by Daisy James
‘But I thought the pub was being sold?’
‘Not any more. I’ll fill you in when I see you. But that’s fantastic news! Thank you, Brad, thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
‘Okay. Enjoy your celebrations. I want to see you at nine a.m. on Monday morning. In the meantime, could you email me some shots of the proposed venue?’
Kirstie slipped her phone into her back pocket.
‘What?’ chorused her audience.
‘That was Brad. He’s offered me my own show. It’s going to be filmed right here at the Dancing Duck, in the summerhouse!’
And before she could say anything further she was enveloped in a scrum of joyous faces. She wasn’t sure what she was celebrating the most: getting her own TV cookery show, the fact that her beloved childhood home had been saved from demolition, the fact that the villagers of Cranbury would not hate her, or the fact that at that very moment Josh was kissing her as though he’d never kissed anyone before in his life.
Someone had switched on the music and ‘Congratulations!’ blasted from the speakers to add to the cacophony of happiness. Rachel and her parents had arrived and were being told about what had happened. Emma appeared with a beaming Leon who looked like all his Christmases had come at once.
Over the next few hours, a few regulars poked their noses in at the door to ask what all the noise was about, joining in with the celebrations, texting and ringing around their friends to tell them that the Dancing Duck wasn’t being sold after all. Several residents rushed back home to grab leftover bottles of wine and cans of beers to share with everyone with the inevitable comments of a pub being drunk dry causing hilarity.
Kirstie looked around at the happy throng, smiling. Josh slipped his hand into hers.
‘Happy?’
‘Happier than I’ve been for a long time. Thank you, Josh.’
‘What for?’
‘For being the best friend I ever had.’
‘I hope I’m more than that.’
And as the revellers drifted away into the brasserie, Josh pulled Kirstie into his arms and kissed her. She sent up a prayer of thanks to her guardian angel for resuming her position in the director’s chair and a request that the next time she took a few days off to celebrate Christmas, she should warn her first. Kirstie didn’t think her heart could go through the last three weeks again.
Epilogue
Six months later.
‘Okay, everyone, ready for the first take?’
‘Hold still, Kirstie, unless you want your viewers to associate you with smudged lipstick,’ chastised Bridget, her blusher brush threaded through her fingers as she touched up Kirstie’s make-up.
Kirstie took a last opportunity to glance around the summerhouse. Decorated in pastel shades with bunting hung in swathes around the glass ceiling, it was crammed to bursting with not only culinary utensils, but also a TV crew lugging cameras, rolls of cable, and fat, fluffy sound mics. A clapperboard had just appeared in front of her face, its board scribbled with the words: The Kirstie Cooks … Series. Take One.
For the first episode, they were filming the preparation of healthy dishes from all four corners of the British Isles, prepared by the celebrity chef Joe Jarvis who had been delighted to be asked to help launch the series, which would take the viewer around the world on an odyssey of fragrant and mouth-watering dishes that other countries enjoyed when watching the calories.
Next week’s Kirstie Cooks show was Kirstie Cooks … French Cuisine and Kirstie had persuaded Brad to take a chance on Leon and Michel who were so excited at being featured on TV that they had spent the last few days in the barber’s and up at the spa at Craiglea Hall. Later on in the series, for Kirstie Cooks … Caribbean Cuisine, Theo March was presenting his take on healthy Caribbean food, an episode that Kirstie was particularly looking forward to.
When Kirstie thought of Theo, an image of Miles Morgan flitted into her mind but it didn’t stay there for long. She and Olivia had informed Richard Barton of their decision not to sell the Dancing Duck and the reason they were now able to keep it in the Harrison family where it belonged.
When news of their decision had filtered through to Miles, he had tried to contact her on several occasions, but Kirstie had instructed her solicitor to ask Mr Morgan to refrain from contacting her again and if he didn’t do so she would report him for either harassment or stalking.
