Esther was, to all appearances, the perfect wife and mother. She kept the house spotlessly clean, kept herself toned and tanned, and ensured that Karl and I washed behind our ears and did our homework every evening before dinner. She attended parents’ evenings and sporting events. She accompanied our father on his law firm nights out, to golf dinners and charity fundraising events. It all appeared to be ideal. But as with all things that seem to be flawless, there was something wrong, something missing. I’d known it as a child but had been too young to understand quite what it was. Plus, as most children do, I’d blamed myself for the lack of maternal affection directed my way. I wasn’t pretty enough, good enough at ballet, I was tone deaf and, try as I might, I just couldn’t get the hang of algebra. Then, in my early twenties, I went and confirmed all of Esther’s suspicions about me by getting pregnant.
I leant forwards and turned up the heat in the car. Yes, there was definitely something cold about my mother and it had made me sad growing up. But reaching my thirties, I’d decided to try to accept her as she was. I only had one mother and she’d been consistent at least. Not everyone has a mother who loves them. I’d watched enough Oprah and Jeremy Kyle to know that. It’s a very sad fact of life and it happens in the animal kingdom all the time; I can’t bear to watch a nature documentary where the female abandons the weakest of her young. However, I also reminded myself how lucky I was because I’d had Karl, my father and Granny offering me love and support throughout my life.
As if on cue, my bag started buzzing on the passenger seat. I reached for it and felt around, making sure that I kept my eyes on the road. I brought my mobile in front of the wheel and glanced at it. I had a text from Karl but I couldn’t check it now. He was probably just asking what time I’d arrive. As if catching me out, the tinny female voice of my sat nav suddenly spoke, making me jump and drop my phone into the foot well.
‘There are long-term roadworks on the M25 between junction thirty and junction two. Expect delays.’
‘Dammit! You stupid machine – look what you made me do.’ I scowled at the device as I moved my left foot around, trying to locate my phone through the thick sole of my boot. The journey would take twice as long now and it was already five-thirty. Esther wouldn’t be happy at all if I was later than expected. The car in front of me suddenly braked, so I followed suit. Then waited. And waited. The traffic wasn’t going anywhere.
I leant forwards to locate my mobile and hit my head on the steering wheel which caused the horn to beep. My cheeks burned instantly. I kept my head down just in case any of the other drivers thought I’d been signalling my impatience with the wait and fumbled around until I found my mobile then popped it back in my bag. I rubbed my head where I’d bumped it but it throbbed uncomfortably. Keen for some distraction, I turned the radio on and some irritating dance track boomed through the car making my seat shake and my head hurt even more.
‘Er, no thank you.’ I changed the station and sank into my seat as Adele’s beautiful voice crooned away. I sang through a few of the love songs played on the local radio show before the traffic started moving again. I slipped the gear stick into first, then second, then…Ouch! A sudden shard of ice pierced my chest as Faith Hill’s ‘Breathe’ began. I’d forgotten how much the song made me remember – I usually required wine, cake and ice cream to survive it. ‘Breathe’ was one of my favourite songs in the early days of my relationship with Sam. It perfectly summed up how I felt about him and how whenever I was with him, everything else just seemed to fade away. I’d spent hours just lying with my head on his chest listening to him breathe and to the steady comforting sound of his heart. He’d been my first in more ways than one: my first proper kiss, my first love and my first lover. It had been nine years since we broke up but, deep down, I knew that I’d never feel that way about anyone else and, to be honest, I didn’t want to. Letting go of him and of what we had hurt so badly that I’d truly believed I would die. I never, ever wanted to go through that amount of pain again.
I quickly pressed the CD button. Yes, there we are, Seasick Steve would have to do for the rest of the journey. His gravelly voice would drag me from memories that were best not dwelt on.
