Snow Angels, Secrets and Christmas Cake (14 page)

I watched as Sam gently pasted some cupcakes with syrup. It was quite therapeutic to see those thirsty cakes quenched with warm syrup and I was hoping she’d frost some so I could watch that too – then lick the spoon. I was hurting inside but found this whole process quite comforting.

She looked up from what she was doing. ‘Do you remember Nan baking?’ she asked.

I nodded. It was only the times spent at Nan’s that were truly happy as a child.

‘The house was always warm and smelled of food cooking,’ I sighed, salivating at the thought. Perhaps it was these times I needed to think about when I considered the past – when we stayed at Nan’s and she read us stories and fed us cake. I’d spent a fortune in therapy over the years, but the way to deal with the past was to embrace the Christmases on Hyacinth St when Granddad brought home mistletoe insisting Nan kiss him underneath it. ‘You silly old sod,’ she’d say, faking reluctance when he tried to claim his kiss. Nan and Granddad’s tree was always a real one. I could smell the pine and feel the prickly dark green fronds.

‘I always thought it was just luck that we were there on the day the tree was decorated but looking back they must have planned it that way.' I remembered once, before Sam was born, being discovered alone at home by a neighbour. She must have called Nan and Granddad, who came to collect me. They had no car and walked through the wintry streets in the middle of the night, and the following morning when I woke up in their cosy home I ran downstairs and found a Christmas tree leaning against the wall. Granddad must have gone out first thing to get it before I woke.

Once, another Christmas time, we arrived late to my grandparents after my parents had been rowing. A policeman took us in the car and when we got there, Sam, who was about five years old, saw the tree waiting to be dressed. She asked granddad if we could decorate it and I kept telling her we couldn’t because it was almost midnight. But Granddad said, ‘Oh it’s better after midnight – the fairies come out to help.’ He brought in the box of decorations, the old paper chains, the cracked old baubles, all breathtakingly beautiful to us. We gasped at the glass owl, the little wooden rocking horse, the favourite and familiar blue Cinderella slipper – while Nan made hot chocolate. Later, she came in with a box of Quality Street sweets she said she’d found in the back of the cupboard. Now I realise she probably had those chocolates there for a reason – for a night like this when we’d be rescued from our parents. Once Granddad had worked out which light was broken in the string of multi-coloured fairy lights, Nan put the plug in the wall and Sam whispered ‘fairies’. The lights and the baubles twinkled and we ooed and aahed and Sam said she could hear the bells on Santa’s sleigh.

I had spent thousands of pounds and as many hours planning and decorating my own Christmas trees since, from traditional red and green, to post-modern purple. But do you know what? They never captured the essence and beauty of Christmas the way Nan and Granddad’s tree did that night.

I was suddenly dragged into the present by Sam, who was now whipping up frosting.

‘I’m going for cranberry,’ she said. ‘The cake’s sweet, so the cranberries should be a good balance.’

She split the frosting into two bowls and handed me one with a palette knife.

‘What?’

‘Frost some cakes,’ she smiled. ‘If you’re going to hang around here you might as well make yourself useful.’

I smiled, took the palette knife and began to work on smoothing the buttercream onto the sponge cakes.

‘And no licking the spoon,’ she said. Here in the kitchen Sam was the boss, she was ‘the big sister’ for once and surprisingly I didn’t mind her telling me what to do. I didn’t have to think or worry or take on any responsibility for anyone else. It was like taking a holiday away from myself – and despite all my worries, I liked the freedom.

‘You are clever,’ I smiled. ‘I wish I had a skill like you do, especially now. I could help more with the business.’

‘You say you have no skills but you do. You have an eye for design and you’re a great PR person, you can put people at their ease, chat along and make them feel good about themselves. In that way, you can do so much more than me.’

She was being kind. ‘I suppose I have a modicum of what you might call “people skills”,’ I sighed. ‘Yes I can design interiors, come up with a table-scape when I have to. In the past few years I’ve been involved in some quite unique “events” – but it’s not about skill, it’s all done with a cheque book.’

‘It’s not just about the money. You’ve said it yourself, money can’t buy taste,’ she said pointedly, a reminder of how judgemental I’d been in my designer-clad ivory tower. ‘I feel so bad, Tamsin... you’ve always been there for me, helped me through such bad times – I wish there was a way I could help you.’

‘Sweetie, Simon and I owe thousands, not to mention the cost of potential divorce proceedings when we will be funding the lawyer’s villa in St Tropez. You couldn’t possibly help me... I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.’

‘Well you do. Ungrateful, pompous, rude and patronising... to be precise,’ she sighed.

‘But I deliver it all with great style and class,’ I smiled.