She had no qualms whatsoever about cutting off all contact. She was sure there were other pubs in Hampshire that would come on to the market in the next few months. And every day she thanked the gods of good fortune that the Dancing Duck’s sign still hung on the front of the building instead of a neon-illuminated sign that could be seen in every high street in the country.
She swept her eyes over the group of friends who loitered on the lawn outside the summerhouse where a gaggle of wooden tables and chairs had been placed for the crew to rest their equipment on. The excitement was palpable.
Emma, her long honey-coloured hair flowing in the August breeze, stood with her arm around Leon’s waist, watching the cameras with interest, enjoying the general frenzy that went hand in hand with the filming of such a show. Leon’s expression held a hint of trepidation that it would be his turn next to appear centre stage.
Rachel and her mother were busy unveiling a huge silver platter of assorted sandwiches and hand-decorated cupcakes and Kirstie saw Brad roll his eyes in exasperation when the whole crew rushed outside to stake their claim on the best catering they had experienced for weeks.
Olivia and Harry sat together on one of the benches in the beer garden, whilst Ethan rode from table to table showing everyone how proficient he had become on his wooden tricycle. Olivia’s pregnancy was just beginning to show and her pride in her little sister’s achievement was plain for all to see.
The Reverend and Sandra Clarke had also been invited to watch the first Kirstie Cooks … episode being filmed, along with several other villagers, including Angus and Alistair Anderson who were regaling anyone who would listen about how they were single-handedly responsible for saving the Dancing Duck from dastardly developers.
Everyone indulged the two brothers, hailing them as heroes, expressing their delight that the cookery show would put Cranbury firmly on the culinary and tourist map. However, every single one of them had assured Kirstie that it wasn’t the fifteen minutes of fame that had caused them such excitement, but the fact that their beloved local pub had remained a central part of their community, which in turn meant the village had retained its character.
And there, in the middle of the group of people Kirstie loved most in the world, stood the most handsome man she had ever had the good fortune to meet. Josh saw Kirstie looking at him and gave her an encouraging smile, his face glowing with pride.
‘Kirstie Cooks … at Home. Episode One … Camera rolling … Take One … Mark!’ shouted the young man with the clapperboard.
Brad nodded to Kirstie, his smile bright and filled with enthusiasm for his new venture. She inhaled a deep breath, and took a quick glance upwards at the clear blue sky out of the conservatory window, sending her heartfelt thanks to those absent loved ones whom she knew were watching over her and sending their love and support for her success.
She glanced down at the diamond on the third finger of her left hand. It was still there, sparkling in the sunshine, and a whoosh of gratitude blasted over her.
‘And … Action!’
Kirstie beamed into the camera, her heart racing to the beat of intense happiness for her good fortune.
‘Hello, everyone, and welcome to Kirstie Cooks … a brand-new series of culinary capers featuring healthy food prepared by talented chefs from around the world. Of course, this first episode had to showcase the wonderfully diverse cuisine available on our doorstep, and it is brought to you from the peppermint-and-cream summerhouse in the walled garden of my home at The Dancing Duck …’
Turn the page for an exclusive extract from Sunshine After the Rain, anot
her sparkling romantic comedy from Daisy James…
Chapter One
‘Oh my God! Please tell me this isn’t happening!’
Evie stalked to the front door of James Bradbury Art and grabbed the envelope attached to the front of an enormous canvas wrapped in a protective coat of bubble wrap that had just been delivered by special courier.
‘Calm down, Evie! Just watching you flap is giving me palpitations!’ Pippa giggled.
‘How can I slow down? This is the most important exhibition the gallery has ever handled. In less than an hour, all the great and the good of London’s venerable art world will be descending on our little corner of the capital expecting to be bowled over by the creative genius of Britain’s newest contemporary artist. Everything has to be perfect!’
Evie slid her scarlet fingernail along the flap and withdrew the unwelcome missive before scanning the contents. She opened her mouth to object but no words tumbled forth. Her brain had temporarily disconnected from its modem and was refusing to register what her eyes were seeing. She felt a heavy fist of shock ram into her solar plexus, stealing her breath away, and a ripple of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake! This really is the final straw. The arrogant, self-centred …’
‘What’s the matter? What does it say?’
