her delicious soup in the kitchen.

  ‘Yup… they’ll have to make do with the downstairs cloakroom; that’s all in order,’ he had told Heaven with a wink.

  Perhaps she ought to have warned Tiffany about what the contractor had told her, Heaven acknowledged, but why add to the poor girl’s problems?

  A sharp thrill of fear-cum-excitement drilled through her as she heard the front doorbell ring.

  Well it was too late for second thoughts now. Everything was ready. Everything… everything, just as she had planned.

  She swallowed hard as she looked across at the hob where the pudding was still steaming gently.

  Figgy pudding…

  She glanced down at the handwritten recipe she had used, all of the ingredients delicious and sinfully rich, especially the almonds, cherries and mixed peel.

  That was the basic recipe but because these puddings were going to be extra-special she had added three extra ingredients, ingredients which never in a lifetime would she actually commit to paper, and those ingredients were a generous pouring of liquid paraffin, an equally generous measure of cascara and, just to make sure no one could detect the suspicious taste of such strong laxatives, a large glass of very rich, full-bodied sherry.

  A naughty smile curled her mouth as she contemplated the results of her inventive additions to the pudding.

  Harold and his guests were going to find it a serious inconvenience that the contractor had omitted to connect all the plumbing. Oh, she hadn’t added enough cascara or liquid paraffin to cause any real health risk, but there was certainly enough to cause anyone who had a generous portion of the pudding to be seriously embarrassed by its effect on their digestive system… very seriously embarrassed.

  Harold would of course be furious and guess that her cooking was to blame but by then she would be long gone and anyway he would only know her as Mrs Tiggywinkle, whom he would never connect with her, Heaven! It would be well worth the fact that she had used some of her carefully hoarded income from the recent sales of her puddings in order to buy the ingredients for tonight’s meal to know that Harold was finally having a taste of his own medicine.

  She had to admit, though, that she had been extremely relieved when Tiffany had informed her that she would probably pass on the pudding.

  ‘Harold doesn’t want me to put on weight,’ she had confided to Heaven. ‘And this pudding sounds sinfully rich to me.’

  Smiling reassuringly at Tiffany, Jon introduced himself. She reminded him of a timid fawn, all gauche movements and nervous eyes. There was no way she was any match for Harold and Jon couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. In many ways she was almost more child than woman and so far as he was concerned, despite her obvious prettiness, not really his type at all.

  ‘Am I the first to arrive?’ he asked her as she dutifully took his coat.

  ‘Yes. Harold should be here soon. The Concorde flight from New York was delayed by the weather,’ she told him nervously.

  ‘Mm… they’ve had heavy snowfalls in New York, and according to the forecasters, we’re due for some soon. If they’re right, we could have the first white Christmas for a long time.

  ‘Harold’s bringing some business colleagues back with him, I understand…’

  ‘Yes… he is… They’re the people he’s hoping will buy the company. Oh…’ Tiffany blushed. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about business things, but since you’re his friend I’m sure it will be all right…’

  ‘Of course it will,’ Jon soothed her.

  So Harold was intending to sell the business—a business which, according to the accounts he had produced at the time of the divorce, was heavily in debt and not making any money. It would be interesting to see just who would want to buy that kind of company—and why, he decided as Tiffany bustled away with his coat and then returned to ask him what he would like to drink as she invited him into the drawing room.

  As he walked past the half-open dining-room door, Jon paused and then stiffened as he recognised the dining-room set which his parents had given Louisa.

  Harold had refused to return the furniture to Louisa, claiming that it had been a joint gift to both of them and that she had forfeited her right to it when she had walked out of the house.

  In desperation Louisa had actually gone to the expense of hiring a furniture van and going round to the house to reclaim her furniture when she knew that Harold would be away, but Harold had of course had all the locks changed and even though Louisa had eventually managed to gain admittance by persistently hammering on the door until the housekeeper had let her in, as she had told Jon afterwards, the furniture was no longer there and in its place had been a cheap ugly fifties table and chairs.

  Through the kitchen door, which Tiffany had left open, Heaven could hear people arriving. She went to close the door and then stiffened as she just caught the sound of a warm deep male voice that sent a sharp volley of shocked emotion surging through her veins.

  She must be hearing things, imagining things, her memory distorted by time and thrown into confusion by the fact that she was in some ways resurrecting the past.

  It was inconceivable that the male voice she had so tantalisingly heard could possibly belong to Jon. He was, after all, Louisa’s brother. Even so, she found that she was lingering by the still half-open door, her ears stretched, her stomach churning even more than it had already been doing.