The remainder of the drive passed without too much bother, or perhaps I just tuned out and went onto autopilot, because I soon found myself in Penshurst. My tinny-voiced companion – who I’m sure became more and more uptight as the evening wore on – directed me to the country estate and, before I knew it, I was ascending a gravel driveway the width of the M4. This movie director must be seriously minted. The impressive driveway was lit by Victorian-style street lamps on either side and I felt like I was driving into another time. Perhaps I had actually driven into the past and would have a true Dickensian Christmas. Wasn’t it Dickens who idealised the festive season at some point and made us all dream of the perfect white Christmas with a perfect happy family sat around a perfect roast dinner? Dickens, I love you! Really, truly I do because I love Christmas and all the little traditions that we now enjoy. It’s just the best time of the year.
As the driveway curved to the right, I felt the steering wheel lighten under my touch and I gasped as the car skidded on a patch of ice. Within seconds, everything was within my control again and I laughed at my momentary panic, though my heart continued to thud furiously for a while longer. I passed under an archway of ancient elm trees that glistened with frost, then the house came into view and literally stole my breath away. I mean, I had Googled it, but even so, in the flesh – or rather the brick – it was fabulous. The same lamps that had adorned the lower half of the driveway lit up the front of the house, highlighting the warm red of the bricks and the startling white of the sash windows. I could see why they’d chosen this location for the remakes of Pride and Prejudice and Emma. I pictured myself in a high-waisted white morning gown with a lilac satin spencer, my wavy brown hair loosely pinned, Mr Knightley running towards me, his muscular arms outstretched as I skipped along…
I couldn’t see any cars so I followed the gravel path around the left of the house until I came to some outbuildings. There, in what looked like a large open barn, I spotted my family’s cars. All of them. It looked like I was the last one to arrive. My stomach churned. Great. Now I’d have to make an entrance and seeing as how it was nearly seven, they’d probably have started on pre-dinner drinks too. I stopped the car outside the barn. I could avoid all this, just drive straight back to the flat, step into my onesie and open a tub of mint choc chip. The idea was appealing but then the thought of ruining Ann’s romantic Christmas made me start the engine again. I must be brave and stalwart. I must go onwards. I must make this a good Christmas for everyone.
I parked, climbed out and hitched my stretchy jeans up over my tummy, wriggling from side to side as I did so, then I opened the boot. As I reached over to lift out the box of cakes, I heard footsteps behind me.
‘Hi there. Need a hand?’
The voice was deep, soft and knee-tremblingly sexy. Somewhere in the depths of my mind, it sparked a memory. Sensations. Emotions. Tummy butterflies. Then I realised that whoever it was would be getting a good view of my butt and I did a mental sigh.
I turned slowly – taking care not to bump my already tender head, as I brought the box from the boot – and saw the broadest chest I had ever seen in my life. I could have ironed a king-sized duvet cover on it. I gripped the box tighter, suddenly afraid that my wanton fingers would release it in their hurry to caress those gorgeous pecs so obvious beneath the tight-fitting grey polo shirt.
‘Are you okay?’ That voice again like melted chocolate, running through my fingers, over my tongue. My legs started shaking. Get a grip, Katie. Look up. See who it is. Although I already knew. I raised my eyes slowly, memorizing every muscle beneath the clothing that I didn’t want to be there and saw…
‘Sam? Is that really you?’ My stomach dropped to my boots.
‘Let me take that box before you drop it.’ He went to remove it from my hands but my
fingers stubbornly held on. He tried again and I willed myself to release it, but my hands just refused to comply. Sam smiled as a flush spread over his face. Suddenly, as he tugged again, I let go and the box jolted into the air, only stopped from going over Sam’s shoulder by his quick reactions. Baked goods, however, escaped in all directions and I stared, open-mouthed, as cinnamon and cranberry muffins, mince pies and white chocolate Florentines rolled off into the darkness.
Sam carefully lowered the box and checked its contents. I ground my teeth together, overwhelmed by disbelief at how I failed to have control over my own body at the most crucial of moments. It was as if I went into useless mode whenever I really, really, really wanted to be at my calmest and coolest.
Stupid hands! Stupid brain! Stupid heart!
‘Still quite a few cakes in there so you didn’t lose everything.’ Sam nodded at the box that was now much less of a peace offering for my mother than it had been five minutes ago. ‘Sorry about that. I was just trying to help because it looked heavy. And…uh…yeah it’s me. Been a while eh, Katie?’