‘It’s from Jaxx Benson, our esteemed debut artist. It looks like we’ve got just over fifty minutes to swap this canvas – which he has helpfully labelled “the centrepiece of the whole exhibition” – with that one over there, which we spent the best part of yesterday positioning as the previous so-called “star attraction”. Quick! Antoine, could you and Pierre take the “Muswell Musings” canvas down and hide it in James’s office for the time being, then come back to help me and Pippa hang this one in its place? Hurry!’
As Pierre and Antoine rushed off to do as bid, their black waiters’ aprons flapping at their waists, Evie felt a surge of panic twist through her veins and sparkle out to her fingertips. A flush of perspiration gathered beneath her breasts and along her upper lip. She sent up a quick thank you to the gods of Estée Lauder for the staying power of her foundation and mascara.
She crouched down to tear away the cardboard armour from the late arrival, cursing the audacity of Jaxx Benson – heart-throb and lead singer of one of the hottest bands in the country who had decided to turn his hand to painting – for thinking it was okay to demand such a late substitution. She allowed her thoughts to whirl back over the hectic past few months during which she had spent twelve hours a day at the beck and call of the art world’s latest sensation until her nerves were frazzled and frayed.
She kept telling herself, and anyone else who chastised her for her workaholic tendencies, that once the opening night was out of the way she would take a break. However, at that moment, as she had single-handedly curated the whole exhibition, she couldn’t risk anything going wrong. This was her one big chance to show James Bradbury what she could do, but the stress of pulling off such an important show was taking its toll. Every night she had lain awake chasing the ‘what if’ demons down blind alleyways until her exhausted brain could take no more. All she wanted to do now was crawl into her bed and sleep until Sunday.
‘Thanks, Antoine. Pierre, can you help me get rid of all this packaging, please? It’s making the place look untidy.’
When Bradbury Art had taken delivery of the first of Jaxx Benson’s paintings to be revealed to his adoring public, the excitement in the gallery had been palpable. Evie had unpacked the artwork with the reverence demanded of a collection of Monets or Renoirs. But when she and Pippa had stood back to admire the canvases lined up in military precision along the West End gallery’s ice-white walls, they had been stunned into silence. Neither of them had wanted to be the first to comment, but Evie had eventually managed to ask how on earth the young musician had attracted such critical acclaim.
Whenever she considered any piece of art – whether it be a painting, a sculpture, a photograph, or an installation – she wanted to experience a thrill of emotion, any emotion. But Jaxx Benson’s artwork did nothing for her. It was clear to her expert eye that the singer had received no formal tutoring – his chosen subject matter was a collision of random splodges of black, taupe, and grey paint selected from a limited spectrum at the depressing end of his artist’s palette. The canvases lacked any kind of perspective or complexity in their composition. There was no use of symbolism or, as far as she could ascertain, any hidden meaning or energy beyond the surface.
Clearly Jaxx’s musical fame had preceded him and there was nothing she could do about it. It was up to her to deal with the shock and make the heart-throb’s debut into the art world as noteworthy as possible. Nevertheless, she could already envisage the art critics’ disdainful headlines printed on a loop of ticker tape coiling around her brain and she cringed. She had longed to show James what she was capable of, that she could curate a successful exhibition of this calibre, but tonight would not be that occasion. It was going to be a disaster; she could feel it in her bones.
She checked her watch again and began clawing at the bubble wrap. ‘Jaxx Benson really is the most unprofessional, egotistical, irritating person I have ever had the misfortune to …’
She was forced to pause in her character assassination when the new piece of artwork was unveiled in all its technicolour glory. Unlike its drab companions that hung on the walls around the gallery, this late arrival depicted a vibrant landscape – possibly of Devon or Cornwall – and was a complete departure from the other pieces in the exhibition.
‘Wow! That’s amazing!’ declared Pippa, coming to stand next to Evie with her arms folded as she studied the last-minute substitution. ‘No wonder he wants the canvases switched. Come on. Let’s get this beauty on the wall before the guests start to arrive.’
