Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin

by Catherine Ferguson

  ‘You go. I’ll be up in a minute,’ I tell him.

  ‘Okay, Puss. Don’t be long.’

  ‘Mrs Morelli was really pleased,’ I tell him as he heads for the door.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Morelli – you know, the woman I cooked for.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course. Well, that’s brilliant.’

  I smile excitedly. ‘I know. It couldn’t have gone any better, really, despite the problem I had with the terrible cut of meat. I ended up having to slow cook—’

  His phone buzzes with a message.

  ‘Sorry, Puss.’ He glances at me apologetically and wanders out, studying his text. ‘You can tell me all about it in the morning,’ he calls from halfway up the stairs.

  I sit there, staring at the blank screen of the TV. After all the excitement of the night, it would have been lovely if Harrison had wanted to toast my success.

  No wonder I’m feeling a bit deflated.

  *

  Next morning, I’m making toast while Harrison does his morning vanishing act behind The Financial Times, when the landline rings.

  I dive on the phone, assuming it’s Erin calling to see how I’m feeling after last night.

  It’s a man’s voice.

  ‘Hi, Poppy. I hope you don’t mind me phoning, but I was just wondering how last night went?’

  For a second, I’m thrown. But not for long. That deep voice with a hint of gravel is unmistakeable.

  ‘It’s Jed. The total stranger who invited you for Christmas by mistake?’

  ‘Jed. Hi. Um – it went brilliantly, thanks.’

  ‘Was the customer happy?’

  I smile. ‘She was over the moon and her guests couldn’t stop complimenting the tiramisu.’

  There’s a rustle as Harrison pops his head round the newspaper and gives me a ‘who’s that?’ look.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go,’ I tell Jed. ‘But thanks so much for calling.’

  ‘No problem. I’m just glad it went well. Have you got a name for the business, by the way?’

  ‘Well, not really. Although, my friend Erin thinks she’s come up with a corker.’

  ‘Which is?’

  I close my eyes and smile as I say it. ‘Diner Might.’

  There’s a brief silence, then the sound of hearty laughter. ‘Diner Might. Dynamite. I like it. Although maybe not quite the sophistication you’re aiming for?’

  ‘That’s just what I thought. Any suggestions gratefully received.’

  ‘Right, I’m on it.’

  ‘Is Clemmy coming for Christmas?’ I ask on impulse, not caring that Harrison is listening.

  ‘Yes, she is.’ Jed sounds surprised that I should ask. ‘I’m meeting her when I get off the train at Easingwold on the nineteenth.’

  ‘The two p.m. train?’ I smile, recalling how adamant he was about leaving London promptly for the holidays.

  He gives a throaty chuckle. ‘On the dot. She’s cut off her long red hair, apparently, so I’ve told her she has to wear a carnation otherwise I might not recognise the new sophisticated Clemmy.’

  I laugh, feeling the tiniest bit deflated, which is strange. Although, on reflection, it’s probably because, while Jed and Clemmy will be enjoying their Christmas together, Harrison will be away in Spain and it’ll just be me and Mum rubbing along together.

  ‘It sounds like you’re going to have a lovely Christmas.’

  ‘It’ll certainly be interesting,’ he says dryly. ‘What with Uncle Bob bringing his new woman and her two teenage kids, and my workaholic brother forced to tear himself away from his natural habitat to join us.’

  ‘Natural habitat?’ I’m intrigued.

  ‘Ryan’s a financial trader in the City of London. He does nothing but work and date ravishing blondes. And he hates the countryside.’

  ‘Ooh, yes. Well, anything could happen.’

  He groans. ‘Precisely.’

  There’s a brief pause. Then he says, ‘Bye then, Poppy. It’s been nice chatting.’

  ‘Who was that?’ asks Harrison as I sit down at the table and start buttering my toast.

  Breezily, I say, ‘Oh, just a friend wanting to know how last night went.’ It comes out a little more snippily than I intended.

  Completely oblivious, Harrison smiles and puts his paper down. ‘And how did it go, Puss? You haven’t actually told me.’

