Читать книгу Cooking Up Christmas - Katie Ginger - Страница 9

Felicity Fenchurch primped and preened in front of the camera, brushing her honey-blonde curls back from her face. The director shouted, ‘Action,’ and she gave a longing smile, dipped down to pull a tray from the oven, and gazing at the camera from under false eyelashes, pouted.

‘There you have it,’ Felicity announced, removing her pink oven gloves with a flourish. ‘A deliciously decadent fabulous four-cheese lasagne, made with fresh homemade perfect pasta.’

‘Cut,’ shouted David, and the silent studio erupted into life. ‘That’s a wrap for the day, everyone. Felicity, darling, that was marvellous as usual. How you manage to look so damn sexy serving cheesy pasta is beyond me.’

Esme Kendrick watched as they exited the studio. As a food technologist, she’d done all the cooking this morning: chopped all the ingredients, grated the different cheeses, made a velvety béchamel sauce. She’d even made the pasta at the crack of dawn before the greedy pigeons had started cooing, getting up in the dark and padding about in the cold kitchen as a wintery wind blustered around the apartment. It was November, and as cold as a penguin’s flipper outside, but to Esme November meant nearly Christmas, and there was something different about London at Christmas time. Everyone was a little friendlier, a little kinder, and with parties and celebrations the city was alive with a kind of electricity. After a rushed cup of coffee, she’d made her way to work, with the great strings of Christmas lights swinging above, glittering in the winter gloom. The lasagne, complete with a perfect golden-brown finish, had then been presented to the world as the handiwork of TV goddess, Felicity Fenchurch. In reality, all Felicity had done was smoulder at the camera and mix things in a bowl.

‘I’m so nervous,’ Esme said to Helena, her best friend and a fellow food technician. ‘Why am I so nervous about pitching Grandma’s double-layer chocolate chestnut cake to Sasha?’

Helena brushed her dark brown bob behind her ear. ‘Oh, I don’t know, is it because it’s your absolute favourite recipe of your gran’s? The one you make every year at Christmas, the one you never, ever stop talking about as soon as summer’s over and the weather gets even the slightest bit nippy. The one that—’

‘Yeah, maybe it’s that,’ Esme interrupted playfully. ‘Right, wish me luck. See you tomorrow.’

Sasha’s office was of the new modern glass variety that looks more like a greenhouse. As their producer, she was scary but fair. Never rude or patronising, not like Felicity, but she was a powerhouse – a confident, composed, I’ve-achieved-my-dreams-with-effort-and-hard-work kind of woman. The type you look up to and fear all at the same time. The glass wall, with a view onto the corridor, was lined with tall green plastic pot plants designed to make the place seem homely. Esme was just approaching the door and about to knock when she heard voices from inside. Peering through the dusty leaves of a banana plant, Felicity Fenchurch sat purring at Sasha discussing something oddly familiar.

‘I know it’s a late edition, Sasha, but I really think my granny’s triple-layer chocolate chestnut cake will be just the thing. Chestnuts are always big at Christmas and nothing screams indulgence like a chocolate cake. And what makes mine special is the addition of a secret ingredient – maple syrup. And a slightly unorthodox method of chilling the batter before baking. It’ll be revolutionary.’ Felicity smiled and bright white teeth gleamed in the dull office light.

Esme couldn’t believe what she was hearing. These were the same things – the same words – she’d used when describing her recipe to Helena yesterday. Felicity must have overheard them and now she was passing off the recipe as her own. An unpleasant feeling grew in Esme’s stomach.

‘I’m really not sure,’ replied Sasha, in cool professional tones. ‘We’ll need to drop something else and it’ll have to fit into that timeslot. I really don’t fancy redoing the entire schedule.’

‘Of course. I was going to suggest we drop the chocolate orange tart. It’s so last year anyway and with some clever cut shots from David this will be sublime.’ She smiled at David who glowed at the compliment. Felicity crossed her long legs and Esme, with heat rushing through her body, spotted the red sole of a Louboutin.