  It was just her own memory playing tricks on her, she told herself as she made herself walk
away from the door, but beneath the buoyant determination which had made her so keen to see Harold get his just deserts, in both senses of the word, she was warily aware of a sudden sharp sense of nostalgia and loss, a foolish yearning for what might have been.

  Stop daydreaming, she warned herself sternly. Remember why you’re here.

  Whilst Tiffany hovered uncertainly, obviously wondering why Jon was staring so intently into the dining room, the front doorbell pealed again.

  The new arrivals were Harold’s accountant and his wife, neither of whom Jon particularly liked although he always made a point of concealing the fact from them.

  ‘Harold not here yet?’ Jeremy Parton asked, rubbing his hands together as he went to stand in front of the fake log fir in the equally fake Regency fireplace.

  ‘No, but he should arrive soon. I hope he does… He told me he wanted dinner served at eight-thirty and—’ Tiffany fluttered.

  ‘Who have you got in to do the catering?’ Freda Parton interrupted Tiffany sharply. ‘Some of the caterers are dreadfully over-priced and as for the food they serve…’

  ‘Er—’

  ‘Whoever it is, it won’t be a certain deliciously sexy and mouthwateringly tasty little brown-haired nymphet of a cook,’ Jeremy interrupted with what Jon privately considered to be totally inappropriate licentiousness.

  What was it about the man’s face that made him want to punch it—extremely hard? Jon wondered angrily. He certainly wasn’t normally so easily provoked and physical expressions of anger just weren’t his style at all.

  ‘Jeremy,’ Freda Parton warned her husband curtly.

  ‘Oh, come on; it’s no secret that old Harold had the hots for the girl, and who could blame him? I wouldn’t have minded a little taste of what she had on offer myself.’

  ‘Jeremy!’ Freda Parton warned a second time even more curtly, turning to explain to Tiffany, who looked both embarrassed and confused.

  ‘Jeremy is just joking, my dear. He’s referring to the young woman who was the cause of the break-up of Harold’s first marriage. A most tenacious type of girl. She deliberately set out to trap Harold into having an affair with her…’

  ‘He—he’s never mentioned anything about that to me,’ Tiffany stammered.

  Freda Parton gave her husband another dire look and soothed, ‘No, well, of course not. Although Harold had nothing to blame himself with, men being what they are, I’m sure quite naturally the whole subject is something he wants to put behind him, but then, of course, if Louisa had had her wits about her she would have realised what was going on sooner and—How is Louisa, Jon?’ she asked Jon pointedly.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Jon responded calmly. ‘She and the children are spending Christmas with our parents.’

  Still smiling, he turned to Tiffany and explained, ‘Louisa, Harold’s first wife, is my sister…’

  Tiffany blushed hotly. ‘Oh, I—I didn’t know…’ she started to stammer, but Jeremy ignored her discomfiture to challenge Jon.

  ‘Some people might find it rather odd that you should have chosen to remain so close to Harold; after all, the divorce was pretty aggressive.’

  ‘I’m a businessman,’ Jon returned with a casual shrug. ‘I don’t allow my emotions to get in the way of my judgement. Harold has put some very good business my way…’

  ‘And you’re hoping for some more? Well, you could be in luck; I expect the reason he’s asked you here tonight is to make sure this sale he’s planning for the business is all sound and watertight.’

  For some reason the smile Jeremy was giving him made the tiny hairs at the back of Jon’s neck lift atavistically but he had too much self-control to allow his feelings to show as he responded calmly, ‘Well, I would certainly be pleased to advise Harold on whatever aspect of the proposed sale he chose to consult me on. I take it he’s planning to sell off the company in its entirety…?’

  ‘Lock, stock and barrel,’ Jeremy agreed cheerfully, breaking off as they saw the lights of the taxi that was drawing up outside the house through the window.

  ‘Oh here’s Harold now,’ Tiffany announced in relief. ‘I’d better go and let them in.’

  Twenty past eight. Heaven had heard Harold arriving, recognising the familiar loud aggressiveness of his voice; another ten minutes and Tiffany should arrive to collect the soup plates and the soup.

  Whilst Tiffany was serving it to their guests, Heaven intended to finish off the second course—a fish dish of which she was particularly proud.

  ‘They loved the soup.’

  ‘Good, then they’ll love the fish even more,’ Heaven promised as she and Tiffany exchanged conspiratorial smiles some time later.

  ‘Freda Parton keeps on asking who the caterers are… I fibbed a little bit and said I’d just had some help from a friend… Well, it isn’t entirely untrue… I do feel that we have become friends these last few days.’