  I plaster on a smile. ‘It went really well, thanks. Can you pass the marmalade, please?’

  He settles back behind his newspaper, then pops his head round again a second later. ‘Dynamite? What was that about?’

  I shake my head and smile, thinking about how hilarious Jed found the name. I did tell Harrison about Erin’s daft suggestion, but he’s obviously forgotten all about it.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I tell him. ‘Do you want some more toast?’

  Chapter 8

  It’s the night before Harrison leaves for Spain, and I’m keen to talk to him about my future plans. Ever since Mimi took over from Mr Hastings as restaurant manager, my morale has been on the floor, and the idea of catering dinner parties is becoming more and more attractive by the day.

  I make him his favourite steak pie, and afterwards, we settle down cosily on the sofa.

  ‘You know how I went on that cookery course with Erin?’ I begin, feeling actually rather nervous. And excited. ‘Well, I haven’t mentioned this, but I was talking to the tutor and he said there was a big demand for companies catering for events and private dinner parties. And he – well, he actually reckoned I’ve got what it takes. To cook for people.’ Even talking about it makes my heart skip along a little bit faster.

  Harrison’s eyes widen. ‘I thought you’d given up that idea.’

  ‘Well, I never really considered it seriously. But after cooking for Mrs Morelli, I’ve realised I can actually do it. So what do you think?’

  ‘Well, your food is fabulous, there’s no doubt about that.’ He stares at me intently and I can almost hear the cogs whirring as he weighs everything up. ‘Do you know, Poppy,’ he says at last. ‘I think you’re talented and clever enough to achieve anything you set your mind to.’

  ‘You think so?’ I flush with pleasure. I’m always amazed to hear Harrison say things like this about me. A part of me is even starting to believe that what he says is true.

  He kisses my forehead. ‘I certainly do, you clever little Puss.’

  ‘So do you think I could actually run a successful catering business?’

  Harrison stares down at the floor, an intense look on his face. He’s obviously considering the idea very carefully indeed, and my heart lifts. It’s so lovely having Harrison on my side, backing me in everything I do.

  ‘I honestly think I could do it, you know?’ With Harrison’s support, I really feel I can. ‘I mean, obviously I couldn’t give up work straight away. I’d have to build up the business slowly, then—’

  ‘There’s a snag in this carpet. Look.’ He points, still staring down, clearly not having heard a word I was saying. ‘I thought I was seeing things for a minute. I think we’ll go for quality over price next time.’ He looks up and smiles. ‘You were saying, Puss?’

  ‘The catering business,’ I repeat, a touch frostily. ‘Do you think I could do it?’

  He pulls me closer and nuzzles my neck. ‘Oh, there’ll be plenty more chances to show off your talent for cooking, don’t you worry about that. Mum’s coming over from Spain at Easter, remember? She’ll be thoroughly impressed. As long as you avoid sprouts and beans of all varieties.’ He shrugs. ‘Flatulence. Cabbage is okay, though. As long as it’s red.’ Absently, he massages my waist while keeping one eye on the TV.

  I pull away and arrange myself so that I can look at him in the eye. ‘The thing is, Harrison, that’s not really the point.’ He turns in surprise at the unusual sharpness of my tone, and I smile to show I’m not really cross with him. ‘I don’t want to “show off” my cooking. I want to explore the possibility of turning cooking into
a business.’ I’m surprising myself here, never mind Harrison, but it suddenly seems really important that I convince him I’m seriously considering Erin’s idea.

  ‘The tutor at the course said I could do it, and I think he might be right. I’ve got a little money saved up, so it’s not as if I wouldn’t be able to pay my way …’

  He nods slowly, and I wait on tenterhooks, subconsciously preparing myself for the put-down.

  She’s far too timid. She’ll never amount to anything.

  ‘You know what, Puss? It’s time.’

  I look at him quizzically.

  He smiles. ‘It’s time you gave up your job at the hotel.’

  There’s a beat of silence.

  ‘Sorry?’ I must have misheard him.

  ‘Give up your job,’ he repeats, taking my hand. ‘They obviously don’t appreciate you. I was going to suggest it, actually.’

