‘Thank you, Roxy.’ Poppy dabs her eyes, streaking her mascara. ‘Sorry about this.’
‘Hey, it’s no problem. And if you need some help … well, I’m in between jobs at the moment, so …’
‘Really?’ Her dark brown eyes open wide. ‘God, you have no idea how grateful I would be for an extra pair of hands.’ She peers at me anxiously. ‘Is it weird hiring someone I’ve only just met? Sorry, just thinking out loud. I mean, I wouldn’t even be thinking of offering you the job if I didn’t have a good feeling about you.’ Her eyes light up. ‘Perhaps you could do the desserts as well! I’ve said I’ll cook for my boyfriend’s family and friends at Christmastime, too, you see.’
‘Oh, no.’ I shake my head in horror. ‘I couldn’t possibly do anything like that.’ I could probably throw a handful of stuff into a pan to make mincemeat, as long as I had specific directions – but make desserts? I don’t think so.
‘That chocolate cake you baked sounded fab!’ There’s more than a hint of desperation in her tone. ‘And there’d be no set menu. You could just make the sort of puddings you normally do.’
Her face is a study in pleading. I can’t bear to tell her the cake was a fake, and my pudding-making skills stretch only to opening up the box and cutting the contents into slices. On the other hand, I’m going to need a pretty hefty distraction if I’m planning to get over Jackson Cooper this side of the next millennium. And I suppose there’s always YouTube if I get stuck.
‘So I wouldn’t have to make anything complicated?’
‘Oh, no, no. Just simple things, like maybe a cherry chocolate mousse? Or a delicious cheesecake? Or a basic but wonderful lemon meringue pie?’
Simple things?
‘Or cranberry cranachan?’ Poppy laughs. ‘Actually, now I’m insulting your abilities. I saw the recipe for that the other day and it’s so simple, even a five-year-old could make it!’
My face performs a cross between a smile and a grimace. I’d better steer clear of the cranberry cranach-thingy, then!
‘And obviously, you’ll be a dab hand at making sweet shortcrust pastry,’ Poppy rushes on. ‘For the mince pies.’
I remember my efforts from my schooldays. ‘It’s been a while,’ I say cagily, not wanting to spoil her mood because she’s looking so much more cheerful than she was earlier.
‘Oh, you’ll be fine, Roxy. As you well know, there’s just one big golden rule of pastry-making you need to remember …’ She smiles, confidently expecting me to be able to answer the question that’s now hanging in the air.
‘Ah, yes.’ My mind races. ‘That big golden rule. The one that many people forget when they’re making pastry.’ Or didn’t know in the first place. Like me.
She nods. ‘Precisely. So they get a horrible result you’d break your teeth on!’
‘Ha-ha, yes!’ I shake my head to show I’m definitely not one of those ignorant people who bakes rocks.
‘Oh, Roxy, that’s brilliant.’ Poppy’s whole body seems to slump with relief. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to help.’
I smile, thinking maybe I should enlighten her as to the full extent of my lack of baking know-how. But I have a feeling that even if I said, Last time I made mince pies, I set myself and the entire street on fire, she’d probably wave it away and say, Oh, these things happen!
She frowns anxiously. ‘It would just be for the fortnight before Christmas, though. Would that be okay for you?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. Where’s the ice rink, by the way?’
‘On the shores of a lake about ten miles from here.’
‘Oh yes, I know where you mean.’
She nods. ‘I’ll be staying at my boyfriend’s place which is right nearby. It’s lovely. It’s called the Log Fire Cabin and is set among fir trees on the banks of the lake. Really picturesque. Especially when it snows, which hopefully it will.’ She glances up at the sky.
I rub my arms. ‘It’s definitely cold enough for snow.’
‘It is, isn’t it? I keep imagining snow drifting down on the skaters. So romantic.’ Her expression turns wistful and sort of sad.
‘It sounds lovely,’ I agree.
‘So you’re definitely up for it?’
‘Erm …’ I stare off into the distance, thinking. If I went to work for Poppy, I’d have nothing to lose and quite a lot to gain. It would give me a much needed financial boost – plus, it would give me something to do so I wasn’t just moping around the house, trying not to think about Jackson and his alluring new woman with the sexy French accent.