I gazed at his huge frame and tree-trunk thick arms that made the box I’d had to stretch to hold look like a shoe box. Sam hadn’t been this big when we were younger. I mean, he was Karl’s slightly geeky, funny friend. Always up to mischief, always making us laugh. He’d been a good-looking teenager, in spite of braces up and down, no doubt about it. I’d harboured a crush on him and been convinced that I loved him for the best part of my adolescence then that had developed into more, but now… ‘You’re a man.’
‘What?’ He grinned and his chocolate brown eyes crinkled at the corners.
Did I say that out loud?
‘Uh…what I mean is…you’re all grown up.’ No better!
I tugged my jumper down over my jeans as my cheeks burnt with heat. Why did some people just get better with age but some got softer and more dimpled?
‘Yes, Katie, that tends to happen as the years pass. I’m thirty-six now, same as Karl. I guess that’s quite grown up.’ He shifted the box to one side. ‘Do you need help with your bags?’
‘No I can manage, thank you. I’ll just grab my holdall.’ I pulled it from the boot, glad to have a moment to hide my face which I knew would be all red and blotchy by now, then retrieved my handbag. What was Sam Fairfax doing here at the Warham family Christmas? Other than making me all jittery, throwing my cakes around a barn and stoking a flame in my belly that I hadn’t felt in quite some time.
Oh those shoulders, that chest, those eyes… It had been such a long time since I’d seen him.
Sam…
Could I cope being near him again? Would he still hate me for leaving him? Would this all be too much on top of losing Granny or would it be some kind of welcome distraction? My stomach churned as I realized that I had no idea how this would affect Christmas.
Realising that I was just standing in the middle of a cold barn staring at my former lover – rather rudely he must think – I slung my bag over my shoulder then locked the car. The ceiling of the open barn was lit with those harsh tube lights and I became suddenly conscious of the fact that it was probably showing up the roots of my hair where the random whites were fast emerging from the dye. If I’d known that we were having attractive friends over for Christmas, then I’d have made more of an effort, maybe tried to resist the mince pies we’d been selling for the past six weeks. But they were so yummy and I had to test our produce before we sold it. Besides, I’d been convinced that there was no point in denying myself some comfort foods in the run up to Christmas. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see me naked anyway.
‘Everyone else is inside but I was just taking some air,’ Sam explained. ‘There’s quite a crowd of Warhams here.’ I watched his breath emerge like white smoke as it hit the chilly air of the barn.
‘I don’t mean to be rude, Sam, but how are you here?’ Nerves tend to make me blunt and I’ve never been mistress of flirtatious small talk. I was struggling to hold a whole host of memories at bay and bluntness is one of my coping mechanisms.
He cast me a sideways glance as we crunched across the gravel towards the backdoor. ‘Karl invited me. He said it would do me and the kids good to get away.’
Kids? A dagger pierced my thundering heart. He was married, of course he was, and he’d gone on to have children. I remembered Karl gently telling me that he was going to Sam’s wedding a few years back. No wait, it must have been more like seven or eight years ago. I’d swallowed hard and acted like I didn’t give a damn then drunk a whole bottle of wine and cried into my pillow. The next day I’d had a sore head but I’d got up, got dressed, gone to Waterstone’s and bought a new cookery book, then baked like a woman possessed. Kneading at bread dough and beating cake mixes had always been therapeutic for me, like a form of self-hypnosis that somehow separates me from the world and my pain.
So Christmas was going to be different to the version I’d imagined when Karl had first suggested it. A happily married couple and their children would be joining us over the festive period. Unfortunately, the husband happened to be the man I’d once loved with all my heart. The pleasant warmth of the lust I’d experienced at seeing Sam so big and brawny had now completely melted away and the biting chill of the air that swirled around the house made me shiver.
‘You’re cold,’ Sam said. ‘It’s warm and cosy inside, come on.’ Had it really been nine years since I’d last seen him, when I’d told him that it wouldn’t work between us? And all because I’d thought that we wanted different things from life and that I had something to prove to myself. I’d thought that I was doing the best thing for both of us; helping us to leave a terrible experience behind. How could we have continued, moved on and loved each other, after what we’d been through? And what if it had happened again, if I’d ever had the courage to try to get pregnant after our loss, that was. No. I’d done the right thing at the time, for sure.
