Page 6 of Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall
There was food critic also judging, a pompous git who was Selene’s rival in the world of restaurant reviews. Christa hated his braces and the cravats that he now wore and the way he licked his fingers as he looked at the camera. Ewww. The final judge was a YouTube cook who became famous for cooking in the woods behind his mud-brick house, handmade by him of course.
None of the judges were women, which Christa found surprising when there were many women who were making their mark in the culinary world. But she also knew from her female friends in the industry that it was hard to work in a restaurant and have children. She had wanted children but Simon didn’t, which is why she didn’t have any.
She paid the bill and picked up some homemade lemon curd for sale on the counter.
‘I’ll take one of these,’ she said to the woman serving her.
‘I made it myself,’ said the woman. ‘I had too many lemons this year. I couldn’t give them away – all my friends said they hadn’t used the ones I’d already given them.’
‘You know the saying though,’ said Christa. ‘If you have to buy lemons then you don’t have any good friends. Your friends should know how lucky they are to have you.’
The woman handed the change back to Christa. ‘Oh I like that. I might remind them for the next batch. Have a good day, love.’
Christa hopped into her car and, filled with tea and a fine sandwich, she drove towards York feeling better and her thoughts clearer.
Leaving London was obviously good for her. Perhaps this was what she had needed all along. Some space to think and be open to possibilities. Anything could happen, she told herself as she drove through the countryside.
Simon had moved on, and she needed to as well. She didn’t want what he wanted, perhaps she never had, but he made her path smooth so she didn’t have to worry about food shelters and the heating bill and lining up for supplies on cold winter days.
What she couldn’t understand, she thought as she drove, was why she forgot she could do those things and survive. She was resilient but Simon had made her dependent on him and she hated that she had allowed it to happen. She was once a brave child, a courageous teenager, the best in her class at cooking school, and somehow she had forgotten who she was when around Simon.
The nerves she had felt about driving to the job dissipated because she remembered the one thing her dad always said about her: ‘Christa, you can do hard things. Not everyone can but you can.’ And he was right. He would have hated Simon. She laughed to herself.
She was thankful Simon never met him. He wasn’t Simon’s sort of person, with his rough smoker’s voice and lack of decorum about people whom he called piss-elegant. No more piss-elegant, she told herself. No more hiding behind a man. No more not being herself and saying what she wanted in life. This was the new Christa Playfoot, ready to do hard things.
Feeling empowered, she checked the sat nav directions and realised she hadn’t paid attention and missed the turn-off.
Maybe she could do hard things but reading a map or listening to directions wasn’t one of them, she thought, giggling as she took the next turn-off to get back onto the right path. The journey back to self might take a few wrong turns, she reminded herself but at least she had a sense of where she was going now.
*
The map was sending Christa off the road and onto a gravel driveway. She drove slowly, the large oak trees creating a tunnel of branches, while a light rain began to fall. The address she put into the GPS had told her she was heading into a forest, and as though proving the fact, she saw a large stag standing by the side of the drive. She slowed down so as to not startle the magnificent animal but perhaps she was the one startled, she considered as she caught its eye as she passed. She could have sworn it dipped its head in greeting.
Even with the heater on in the car, she could feel the temperature dropping outside as the sky became darker and the rain heavier as she came to the end of the driveway. In the not so far distance was a house that was beyond anything she had imagined she would be staying in. An enormous palatial building that looked like a wealthy child’s doll’s house had been blown up one hundred per cent and then some more.
‘Are you serious?’ she said to herself as she stopped the car at the top of the driveway to fully take in the view. She expected Mr Darcy to run down the stairs to see if Lizzy had returned home but sadly it was just her and no Mr Darcy was to be seen. The rain turned up its setting to pouring now and a clap of thunder announced her arrival, followed by a bolt of lightning that made the house glow for a brief moment.
She dialled Selene.
‘I’m working at Downton Abbey but on steroids,’ she said as soon as her friend answered. ‘There is a storm and a deer on the side of the road and I’m not sure if I am in some gothic horror film or walking into my own death.’
‘Are you serious? That’s amazing, babe. Take photos, lots of them. I want to see but I have to go right now. I’m heading out to an early event. Text me, yeah?’
Christa drove up to the house and parked next to a large four-wheel drive Bentley. Simon wanted one of those, she remembered, thinking how much he would love the house and it’s grandiosity.Stop thinking about Simon, she told herself. He was gone. He didn’t think about her every minute so why did she think about him? She was so used to conferring with him about everything to make sure he was happy that she forgot to think about herself. No more, she told herself. She closed her eyes for a moment to rebalance her mind. Simon was gone. She was here and never the twain shall meet again.
Opening her eyes, she took in the whole house – well as much as she could with the enormous wings and stairs and columns. There were so many windows.
It was magnificent but Christa wondered who would clean it. So much to Hoover, she thought as she reached for her umbrella in the back seat. She opened the car door as a gust of wind blew so fiercely that the umbrella flew out of her hand and was out of sight in a moment.
Taking her chances, she ran from the car up the many front steps to the front door just as the thunder crashed again. Banging on the door with both hands and then ringing the bell next to it, she shivered as the rain hit her back like a cat o’ nine tails.
Just as she was about to give up and run back to her car, the door opened to reveal a young boy on rollerblades with a hockey stick in his hand.
‘Hey,’ he greeted her in an American accent.
Christa was about to speak when another child appeared, who was identical in every way – including the accoutrements on his feet and in his hand – except he held a small, space-age-looking video camera.
‘Are you the chef?’ he asked, pointing the camera at her.