My heart tumbles into my boots at the thought of the two of them together. But I force a smile. ‘I’d love to help.’
Poppy looks delighted. ‘It’s all going to work out perfectly.’
I nod with a little less conviction.
I guess I’ll have to teach myself how to bake – and fast!
A week later, having crammed as many online baking tutorials as possible into my brain, I’m heading out on the road that leads to the Log Fire Cabin.
As I skirt Guildford, I’m aware of everything gearing up for the festive season. Jolly lights and decorations adorn every house, and one even has a huge blow-up Santa perched on their roof, about to climb down the chimney. It’s just a shame my own excitement over Christmas has taken such a complete nosedive.
My Grand Live TV Humiliation has had some of the heat taken out of it due to the fact that, contrary to my fears, not many people have recognised me as that saddo off the telly who was rejected by her boyfriend. This is great. In about a decade or so, I might even have forgotten all about it myself.
I’ve been trying really hard to put Jackson out of my mind, with mixed success. Every time I start remembering the good times we had, I force myself to replay the shock I felt hearing that woman’s seductive voice answering Jackson’s phone. I thought about hoping it was his sister but that didn’t work for two reasons. One, she didn’t sound how a sister would sound. And two, Jackson doesn’t have a sister.
Part of me still misses him like crazy. But I think it’s more the idea of him that’s left a hole in my life, rather than the actual physical person. Because I’ve since realised that we weren’t hugely compatible. He hardly ever laughed at the things I thought were funny. Or my jokes. In fact, I’ve started to wonder if he ever actually listened to me at all.
One thing in particular will ensure the process of getting over him isn’t too dragged out: with a bit of luck, I will never have to see Jackson or the inside of a TV studio ever again!
Chapter 5
Poppy has asked me to meet her at the pop-up ice rink, which has been set up a little further along the lakeside track from her boyfriend’s Log Fire Cabin.
Apparently there’s a rather swish boutique hotel, owned by a woman called Sylvia, right next to the ice rink site. It was Sylvia’s idea to bring skating to the local community this Christmas – and it’s Sylvia who’s ordered the hundreds of mince pies Poppy and I will be baking in the run-up to Christmas Day.
When I turn off the main road onto the lakeside track, which has recently been laid with tarmac, all I can see are trees on either side, sparkling with frost in the winter sun, and glimpses of the lake to my left. The Log Fire Cabin has been so cleverly merged with its surroundings that I give a gasp of surprise when I suddenly see it.
It’s a stylish modern wooden construction on two levels that blends in beautifully with the surrounding trees and countryside. It looks big enough to house quite a few guests, but according to Poppy, her boyfriend Jed has booked some rooms in the hotel, as a sort of overflow. As well as making hundreds of mince pies and Christmas gingerbread men, we’ll be cooking every night for ten people.
That’s ten portions of dessert!
Every time I think about that, I get an uneasy, fluttery stomach.
Driving past the cabin, I see the hotel and the ice rink up ahead and, a minute later, I’m entering the big makeshift car park in a field that serves visitors to the rink.
&nbs
p; As I park, I glance around, trying to spot Poppy.
A week has passed since I rescued her with a bag of my own flour. And now, it feels as if she’s rescuing me.
The past seven days haven’t been great, and that’s an understatement.
Flo came in one night last week, full of agony over whether to tell me the latest news about Jackson. I wheedled it out of her, although I could tell it was going to crucify me to hear it. Sure enough, what I suspected was true. Jackson had started seeing someone else.
She plopped down beside me on the sofa and gave me a hug and the rest of her bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, which I considered true friendship indeed. Flo’s parents were whisking her and Fergus off to New York for the festive season to celebrate their engagement, and I knew I’d miss my best friend.
‘I think you had a lucky escape,’ Flo murmured, and I nodded, determined not to cry, and tried to look on the bright side.
