Читать книгу Christmas at Thornton Hall - Lynn Hulsman Marie - Страница 6

Numb, I pointed my elderly Golf in the right direction and drove out of the city of London. I’d been to Thornton Hall enough times to know the way. Although, I have to say I was surprised that Jasper Roth, America’s wealthiest tycoon, was invited to his wife’s ancestral home this particular Christmas. It had been all over the Daily Mail and other rags that he and Lady Penelope were suffering trouble in paradise. Based on what I think nearly happened between him and me in the drawing room at the Hall last time I catered for the family, I figured she’d finally caught him cheating. But then that whole incident between him and me was kind of a gray area. And we were drinking that mellow port, the one that slid like silk down the throat and left you thirsty for more. And he was so sincere when he confessed that despite his success, what he really wanted was to feel a part of someone’s life.

Was he really about to kiss me, or was it just a weird moment of connection between us? Maybe I imagined the whole thing. That’s probably the real truth. Face it, I couldn’t be trusted to separate the good guys from the bad guys, could I? I’d been duped by both Stephen and Ben. Whatever. Fucking men. No wonder Mother had opted out.

Oh, God…Mother. I nearly swerved off the road, thinking of how my mom was going to react to my news of my break-up with Ben. I think she saw Ben as a guide toward sense and stability. It was no secret that she held out hope for my giving up “being a cook”, to go back and complete my studies, the plan Ben wholeheartedly supported.

It was hard to believe that, as of last night, I’d been ready to do exactly that. To start a life that Mother was excited about. Thinking about disappointing her made my head split. Or maybe that was the hangover. I concentrated harder on the road, lightheaded with hunger and the starkness of my new reality. If I had moved to New York and gone back to school, Ben in tow, Mother would have had to admit I wasn’t flighty. That I did have direction. Of course, flighty to her was switching from math camp to science camp my last year of high school. But marrying Ben would have given me gravitas. Or I hoped she’d see it that way. On the one hand, a successful lawyer, he’s a highly sensible choice, I thought, looking for a turn-off. On the other, although she approved of his profession, he is a man. And who knows if she could approve of any member of that gender.

Men didn’t exactly play a starring role in my childhood. My grandmother, a surgeon and lab scientist in Chicago, divorced my grandfather when my mother was little. When she visited us, she flew solo. And my father, by the way, is a sample cup. Mom made sure I knew all about the science of conception, and what a sperm donor was, from the time I could toddle.

“Juliet,” she told me time and again, “I wanted a child, not two children. Men, my dear, are children. Besides that, they cloud the brain. Take it from me, solidly establish who you are before you try blending with someone else. That way, you don’t get lost.”

Her personal philosophies were sensible, well thought-out, and written in stone. She expected me to benefit from her experience and buy in hook, line and sinker. Growing up with my mother, good enough had never been good enough. She’s not a barrel of laughs, Mother, but she gets the job done and she taught me to do the same. I got A’s in school, and sacrificed dating and boys to do it. That suited her fine. I followed her directions until graduation, all the while gazing wistfully at the artsy crowd who smoked clove cigarettes, and even at the stoner crowd who smoked pot. At least they looked relaxed. When it came time for college, I got accepted to Duke, Vanderbilt, Penn and Cornell. Mother was horrified to the point of dumbstruck when I chose Bard, a liberal arts college near Woodstock, New York. She knew I wanted to be close to my aunt, who I may as well tell you is Suze Wyatt, the life coach you’ve seen on The Eva! Show.

Everyone who ever lived has dreamt of being interviewed by Eva, the most famous and altruistic self-made woman on the planet. The woman who singlehandedly made book clubs cool, and started schools for girls in every remote corner of Africa. The woman who revolutionized daytime television. Everyone except for Mother. She hated Eva.

To this day, I cannot believe I had the strength to defy Mother and go to Bard. It was like a little compass in my head directed me away from the life I had lead up to that point. Had the college not given me a full ride, Mother would have blocked my going.