‘I have to agree with you, Pip. In fact, I might just have to reassess my initial opinion of Mr Benson’s artistic prowess if this piece is representative of his new stuff.’
Between the four of them they lifted the huge canvas onto the back wall. In unison, they took a step back and allowed their eyes to linger on the new leading lady. The canvas’s inclusion had lifted the rest of the collection from dull and mundane to quirky and almost interesting in a light, uplifting sense of contrast. It was as though the sun had appeared from behind a bank of bruised clouds to illuminate the whole space and a wave of relief surged through Evie.
She acknowledged for the first time that the feeling in the pit of her stomach had been one of dread. She had believed that the patrons of the art world who had been invited to the opening that evening would, like she and Pippa, consider the collection to be subpar; that they would arrive at the inevitable conclusion that James Bradbury Art had lost its edge or been blinded by the celebrity of the musician-turned-painter and had chosen to overlook the fact that he had little talent.
She needn’t have worried. Now she could genuinely dedicate herself to an evening of conversations in which she could happily wax lyrical about the artist’s indisputable talents.
‘Do you think this means Jaxx Benson has changed his mind and decided to come to the opening night now?’ asked Pippa for the hundredth time that day, her chestnut eyes sparkling with hope.
‘You know he won’t. One of the criteria for him agreeing to hold his debut exhibition at Bradbury’s was that we wouldn’t insist on him attending in person to publicize it. His agent made sure the stipulation was written into the contract. Even James Bradbury himself couldn’t persuade him to change his mind. So, Pip darling, you can put your autograph book and camera back in your handbag!’
Evie held her tablet aloft and took a succession of photographs of the spectacular canvas to upload to the James Bradbury Art Gallery’s Facebook and Instagram pages later.
‘Well, I don’t know how he can stay away. If this were my exhibition I’d be here soaking up the compliments, explaining the road to my inspiration, talking up the prices and smilin
g for the photographers. Don’t look at me like that, Evie. You would too!’
‘Ah,’ she sighed, rotating her aching shoulders and massaging her temples with her index fingers to soothe away the stress headache that was threatening to overwhelm her. ‘But that’s not likely, is it? I haven’t lifted a paintbrush in months.’
‘Well, whose fault is that?’
‘You know I’ve been too busy with the gallery to think about painting, Pip. And on the rare occasions when I do get a day to myself I’m just too exhausted to drag out the easel and my paint box. Anyway, you can hardly compare my artistic pulling power with that of Jaxx Benson. You’d have to press-gang people into attending an exhibition of my watercolours.’
‘You shouldn’t belittle your work, Evie. It’s true – Jaxx doesn’t need any extra publicity for this to be the must-have invitation of the month. But, if I was forced to choose between one of your watercolours and one of those moody, abstract landscapes over there, then I would choose yours every single time.’
Evie smiled at the enthusiasm in her friend’s voice and opened her mouth to thank her for her support, but Pippa hadn’t finished her lecture.
‘You should still make time to paint. It’s what you love the most, isn’t it? Why don’t you take a few days off next week? Go home to Cornwall and take your easel with you? Start chasing your own dreams instead of other people’s! You know what Sam says. We all have to be prepared to “carve out the time to coax our passions from their slumber”,’ quoted Pippa using her fingers as speech marks. ‘And don’t forget that “creativity is a muscle that needs to be exercised to keep it in tiptop condition.”’
‘Yes, well, not all of us are as fortunate as Sam “Silver Spoon” Bradbury. When you have a lucrative career as a newly qualified barrister to fall back on, you can spend as much time as you want on “flexing your creative muscles”!’
Evie hoped the envy in her voice wasn’t as apparent to Pippa’s ears as it was to her own. Everything her friend had said was right of course. She suspected that shelving her dream of becoming a commercially successful artist was the real cause of her recent melancholy and insomnia and not the stress of organizing Jaxx Benson’s debut.