Page 1 of A Brambleberry Manor Christmas
CHAPTER ONE
As I drive through the wide, ornate gates of the BrambleberryManor estate, a single snowflake drifts down onto the windscreen, making mecatch my breath and stare up at the flat grey sky with wonder.
A tug of excitement mingles with the nervous apprehension inthe pit of my stomach at the daunting task that lies ahead. The forecasters arepredicting a white Christmas, and it seems that in spite of everything that’shappened to Tavie and me over the past year, the arrival of snow still has thepower to make my heart lift with joy, like it did when I was a kid.
The car hitches over a speed bump, jerking me back toreality, and my brief burst of delight melts like a snowman in the rain. Iglance anxiously at the cake carrier on the seat beside me. No harm done. But theknot in my stomach tightens with each curve in the grand driveway, as I drawnearer Brambleberry Manor.
I allowed Fen to talk me into accepting the job – cookingfor a week-long house party at the manor, hosted by her mum, the formidableMarjery.
But am I really up to it?
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the waist-band ofmy too-tight skirt cutting in. The trouble with cooking for a living is thatyou’re continually having to taste to get the seasoning just right.
I sigh. Who am I trying to kid? I can’t blame my ‘generous curves’on anything except my greed for carbs when I’m feeling worried or sad – andI’ve been feeling both of those emotions in spades, ever since last ChristmasEve when my whole world came crashing down around me.
Without warning, a flash of memory from that terrible day ambushesme.
Spotting Harvey’s car and the ambulance behind it.Pulling up by the kerb, so abruptly that the driver behind me hit the horn inprotest. Staring in shocked disbelief as the stretcher was loaded into the backof the vehicle…
I glance quickly in the mirror and see the pain in my greeneyes reflected back at me. Even now, the sound of someone punching the hornwhisks me right back to those traumatic events. I’ve grown quite adept atblocking that harrowing day – and what followed – from my mind. But sometimes,nothing I do or think can stop the memories flooding in…
Checking for cars behind me, I come to a stop and sit therefor a moment, the engine idling, taking a few calming breaths as I prepare toface Marjery. Another check in the mirror doesn’t really help. The two brightspots of nervous colour in my cheeks make me look like Coco the Clown’s tragicallyunfunny cousin, and my shoulder-length chestnut hair is already starting to slipfrom the moorings of my ponytail tie.
I have a sudden urge to turn the car around and drive home…getinto my pyjamas, snuggle under a blanket, and watch endless recordings ofStrictlyCome Dancing. I want that so badly right at this moment.Strictlyhas been my saviour over the twelve months since Harvey’s fatal heart attack.When I’m lost in the glitz, the costumes and the romance of it all, I can forgetthe bad stuff for a while…the fact that since Harvey died, my life has changedbeyond all recognition…and the fact that Octavia (or ‘Tavie’, as I always thinkof her) now resents me for still being alive while her darling dad is lost toher.
For a second, I’m genuinely torn between the job and a desperatelonging to turn around.
But then I think of the threatening letters, demandingpayment, stuffed in a drawer at home. I have Tavie to think of. I wasn’tmarried to her dad, but I still think of her as my step-daughter, and she’s mypriority now. Cooking is my only real talent. And if earning a living from itis the only way I can hope to keep the roof over our heads – the house Taviehas lived in all her life and would be devastated to leave – then I need to pushthrough this wobble and just get on with it!
Easing off the handbrake, I motor on along the final stretch.
I’ve cooked for a string of small dinner parties during thethree months since I started my venture. But catering for a house party likethis – in the run up to Christmas, with all the festive touches that entails –is in a different league altogether. I’m so glad I had the good sense to takeon Florence Baxter a month ago, as my assistant. It’s a move I haven’tregretted – even more so with the house party to cater.
Unlike me, Flo is a party animal, out all the time. I thinkit’s a reaction to the fact that she and her husband, Ed, split up six months ago.They’d been together since school days and had two children in quick succession.Both girls are grown up and living in London with families of their own. Andnow, at the age of forty-two, Flo seems hell bent on living the hectic sociallife she missed out on in her twenties. She often looks rough in the mornings,but it never seems to interfere with her work. She’s calm, kind and verypractical. And she can cook, which helps. Plus she can be really funny. She’llkeep me smiling this week, I’m sure…
I take the next speed bump more slowly, glancing anxiouslyat tonight’s dessert under the Perspex dome. It’s a white chocolate roulade; alight meringue, crunchy on the outside, lovely and gooey on the inside, all rolledup with a filling of black cherries and whipped cream. Once safely in Marjery’sbig draughty kitchen, I’ll drizzle it with white chocolate, and shake icingsugar over it before serving.
I pondered for ages over the menu for the first night. Iwanted to make an impression…especially knowing how much of a stickler myclient is for things done precisely and perfectly!
It was Fen, my old school friend, who recommended me to hermum, Marjery, and I’ve been liaising with her over the menus. I’d lost touch withFen, but we met up again when she was a guest at the wedding of a client ofmine last month. Fen loved the food and asked if I’d be interested in acatering job at Brambleberry Manor, and being keen to boost the business, Isaid yes immediately. Much of my work was coming to me via word of mouth, socooking for a larger number of guests than usual might well spread the wordfurther.
Now, I glance at my lovely meringue roulade. I’ve got a lotto prove to Marjery – and to myself – and if anything happens to spoil thatdessert, I will seriously weep. (I considered strapping it in with the carsafety belt but then I thought that even for me, that would be just a littleover-cautious.)
I’m meeting Marjery for just the second time at ten o’clockthis morning. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s a quarter to ten,and I’m hoping to see Fen first and get my dessert stowed carefully out ofharm’s way in one of the big fridges.
I’ve been to the house once before, to chat to Fen about thefood for the event, so I know to park around the back, in the little courtyard.
Getting out of the car, I try to examine my reflection inthe wing mirror, leaning close to check my make-up and studying mycrisply-ironed white shirt once more for smudges. Tavie threw a yogurt spooninto the sink, where I was washing some mugs just before leaving, but I think Imanaged to leap away from the splash in time.
My heart squeezes at the thought of my step-daughter.
Once, we were friends. I came into her life when she waseleven, and I became a bit like a second mum to her. Not that I’d ever dream ofusurping her real mum Vivian’s place in her life. But the easy relationshipbetween Tavie and I vanished after her dad died, and now it’s as if we liveseparate lives. I’ve tried so many times but she refuses to let me in. Herresentment of me runs too deep…
But I can’t afford to dwell on that now. I’ve got a businessappointment to keep.
Round at the front door, I find the doorbell and ring it,hearing the statelyding-dongecho deep inside the building. Waitingthere, I imagine Fen upstairs in her bedroom, having to run along endlesscorridors and all the way down the grand main staircase to get to the frontdoor.
My tight black pencil skirt is rucked up in creases beneathmy caramel-coloured coat, and I try my best to straighten it. In the kitchentonight, Flo and I will be wearing something smart but comfortable – blacktrousers and a plain black top – but for now, meeting Marjery again, I wantedto at leastlooklike a professional caterer! I’m not quite sure I’vemanaged it, though. My ‘snug’ shirt and skirt, and black heels make me feelmore like a secretary in a saucyCarry Onmovie. I just need glasses towhip off. (Oh, Miss Jones!)