‘Tamsin making fun of herself... that’s new and different?’ she was shaking her head and smiling and the radio was playing ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, while we sang along, frosting cranberry cupcakes. And it felt just a little bit like Christmas.

A
couple
of days later I woke at five a.m. to freezing conditions. I had baking to do for the day, so once dressed, rushed straight downstairs to turn the ovens on. Despite a jumper and woolly leggings, I also had a blanket around me to try and keep warm, it was always so cold first thing and I couldn’t afford to leave the heating on all night. I boiled the kettle for tea and waited for the ovens to heat up when I heard something at the door. I went to answer it, but by the time I’d unlocked and unbolted everything, all I felt was a blast of cold, snowy silence when I opened the door. I popped my head outside and looked both ways but couldn’t see anyone.

Thinking I must have imagined it, I turned round and closed the door quickly, trying to keep the heat in, when I noticed a brown envelope on the floor. Intrigued, I picked it up and when I opened it discovered a gorgeous watercolour of the bakery. It was so pretty and delicate, it almost sparkled, the fairy lights twinkled and each little cupcake was painted in beautiful pastels.

I knew it was a gift from Richard, I had no idea he was so talented... but what touched me most was the love and time that had clearly gone into such a beautiful, detailed picture.

He’d taken so much care in creating this, and tears sprung to my eyes just thinking about the way things had been, and the way I’d dismissed him. It was selfish, I’d been thinking only about me. I held the watercolour to my chest, my eyes stung – what had I done?

T
amsin kindly took
Jacob to school that day so I didn’t have to bump into Richard. It was still raw, I’d been tired and tearful the previous couple of days and I didn’t want to see him and make a fool of myself, I needed time to think.

‘He asked if you were okay,’ she said when she got back. She looked under her mascara lashes at me, pretending to feign indifference.

‘Well, I finished it. He’s made it quite clear he’s not going to hang around – so don’t go reading too much significance into his enquiry.’

I changed the subject and asked about Simon, which soon shut her up. I hadn’t heard any more rumours about him ‘running off’ with another woman, so assumed Phaedra’s comment in the restaurant was just a repeated rumour, but I did wonder.

‘I don’t even want to say that arsehole’s name,’ she snapped.

‘Wow – listen to her with her Chantray Lane mouth,’ I mocked. ‘I don’t think Anouska would approve.’

‘She can shove it up ’er arse as well,’ Tamsin hissed. We both looked at each other and laughed, the working class Mancunian never far from the Yves Saint Lauren surface.

The door jingled and some rather well-heeled customers came in and Tamsin’s demeanour changed instantly. From suggesting someone ‘shove’ something up their arse, she manoeuvred seamlessly into ‘Good morning ladies, how “lavely” to see you. Now what can we tempt you with? Do please try a soupcon of our divine gingerbread...’ I watched in awe at her amazing ability to put negative thoughts away in boxes and forget about them, almost instantly. I could see the ‘ladies who lunch’ were completely transfixed, and she talked their language. It reminded me of the way Richard had enticed the yummy mummies that day he’d served coffee. At the thought of Richard my stomach turned over, I felt guilty about the way I’d treated him... and I was missing him. I was missing him so much I had a deep, permanent ache in my stomach that intensified when I thought about him. I had never expected to feel like that again and seeing the beautiful watercolour he’d painted so lovingly had made it even worse. But I was soon dragged away from thoughts of Richard with Tamsin’s news.

‘I finally got a text from Anouska last night, she seems fine and made me feel so much better about everything,’ Tamsin announced after selling a huge amount of gingerbread and cupcakes to the ladies and taking several big Christmas orders from them. She was smiling, and leaning against the counter.

My stomach lurched. I’d never trusted Anouska and the fact she only texted and never called kind of confirmed that for me. I was convinced she’d simply been pumping Tamsin for information about her money and her marriage to take back to the other ‘Real Housewives of Chantray Lane.’

I didn’t want to spoil Tamsin’s happiness. Anouska might be a good friend, but I’d seen the way she looked at Simon when we were last at one of Tamsin’s candlelit suppers – and it had irritated me. So I kept quiet and just agreed that it was great they were back in touch.

The following morning Tamsin appeared in the bakery at seven a.m. in top to toe glowing in midnight blue Gucci. This was her first day delivering with Gabe and she had that old spring in her step.

‘Looking good. You’re back girlfriend,’ I said, offering up my hand in a high five.

She waggled her arm a bit, not sure quite what to do and giggled like a schoolgirl.

‘Don’t leave her hanging,’ Gabe laughed. He and I had filled the van and he was waiting, arms folded, by the door, like her driver (it might have been quicker if Tamsin had helped us load, but – baby steps). I noticed a look pass between them and wondered if my sister’s new-found glow had something to do with Gabe’s presence.

