Christmas at the Dancing Duck Read online

  She knew she had to do something about it, as Olivia had advised. So, as professional therapy currently wasn’t an option, the only advice she knew of was to grab the bull by the horns and face her fears head on. She would submerge herself in a bouquet garni of spicy Christmas smells and hopefully she would be able to handle the situation better when Saturday rolled around.

  It was a tough ask. There were five baking competitions, each one selected to provide one of the courses of St John’s Parish Church Christmas Day Lunch the day after the judging had taken place. There was the mini quiche/tartlet competition, which would provide the starters, and the apple pie competition for the desserts, which would be served with lashings of Sandra’s hot custard or home-made vanilla ice cream. Then there was the mince pie competition, which could be prepared in advance at home but had to be decorated on the day.

  The fourth competition was the hand-made chocolates section, which she knew was going to be the most fun, especially at the children’s table. She had spent an enjoyable hour already with Rachel, emptying out the various toppings for the chocolates into plastic cups.

  And finally, there was the gingerbread house designing. This was the one she was least looking forward to because it was the unique smell of ginger that dragged her thoughts back to her grandmother’s kitchen. She and Olivia would stand on a tiny wooden stool between their mother and grandmother, stirring the bowls, licking the spoons, and helping to roll out the gingerbread before indulging in an afternoon of creativity. She always chose to make a bejewelled palace or crenelated castle fit for a princess. Olivia had favoured a stables design, testament to her love of all things equine, but it was so weighted down by Smarties and jelly tots that it looked more akin to a home for Barbie’s unicorn.

  She skipped down the front steps of the pub and glanced across the village green to the hall next to St John’s Church. The Christmas Day celebrations would be fabulous, especially once the long tables had been decorated with the wreaths and the home-made crackers they had made on the craft day. She was about to push open the bakery door, longing to hear the familiar tinkle of the brass bell that warned Tony Butterworth that a customer had arrived, when a familiar BMW drew to a halt at the roadside next to her.

  ‘Hey, Kirstie. How are you today?’ asked Miles, his handsome, tanned face creased into a smile.

  ‘Hi, Miles. I didn’t expect to see you down here on a Monday morning. I thought you worked in the City.’

  ‘Had to attend a meeting at the planning office in Winchester at nine, so I stayed over at the cottage last night. There are still a few niggles to iron out but everything seems to be on track for exchange of contracts by the end of December and completion the first week in January.’

  ‘Oh, erm, yes, good.’

  ‘Look, if you’ve got nothing else planned, why don’t I take you to lunch? I skipped breakfast so I’m ravenous and there’s this fabulous little place that I know you’ll just love. Hop in.’

  Kirstie hesitated for a split second. Her conversation with Olivia reverberated round her brain, advising her to make her peace with Josh. They had reconnected with each other during the Christmas tree deliveries the day before and she knew that spending time with Miles would destroy that progress. But, on the other hand, once the Dancing Duck was sold and she went back to London, who knew where Josh would be. They weren’t a couple so how could he object to her having lunch with someone?

  Another quick look at Miles and her head told her that he was extraordinarily attractive and she’d be a fool to turn him down. With his pink shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing a smattering of golden hairs, a pair of Police sunglasses hooked on the front of his shirt, it could be summer in Cannes for the way he was dressed, not a fresh December morning in Hampshire. She wouldn’t bet against the effect his suave, confident appearance and smooth line in persuasion would have had on the planning officer. Then a thought occurred to her that she knew with absolutely certainty was right. The officer in charge of his application was a woman.

  She rolled her eyes and tweaked the corners of her lips before jumping into the passenger seat. The fragrance of warm leather and wood spice infused the air in the car and she relaxed into her seat as Miles drove swiftly to their destination. She had no idea where he was taking her but she intended to enjoy the ride.

  ‘Okay, Sleepy Head, wake up. We’re here.’