  I stare at him in astonishment. ‘You were?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiles and pulls me towards him again, and I melt into his kiss, my head reeling happily. I should have known my lovely, caring boyfriend would be one step ahead of me. My brain is racing. What a difference a day makes! Me, planning a possible business? Perhaps Mimi Blenkinsop has actually done me a favour.

  ‘We could continue this upstairs,’ I suggest coyly.

  He frowns at his watch.

  ‘You’ve got a full twenty minutes before the news comes on,’ I point out.

  He smiles sheepishly. ‘You know me too well.’

  ‘News junkie! Honestly, I swear you’d get the shakes if you ever missed the late bulletin.’ I smile impishly and start tickling him.

  I can usually tease him out of his serious moods, and tickling is very good for that. There’s a particular spot on Harrison’s side that’s guaranteed to render him utterly helpless, like right now. It makes me giggle to see him so vulnerable. It’s quite sexy, actually, despite the peculiar brays of laughter that my tickling produces, which make him sound like a donkey gasping for breath.

  We end up in bed, and it’s lovely. I even help him when he puts the second condom on over the first. (Harrison believes firmly that the arrival of children should be scrupulously timetabled, just like everything else in life. And until babies are on the agenda, why take a risk when it’s well documented that condoms can tear?)

  As he takes his shower, I linger in bed, marvelling at myself for daring to think about stepping out of my comfort zone and giving up my job. I never thought Harrison would be so relaxed about the idea. But it was he who suggested it! Maybe we’re rubbing off on each other. Perhaps, under my influence, Harrison’s losing his need to plan everything to the nth degree. Loosening up a bit …

  He knows how passionate I am about cooking and he’s always saying how much he enjoys my experiments in the kitchen. So, I guess he’s finally realising, as I think I am, that it might be the right move for me. Of course, there’s a lot to be said for erring on the side of caution – but on the other hand, if you don’t try, how will you ever know what you might have achieved if you’d been that little bit braver?

  I’m in my absolute element when I’m dreaming up a new menu, sourcing the best ingredients from the market (you can tell a perfect, ripe tomato just by breathing in its wonderful aroma), and getting happily steamy in the kitchen. And tasting. Always tasting, adjusting the seasoning, and tasting some more. (It’s a wonder I’m not the size of a modest detached house. Mind you, Harrison did once slap my bum playfully and remark that he liked his women ‘well upholstered’, so I guess I’m not a slender studio apartment either.)

  If I had my way, I’d spend most of my life in the kitchen. And I love creating Italian dishes best of all.

  Not that everything I attempt is a success.

  On my second date with Harrison, I tried to impress him with slow-cooked lamb’s liver and braised cabbage because he’d mentioned he liked traditional British food. I should have stuck to shepherd’s pie. It was definitely not my finest hour. The cabbage made my little flat smell like a hospital, and the liver – after stewing in the slow cooker for a full eight hours – basically disintegrated to a thick, brown mush, leaving us with a sort of warm offal smoothie. Luckily I had the number of an excellent local curry house to hand.

  I was seriously amazed when next morning, as I sprayed air freshener around to banish the evidence of the liver-and-cabbage disaster, Harrison phoned to say he’d had a great time and did I want to go on another date?

  I’ve come on a lot since then. It sounds corny, but the cookery course really lit the fire in me. I’d been making my own pasta for a long time and perfecting sauces to match the different pasta shapes. But on the course, I learned how to refine and combine flavours to incredible effect, using lots of fresh herbs to lift a dish to a whole new level. (The effect of adding fresh basil to a homemade tomato and mozzarella sauce was a real turning point for me. The flavour!)

  I also learned that the trick to producing dishes that people get excited over and demand the recipe for, is to create the sort of food you’re genuinely passionate about.

  Stretching out my arms and legs, I glance lazily around the room, which has only recently been decorated, revelling in having the whole bed to myself for a while. When we rented this house three months ago, we decided to decorate, and Harrison left the colour scheme entirely up to me, saying that a ‘woman’s eye’ was always so much better than a man’s. I laughed fondly at his slightly old-fashioned view, and dived into the task of choosing paint shades and wallpaper. I’d never lived with a guy before and it felt like a big adventure.