Sam opened the door and the heat coming from the large brightly lit kitchen literally hit me in a wave, along with the delicious aromas of roast chicken, thyme and potatoes. My stomach grumbled automatically. My mother had clearly been busy and the woman sure could cook. Sam stood back to allow me to enter first and I walked into the room.
‘There you are. At last!’ My mother’s clipped tones stopped me in my tracks. Back out…go back through the door. Leave now before she says anything else. I shrugged the traitorous voice away. As if I could actually walk away from Esther once she got going. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d pursued me, just like that time when I was seven and I told her she reminded me of Miss Piggy from The Muppet Show. She’d chased me around the streets and confiscated my favourite Barbie doll for a week as punishment. Even then, I hadn’t meant that she resembled the puppet pig physically, just that she had the same snooty self-important air and that she treated my dad a bit like Kermit.
Sam placed the box of cakes on the counter and held out a hand. ‘I’ll take your bag through to the hallway if you like. I bet you and your mum have lots to discuss.’
I allowed myself one last perusal of his lovely face with its shadow of stubble and full sensual lips and smiled. ‘Yeah. I bet we have.’
‘See you at dinner.’ He grinned at me and, in spite of my disappointment, I grinned back as I handed him my holdall. Even if he was here with his wife and kids, it would still be nice to catch up. I hadn’t seen him in such a long time and we’d once been so close.
A flush stole over my chest. At the height of my teenage crush on Sam, he’d seen me as little more than his friend’s younger sister. Yet he was always really kind, polite and considerate. He’d been bright and mature, nothing like the boys in my year at school who only ever spoke to me to comment on my big jugs. That was until I’d gotten a bit older and one night, when Sam was home from university, we’d ended up alone and realised that there was more than just friendship between us. Six years later, we’d seemed to have it all but then it had turned sour and we’d parted ways. Amicably
, though it had broken my heart at the time. So yes, it would be good to hear what he’d been up to and to see how the years had treated him.
But now I had to deal with Esther and it was an experience that called for a stiff drink. I grabbed the single malt off the counter and a crystal tumbler from the tray on the side then poured a generous measure.
Here I go! Merry Christmas…
Chapter 2
Esther Marie Warham. Sixty-two. Five foot eight. One hundred and twenty-four pounds. Shoulder-length platinum-blonde hair. Wife of Charles Michael Warham. Mother of Karl Lewis Warham and Katie Alice Warham. Currently clothed in a fawn silk gypsy-style blouse and fitted black trousers which showed off her pert gym-toned bottom and nude heels.
I sipped my Jura and held the fiery amber liquid in my mouth as I waited for my mother to begin talking herself in circles.
And waited.
‘How are things at the shop, Katie? Were you busy today?’
I swallowed the whisky and stared at my mother. What, no reprimand for being late?
‘Good thanks. We’ve been really busy.’
‘Will Ann be all right there tomorrow without you?’
I took another swig from my glass. ‘Uh, yeah, her boyfriend’s helping her out.’
This wasn’t my mother; it must be an imposter, a dopplegänger arrived to lure me into a false sense of security so it could dash my confidence to the ground once more.
‘Ah there you are, my favourite girls!’ My father crossed the kitchen and planted a kiss on the top of my head. ‘How was your journey, Katie?’
I snuggled against his chest and breathed in his familiar and lovely Dad smell of pine aftershave, washing powder and cigars. Despite Esther’s protests, my dad still indulged in an evening cigar or two; it was a habit I doubted he’d ever quit. I gazed up at him, grateful for his arrival, yet wondering if he’d noticed this strangely altered version of my mother. In the past, he’d often rescued me from Esther’s tirades before I completely crumbled into a blubbering heap or snapped and gave her a tongue lashing in return. I hadn’t really done the latter since I was about twenty-three and I was proud of my self-control. I loathed confrontation of any kind and had always been keen to avoid it. ‘Hey, Dad. There were a few delays along the way but it wasn’t too bad, thanks. How’re you?’
Wish Upon a Christmas Cake Page 3