  It amazed Heaven just how protective she was beginning to feel towards the other girl. How could she have become involved with Harold? Louisa, too, must have loved him once, but Heaven had sensed that Jon had never really liked his brother-in-law. Jon—what on earth was she doing thinking about Jon when she ought to be concentrating on what she was doing, not daydreaming over a man who was past history?

  Only the sorbet and the main course to go before they had their pudding. Heaven could feel the nervous tension beginning to build up inside her stomach.

  To keep herself occupied and out of habit she started to clear away the used crockery and cutlery Tiffany had returned to the kitchen.

  She had just placed the last plate in the dishwasher when Tiffany came back for the next course.

  Jon frowned as he listened to the conversation taking place between Harold and the Americans. On the face of it, there was no reason why he should feel so instinctively suspicious that Harold was concealing something, but then he knew Harold.

  Tiffany, looking increasingly hot and bothered, was bringing in the pudding course.

  Jon shook his head when she offered him some. He had never had much of a sweet tooth, unlike Harold who was greedily indicating that Tiffany give him an extra-generous helping of the pudding.

  ‘Wow, that was some meal,’ one of the Americans commented enthusiastically to Tiffany, gallantly insisting on helping her to remove the dirty dessert plates and carrying them out to the kitchen for her whilst Harold reminded Tiffany that he wanted the men’s biscuits and cheese to be served in his study.

  In the kitchen Heaven heaved a small sigh of relief. Only the cheese and biscuits and the coffee and petits fours left now and then she could leave, before the disastrous explosive effects of her special additions to her pudding recipe began to make themselves felt!

  She stiffened as Tiffany came into the kitchen accompanied by a man. Fortunately it wasn’t Harold.

  ‘Hey now, who is this?’ the American demanded.

  ‘I’ve been helping Tiffany with the meal,’ Heaven told him quickly before Tiffany herself could say anything.

  ‘Say, isn’t that the pudding we’ve just had?’ the American demanded, his attention distracted away from Heaven towards the segment of pudding still left.

  ‘You ought to try it,’ he told Heaven. ‘It’s something else…’ And then, to Heaven’s horror, he reached for the bowl and, picking up a spoon, dug it into the pudding and then held out a spoonful towards her.

  As she stepped back from him Heaven mentally prayed for help. There was no way, no way in this world she could eat that pudding but the American was very large, very determined and, she suspected, slightly drunk.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ she suddenly heard Tiffany cry anxiously. ‘Mr Rosenbaum… Eddie… Please, we must get back.’

  ‘Where the hell is Tiffany with that cheese?’ Harold demanded angrily. ‘Jon, be a good chap and see what’s doing, will you?’

  As he threw the command across the table at him, Jon had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from throwing it right back at him, but for Louisa’s sak
e he couldn’t afford to betray any of the antagonism he felt towards his ex-brother-in-law and so instead of telling him in no uncertain terms to go himself he stood up and pushed his chair back, heading for the kitchen, but not before he caught sight of the smirking smile that Jeremy Parton was giving him.

  Grimly Jon pushed open the kitchen door and then came to an abrupt halt at the scene in front of him and the woman dominating it.

  As Heaven looked up and saw him all the colour drained from her face. For a minute she thought she was actually going to faint. What on earth was Jon doing here?

  ‘Oh, Jon, is everything all right?’ she heard Tiffany twittering. ‘Is Harold—?’

  ‘Harold sent me to check up on what had happened to the cheese and biscuits,’ Jon informed her, causing Tiffany to start scurrying frantically round the kitchen.

  The American, sensing an ally, looked at him and announced, ‘Say, she won’t eat the pudding…’

  ‘I can’t. I’m allergic to nuts and it’s got almonds in it,’ Heaven garbled. Oh, God, what on earth was she going to do now? There was no doubt whatsoever that Jon had recognised her, and no doubt either, she suspected from the thoughtful way he looked first at the pudding and then at her, that her refusal to touch it was arousing his suspicions.

  As he reached past the American, for a moment Heaven thought he was actually going to force-feed the pudding to her. The thought made her feel quite giddily sick but to her relief he simply relieved the American of the bowl and spoon and told him firmly, ‘Harold wants to talk with you…’

  Her relief was short-lived, though, because instead of following the American as he scuttled quickly towards the door Jon simply stood watching her.

  ‘Heaven?’ Tiffany started to panic, looking uncertainly from Heaven to the trolley.

  ‘Harold is waiting, Tiffany,’ Jon reminded her, and whilst Heaven watched in helpless dismay Tiffany gave her an apologetic look and then followed the American through the kitchen door, letting it swing closed after her, leaving Heaven completely alone with Jon, enclosing her in the now far too small space of the kitchen with a man whose presence had once filled her with excitement but which now filled her with apprehensive dread.