“What are you going to do, Juliet?” she had mocked. “Cruise through university taking basket-weaving? Next you’ll be telling me you’re studying to be a life coach! Why not skip college, seek an apprenticeship with Dr. Phil, and get your own TV show.” A thinly-veiled dig at Aunt Suze. She practically gagged when she mentioned television. She owned one solely for research purposes. An irrational thorn in her side, reality TV sent Mother into paroxysms of soapboxing. How many times had she ranted “Project Runway! Don’t the sheep realize that it’s not a competition, it’s a show about a competition? The producers get those kids drunk and they hide their scissors, all so we can watch them throw punches and scratch each others’ eyes out! And don’t get me started on the worst of the bunch, The Food Channel”?

“Just because I love the food channel, it doesn’t mean my brain is soft,” I’d told her. “I happen to like Prunella Paulson.”

“I wrote a journal article on that woman entitled ‘Images of Breasts: Conflating our Desire for Flavor and Nourishment with Sexuality.’ She sells with her boobs.”

“What about Piers Conley-Weatherall?” I asked, naming another well-known TV chef. I smiled just thinking about him. “How can you not love that guy with his outrageous, curly hair and accent?” I mimed throwing a handful of spices into a pot. “Who’s your daddy?” I shouted in a gleeful Yorkshire accent. I never missed an episode. I know lots of people are like this with celebrities, but I felt like I really knew him. I followed him on Twitter because I loved all the sweet tweets he sent about his kids and the normal life his family seemed to have. They ate dinner, they went camping, the kids were allowed to believe in Santa Claus – something of which Mother didn’t approve. “He just draws you in.”

Mother scowled. “Him.”

“I think he’s adorable,” I said. “He’s the kind of man you’d spontaneously hug.” Mother raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe not the kind of man you’d spontaneously hug, but the kind normal people would. Admit that you like my apron with his face on it! It’s really cute.” I’d won it in a Facebook contest.

“The apron that asks, ‘Who’s Your Daddy?’ No, the man has a catchphrase, Juliet. He sings to food. He lives life in a dream. I don’t want to discuss him.” She took a long, hard look at me. I was a little uncomfortable under her gaze. “Really, sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re my daughter.” That stung. I wanted to be her daughter. She was my mother, and we all worship our mothers, don’t we? I vowed then and there that I’d become the kind of woman she would admire, someone she’d see as a scholar and a colleague. Become the therapist she wanted me to be.

But I still loved Piers.

I didn’t bring it up again, but I watched his show, even reruns, every night with the sound turned low, before falling asleep. Something about him soothed me.

Mother is the most respected psychiatrist in Louisville, Kentucky, where I grew up. She divides her time between her elite clinical practice and teaching at the university. For kicks, she writes science articles. I like to think I’m more fun than she is, but I did inherit her work ethic. If she could succeed, I could succeed.

A car blared its horn, startling me out of my reverie. Focus on the job at hand, I told myself.

I glanced at my dashboard clock. I was making good time. Jasper Roth told the agency to have me arrive before the early guests were going to bed so that I’d be on deck to make midnight sandwiches and still be up early to lay the elaborate and excessive breakfast he always demanded.

The hours at Thornton Hall were long and brutal, but at least Rose the housekeeper would be there. Just thinking about her nearly made me cry. The pure kindness she beamed was so unfamiliar: I think Mother skipped parenting school the day unconditional love was taught.

I rifled around in my purse for a breath mint, remembering I hadn’t eaten all day and hoping to take the edge off my hunger. On the passenger seat beside it, among the many bags of groceries, was a sack of Welsh blue potatoes from Sainsbury’s. Roth reveled in having the best and most expensive of everything, so in the morning, I’d roll the potatoes in some dirt from the driveway and wrap them in brown paper. That way, when my boss came to micromanage, he’d assume I’d gone to the market and purchased them from a farmer. I needed a shortcut or two. I’m doing the best I can, I thought. And that’s good enough. Aunt Suze told me to repeat that to myself as often as possible.

Thrown next to the potatoes was a pile of wrapped gifts for Ben’s family. I’d almost chucked them, but my frugal side put the brakes on that. If nothing else, I could pass them out to the staff at Thornton. After last year’s cancelled Christmas, I’d made sure to shop in advance for all Ben’s relatives, including the family spaniel. I’d even asked Posy to “style” me for the evening I was sure he’d pop the question, though without telling her why. From the beginning, she’d never been Ben’s biggest fan.