‘And,’ pitched in David, ‘I just love that it’s her granny’s recipe, don’t you? People love sentimental cooking. It’ll be a bestseller for sure.’

‘Okay then,’ replied Sasha, nodding. Her grey hair was cut into an elfin crop and her deceptively youthful face remained passive. ‘Fine. We can do it.’

Esme stepped back and leaned against the opposite wall, her legs rubbery and almost giving way. Her whole body shook with rage. Stealing boring old day-to-day recipes, as Felicity had done before, was one thing, but stealing this one was something else. This recipe was the one she used to remember her grandma, the one the whole family ate at Christmas with a toast to Gran first. Esme had thought long and hard about sharing it and it had taken her ages to be able to do it. Only this winter had she finally reached the point where she wanted other people to taste it and feel the sense of love and care it imparted, rather than holding onto it as if she was holding on to the memories of her gran. To hear Felicity passing it off as her own grandma’s recipe was low. Esme bit her lip to stop the tears from falling and anger tightened her hands into fists. Should she march in and confront Felicity or let it go? Her heart pounded, her temper causing her brain to freeze. As a strong sense of injustice took over, without thinking, she raised her hand and knocked.

‘Come in,’ said Sasha in a loud clear voice. ‘Oh, Esme, can I help you?’

Esme paused in the doorway, unsure what to say. She couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard or that her body seemed to be acting of its own accord. ‘Sasha, I … The triple-layer chocolate chestnut cake Felicity just told you about – that recipe’s not hers, it’s mine—’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Felicity replied, shooting up to standing, her face a picture of shocked indignation, but there was a flicker of fear in her eyes. ‘How dare you accuse me of—’

‘You must have overheard me talking about it yesterday. You stole it!’ Esme turned to Sasha who was also now standing.

‘Sasha, I came here tonight to tell you about my grandma’s recipe for a double-layer chocolate chestnut cake – to see if we could use it in the Christmas show,’ Felicity squeaked in outrage, but Esme ignored her. ‘It’s from a cookery book that’s been handed down through my family. It’s got all our favourite recipes in. I wanted to share this one because Gran was – it’s so special.’

Felicity sat back down and found a tissue in her bag before pressing it to her nose, pretending to cry. ‘How can you say that, Esme? You know it’s not true.’ In support, David, the director, glowered at Esme.

‘Esme,’ Sasha began calmly, her face placid. There wasn’t even a hint in her eyes that she was shocked or finding this remotely uncomfortable. Esme was. She felt decidedly uncomfortable and she had a horrible sinking feeling she should have thought this through before barging into Sasha’s office letting her fiery temper take over. ‘Are you saying that Miss Fenchurch has stolen your recipe for a … what was it?’

‘A double-layer chocolate chestnut cake,’ Esme replied as confidently as she could, though her stomach burned. Her eyes were drawn to the deep green scarf Sasha had fastened around her neck. It was floral and pretty, and at odds with her cold, harsh demeanour.

Felicity sobbed. ‘Sasha, this is absolutely outrageous. And mine is triple-layer anyway.’

‘You’ve just added one, that’s all,’ Esme blurted. ‘The recipe is the same.’

Sasha glanced from Felicity to Esme, her face expressionless. ‘Esme, you’ve made a very serious accusation here. Are you sure you want to continue with this conversation? Is it possible you’ve made a mistake and this is purely a coincidence?’

‘No,’ Esme said, quickly, her voice rising. In the back of her mind something told her to stop and think but it was too late, her mouth was still opening and the words flowing out. ‘That recipe was from my grandmother’s cookbook. Hers is the only recipe I know of with the addition of maple syrup and a method of chilling the batter.’

‘Do you have the recipe book with you, to prove that it’s yours? I assume that as you were coming to see me this evening to pitch the idea you brought it.’

