A Christmas Wish and a Cranberry Kiss at the Cosy Kettle: A heartwarming, feel good romance

by Liz Eeles

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell him, collecting up used mugs and plates and sweeping cake crumbs into the bin. But the truth is I’m not fine. I’m gutted that I’m seen as fragile and in need of rescuing – like an abandoned puppy. I’m twenty-five, for goodness’ sake, and should be able to stand up for myself.

  But even though Stanley’s ‘fragile’ description was harsh – his insistence on telling it like it is can be a pain at times – it was the man’s follow-up remark that really hit home. Maybe he’s right and someone like me doesn’t have the personality and the mental resilience needed to run a place like this. Flora believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself, but perhaps that was her heart talking rather than her head.

  I reach below the counter for my bag and find my purse. I’m convinced that the man did give me a ten-pound note, which means Flora is out of pocket because I messed up and didn’t handle things properly. Pulling out a tenner, I place it carefully into the till. I can’t really afford it, especially with Christmas presents to buy, but it seems only fair.

  Two

  Ten minutes later, I’m too busy to fret about what happened. There’s no room for negative feelings when you’re making coffee with one hand, serving cake with the other, and advising a small child with a death wish not to clamber up the Christmas tree.

  But I start reliving the scene as I’m walking home through Honeyford, and go over what I should have said. By the time I reach the honey-hued arches of the mediaeval market house I’ve taken charge of the situation. Before walking past the weathered war memorial, I’ve confidently told the book club to back off. And as I turn off the High Street into Weavers Lane, I’ve asserted with such conviction that Rude Man is mistaken about his change, he’s begging for my forgiveness. There’s no messing up, no shouting, and no boss thinking that her mistake was in employing me in the first place.

  If only we could rewind time and live life with the benefit of hindsight. I’d have done so many things differently. In fact, I’d be a completely different person. I’d certainly have handled the break-up of my relationship with my ex, Charlie, better. He’s a big part of the reason I felt I had to run away from Birmingham – though it was during my first months at university there, before I’d ever met Charlie, when things first started to go wrong.

  I’ve always been more ‘sensitive’ than Jasmine, more likely to worry and be unsettled by life events, and these stirrings of anxiety became a rumble and then a roar when I went to university and moved away from home for the first time.

  I managed to keep everything damped down, apart from the occasional panic attack, and, in my third year, started dating postgrad student, Charlie. Heaven knows what handsome, competent Charlie saw in me, though I later realised that he was drawn to women who found life challenging – maybe he liked being the big hero, riding in to rescue them.

  But we were happy and, after university, I started working in Birmingham for a large company as a trainee manager. I was fast-tracked for swift promotion and Mum and Dad were so proud of me. But that was when my life started to properly unravel. I became unhappy at work, which was a hotbed of gossip and bitchiness, my panic attacks increased, and then Charlie left me. It turned out I wasn’t what he wanted after all – but my friend, Chloë, was.

  Everything came to a head one rainy Wednesday, two weeks after Charlie had walked out, when I was hauled over the coals at work for making a minor mistake. Suddenly, my life crumbled, the world went black and I fell into a big hole.

  I walked out of my job and spent the next three months hiding under my duvet, until my savings ran out and I ran away from Birmingham and took refuge in Honeyford with my best friend, Zac. Gradually, since then, my life has improved, but I’ve never completely shaken off the anxiety that dogs me – or my reputation within my family for being emotionally unstable. They’re not unkind people. They just don’t properly understand.

  I sigh, my breath hanging white in the frosty air, and quicken my pace past pale stone cottages whose windows are glowing with amber lamplight.

  At least I now get to go home to Zac. The small cottage we share is at the end of the lane and the lights are on so he’s already home. It’s a welcoming sight after the day I’ve had.

  When I bundle through the front door, he looks up from the sofa as I drop my bag with a clatter onto the flagstones.