Tamsin disappeared to put her lipstick on and I followed Gabe outside into the early morning white-out.

‘I’m so grateful for this, Gabe,’ I said, leaning on the back of his truck. ‘I’ll pay you once we get... sorted.’ He was rolling another fag and waiting for Tamsin.

‘I don’t mind at all, Sam, I don’t want the petrol money, I’m doin it for Tammy... about time someone treated her right.’

I saw the look in his eyes as he pulled on his cigarette; there was something almost mystical about Gabe. Tamsin said he’d arrived in the snow like an angel (which was a bit of theatrical licence because he’d been hanging around since late Autumn) and she was right – he had that faraway look and I wondered if he actually had genuine feelings for Tamsin and wasn’t quite the player we all thought he was.

W
ith deliveries
now back on thanks to Tamsin and Gabe, I was feeling much more positive about the The White Angel Bakery’s future. Tamsin was so on board with everything and despite being irritating and in my face at times, I really appreciated all her help and decided to show her my appreciation the only way I could.

‘So I have been thinking about... the bakery, and your situation – and Christmas and I just wonder if the answer is in front of us,’ I said, when she returned from deliveries later that day.

She gave a puzzled look. ‘The mere mention of Christmas sends a jolt of spiky tinsel through my veins Sam,’ she sighed. ‘I had planned so much, booked caterers, venues, guests. Now it’s all cancelled, and most of the time I can cope, but there are moments when I am overwhelmed by it all and just can’t face what has happened to me.’

‘I know – and I just think that you deserve more, you deserve a purpose and a future and we should embrace the fact we’ve been thrown together in adversity. Why don’t you come into the business with me... we can be partners. What do you think?’

I thought Tamsin was going to cry. Her eyes filled up and she hugged me so tight it almost hurt.

‘Sam I would love that.’

‘Okay, let’s shake on it. But I think we need to talk about parameters,’ I said, giving her a look.

She nodded eagerly, like a little girl who’d just been told if she was good Santa would come.

‘I am the boss in the kitchen... but I just think your talents for organising and PR will be invaluable – oh but you still have to do deliveries indefinitely,’ I added, before she got carried away and started employing staff.

‘Yes of course,’ her eyes were twinkling. ‘I adore being here and helping out and I’d love to think that I could keep doing that. The bakery is a sanctuary to me... but Sam, how can I be a partner? I have no money.’

‘You don’t need money to join me in the family business - you’re family,’ I said. Now get the kettle on – you’re also the tea girl.

T
he deliveries went well
with Gabe, he drove safely, (only touched my knee once, and sadly I think that was unintentional) and we were back at the bakery by eleven. I have to admit I was a tad disappointed when he pulled up outside and just said he’d see me same time tomorrow. As I climbed out of the truck and waved coquettishly, he set off into the whiteness and my heart flopped a little into the snow.

The last time we’d been alone together he’d pushed me face down into designer cushions and given me a questionable but skilled and delicious massage. Now it was like we were back to the beginning, he being polite almost monosyllabic and me being vaguely in charge and keeping my silk pants on throughout.

‘Did he try anything on?’ Sam asked as soon as I walked in. We knew what a tart he was and I was almost embarrassed to admit he didn’t.

‘What’s wrong with me, Sam? He’s had every desperate housewife in Cheshire – rumour has it he even had Mrs Robinson who teaches Jacob – and let’s face it, she’s no porn star.’

Sam just laughed. ‘I think you should give it time. Perhaps he thinks you’re better than a quick one up against the trellis?’

‘Oh I do hope not,’ I laughed. ‘I was looking forward to that trellis.’ I surprised myself these days, I was becoming quite vulgar, but Sam thought I was hilarious.

L
ater that day
I asked Mrs J if she fancied a last hurrah at the house. ‘There’s still some stuff to take and we can dust all the furniture while we’re there and Heddon and Hall said they’d come and collect it later,’ I explained.

Mrs J was up for it. She said she’d had enough cupcakes to last a lifetime and longed to clean something that wasn’t covered in jam or lubricants. I think she was referring to cooking oil, but I didn’t ask just in case – who knew what Mrs J had seen on her cleaning journey through the bedrooms of the chattering classes of Cheshire?

Sam gave me the afternoon off and we grabbed a lift off ‘our Lawrence’, who didn’t say one word as he drove us the ten minutes to my old place. He didn’t even say hello or goodbye, he didn’t need to, his wife spoke for both of them, and ended every sentence with ‘didn’t you, Lawrence?’ I sat in the back and wondered if he was dead and she’d just propped him up against the steering wheel, his foot resting on the accelerator. Mrs J would never have noticed his lack of response and just continued to talk until we got there.

