Page 8 of The Gingerbread Cafe
‘Ohbaubles.’ She cursed as the oven sent her a smoke signal. Three puffs foranother batch incinerated.She grabbed them out with an oven-gloved hand and threw the tray on the side.
Her first job, when she’d received her shiny new café keys, had been to clean. She’d removed the ghostly dust sheets and had freshened things up. Tending to the place with Nell’s red feather duster and traditional string mop had been strangely cathartic. It had almost felt as though Nell was there cheering her on in her candy-striped apron, sending celestial messages of support through the haunted jukebox. ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’. Who was she to argue?
Though Gretel still hadn’t had the courage to go up to Nell’s old flat. It would have made her sad, and she couldn’t help remembering that all of this was probably temporary. Grumpy Lukas wanted to sell Nell’s soul to the highest bidder in just a few months’ time.
Then, using funds which the solicitor said Nell had set aside to help them get going, Gretel had stocked up on ingredients. Not that she had any idea what she was doing. She remembered Nell making different types of gingerbread from around the world and keeping them under shiny glass cloches on the counter. There had been everything from thin and delicate cookies to soft and crumbly spiced breads, each with distinct textures and their own delicious flavours. But there was no way Gretel was ready to turn herself into Mary Berry just yet. She was trying her best to make simple, no-nonsense gingerbread people.
Trying, and failing. Perhaps she was only cut out for the tasting bit, and maybe the decorating, if she could only make a batch worthy of icing. She looked around at the mess. When she’d arrived in the kitchen, everything had looked promising. The marble-topped island had been as clear as a blank canvas, holly garlands draped happily from shelf to shelf and thered gingham curtains were almost winking their support. The kitchen was surely just a lovely extension of the café, but with more scary gadgets. The radio was all set for festive tunes and she’d felt ready to create.
But now there was devastation. A sea of broken eggshells. Sticky golden syrup oozing over everything it touched. And the whole kitchen smeltburnt. She grabbed a dismembered gingerbread leg and bit down on it with a sigh.
‘Ouch!’ She spat it out and put her hand to her jaw. She’d need a trip to the dentist if she tried to get her teeth through that. What was going so wrong? She’d been hoping to open up next week to welcome in the December Christmas shoppers, but seriously? Didn’t a gingerbread café need gingerbread? Was it cheating to just bloody well buy some? She imagined Nell turning in her grave and put up an apologetic hand.
Letting out another long sigh, she sank onto a tall wooden stool and put her hands over her face. She was past caring that they were covered in flour and butter; she’d be going home to hide in her wardrobe again at this rate anyway. Her selection of home-knitted Christmas jumpers did not judge.
‘Sorry, Nell. I know I’m letting you down.’ She mumbled the words into her globby hands, only slightly tempted to lick the butter off. ‘What made you think I could do this? You know I’m hopeless around people and I’ve got the baking skills of Angel Gabriel.’
‘I didn’t know angels baked.’
Gretel looked up sharply, her flour-dusted mouth dropping open. It was Lukas, and he was giving her one of his long starey looks that made her feel completely ridiculous. Well, his timing was immaculate.
‘Angelsdon’tbake.’ She rubbed her hands down Nell’s old red and white striped apron. ‘Angel Gabriel is …’ Her eyes darted to her crochet bag under one of the counters where her ferret wasquietly sleeping. On second thoughts, she didnotwant Lukas to set eyes on him in this kitchen. ‘Nobody.’
Lukas raised his eyebrows, but he could do what he wanted with his facial hair. She didn’t have to share her life story, even if his stony silences did make her want to gabble something out to fill the void. When Ariana Grande began warbling ‘Santa Tell Me’ from Nell’s tinny old radio, Gretel was actually pleased when Lukas stomped over and turned it off. He scratched the back of his neck as though Christmas really did give him hives And was that a spoon in his back pocket? The man was weird.
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ she asked instead, as he started inspecting the mess on the worktop with a disapproving look. ‘I thought you didn’t want to help?’ When she’d messaged him a few days ago to say she’d try to open up the following week, his response had essentially beengood luck with that. Only she hadn’t sensed much emphasis on thegoodbit.
‘I was passing on my way back from a shift at the restaurant. I saw the lights. Do you need the multi-coloured flashing things on out there when the place is closed? And that bloody jukebox is at it again.’ He pointed back towards the café.
She pinched her lips to avoid singing along to ‘Frosty the Snowman’, which she could now hear in the background.
Lukas scratched the back of his neck again, his chef’s whites looking annoyingly impressive over his broad shoulders. It gave him an air ofin chargeness, which Gretel was finding both aggravating and oddly compelling in equal measure. She wondered if she could manage to splatter something on them.
‘Anyway, what the hell have you been up to?’ His gaze bounced between the various piles of broken biscuits and goo, and landed disconcertingly on her face. She remembered it was still sticky with buttery gunk and tried to wipe it discreetly with her sleeve. He threw her the kitchen roll. ‘This place is a tip.’
She shrugged, feeling like a little girl being scolded. ‘At least I’m giving it a go. It’s not like you’re lending a hand.’
‘Is that why you’re talking to Angel Whatshisface and it’s not even December?’
Gretel gulped as she saw her crochet bag begin to quiver. If people kept saying Angel, he was going to appear at some point.
Chapter 7
‘Why do you actually hate Christmas so much?’ As distraction techniques went, it was a risky one – but Gretel needed to keep Lukas’s attention away from the bag where her dozing ferret seemed to be fidgeting. Anyway, she was curious.
Lukas turned around to face her. ‘I … Christmas is just too busy. Too hectic. Like a pressure cooker.’
She was sure he’d been about to say something different and she felt her curiosity twitching even more. What wasn’t he saying? But she wasn’t one to pry. Her crochet bag stirred. She winced.
‘Erm … so what is a pressure cooker? One of those funny pans for boiling carrots?’ She played the hopeless cook card and made a show of scratching her head, to keep his eyes from the floor.
‘Yes, that’s right. Rotten ones.’ His mouth curved into the smallest smile. Then after seeming to chew something over, he blew out a long stream of air. ‘People are hard work, Gretel. Even more so at Christmas. The restaurant gets frantic, emotions are heightened, drunk people get more demanding, everyone expects more, more, more …’ His voice trailed off. ‘Nothing feels good, OK? No doubt you’ll get a slice of it if you decide to open this place for the Christmas rush.’
He gave her another one of those fake half-smiles that told her he’d said enough. It unnerved her that she was beginning to decipher his subtleties.
Not that she would push him to say more, as interested as she was. She knew what it was like to have secrets you wanted to keep to yourself. Besides, as a girl who needed any ounce of help she could get around here, it would be reckless to tip the scales against herself.
‘So what about you, Gretel Rosenhart? Why are you such a year-round tinsel-wielding festive superfan? I’ve seen you wearing those hideous Christmas jumpers even when it’s spring.’