I was undoubtedly better off without a guy who could move on to his next girlfriend with such indecent haste …
I find Poppy and we stand for a while, leaning on the barrier, watching the skaters making their way around the rink. Some of them carve their way across the ice with confidence while others wobble, grim concentration etched on their faces. The rest are progressing at a snail’s pace, clinging to the sides.
I’d definitely be a clinger-to-the-sides – but since I’m here to work, thankfully I won’t have to set even one solitary skate on that treacherous surface. It’s nice to just relax and observe—
‘Let’s have a go,’ says Poppy suddenly.
I turn, startled. ‘What? No.’
‘Come on. It’s fun.’
‘But … we’ve got baking to do, haven’t we?’
Thousands of mince pies!
‘Well, yes, but you’ve just arrived, Roxy. I’m not going to throw you in at the deep end straight away.’ Poppy grins. ‘I set aside a few hours to show you around and get you settled in.’ Her smile slips slightly. ‘And to be honest, I could do with some fun.’
My face must be a picture of panic. But Poppy’s already striding over to the place where you hire the skates, so I suppose I have to follow.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she reassures me as we each imprison our feet in a pair of battered-looking metal monstrosities.
I smile, the way you have to if the boss tells you to do something.
Before I know it, Poppy is leading me onto the ice by the hand and telling me to hold onto the side and push off on my right foot. This is easier said than done. Even remaining in an upright position is terrifying enough as skaters swish past us, showing off. (Or so it seems from my position of shaky vulnerability.)
When I finally manage to move a skate, it feels about as safe and secure as stepping onto a tightrope stretching across the Grand Canyon. I wobble furiously, grasping onto Poppy’s hand, then I try to move the other skate and find myself, seconds later, crashing to the ice on my bottom.
That pain is like no other. But Poppy is grinning down at me. ‘Everyone falls at first. It’s how you learn. In a week, you’ll be flying around the ice like Torvill and Dean. Honestly.’
She shows me how to get up by rolling onto my knees first. Then she holds out her hand and I’m on my feet again – except they don’t feel like my feet at all. I feel as if I’m strapped into weapons of torture.
‘Poppy? Can I have a word?’ A large blonde woman bundled up in a fake fur is beckoning her over. ‘I’ve done some projections. We need to talk mince pies!’
Poppy smiles. ‘No problem, Sylvia. I’ll see you in the café?’
The woman called Sylvia gives her a thumbs-up and Poppy looks apologetically at me. ‘Will you be okay? This should just take a minute then we can continue the lesson. We’ll be over there.’ She points to a pretty, white summerhouse-type construction. It has a serving hatch under a pink stripy awning and lots of tables and chairs in front of it. It’s presumably a temporary café to cater to the ice rink visitors.
‘Er … sure.’
‘Just try and do a circuit of the rink, holding onto the side, and I’ll be back before you know it.’ She skates to the edge and jumps neatly off the rink like a professional.
I attempt a smile but I’m quaking inside. I feel like a prize idiot, standing there with a forced grin on my face, not knowing how the hell I’m going to actually move even an inch from the spot.
Why do people think this is fun? Are they all masochists?
Sighing, I glare down at my skates, willing them to do the right thing. But they wilfully disobey and slide in opposite directions, so, next second, I’m back on my bum with an agonising bang.
‘Are you okay? Can I help you up?’
I glance up into the face of a guy with a friendly smile. He looks about my age and, more importantly, he looks as if he can actually stand without wobbling.
‘That’s so kind of you.’ I smile up at him and roll over onto my knees as Poppy taught me. ‘If you could just give me a hand, I’ll get out of these alien things and onto solid ground.’
‘I could take you round if you like,’ he offers. ‘I can’t promise to stay on my feet myself, but I’m sure that, between the two of us, we could prop each other up?’
I shake my head firmly. ‘No, thank you. I’ve had enough for one day.’
‘Are you here with anyone?’ He glances around as he helps me up.
‘My new boss. She’s in the café, I think, talking business.’
‘Leaving you to sink or swim?’ He grins.
‘Or crash.’ I pause for a while to navigate the stepping-off-the-ice bit, which looks a little tricky. The relief when I’m on solid ground is huge. ‘Actually, she didn’t just abandon me. Well, she did – but I think she expected me to be grown-up about it and not freak out like I did.’