  Kirstie bolted upright, reaching up to rub her neck where the seat belt had cut into the skin. Oh, God! She had fallen asleep. Heat flooded her body and shot into her cheeks. Had she been snoring? Was there dribble leaking from the corner of her lips?

  ‘Oh, God, Miles! You should have woken me!’

  ‘Why? You looked so angelic, how could I interrupt such blissful repose?’

  Kirstie checked her watch and saw she had been asleep for well over an hour and groaned. She had worked so hard over the previous two days, no wonder she had been lulled into slumber in Miles’s luxurious car. She glanced through the windscreen and a spasm of shock reared up and hit her square in the chest.

  ‘What … where … why are we …?’

  ‘I thought you would enjoy a trip back up to civilization,’ Miles said as he parked his car down a narrow side street outside a tiny trattoria in Wimbledon.

  ‘But.’ Kirstie glanced down at her battered Barbour jacket and scruffy jeans. ‘Leon is expecting me back with a dozen baguettes.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll manage.’ Miles smirked, striding round to open her door and helping her out of the passenger seat. ‘This is my favourite place to eat lunch. You’re going to love it. Come on.’

  She was so surprised at the unexpected the turn of events that her brain felt like a sodden sponge as she tried to catch up. She allowed Miles to steer her into the restaurant and watched mutely whilst he greeted the manager like a long-lost brother. Thankfully the room was almost deserted, with only two other couples sharing pizza and intimate conversation while strains of Italian opera played in the background. The pungent aroma of garlic and red wine sauce rippled through the air and her stomach gave an embarrassingly loud groan.

  ‘You have to try the tortellini,’ suggested Miles as he studied the menu. ‘Paulo swears the truffle sauce is a secret recipe invented by his great-grandfather who opened one of the first trattorias in their area of Palermo.’

  ‘Miles, this is very kind of you, but are you …’

  ‘Excuse me? Are you Kirstie Harrison, from Kirstie’s Kitchen?’ asked the waitress as she arrived to take their orders.

  Kirstie glanced at the young, dark-haired girl whose accent and features screamed her Italian heritage while her chocolate brown eyes were busy combing Kirstie’s face.

  ‘I am, yes. That’s me.’

  ‘Oh, I absolutely adore your show. I watch it every night when I get in from work to get ideas what to cook for me and my brother for dinner. I was devastated when they announced you were being replaced with that Flora woman.’

  ‘Oh, erm …’

  ‘I mean that microphone mishap was hardly your fault, was it? It should have been the sound guy who got canned. So you don’t like Christmas food. What’s the crime? It’s actually my favourite time of the year, but we can’t all like the same things, can we? Don’t tell Uncle Paulo but I happen to hate fish, and seafood, but I adore desserts.’

  ‘Yes, I …’ Kirstie couldn’t get a word in edgeways and Miles was clearly trying hard not to laugh, but had no intention of cutting the waitress off in full flow.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I think the new presenter is slapdash and wooden. Have you seen her?’

  ‘I haven’t actually had time to …’

  ‘Well, of course you have, so you’ll know what I’m talking about. Did you see the way she totally embarrassed Marco Guilliano when she asked him about his family’s ristorante in Milan? If she had even bothered to do a bit of research beforehand she would have known that Marco’s father lost the place in a bet two months ago. I’m surprised he didn’t
take out a contract on her there and then for raking up his embarrassing family history on national television. When did you say you were back? Please tell me it’s soon? Please.’

  Kirstie smiled. She was used to people talking to her as though she were an old friend. It was lovely. She totally understood that every weekday morning she was allowed into viewers’ homes to deliver a presentation on the most delicious food the country had to offer, prepared by the most accomplished of chefs.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m prattling away and you just want to get on with your date. If you need anything just let me know. I’m Marissa, by the way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Marissa,’ said Kirstie as the waitress skipped back to the kitchen to relay their conversation to her colleagues.