‘Yes,’ said Esme, pulling her bag from her shoulder. This would prove her right. She reached into her bag, fumbling around inside, spilling the contents onto the floor. Her hand trembled as with a sickening dread, she realised she’d left it next to the kettle last night after showing Leo something. Running late this morning, she’d forgotten to re-pack it. Esme raised her eyes to heaven and gave a silent prayer, hoping this wouldn’t go against her. From the corner of her eye, she caught Felicity’s face. A sly smile spread across her plumped-up lips and she held a tissue to her eyes to hide it.

‘Do you have it with you?’ asked Sasha. ‘It would be useful to have a look at it.’

Esme bit her lip as a flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. ‘I’m afraid I left it at home.’

Felicity scoffed. ‘Probably because there is no book. You seem to lie about everything, Miss Kendrick. Is Esme even your real name?’

‘Now, now,’ interrupted David, putting a hand on Felicity’s arm. ‘I know you’re upset, Felicity, and justifiably so, but let’s not get personal.’

‘Personal?’ she shouted, clutching her chest. ‘This is very personal to me, David. That woman is accusing me of lying to the whole world. If this got out, it would be a PR nightmare for me and the studio, and I would be left with no option but to sue. I have to protect my reputation.’

Esme’s mouth flew open, irked by Felicity’s overacting. ‘I’m not the liar here, you are. You did steal it. You overheard me say I was going to pitch it and then you jumped in before I could. You must have been lurking by the coffee machine when you listened in to us chatting.’

‘Lurking? How absurd,’ laughed Felicity, brushing her hair away from her face so they could see her full shocked expression, but Esme detected a hint of concern in her voice. ‘You have no proof of that, do you?’

‘Do you have any proof, Esme?’ asked Sasha. ‘Who were you chatting to?’ She was so calm Esme wondered if she was a robot and the scarf hid a central control panel. How could anyone be so numb to another’s suffering? Esme chewed her lip, the tears welling in her eyes. She couldn’t risk Helena getting into trouble.

‘I’d rather not say,’ Esme replied, but even she knew it sounded feeble.

‘May I suggest,’ said David, the colour draining a little from his ruddy cheeks, ‘if that’s the case, we forget about this whole dreadful business. Esme has no proof and I’m sure that if there are any … similarities, as Sasha said, it’s simply coincidence.’

Esme’s mind whirled around. This wasn’t right. Felicity should be apologising to her, not the other way around. ‘Do you think we both have grandmas who left us cookery books then, David? Sasha, I know I forgot the book, but you must believe me. I haven’t made this up.’

Sasha glanced at Felicity then back to Esme. ‘Esme, you’ve accused a colleague of lying and stealing ideas. This is very serious.’

‘It’s slander and harassment,’ added Felicity who stood up to leave. ‘I will not sit here being insulted by this – this – liar any longer. Either sort it out, Sasha, or I walk.’ She marched to the door.

‘Now, wait a second, Felicity.’ Sasha rose from her chair. ‘Let’s not do anything rash.’ She turned to Esme, her face was softer, but her voice remained cold and matter-of-fact. ‘Esme, I’m sorry, but without any evidence you need to withdraw your complaint and apologise to Felicity.’

Esme sat frozen, staring wide-eyed and bewildered. Slowly, she shook her head. It wasn’t just her being cheated here, her grandma was too, and she wouldn’t stand for it. ‘No. No, I won’t. I know I don’t have proof with me. I left the book at home by accident. If you let me go and get it—’

‘Absolutely not,’ Felicity shouted from the door. ‘I mean it, Sasha. Unless this is resolved now, I walk. I don’t want to, but I will. I’m not lacking for offers, as you know.’

Sasha hesitated and Esme knew what was going through her brain. Without Felicity and the ratings she brought, the whole network could go down. Her show, Felicity Fenchurch’s Fabulous Feasts, was the only way they were keeping up with the other channels. ‘Esme, I’m sorry,’ Sasha continued. ‘I think we need to get this sorted out now. I’m very surprised you didn’t bring the recipe with you if you were going to pitch it. Felicity could simply have a similar recipe. If you apologise to her, we can put this all behind us.’