Once inside my old home, I stood in the hall, waiting for homesickness to fall over me like a veil. I’d felt so unmoved last time I visited, but I was numb then from everything that had happened - surely this time I would feel something? I gazed at my lovely film star stairs, ran my hands along the perfect Farrow and Ball-painted walls and waited. Nothing. I still felt nothing. It was a very beautiful house but it didn’t fill me with longing as I imagined it would. The pale grey ‘Elephant’s Breath’ walls weren’t as stunning as I’d remembered. They whispered to me of a time in my life when I was very unhappy and very alone.

I turned to the Christmas tree, still here, dressed in white, waiting like Miss Havisham for her groom to arrive. I breathed in the scent of pine forests, hoping for that Christmas hit. I waited, I looked – I breathed in only sadness for what might have been.

Wandering through the empty rooms, I tried to dig deep and find some good times... they were in here somewhere, weren’t they? I wasn’t unhappy all the time. I thought of the parties in the big room, family birthdays at the kitchen table, cosy, suppers straight from the Aga. Then I remembered one of the parties – it was Christmas and Simon had come home late, I was stressed, the caterers had let me down and so had my hair. I looked and felt dreadful with a cold and while everyone laughed and drank and glittered around me I just sneezed and wanted to go to bed. Simon had been vile to me and I had no idea why – I don’t remember much about that party except the fact that no one could find Simon when I fainted.

But yes there were some great times in this family kitchen, I thought, walking through my bespoke clotted cream nirvana. The children were small when we’d moved here so there had been lots of birthdays, some parties on the lawn with balloons and a children’s entertainer. Then Mrs J would make pizzas and we’d have amazing birthday cakes shaped like castles, tanks and fairy tale princesses. But as hard as I tried to recollect, I couldn’t remember one of the kids’ parties where Simon had been present.

And those cosy kitchen suppers I’d seen in middle class homes on TV that I’d try to recreate? Simon would turn up late from work, say he’d already eaten and there’d be a row about it. He’d end up storming off to bed and I’d sit on my own, playing with a seafood linguine and finishing off the wine.

I realised then – Simon had left me long before that night. Our marriage had broken up years before and I had just been too busy worrying about interior colour schemes and the latest handbag to notice... or perhaps that was why I obsessed about those things? Because there was nothing else.

I made a cup of tea for me and Mrs J. I saw Mimi’s picture glow on my phone for the third time that afternoon. When would she get the message that however low I was in the Real Housewife hierarchy, I could never be friends with a lucky lap dancer. I turned my phone off, but as I poured boiling water on the tea bags, I thought about how awful it must have been for Mimi never to be accepted into Chantray Lane. I was getting a taste of that now and it was so horrible I wondered how I could continue to do the same to Mimi... yet at the back of my mind I wondered if I could trust her. Had Anouska and Phaedra finally accepted Mimi and asked her to find out what was happening with me? I couldn’t believe that my old friends didn’t want to know what I was doing, how I was feeling, even if only to discuss with everyone else.

That day at the house, I’d felt nothing – but I went back to the bakery and I felt arms around me.

From the moment I walked into the little shop, it felt like a cosy sanctuary from the big cold world. It made me realise I had to stop haunting my old house like a ghost returning to the empty rooms, re-living the past. It was time to let it go.

‘This is our future now,’ Sam had said. ‘We can make all our dreams come true in this place of bricks and mortar... and love and cake.’

I was touched, this had been my sister’s dream and now she was sharing it all with me, and for the first time in my life I felt like I belonged.

By asking me to be her partner in the bakery Sam had given me a future and I was determined to embrace it and forget about the past. My kids had flown the nest (along with my husband) and though I had very little, I was actually happy in the present, and I wasn’t sure I ever had been before. I wasn’t lusting after the latest season’s clothes, the newest kitchen gadget, the most fabulous holiday. I just enjoyed helping Sam, I loved the warm scent of cinnamon, vanilla and contentment that permeated the air around me - and for the first time in a long time I felt useful. Spending time with Gabe was good for my soul too and in his own way he made me feel desired. The awkwardness of the first few deliveries had settled into something more flirty and each morning I’d climb in his cab and he’d tell me I was hot and I’d say it was my age and we’d laugh. I loved to watch him lifting the huge trays of cakes with ease and waltzing to the door or entrance and imagine what it would be like to sleep with him. Sam said I should be more upfront, but I didn’t consider it ladylike to proposition him to a quick one in a truck full of festive patisserie. So we just continued to tease each other and flirt and I would glance discreetly at his denim thighs as he drove, but despite us having great fun and a frisson fizzling between us, he never once leaped on me or suggested we do anything inappropriate in his truck. To my deep disappointment.