  ‘Hi, Beccs. Shut the door quickly ’cos the central heating’s on the blink again and I’ve only just got the fire going. Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Not really. It’s been a bit pants, to be honest.’ I slip off my coat and head for the flames that are flickering in the grate. Rubbish central heating aside, I love our rented cottage – the small rooms with their thick Cotswold stone walls, the pitted brown beams across the ceilings and the soot-blackened fireplaces. I stretch my hands towards the glowing orange flames. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Better than yours, by the sound of it. My meeting went well and Paul hinted that I might be up for promotion if my project doesn’t go tits up.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Zac. You deserve it.’

  He really does. Zac works hard as a designer for a growing engineering company on the outskirts of Cheltenham. He’s confident and resourceful and just the kind of level-headed, resilient employee that every business needs.

  I stand in silence for a moment and watch Zac tapping on his laptop. A question is bubbling up inside me and I suddenly blurt it out: ‘Can I ask you something? Do you think I’m fragile?’

  Zac closes the lid of his computer and draws his legs up under him on the sofa. He knows this isn’t likely to be a two-minute conversation.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’ He pushes his fingers through his brown hair, which is flopping about all over the place. He’s been nicking my expensive conditioner again.

  ‘Stanley described me as fragile this afternoon and it struck a nerve, I suppose. It made me feel rather inadequate as a café manager.’

  The corner of Zac’s mouth lifts. ‘Would that be eccentric Stanley who prides himself on “saying it like it is” and subsequently upsets people all over the place?’

  ‘Yeah, though he doesn’t mean to upset anyone. He’s just trying to be his best self at all times.’

  ‘A bit like you then.’

  ‘I guess.’

  I throw myself down on the sofa beside him and sigh loudly. Zac smiles because he’s heard it all before. Every New Year I vow to be a better, brighter version of myself – and every year it goes brilliantly for, ooh, at least a day. I’m confident and gregarious and a real laugh, until it all becomes too much of a strain and the old self-defeating thoughts creep in through the cracks.

  Becca, you’re hopeless! Of course you’re not good enough! You mess everything up!

  Honestly, I’d never speak to anyone else like that. But my inner voice is a hard taskmaster, and now there’s ‘fragile’ to add into the toxic mix of self-flagellation.

  ‘What happened today then?’ asks lovely, long-suffering Zac, who insists that he likes living with me despite my flaws. We met a few years ago at university, when he was going out with a friend of mine, and hit it off immediately. He was easy to talk to and he made me laugh and I didn’t turn into a tongue-tied mess around him because I didn’t fancy him. He was far too nerdy in his round metal-rimmed glasses, baggy sweatshirts and scruffy jeans.

  Actually, he looks different today.

  ‘Are they new glasses?’ I ask, squinting at him.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ says Zac, pushing them self-consciously up his nose. ‘I picked them up this afternoon when I had a meeting in Oxford.’

  ‘They’re nice and they suit you.’

  They really do. The square horn-rimmed specs frame his eyes and make him look… I don’t know, cosmopolitan, intellectual, kind. He always looks kind.

  Zac shrugs. ‘Just thought I could do with a change. Plus I needed a stronger prescription. My eyes are screwed.’ He blinks and grins. ‘Come on then, why did Stanley describe you as decr
epit?’

  ‘Fragile!’ I grin, play-punching him on the leg. ‘Basically, I cocked things up at work and now Flora thinks I’m even more hopeless.’

  ‘What, your super-hot boss?’ laughs Zac, who’s got a bit of an older-woman crush on Flora. I’m not sure he’s taking my distress seriously enough. ‘What did you do?’

  He listens while I outline the situation with Rude Man and laughs when I describe the book club piling in. ‘He sounds like a prat, Beccs.’

  ‘So you don’t think I’m fragile then?’

  Zac grabs my hand and stares into my eyes. ‘I see you as many things, but fragile isn’t one of them – not the way you bulldoze your way around the house and slam doors without meaning to. I’d describe you as more nervy and self-sabotaging.’

  ‘Lovely!’ I snort, pulling my hand away in mock outrage. ‘Feel free to mince your words a bit.’

  ‘I don’t need to because you can take the truth from me,’ says Zac, simply.