Still at the doorway, holding a tissue to her eyes, Felicity’s voice was almost childlike as she said, ‘Even though this unfounded accusation has damaged our relationship beyond repair, Esme, I’m a professional and if you apologise, I’ll try and move on.’

Could she apologise? Could she say she was wrong and back down now? Was she even sure she was right? Esme took a deep breath but her mind was made up. Sometimes you had to be strong and stand up for yourself. It’s what her gran had taught her and she wouldn’t back down now. The secret ingredient and method were too similar, she wasn’t mistaken. Esme’s shoulders and neck hurt from the tension, even her legs ached, but she shook her head again. ‘I’m sorry, Sasha, but I won’t apologise. I’m right.’

‘Then I’m afraid I have no choice, Esme. This counts as gross misconduct so it’s instant dismissal.’ Esme felt the tears spring to her eyes but there was no way she would cry in front of Felicity and David.

‘I’ve been sacked?’ Her voice sounded strange where she had to force the words past the ball of anger and hurt lodged in her throat. It didn’t seem real. Somehow Esme managed to back out of the room while her whole body sparked with suppressed rage. Visibly shaking, she edged passed Felicity and left.

***

The glittering Christmas lights of London sparkled in the evening darkness. Giant snowflake lights hung high in the air, twinkling overhead, but Esme barely noticed them through her tears. She walked into someone, mumbled an apology and carried on with her head down. The heavy crowds of tourists bustled around her and snippets of Christmas songs carried on the air from the shops she passed. Instead of enjoying the wonderful Christmas vibe – that special atmosphere of excitement Esme loved most about London at this time of year – she dipped her head and marched on as fast as she could. By the time she reached her and Leo’s apartment, tears were flowing freely down her cheeks.

Unbuttoning her heavy winter coat, she hung it on the rack then loosened her scarf, feeling drained and exhausted. Walking into the kitchen, she knew there was only one thing she could do to make herself feel better. Cook. She’d make Leo’s favourite meal. A nice thick, juicy steak, rare and pink in the middle, and a proper béarnaise sauce with lots of good French butter and fresh tarragon. She’d even make asparagus roasted with sea salt as a side dish. A small smile crept over Esme’s face as she searched the fridge for the ingredients but it was instantly replaced by a frown and cold teardrops on her cheeks. How could things have gone so badly wrong today? She shouldn’t have acted on impulse and marched in there. She should have waited and thought about what to do. Now she’d thrown her job away and her heart was filled with regret.

Leo got up from the sofa. ‘Esme, you’re home.’

‘Yep. And I got fired,’ Esme replied, matter-of-fact, chopping the butter into small cubes before turning to see his face frozen in panic.

‘What?’ He looked even more shocked than she’d expected and walked to the window to stare out, gripping the hair at the back of his head. She’d hoped for a hug but as he stayed where he was, she poured two glasses of wine and took them over. When he turned back he reached for his wine, then his dark grey eyes gazed at her with concern.

‘What happ—’

Esme bit back tears but took a deep breath. ‘Felicity stole my recipe again. One of Grandma’s. She must have overheard me talking about it with Helena at lunch yesterday and then decided to pitch it before I could. When I went to Sasha’s office this evening, she was there saying it was her family recipe. I was so upset, Leo, and I don’t know why, but I went in there and confronted her.’

‘You did what?’

‘I know, I know.’ Esme rubbed her throbbing forehead. ‘I don’t know why I did it either. Well, I do. I did I because it was the right thing to do. She was even claiming it was from her granny and you know how long I’ve waited to share this special recipe but couldn’t bring myself to do it.’

Finally, Leo reached out to her but didn’t pull her into a hug, he touched her hand. He was clearly struggling to process everything she’d said. ‘Are you sure you were right? I mean, I know you’ve said before about her doing this, but couldn’t it just be a coincidence? You can be a bit dramatic sometimes.’