  ‘Little did I know that I was taking you to meet your Number One Fan.’ Miles laughed, sipping his glass of Pellegrino before digging in to the olives Marissa had left on their table. ‘Did I hear you say that you haven’t compared notes on your replacement?’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t bear to watch in case she was fabulous. I know Emma and Rachel will have scrutinized every mannerism and affectation but they haven’t said anything to me. Not sure whether that’s a good sign or not.’

  ‘When are you due back at the studio?’

  ‘I have a meeting with my producer next week to talk about ideas for the new year shows that will focus on healthy eating and lifestyle changes. I should be doing the research, but believe it or not, I’ve been so busy since I got back to Cranbury, what with the Christmas Craft Contest and Christmas tree deliveries. But I intend to knuckle down this week, otherwise perhaps Brad will decide to offer Flora a permanent spot.’

  ‘Flora’s Kitchen doesn’t have the same ring to it, though.’

  ‘True.’ Kirstie smiled gratefully at Miles as she finished off her avocado salad. ‘So, tell me about your family? Are your parents lawyers too?’

  ‘Dad is. He has his own practice in Hong Kong. I grew up there with my sister, Eloise. Mum loves it and rarely comes back to London where she says it’s gloomy and grimy and grey. Eloise agrees, but I wanted to come to university here. I did my law degree at UCL and stayed on to do my Legal Practice Course at Guildford, then completed my training at Gordon & May. When I qualified, they offered me a post as an associate until I got the opportunity to head up my own department.’

  ‘And do you own any other properties?’

  ‘Dad owns a house in Pimlico that he rents out, and of course there’s the cottage in Maltby, but this is our first venture into the acquisition of business premises. Tell me about your career ambitions. Do you eventually want your own show?’

  They chatted about their hopes and dreams for the future. Miles was such easy company and she was enjoying the relaxing ambience of the little trattoria. She felt as though she had resumed her usual London life and nothing had happened to send her scuttling back to Cranbury, that the events of the last week were disconnected from reality, part of a film she had fallen asleep watching. The nightmare had been an intermission and she had just woken up to find out the ending.

  Would it be a happy ever after? She didn’t see how it could be. So many of the people she loved would be devastated by the outcome. Whilst she knew her sister would appreciate the release from the stress and responsibility, and her share of the sale proceeds would enable her and Harry to live comfortably on Harry’s salary for the next couple of years, she knew it would still be a terrible wrench to leave the heart of the community.

  And she knew Leon would walk into another chef’s position, maybe in England, but more likely in France. But what about Emma? Her fledgling jewellery business was blossoming but she still needed to supplement her income with her bar work until her orders increased. Would Miles offer to give her her job back when the Dancing Duck had been renovated? How would Emma manage in the meantime? And what about the other bar staff Olivia and Harry employed who relied on the income?

  Then there was Josh. He too would be out of a job. She couldn’t see him working for the new owner whom he so patently disliked. She found that thinking of Josh and the imminent reshuffle of his life – once again due to her actions – upset her more than she expected.

  Marissa removed their empty plates and Paulo set down their bowls of steaming pasta with a flourish. After they had assured him that they had everything they wanted, Kirstie tasted the famous sauce.

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘I’m glad you approve.’

  ‘Miles?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know when we had dinner at Craiglea Hall you said you preferred not to discuss your ideas for the Dancing Duck, but can you tell me whether you intend to keep on any of the staff?’

  ‘Kirstie, I’m sorry. Please don’t think I’m being difficult, but until contracts are exchanged I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about the future of the pub.’ Miles concentrated on his pasta to avoid looking her in the eye.

  At that precise moment she knew with absolute certainty that once the sale went through it wouldn’t only be the building that was gutted. A wave of melancholy washed over her and she suddenly didn’t want to finish her meal.

  ‘Desserts, desserts,’ sang Marissa. ‘The best part of every meal. Let me know what you think? Alfredo makes amazing cannoli stuffed with ricotta and pistachios.’