  He’s still staring into my eyes and I suddenly feel uncomfortable. It must be the new glasses and Zac not quite looking like my Zac any more. I swallow and look away.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ he asks, uncurling himself from the sofa and heading for our tiny kitchen. ‘I fancy a beer. Do you want one?’

  ‘Thanks. That would be great.’

  He ducks with practised ease under the low dark beam over the doorway and looks back. ‘Don’t worry about that man or what Stanley said. I love you being the fragile, hopeless mess that you are.’

  He chuckles as I launch a cushion at his head and disappears along the narrow passageway that links to the kitchen extension. I stretch out on the sofa and stare out of the window at the full moon that’s risen over Honeyford. Silver beams are shining on Memorial Park which lies at the end of our lane. If it wasn’t so chilly outside, I’d wander through the park and down to the river that cuts through the town. I can just picture the moon reflecting in the cold, clear water.

  Zac is taking ages with my beer and it’s lovely and warm in here. I’ve closed my eyes and am drifting off when I’m jolted awake by the shrill ring of my mobile phone. I fumble for it in my bag and wince when I spot who’s calling.

  ‘Hey, Jasmine.’

  ‘Hello, Becca. Are you busy?’

  My twin sister sounds cool and distant, as always.

  ‘Not really,’ I say, swinging my legs off the sofa and sitting up. I wander over to the fire and give it a prod with the poker. Flames crackle as glowing logs tumble over one another.

  ‘What are you up to tomorrow morning? I’m going to a meeting in Cirencester and was planning to do a quick detour and nip round.’

  ‘I’ll be busy at work,’ I say, wearily, because Jasmine doesn’t really count working in The Cosy Kettle as a proper job. She recently started a new job with a big PR company and loves talking about her high-flying clients. But she tends to change the subject whenever the café comes up.

  ‘I’ll come into The Cosy Teapot then and have a drink. Do you sell smoothies?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ I say, thrown by the thought of Jasmine stepping foot inside the café that she’s turned her nose up at for months now. ‘Um, why don’t we meet at my place? I can nip out for a bit if I square it with Flora.’

  ‘No, I’ll come to the café. I can only spare ten minutes anyway because I have to prepare for a really exciting meeting. It’s to hook in a very important client. They’re a household name but I can’t tell you who. It’s all very hush-hush.’ She pauses, expecting me to beg her to spill the beans. But there’s no point because she enjoys the secrecy. ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘it won’t take long but there’s something we need to discuss.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask, a sudden surge of anxiety gnawing at the pit of my stomach. Jasmine never nips in to see me. Even if she lived in Honeyford – heaven forbid – I doubt she’d ever call in for a chat. It’s a shame, really. I’d love a closer relationship with her but we’re just too different.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ says Jasmine, airily. ‘We can talk about things when we see each other. Gotta go. Bye for now.’

  Talk about things? That sounds ominous.

  ‘Who was that?’ asks Zac, placing a tall glass of lager on the wooden side table next to me. He’s such a considerate housemate.

  ‘Just Jasmine, saying she’s going to call into The Cosy Kettle tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s lovely. The two of you can bond over yule log and mince pies.’

  ‘I’m not sure a mince pie has ever touched my sister’s lips,’ I laugh. ‘She prefers superfood salads, mung beans and quinoa.’

  Which is probably why she’s a petite size ten and I’m not. Being surrounded by delicious cakes all day doesn’t help and my arse has definitely spread a little since I started working in the café. The place always smells heavenly, and there are only so many slices of chocolate gateau, choux buns stuffed with caramel cream, and oaty flapjack a girl can resist.

  ‘Are you going to be OK with her coming into work?’ asks Zac, taking a slurp of his drink and wiping condensation from the outside of the glass with his finger.

  ‘I guess so, though we do tend to clash.’

  ‘You’re not going to have a wrestling match in the middle of the café, are you? ’Cos if you are, I’ll have to call in to watch.’

  A vision of me and Jasmine fighting, like when we were kids, pops into my head. In The Cosy Kettle scrap, Millicent is standing by with her lips pursed, Stanley is taking bets on the winner, and tinsel and cake are flying everywhere.