Esme wiped a tear from her cheek. Leo was always saying she was being dramatic when she lost her temper or got upset. His clear, decisive mind didn’t get her passionate, emotional one, and maybe she was being dramatic, but it didn’t stop her being right. ‘A coincidence? No. That’s what she’s claiming but she even said about using maple syrup and chilling the mixture first. She could only’ve known that if she was ear-wigging.’ Esme thrust her hand into her mop of ragged curls. ‘It’s one thing to steal a recipe but another to steal a grandma. She probably doesn’t even have one anymore. I bet she devoured hers like a praying mantis. And she’s tried to make it three layers instead of two. It won’t work as triple layers, it’ll just slide about then fall over, not unless you make the sponge thicker or use something other than double cream as a filling.’

‘What are you going to do?’ He turned to face her, his expression tense.

Esme feigned a hopefulness she didn’t feel. ‘I’m sure I’ll pick something else up quickly, in a few months; or worst-case scenario, I’ll go freelance.’ Suddenly, Leo took her hand and led her to the table.

‘Esme, can you come and sit down, please? I need to talk to you.’ Esme paused. His face was serious as he placed his wine glass down, and her heart thudded in her chest. For the last few months he’d been secretive and she and her friends thought maybe he was going to propose. Was this the moment? Sat on the chair, next to their tiny dining table, he knelt down in front of her and Esme’s heart rocketed up into her throat. She took a big breath in and bit the insides of her cheeks to stop herself grinning like a fool.

‘Esme, I’m sorry, I should have done this weeks ago, the timing is terrible.’ She wanted to shout that it wasn’t. It wasn’t at all. It was perfect timing. Leo raked a hand through his hair and she watched, hoping his hand would reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a tiny box. ‘I know today’s been difficult for you and I …’ He shook his head. ‘I should’ve done this before now.’

Esme bit her lip. She was going to get married!

‘I think we should break up,’ Leo announced.

Her mouth opened then closed again as she stared at him in disbelief. What? What had just happened? Everything fell silent except for the blood pounding in her ears and her short gasps of breath as she tried to control her emotions. Leo’s eyes dropped and he stood up.

‘I just feel we’ve become friends more than husband-and-wife material, don’t you? And I think it’d be the best thing for both of us if we just moved on. Don’t you think so?’

If he’d hoped for some kind of agreement from Esme, he was going to be disappointed. ‘But it’s nearly Christmas,’ she said quietly.

‘It’s not even mid-November, Esme. It’s nowhere near Christmas.’ Leo went to the window. His slightly curmudgeonly attitude to Christmas suddenly seemed far less endearing and much more Scrooge-like, and as if to confirm it, he said, ‘I can give you a few days to move your stuff out, you don’t have to go right now. I’m not a monster.’

Dazed, Esme tried to think but she couldn’t, she could only feel – and all she felt was that she had to get out. She stood and placed her wine glass on the table, then went and picked up her handbag from the sofa. As she retrieved her coat from the rack, Leo said, ‘Esme, where are you going? We can still have dinner and—’

She closed the door softly behind her.

Esme trudged through the rain to the Singapore Sling, ignoring it soaking her hair and running down her face, mixing with her tears. She’d left her hat and scarf at the flat, but wasn’t going back for them. She’d rather get wet. Every fibre of her being felt crushed. As she descended the steps to the cellar bar, leaving the world behind, a drop of rain fell from the sign and trickled down the back of her neck. She wanted to hide. To hibernate below ground and never come out.

After an emergency call to Helena, her friends were with her in half an hour. Esme’s heart, pounded and punched by the day’s events, felt broken and bruised. When she thought of Leo, the last thread of love snapped and her heart deflated like a burst balloon. She could even picture it in her chest all floppy, sad and wrinkled.

Mark, Lola and Helena gathered around Esme, open-mouthed and with drinks untouched as she told them all the details of her day from hell. Dance music thumped in the background and harsh neon lights lit their usual table in the corner. At least the DJ wasn’t playing Christmas songs. The last thing Esme wanted right now was Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ blasting out while her life hit an all-time low. Having finished, Esme couldn’t stop the great sob that emerged in a high-pitched puff of air, making Mark and Helena jump.

