Читать книгу The Little Christmas Kitchen: A wonderfully festive, feel-good read - Jenny Oliver, Jenny Oliver - Страница 19
ОглавлениеMADDY
The lost luggage had tipped Maddy over the edge. She’d held it together while filling in the form but then cried all the way in the taxi to Ella’s flat. There she had sat down on the sofa in the dark, pulled a blanket soft as fur over her and gone to sleep.
When she woke up, her first thought had been why was there a Christmas tree on the floor in front of the bookshelves. But that had only caught her attention for a second because, glancing round the rest of the apartment, she realised there was so much more be astounded by. In front of her was a TV the size of a cinema screen mounted on a pristine white wall. On her right were three windows, floor to ceiling, opening out onto a balcony that was at road level but set back from the pavement as, she noticed getting up and peering out and down, there was a basement flat below her that had a little courtyard garden. Behind the huge grey sofa, that was long enough and wide enough for her to have an incredibly comfortable night’s sleep, was a dining table to seat eight and chairs so gorgeously designed, the wood so soft that they made her need to run her hand along them. Apart from the tree lying on the floor the only nod to Christmas was in the corner, above the table, where a bunch of silver and gold tissue paper pompoms hung from a hook in the ceiling. A huge white rug covered great slabs of floorboard and as Maddy walked barefoot across the varnished boards she found herself in the wide open hallway, a bathroom that looked like it was from a hotel off to her left, the bedroom next to that, she deduced from the barely open door, and then in front of her was the kitchen. She took a couple of steps forward, almost unable to believe quite how stunning it was. Marble topped work surfaces hugged the walls and in the centre an island unit similar to her mum’s but still seemingly fresh out the box. The double oven sparkled, the huge industrial hobs glistened, the white porcelain sink with its fancy taps looked unused. Walking forward, Maddy ran her fingers over the marble, then the kettle that was all dials and lights and see-through, the Nespresso machine, the juicer, the pasta maker, the fish boiler, the bread maker, the Dualit toaster, the Phillipe Starck lemon squeezer, the Sabatier knives, the open shelves stacked with Sophie Conran bowls and plates, Tiffany wine glasses, a modern crystal decanter and matching tumblers. None of it, aside from perhaps the glasses, looked like it had ever been touched. She pulled open the huge Smeg fridge, empty apart from six bottles of Bollinger, a pint of milk, HP sauce and Chanel Rouge nail varnish. Maddy went over to the other side of the room and opened the cupboards behind the kitchen table, one after the other, finding beautifully folded sheets, towels, tea-towels. Then what looked like wedding presents still in boxes – more glasses, more china. The other cupboards were empty save for some Quaker oats and a half box of Alpen with no added sugar or salt. On the big glass table was a fruit bowl but in it was a collection of multi-coloured Christmas baubles and a bunch of fairy lights. She stood with her hands resting on the edge of the island and looked around, taking in this beautiful restaurant standard kitchen and almost felt sad for it, its complete and total lack of use.
‘I’ll use you.’ she said, looking at the oven and hob and all the other appliances. ‘Don’t worry, your existence won’t be totally in vain.’
Then she battled for five minutes to work out how to turn the kettle on.
Finally, cup of tea in hand, she wandered over to the large double doors on the wall adjacent to the fridge and stood looking out onto a communal patio at the back of the apartment block, the ground speckled with dewy frost and trails of bird footprints. Putting her tea down on a little cafe table and chairs that sat in the corner of the room, obviously set up to catch the morning sun, she turned the knob and threw the windows open, a gust of icy air streaming in.
I made it she said to herself as she took in a great gulp of freezing air, felt it travel through her body, making her shiver. Wrapping her arms around her, she stepped out into the frost.
I made it to London.
The patio was stark, there were bins against the back wall and a recycling unit. The little section she stood in was backed onto by three other flats – one the curtains were drawn tight, in the other, she glanced to the right, she saw an old woman sitting at a bureau similar to the Chippendale her grandparents had stored in her room. Grey hair up in a chignon, glasses on the end of her nose, big white cardigan pulled tight around her waist, the woman was writing a letter Maddy thought, her fountain pen scratching furiously across the paper. She peered forward to see more, the dim room was lit only by the low tones of red and green from the Tiffany sidelight. She knew she shouldn’t be looking but she couldn’t resist.
In the corner of the room was a Christmas tree, its spindly, half-dead branches draped with raggedy tinsel and old-fashioned decorations that would sell now as antiques, next to it the woman’s slippers sat side by side kicked neatly off perhaps as she’d curled up on the dark chintzy sofa. No, Maddy thought, she didn’t look the type to curl up. Along the mantle piece were ornaments dotted among sprigs of holly, a newspaper was folded on the marquetry coffee table, a pair of spectacles rested on the sideboard. As Maddy was on her tiptoes trying to see more, the woman turned sharply in her seat and caught her snooping. The look of displeasure in her eyes made Maddy dive back into the flat, slam the French doors shut and dart into the bedroom.
Leaning with her back against the closed bedroom door she took a couple of breaths to calm her beating heart. Her mum was always telling her not to be so nosy, but the lives of others had always been so fascinating. Like their grass was always greener than hers.