  ‘Nope. Sorry to disappoint you, Zachary, but our meeting will consist of little more than a passive-aggressive chat over a cappuccino. She’ll diss my job, I’ll feel inadequate and start fantasising about pushing her face into a Victoria sandwich, and then she’ll sweep out, back to her golden life.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ mutters Zac.

  ‘How come you’re home so early tonight anyway?’

  ‘I took a couple of flexi hours this afternoon and went to the gym on the way home. You should join. They do loads of classes – yoga, Pilates, kick-boxing.’

  I nod, though I’m not sure about the idea. Lots of unfamiliar people in new environments make me nervous. And I’d hate to end up working out in front of Logan, Zac’s friend from the gym and the man I can’t stop thinking about. Sitting and watching Logan work out might be rather nice – he’s blond, chunky and handsome in a Greek god kind of way, with muscles to die for under his sensible work shirt. I couldn’t help but notice them straining beneath the cotton when Zac introduced me to him in the pub a month ago. But I doubt voyeurism is encouraged at the gym so I’d have to work out too and then I’d just end up hot and sweaty and having a panic attack in the spin class. Logan would think I was a complete idiot.

  ‘Penny for them,’ says Zac, sitting next to me and nudging me with his shoulder. ‘You’re miles away. What are you thinking about now?’

  ‘Christmas!’ I lie, hauling myself off the sofa and ferreting about in the large carrier bag I abandoned by the front door. ‘Aha!’ I pull out a miniature plastic fir tree, only half a metre high, and wave it at Zac. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon…’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘I reckon it’s probably the smallest Christmas tree in the world.’

  ‘That’s possibly true but size isn’t everything, and I do have baubles.’

  ‘Well, in that case…’ He laughs as I pull a box of tiny glass spheres from my bag and dump them on the sofa beside him. ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘In the gift shop on the High Street. I was buying a few extra decorations for the café and thought we could tart this place up too, in honour of the festive season.’

  I set the tree on the side table and together we start hanging baubles from its vivid green branches. Plastic pine needles dig into our fingers as we suspend globes of blue, red and gold glass that glisten in the firelight.

  The tree looks really pretty when we’re done, and Zac grins. ‘I
feel more festive already. All we need now is a jug of eggnog, a massive box of chocolates and my gran making inappropriate comments in the corner and it could be Christmas Day at my house.’

  ‘It sounds like your gran would get on well with Stanley.’

  ‘She’d eat him alive.’ Zac gets to his feet and stretches. ‘I can’t wheel out my gran or eggnog, but there is a very large bar of Dairy Milk in the fridge that could help us celebrate the festive season and prepare ourselves for a flurry of manic present-buying.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. We can have our pudding before our shepherd’s pie and peas, which are also in my bag near the door, by the way.’

  Zac rescues our tea from the carrier and heads for the kitchen while I settle back on the sofa and wonder how many other people over the centuries have anticipated the run-up to Christmas in this cosy Cotswolds cottage. Were they excited, or did they feel a bit miserable like me? I so want to feel festive. I want to look forward to Christmas and to the new year that stretches beyond it, full of hope and possibilities. That’s how a normal person would feel; a normal un-fragile person whose insides aren’t often a tangle of shyness and anxiety. I bet that’s how Jasmine feels.

  ‘Happy early Christmas!’ says Zac, ducking under the low beam and chucking the chocolate bar into my lap. ‘Eat, drink and be merry!’

  I break off a chunk and breathe in the rich smell of chocolate before popping it into my mouth. It starts melting on my tongue as I stare at our plastic Christmas tree and will myself to be merry. I mean, what’s not to be merry about? I’m in a beautiful part of the world, working in a job I love, my family cares about me – even if they do think I’m a screw-up – and I’m living with my best friend.

  When I give Zac a smile, he plonks down beside me, grabs my legs and swings them up and over his knees. ‘What do you reckon? One episode of Stranger Things before we start cooking? I really like that stunted tree, by the way. It’s dead cheerful.’