Читать книгу Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 11

‘Where are you?’ Laura says, over the phone, her voice sounding strained.

‘I’m in a Parisian brothel,’ I reply, ‘learning how to do a can-can that would make Craig Revel Horwood weep. It’s fab-u-lous, darling.’

‘I can hear lorries making that beeping noise they make when they’re reversing. Are you at a service station? And if so, which one? If it’s the one that sells Krispy Kreme doughnuts, can you bring us a box? And when will you be here? The kids are driving me nuts asking every five minutes… they won’t even start decorating the tree until you arrive…’

I make a small grrrr noise at the back of my throat, like a grumpy grizzly bear, and wonder how she saw through that impeccably plausible can-can story. My sister, the mind reader.

Although if she really was a mind reader, she’d know that I was sitting here, drinking coffee in the freezing cold, shivering my backside off, and trying to think of a good excuse to turn the car around and head back Up North. It might be grim, but at least I wouldn’t have to decorate a Christmas tree and pretend to be jolly.

Laura hears my little growl and laughs out loud.

‘Not thought of a good enough excuse to get out of it, yet, then?’ she says. Damn her. She is a mind reader.

‘Not yet,’ I reply, wrapping my hands around the paper of my coffee cup in an attempt to stave off frostbite. Christmas is not only annoying, it’s cold as well. ‘But I’m hopeful that there’ll be some kind of natural disaster that splits the world in two before I reach Bristol. You know, like in one of those earthquake films, where a huge gaping chasm opens up in the middle of the road and all the expendable extras fall into it? Or possibly a zombie apocalypse. Or a meteor shower. I’m not fussy.’

I can hear yapping at the other end of the phone and smile as the sound is inevitably followed by Laura muttering ‘hang on…’ as she scurries around, opening and closing doors, and otherwise catering to the needs of her newest baby – an eight-month-old black Labrador puppy called Midgebo.

He was originally Midge, and mainly still gets called that, but the ‘bo’ was added as tribute to all of David’s dogs – also black Labs, and all called either Jambo or Jimbo.

Jimbo, the late, the great, the sadly departed, had gone to the great sausage shop in the sky not long after Laura and the kids moved to Dorset.

I knew she still missed him, but I also knew that Midge had helped to fill in the gap. As had Matt, the local vet who’d bought him for her. Matt, I suspected, was filling all kinds of gaps – and I was looking forward to meeting him. He looked a bit like Han Solo, so who wouldn’t want to meet him?

I was looking forward to a lot about this trip. Like seeing my sister again and checking that her apparent progress was genuine, not just faked for my benefit. Seeing my wondrous niece and nephew, who always made me feel glad to be alive. Seeing their new home. Meeting the famous Matt, and Laura’s legendary boss, Cherie Moon, who owns the Comfort Food Café. Being introduced to all her new friends.

Yep, I was looking forward to a lot of it. I just really, really wished it wasn’t at Christmas. It’s never been my best time of year.

‘Right. I’m back. Sorry about that,’ she says, and I can tell from the change of background noise that she is now outside, probably watching Midgebo have a pee in the garden.

‘That’s okay. When a dog’s got to go, a dog’s got to go. Anyway… I should be there before dinner.’

‘Assuming there isn’t an earthquake or a zombie apocalypse, that is.’

‘I think both of those suggestions are ridiculous,’ I reply, standing up and throwing my empty coffee carton into the bin. ‘But the meteor shower could happen. I think it was predicted on the weather last night.’

‘Actually it was snow that was predicted,’ says Laura, sounding distracted again. Having a puppy, I realise, is very much like having a baby.

‘So drive safely,’ she adds. ‘Don’t accidentally-on-purpose head back for Manchester. And don’t forget the Krispy Kremes.’