Читать книгу Second Chances at the Log Fire Cabin: A Christmas holiday romance for 2018 from the ebook bestseller - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 9

I stand there, stunned for a moment, feeling sick. My legs feel wobbly so I sit down on the wall outside the house and stare for a long time at the Christmas lights strung over the windows of the café over the road.

After a while, the lights blur into one another, but I continue to sit there with my hands thrust deep into my coat pockets, thinking about Jackson and how it was never going to work out for us anyway. What with me scared to take the relationship to the next level and Jackson being a total babe-magnet.

It was a recipe for disaster. I just couldn’t see it at the time.

I really thought that this Christmas would be different because I’d found Jackson and we’d be spending at least some of the festive season together. I’d been so confident of this, I’d even told Mum and Dad that they should book the winter Caribbean cruise they’d been wanting to go on for years because I’d be spending it with Jackson. And now, that’s what they’re doing. They leave in a couple of weeks and will be away until after New Year. So I really shot myself in the foot there!

The festive season of love and goodwill is here. And I will be all alone.

Why on earth did I imagine someone as clever and popular as Jackson could be serious about a no-hoper like me? I mean, thinking about it, what the hell have I achieved in my life so far – apart from a job at the biscuit factory?

I probably could have achieved more. But after the accident, my confidence hit rock bottom, and I’ve never really recovered. I suppose part of me still thinks I’m not good enough to try for something different.

That look on Billy’s face when he broke off our relationship has stayed with me, resolutely refusing to disappear into the mists of time. It happened eleven years ago, when I was only nineteen, yet even now I can recall – as if it happened only yesterday – that heart-stopping mix of pity and guilt in his eyes.

But isn’t it time I moved past that?

I’ve lost Jackson and now my future is an open book. A big fat question mark. Instead of living in fear, maybe I should see it as a golden opportunity to throw off the chains of the past and start living my life differently.

But am I too late, at the age of thirty, to start my life over again? To finally throw off the hang-ups that have held me back and maybe find a career that inspires me – instead of just working to pay the rent?

The first step is to get over Jackson. Because, clearly, he’s already well on the way to getting over me …

Getting up off the wall, I take a deep breath and force my legs to move in the direction of the supermarket.

I’m done with humiliating myself over Jackson Cooper.

It’s time to move on …

Arriving at the supermarket, my throat is choked with held-back tears but I’m determined not to give in to them.

I head straight for the milk, then march purposefully into the home-baking aisle in search of Betty Crocker. She makes great chocolate cake mixes. She will save me from complete despair.

Funnily enough, the last time I was here, I was also on a search for cake mix.

Our irritating next-door neighbour, Edna Hartley-Pym, had knocked on our door, requesting cakes for her home-baking stall at the church hall’s Christmas fayre. She’s a difficult woman to say no to, so I promised her a homemade chocolate cake, which got her off our doorstep nice and smartly.

I thought I’d cheat with a Betty Crocker cake mix but, to my horror, there were none to be had and the fayre was the following day. So I’m afraid I resorted to buying a Marks & Spencer concoction, roughing it up a bit in my Tupperware box to make it look like an authentic home bake.

Needless to say, Edna was well impressed.

Thankfully, the cake mix section has now been thoroughly restocked. I hover in the aisle, trying to choose between Devil’s Food cake mix and Super Moist Party Rainbow cake, eventually solving the dilemma by throwing both into the basket.

My attention is caught by a woman further along the aisle who seems to be having a problem. She’s trying to reach something on the top shelf and keeps jumping up but failing to grab it. The grunts she’s making with the effort are growing more desperate by the second, so eventually, I go over and offer to help. (Being so tall, I’m used to people asking me to reach items for them from the top shelf.)

The girl turns, dashing her dark hair out of her eyes. ‘Oh, would you? Thank you. It’s the last bag and I really need it.’ Her face is flushed with exertion. Or possibly anxiety.

‘No problem. They didn’t nickname me Beanpole at school for nothing!’ I assure her with a grin, reaching up with ease and handing her the prize – a bag of self-raising flour.