I finally saw a BP station. I was bursting, and I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Was the queasiness in my stomach only hunger? Or dread? I felt so disenfranchised. I hit the loo, then bought myself a Lucozade, a packet of crisps and a pork pie in cellophane. Sitting under a street lamp in the parking lot, I took huge, greedy bites. I knew I was eating for comfort, but didn’t care. I deserved any pleasure I could get at the moment. This ersatz meal was a lurid example of what chefs eat when they’re not working, and I inhaled it with gusto.

With the heat off in the car, I was freezing. It was the bone-deep damp that can’t be escaped here. Why does England have to be so cold? My cottage on the grounds was likely to be as freezing inside as it was outside when I arrived. Had taking this job been a panic choice or the right thing to do?

Slugging back my Lucozade (which was making me even colder…why in God’s name didn’t I get a cup of tea?), I wished I could beam myself back to before I’d even met Ben. I longed to be in Posy’s lavish Parisian apartment, where she’d taken me in for nearly three years. She rescued me in Paris after I’d followed Stephen there, although she’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that I rescued her.

Given my start in Paris – struggling junior chef barely earning enough for rent – that level of luxury was something I never dreamed of. Well, to be honest, given my middle-class suburban ranch house growing up, being in Paris was something I never dreamed of either. Like a lot of things before I’d met Stephen. Like being stone-cold dumped in the most romantic city in the world.

Stop dwelling, Juliet. That’s “anti-luck thinking” according to Aunt Suze. Positive visualization will manifest positive results. God, Mother would have a field day if I said that out loud. I secretly subscribe to “Suze Wyatt’s Make Your Own Luck” e-newsletters. My aunt also authored the book Follow Your North Star to Happiness. Following her lead, I created my own “Heart Phrase”. Goofy, I know, but when Aunt Suze explains that we should all pick a mantra and proclaim our truth, it sounds so right.

“Food is my new passion.” I’d tested that out on Mother from Paris, when I’d started working my first kitchen job at Chez Henri. After being humiliated in the city of love, I couldn’t go crawling home, so I took the only job I could get, and made the best of it.

“I’m sorry,” she’d said. “Did you just say, ‘Food is my new passion’?”

“No,” I’d answered quickly. At this point, most people could say, “Put Dad on the phone.” I imagined a jolly father who would say, “Don’t mind your mother. You know she loves you. I’m proud of you for following your dream.” Although, unfortunately, there is no jolly father.

Back in Paris, Posy introduced me to Charles, an American, and his lover, Luc. They opened my small-town eyes. Charles threw legendary parties, during which he draped the apartment with red velvet swags and rigged up champagne fountains from fish-tank pumps and vintage birdbaths. His motto had always been I know it’s too much, but is it enough? Luc got me that first job at Chez Henri, as a hostess and busser, lying wildly about my French. I was a spectacular failure at front-of-house. My first night, I insulted the local commissaire de police by seating him next to the kitchen, and delivered an expensive bottle of port to a restaurant critic’s table, calling his mistress by his wife’s name. I forced myself to suck it up. In my halting French, I apologized and told the chef and owner Henri that if he wanted to send champagne to make up for my blunders, I’d work the hours to pay for it. Impressed, Henri told me something in French that sounded like, “You are a man, and I like that in certain women.” Instead of a pink slip, he gave me an apron, and sent me to the kitchen where I learned to cook through trial by fire, under Henri, that exceptional chef with a mercurial temper. To this day, when people ask me where I trained, I tell them, “In Paris, at The School of ‘Not Like That, Stupid!’”

After living through the shock Stephen had handed down, I needed a purpose. Henri pissed me off enough to want to show I could win. So far in Paris, my only goal had been not to curl up and die. Now I had something to master. It was weird, because it was the opposite of intellectual, but I worked better when I turned my brain off.

And I was enchanted. I cooked my way through a variety of restaurants in Paris, took weekend courses and did short stints in France’s other regions, always staying just long enough to learn the best of what each chef had to teach me. And that was my life in France. Work, sleep, an occasional free day, when I went to museums or bought cheap seats at the ballet or theatre. I was happy socializing with Posy and my new gay best friends, or curling up with a good book. I had a good run there. Until London. Until Ben.