  It was true, the dessert was delicious but the culinary delights of Italy were lost on Kirstie as unease and disloyalty stole through her veins. Whilst she could have no control over what any new owner did to the pub once they had their name on the deeds, she was filled with regret that things hadn’t turned out better.

  Was what Josh had said true? If she had spent more time helping Olivia, could they have saved the pub? Or was she wrong to be upset? Maybe Cranbury would rejoice over the fresh injection of cash and ideas into their local hostelry. Would Miles’s ownership breathe new life, not only into the Dancing Duck, but into the whole community as well? If he revamped the building, surely that would bring in a new clientele – drinkers and diners – which in turn would mean more custom for the village at the weekends, increasing the footfall in the local shops: the butchers, the flower shop, the Butterworths’ bakery? Selling the Dancing Duck to Miles could actually turn out to be the best thing to have happened to Cranbury’s residents since her parents bought it thirty years ago.

  Feeling better, Kirstie finished the last morsel of her cannoli and leaned back in her chair rubbing her stomach. Miles indicated to Marissa that they would like coffee, leaned over the linen-bedecked table, and took hold of Kirstie’s hand.

  ‘Kirstie, please believe me, it’s nothing personal – just a business requirement.’

  Kirstie nodded, her heart performing a small lurch as she looked into his baby blue eyes.

  ‘Come on. I’ll drive you home. I’m sure your friends will be starting to think you’ve been kidnapped. I’ve enjoyed our lunch. Thank you for agreeing to come with me.’

  ‘I’ve had fun too. The food was amazing.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to have dinner with me when you come back up to London next week? Or what about a night at the theatre? There’s a play I’d like to see.’

  A fully formed image of herself sitting at Miles’s side in the Grand Circle, dressed in her favourite cocktail dress, popped into her brain and another flutter of excitement erupted in her chest. She wished she had met Miles under different circumstances, before she had been thrust into Josh’s path once more. Olivia was right. She needed to talk to Josh to bury the skeletons of the past once and for all. Only then would she be able to move on with a clear head and heart. And there was no one she’d like to do that with more than Miles Morgan.

  ‘Have you thought any more about my invitation to take you to the Law Society dinner?’

  ‘I have, and yes, I’d love to go to the dinner with you. Thanks for asking me and I promise to wear something a bit more elegant than an old pair of jeans and my sister’s dog-walking coat.’

&nbs
p; ‘I’m certain you will look fabulous in whatever you decide to wear.’ Miles smiled, standing up and slipping his hand in hers to pull her to her feet. ‘Come on.’

  He strode towards the door, pausing beneath the red, white, and green canopy to help her shrug into her jacket. She gazed into his eyes, savouring the delicate fragrance of his cologne. She had no idea how it happened, but she reached up on her tiptoes and deposited a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Miles. It’s been a wonderful lunch.’

  ‘You are welcome.’

  Kirstie appreciated the pleasure she saw scrawled across his face as he walked her back to his BMW and drove them at speed back to Cranbury. She waved him off with a smile, but when she closed the door of the flat above the Dancing Duck, she felt as though the whole episode had been a dream.

  Chapter 17

  ‘So, where did you disappear to this morning?’ demanded Emma. ‘I saw you sneaking back upstairs half an hour ago. Leon’s been chuntering all day about not getting his baguettes. I had to go down to the bakery myself before he spontaneously combusted. And imagine my surprise when Mr Butterworth said he hadn’t seen you all day.’

  Kirstie couldn’t prevent a wide smile from bursting onto her face.

  ‘Ah, someone looks like she just got the cream! Did you and Josh go out for lunch?’

  ‘Not Josh, no.’

  ‘Who then? Ahh.’ Kirstie was disappointed to witness the abrupt change in Emma’s demeanour. Emma didn’t know anything about Miles so how could she judge him? ‘Miles Morgan.’

  ‘Yes. Miles. He took me out for a lovely lunch.’