I smile at my rescuer but he’s gazing at me with a slight frown on his face.
‘This might seem like a weird question,’ he says. ‘But don’t I know you from somewhere?’
My heart sinks.
‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’
Great. Someone else who witnessed my total humiliation on live TV! Will I ever be able to live that disastrous night down?
‘Right.’ He nods and doesn’t pursue it, much to my relief. ‘I’m Alex, by the way.’
‘Roxy.’ We shake hands.
‘Short for Roxanne?’
I nod. ‘My mum’s a Sting fan.’
‘Ah. Great classic, that. Rooooox-anne.’
‘Yes, shame it’s about a sex worker, though,’ I say drolly, and he chuckles and acknowledges my jest with a nod.
We lean on the safer side of the rink edge and watch the skaters flying by.
‘It’s not easy, this skating lark,’ he murmurs. ‘I haven’t done it since I was a teenager. I’ve got used to spending Christmases in Australia on the beach.’
I glance at him in surprise. ‘So you emigrated?’
‘Yeah. I studied at uni here, then Mum and Dad decided they wanted to live in sunnier climes, so I went with them. That was eight years ago.’
That explains his tanned face and neck, and possibly the lighter streaks in his dark blond hair, I think, glancing at him. ‘I suppose there’s not much opportunity for pop-up festive skating rinks in Australia.’
He grins, showing two rows of nice white teeth. ‘None at all. Actually, one of the things I’ve missed living over there is the British seasons.’
I nod solemnly. ‘Yes, I can see how you would long for a cold, sleety walk along a British beach. You’d get sick of warm, golden sands and barbecues and swimming in the ocean pretty quickly, I’d imagine.’
‘Been there, done that, got the T-shirt,’ he says in a bored voice.
We look at each other and laugh.
‘So are you here to stay? Or will you be going back to Australia?’
‘I’ll be heading back to Oz after Christmas. I work as a GP in Melbourne for my sins.’
I sneak another glance at his sh
aggy blond hair. ‘I bet you surf.’
He turns and grins at me. ‘So I’m a walking cliché, am I?’
‘No! I just meant you look as if you do – with your tan and your … your – um – beach hair.’
‘My beach hair? God, is it that bad?’ He looks really worried and I rush to apologise.
‘Sorry, no, it looks absolutely fine.’ I feel myself flushing up in confusion.
He grins lazily at me. ‘Hey, it’s okay, I’m only joking. As a matter of fact, I do surf. I live right next to the beach so it would be rude not to, really. And a haircut is at the very top of my list of things to do today.’
An expert skater narrowly misses ploughing into a novice, who’s trying to get up off the ice, and both Alex and I say, ‘Ooh,’ at the same time.
‘And people do that for fun?’ I murmur, really feeling for the poor learner skater who seems to have been completely abandoned by her show-off boyfriend.
Alex shrugs. ‘Once you learn the basics, you start having confidence in your ability to do it, and that’s when it becomes fun.’ He turns. ‘So do you live near here?’
I nod. ‘I share a flat the other side of Guildford, but I’ve just started a new job here.’
‘Doing what?’
I grimace. ‘Baking.’
‘Why the face?’
‘Er, because I can’t bake. My mum, bless her, worked full-time and hated domestic stuff so most of the time we had fish fingers and chips for dinner and shop-bought cakes. Needless to say, I didn’t help her to stir cakes from being knee-high to a grasshopper. So now, I’m not really sure where to begin.’
He laughs. ‘Does your new boss know this?’
‘No. But it’s fine. I’ve been online. I now know how to make a basic Victoria sponge cake and an apple crumble. So I should be okay. I’ll just do variations on the basic theme.’
He nods slowly, studying me with laughter in his eyes. ‘And where is this place you’re working?’
‘It’s just along the road there, by the lake. You can see it through the trees.’ I point. ‘It’s that gorgeous chalet-type building over there. The Log Fire Cabin.’
His eyes open in surprise. ‘You’re working for Poppy?’
Second Chances at the Log Fire Cabin Page 4