‘Oh, thank you!’ she gasps gratefully. ‘I run a catering business and, believe it or not, I’ve run out of flour.’

‘Ooh, what’s the name of your business?’ I ask.

‘Truly Scrumptious.’

‘Great name!’

‘Thanks.’ She smiles warmly. ‘It’s just me, really, although my friend, Erin, sometimes helps out. I’m baking for a children’s birthday party tomorrow so I need to get my hands on some flour. I can’t believe this is the only bag left.’

‘People must be making their Christmas cakes.’

She smiles, looking a little less flustered. ‘Yes, it’s that time, isn’t it? I’ve got twenty Christmas cakes to bake for next weekend.’ She holds out her spare hand. ‘I’m Poppy.’

We shake. ‘Roxy.’

‘Nice to meet you, Roxy. Now, I really must get back. Those fairy cakes won’t bake themselves, worse luck!’

She turns to go but, as she does, the bag of flour somehow slips out of her grasp. It falls to the ground, catching her boot buckle, which tears the bag open. The contents spill out across the floor.

Poppy stares at the mess in stunned disbelief, and I feel her pain. She looks as if she’s about to sob her heart out right then and there, in the middle of aisle number seven.

‘Have you tried the corner shop?’ I ask quickly.

She nods. ‘None left.’

‘The supermarket on Bridge Street?’

‘They’re out of flour as well, believe it or not. There’s been a problem with deliveries.’

I frown, racking my brains to come up with a solution. Poppy seems really nice. I can’t just leave her here in bits like this.

‘I’ve got flour at home that you can have,’ I say, in a burst of inspiration. ‘And I only live along the road.’

She glances at me, round-eyed and hopeful. ‘That’s so nice of you to offer, but I couldn’t possibly …’

‘No, really, it’s fine. Come on.’

After paying for my groceries, we head back along the street and Poppy tells me all about her catering company. Apparently she’s just won a contract to supply mince pies and festive gingerbread men to a local pop-up ice rink during the fortnight leading up to Christmas Day.

‘That’s brilliant,’ I say, although I can’t help noticing that Poppy doesn’t seem overjoyed.

‘Well, it is. But the problem is, my friend, Erin, who normally helps out, is off to Mexico on holiday.’

‘So you’ve got to manage yourself.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’m just here.’ I indicate our blue front door and we turn in at the gate.

Poppy frowns. Then she peers at me. ‘I don’t suppose you bake?’ She smiles. ‘The fact that you’ve got flour is a promising sign.’

I laugh. ‘Oh well, the last time I made a chocolate cake—’

‘Does she bake?’ says a loud voice. ‘Oh Lord, yes!’

We swing round and there stands my neighbour, Edna, wrapped up to go out, handbag over her arm. At eighty-two, she’s a little deaf, hence the shouting.

Addressing Poppy, she says in her plummy voice, ‘Dear Roxanne baked a chocolate cake for the church hall Christmas fayre last week and all I’d say is, Nigella, eat your heart out! Soft. Moist. Simply chocolate heaven!’

She beams at me.

I laugh. ‘No, no, it was—’

‘Now, don’t be modest.’ Edna wags a finger at me. ‘It was utterly mouth-watering, believe me! My friend Celia bought it and made me try a slice because she thought it was just as good as a Marks & Spencer cake. And that’s no exaggeration!’ She taps the side of her nose at Poppy, smiles and walks off with a little wave.

I shake my head apologetically at Poppy. ‘Really, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’

‘Oh.’ Poppy’s face falls. ‘The thing is, I really need some help, otherwise this whole event is going to be a complete disaster.’ She shrugs. ‘People need mince pies at Christmastime.’

I nod solemnly. ‘And festive gingerbread men. Although shouldn’t that be ginger people these days?’

She laughs. Then her chin wobbles and her pretty face crumples. ‘Oh, God, sorry about this. It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, of course people don’t need mince pies. It’s just, if I want the business to succeed, I’ve got to nail this contract.’

I fish out a hanky, which mercifully seems unused. I can’t believe I actually have any clean ones left after my sobbing marathon of the past few days.

‘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!