I started the engine, cranked up the heater, and checked my phone. I was both furious and relieved that there were no messages from Ben. I imagined him sitting at his huge desk. Smug and satisfied, he was probably having an office drink about now, gearing up for the holiday. I supposed he hadn’t yet realized I was gone. There was only one text:

Call me anytime, day or nite. need ur advice urgently P xx

Fumbling with my earpiece, I had a brief thought that I probably shouldn’t drive and talk about stuff that upsets me, but I needed to hear her voice.

“Are you sitting down?” Posy demanded. “I’ll bet you’re lying down, you right old slapper! I suppose you couldn’t be troubled to ring Posy back because you were on the receiving end of an epic shagging. You American girls,” she teased. “When the boyfriend shows up, it’s all ‘Bye-bye, Bestie, I’ve got a ride to climb aboard…’”

Normally, I’m delighted at this send-up. I’d never worn the “bad girl” label, and it made me sound sassy. Part of me dreamed of donning thigh-high boots and false eyelashes, and falling into bed with strange men who smoked. Between slow drags, they’d slide their eyes up and down me and say, “Juliet, you are one hot slut.” Anyway, um, back to the present!

I’d never admitted to Posy that Ben and I weren’t exactly chandelier-swingers. Ben’s only the second man I’ve been with, in fact. And now, I wasn’t with him. My throat closed as I choked on a giant sob.

“Hello? My little tartlet? Aren’t you speaking to Posy? I’ve called to tell you I’ve been proposed to!”

“What?” I sputtered. “By whom? Oh God, not Baz! I mean, it’s Baz, isnt it? I mean, what?”

I’d been tiptoeing around confessing that I wasn’t a fan of Posy’s latest boyfriend. Trashing someone’s love interest is dangerous territory. One minute a couple splits up and you’re pointing out that the guy has bad breath and talks with a whistle, and the next thing, they’re having a baby and you’re not invited to the christening.

“I’m lying. It’s a joke!” Posy exclaimed. “I called to tell you I gave Baz the boot!”

“Really?” I asked, relieved.

“Too right! He may well murder in the sack, but hadn’t you noticed? He’s a bit of a wang! All he ever cared about was having the latest Gucci sunglasses to wear on that yacht of his. We were aboard that thing every weekend, and he mostly just got plastered with his mates and yelled ‘I’m king of the world!’ whilst peering off the bow. We broke up just in the nick of time, too. You know that uber-sexy, silver fox author of Get Fit the Yogi’s Way? Well, after his book launch party, he took me to his flat and showed me how to bend in ways I’d never dreamed possible, if you catch my drift.”

“Isn’t he kind of old?”

“Who cares, as long as he’s hot and fit. There are lots of older blokes I fancy. Like the new James Bond, you know, what’s-his-name. And your man Piers Conley-Weatherall.”

“Eew, I don’t think of him like that.”

“Maybe I have more of an open mind. He’s cute and he can cook.”

“Posy, I have to tell you something,” I said.

“Don’t say it, I know. I can’t commit, and you’re halfway down the aisle, Mrs. Bridey MacWeddingband. Where are you, anyway?”

“Driving,” I said, remembering that I was. “Listen Pose, Ben cheated on me.” My hands were shaking so badly, I had to pull over and put on my hazard lights while I told her everything. She punctuated my story with interjections of “That bastard!” and “That bastardy bastard!”

“So that’s it,” I finished. “It’s not a direct dump, like Stephen, but once again, I feel like a fool.” I looked out the windshield at the dark countryside, feeling very alone.

She paused, then said, “Thank God, Jubes. I am so happy for you.”

“Happy? My heart is broken, I’ll never be loved, I’ll die old and childless and, once again, it proves that Juliet cannot follow through on a plan, just like my mother always said.” I fished for some tissues to wipe my runny nose.

“Plan, my arse! Come on, then. Plans are for old fogies, and schoolmarms, and, and, city planners!”

“But how can you say you’re happy we broke up? I thought I got it right this time. Now I’m alone!” I practically wailed.

“Nonsense. You’ve got me.”

“I don’t want to go back to the States on my own. You know, without Ben.”

“So don’t go back to the States.”

“Then what would I do with my life?”