‘Christ, sweetie,’ said Mark, ‘you need more than just a drink after all that.’

‘I don’t think I can stomach one right now.’

‘Rubbish,’ he replied. ‘What you need is an enormous cocktail with a little umbrella in.’ His bright blue eyes popped against his dark hair and olive skin. ‘And as for that witch, well—’

Esme sobbed.

‘And Leo is a complete knob,’ said Lola. ‘I can’t believe after five years together this is how he treats you.’

‘What will you do now?’ Helena asked sympathetically. Esme simply shrugged. ‘Tomorrow you need to go out and register with agencies,’ she commanded. Helena was scarily matter-of-fact and dealt with everything with an almost military attitude. Esme watched the bubbles fizz in her glass. She had no idea what life beyond today would look like. She didn’t yet know if she’d make it to tomorrow. ‘You can stay with us as long as you need to,’ Helena added, glancing at Mark as they were housemates. But Esme didn’t fancy sleeping on their sofa for the foreseeable future. And Eric, Lola’s other half, worked from home so their spare room had been turned into an office. She let out a giant sigh.

‘I’ll have to move back home for a bit, won’t I? I can’t rent in London without a job and I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get another one. I haven’t got any savings and I can’t scrounge off you guys indefinitely.’ She leaned forward and rested her head on the table as a raindrop dripped from her soaking wet hair onto her nose.

‘It wouldn’t be scrounging, you’re our friend,’ replied Lola. ‘If Felicity Fenchurch walked in here right now, I’d punch her on the nose.’

Helena rubbed Esme’s back. ‘From what you’ve said, back home isn’t exactly—’

‘London?’ offered Esme. ‘No, it’s not. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘Could you freelance and commute in?’ asked Mark.

‘Too far and too expensive.’

‘What about some catering work? You know, weddings and stuff?’ suggested Helena.

Esme hesitated. ‘Yeah, maybe. But I’d still need a good reference and I don’t think I’m going to get one of those now.’

‘I know,’ said Lola. ‘You could write that cookery book you’re always talking about.’

Lola had been Esme’s best friend since school and knew her inside out. They came from the same town, went to the same university and had moved to London when they’d finished their studies, living together in a grotty two-bedroom flat above a kebab shop. She was also eternally optimistic, which was both helpful and, at times, annoying. ‘You need to see this as an opportunity, not a setback. Okay, so you move back home for a bit. Without having to pay stupidly high London rent, and without your time being taken up by Felicity, you could write your cookbook and get it published. This is your chance to focus on it.’

‘Do you really think so?’ asked Esme, who felt a tiny spark of hope in the darkness of the last few hours.

‘Of course you could,’ agreed Helena. ‘You’re the best food tech around. Not only that, you’re great at creating recipes too.’

Mark nodded. ‘You look at this mess. Felicity thought your recipes were so good she wanted to steal them. And when I think about all the dinner parties where you’ve cooked for us, OMG! That salmon thing you made when I split up with Andrew? Trust me, it made it all worthwhile.’

Esme smiled and nudged Mark with her shoulder. ‘What would I do without you guys?’

‘Die of thirst, probably. I’m going to get another round.’

‘Where will you stay tonight?’ asked Helena, taking Esme’s hand. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to go back to the flat.’

‘She’s staying with me and Eric, aren’t you?’ said Lola. ‘But you’re not borrowing my pants like you did at university.’

‘I had an excuse then,’ Esme replied. ‘I didn’t know how to do washing.’ But suddenly her face clouded in concern. ‘There is one thing.’

‘What?’ asked Mark, pausing on his way to get more drinks. ‘After everything you’ve been though today, I can’t believe there’s anything worse to deal with.’

‘Oh yes there is,’ replied Esme, resting her head on the table and speaking from under her arms. ‘I still have to tell my mother.’

‘Well, you’re on your own there, love,’ said Helena, smiling. ‘I’ve met your mum and she is batshit crazy.’