  I’d had my doubts before I agreed to move in with Harrison.

  It wasn’t that I thought we wouldn’t be compatible. It was just that I’d lived at Mum’s until I was twenty-seven and I knew only too well how claustrophobic it could be, putting up with someone else’s clutter and having barely any space to call your own.

  I eventually got over my guilt at the prospect of leaving Mum, and moved into a little flat of my own, just along the road from her. I loved that flat. It was small but wonderfully airy and uncluttered. Minimalist, I suppose you’d call it. I felt I could finally breathe. And I did, that first evening when the removal men had gone. Long, restorative breaths, looking out over the village green at dusk and revelling in the nerve-tingling feeling of freedom and endless possibility. It felt quite surreal to be able to walk from one room to another without the elaborate ducking and twisting for fear of knocking anything over.

  When, a year later, Harrison asked me to move in with him, I was a bit nervous at first. I loved having my own space at last. Did I really want to give it up? But I felt better after Harrison assured me that he also hated clutter and ornaments everywhere. (I was grateful for his diplomacy. ‘Clutter’ was a huge understatement in describing the state of Mum’s bungalow.) And while his reasons for wanting to cohabit with me weren’t the most romantic in the world, I could see that his idea of pooling our resources and sharing the bills made a great deal of practical sense. (Erin chortled a bit when I told her about his clever spreadsheet detailing hot-water usage, but even she had to agree that I’d be better off financially.)

  Harrison emerges from the bathroom with a towel around his waist and I beckon him over to the bed with a saucy smile. He pulls on his boxers and jeans then sits down on the bed without fastening them and looks down at me, his eyes crinkling in a smile.

  Sitting up, I hold the duvet around me and run my hand admiringly over the smooth skin of his back. ‘So, you really think I should take the bull by the horns and just do it?’

  ‘Give up the restaurant? Yes, of course. They don’t appreciate you anyway.’ He smiles and leans down to kiss me. ‘Not like I do.’

  My heart expands with love. ‘I’m so glad you think that. I mean, obviously I’d start small. And I won’t be earning a great deal at the beginning but I’ve got savings, so—’

  He shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll easily manage.’

&n
bsp; I sink back onto the pillows happily. I can’t believe he’s being so supportive! But I should have realised he would be. I don’t know why I doubted it. We’re a team now and that’s what partners do – they root for each other.

  ‘When I get my promotion, it will mean a big step up in salary,’ he says. ‘So, the fact is, we’ll more than manage. In fact, you won’t need to work at all.’ He beams at me as if this will be music to my ears. ‘You can just stay at home. Look after the house.’ He winks, getting to his feet. ‘And me.’

  He zips up his jeans, picks his shirt up off the floor and walks out, just as the music downstairs announces the early-evening news.

  My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

  A minute later, I scramble into my dressing gown and follow him downstairs. This is far more important than the news.

  Blood is rushing through my veins, urging me on. I’m normally so mild-mannered, any sort of confrontation makes me feel physically sick, even if I’m only an observer. But having my hopes and wishes discarded so easily by Harrison – with no attempt by him to understand what they actually mean to me – has really touched a nerve.

  I don’t yet know if I have the courage to branch out in a new direction, but it suddenly seems massively important that I let Harrison know where I stand on the subject. I’m not quite sure where meek and mild Poppy has disappeared to, but something deep inside is urging me on and it’s not the steak pie I had for dinner!

  ‘Harrison? Question: what about my career?’ I stand squarely between him and the TV. I might sound calm but my whole body is shaking.

  He looks taken aback by my directness and I almost feel guilty. But irritation is expanding inside me. Why is it okay for Harrison to be focused on his brilliant future career at the accountancy firm, but not me?

  ‘You can still do your cookery thing,’ he says magnanimously, trying to peer around me at the TV. ‘If you really want to.’

  Suddenly, I’m doing a petulant little dance, moving from side to side, so he can’t see the newscaster. Eventually, he gives up and sits back, looking mildly puzzled.