“Um, you’d live here and work as a chef like you have been doing! And love it! You get hired by the coolest clients. Liz Hurley calls you ‘Sister,’ for eff’s sake! You’re at the top of your game. It’s what you do. You’re brilliant at it. Screw being a boring old therapist. You’re a hot chef. Chin up! You could be me, with my boring ex-boyfriend and my crap job,” Posy scolded me.

“In what way is your job crap?” I asked. I didn’t question the ludicrous boyfriend.

“Well, it’s not as good as yours,” she replied stubbornly.

“It’s apples and oranges. Besides, don’t you think going the therapist route is the right thing to do? Food is just a stopgap to pay the bills for now.”

“You’ve been saying that for years, and when you do, I hear your mother talking. If you want to know what I think, I’ll tell you—”

“You always do.” I interrupted.

“—Here’s what I think: You’re mother wants you to be her mini-me, so she puts down your career as a chef. I think you’re avoiding the issue. Hey, listen to me. Maybe I should be a therapist!”

“I wouldn’t give up the day job just yet: your job’s awesome. You work at a sleek, sexy publishing house, surrounded by brooding, bookish young sexpots who wear glasses and corduroy, and seduce you at launch parties when the cheap Chianti is flowing.”

“As an assistant! And they only keep me because I speak French, and keep reeling in richies and B-list celebs from Dad’s world to-do memoirs and cookbooks.”

“Well of course that’s why they keep you,” I told her. “You’re a star. There’s no shame in leveraging your assets. Admit you love your job!”

“I’ll admit I love my job when you admit you love your job. Say it! Say you love being a chef.”

My mouth started forming the words, then I hesitated, tapping the steering wheel. “It’s not that simple.”

“It looks simple from where I’m sitting! Embrace what makes you happy, even if there’s no guarantee. You’re trying too hard for the sure bet, and your mother’s like a siren calling you back to her version of stability. You gambled by taking a chance with Stephen and you’ve been beating yourself up ever since. You grabbed what made you happy, then it was gone. So what? You’re still alive, and you had a bit of good fun. Nothing lasts forever. Speaking of taking a chance, what about that scrummy resident chef Edward at Thornton Hall?”

“What about him?” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic. I undid my seatbelt and wrestled off my hoodie, phone pinned between my shoulder and ear.

“You could have had him for twenty pence and a slap on the arse.”

“I was with Ben!”

“Not at first, you weren’t.”

“Anyway,” I said, rebuckling, “you witnessed how Stephen diverted me off course. And then Ben. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I go looking for another man to rain down chaos on me.”

“Why go looking? Won’t Edward be doling out the goodies this Christmas?”

“Posy, Thornton Hall is where I work! There’s a quaint saying in America, ‘Don’t poop where you eat.’”

“Oh, I know that one!” she squealed, like she’d won a prize. “Only we say shit.”

“Why won’t you let me be a good girl?” I asked, exasperated.

“Because deep down, you’re not,” she said.

“Just you watch,” I said. “I’m going to learn from my mistakes, like a mature woman should. I’m almost 30!”

“No you’re not!”

“I’m 28.”

“Well that’s positively ancient! Better start saving for vaginal rejuvenation surgery.”

“Vaginal what? Never mind! I’m about to start the next chapter of my life, and you’ll see how making sane, adult choices leads to contentment. No Edward. No drama.”

“Right. Maybe your mum’s satisfied to bed down with her psychology journals, but I predict you won’t be wearing socks to sleep in for long. Besides, thirty is the new hot. Let’s neither of us sign our death certificates just yet. Once you’ve had true love, you can’t very well settle for a substitute.”

“When have you had true love?” I asked.

“God, is that the time? Forget stupid, bastard Ben and ring me when you get to Fancypants Manor. Love you loads. Byeee!”

I cautiously pulled back onto the highway, tires crunching through the gravel in the thick darkness. I put Posy and Ben out of my head and kept my eyes focused on the black road ahead. It’s amazing how remote this part of the country can feel, given its actual proximity to London’s bright lights. Music of the season blared from my speakers. “I’ll have a bluuuuuue Christmas…without youuuuuu…” I didn’t feel blue or even angry. I felt nothing, and was glad to be headed for a job, where the preparation and clean-up would propel me forward. There was always something to be done in the kitchen of a full house. I longed to sleepwalk through my days. I welcomed the loss of myself.