Page 18 of Mistletoe and Mystery

None of that was Frankie’s fault. Millie hadn’t blamed her for what had happened, yet it had been the end of their friendship because two weeks later Millie had hightailed it to London and she hadn’t been back to Oxford since.

In that moment, as Zach steered into a parking spot outside the village café, she realised she missed Frankie and her cheerful take on life, that the void in her heart she had thought was Luke-shaped was in fact where Frankie had been. She resolved to pay her a visit as soon as theFestive Feastcookery course had concluded, armed with an abundance of Christmas cheer and goodies.

Why should she allow Luke to take her best friend from her along with everything else he stole on that fateful day in early April? It wouldn’t be easy – nothing worthwhile was ever easy – especially after she had seen on a mutual friend’s Facebook page that Luke and Donna were expecting a baby in January which meant Frankie would have a half-sibling.

She’d had trouble processing that piece of information, and whenever she had tried to give it some thought, her emotions morphed into a haphazard mess. She hadn’t even shared the news with Pippa, but maybe a chat with a friend who had known her inside and out from the age of ten would help her work it through and perhaps at the same time she could return the favour. She had no idea how Frankie felt about having a sibling twenty-five years younger than she was. Not only was it a huge age-gap, but Frankie had always been very close to her mother who had given birth to her at the tender age of seventeen. Millie recalled many occasions when mother and daughter had been mistaken for sisters, much to Donna’s delight and Frankie’s cheerful disgust.

‘Earth to Millie?’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine. Fine. So this is where they make the best hot chocolate, is it?’

‘Yes, come on.’

Millie jumped from the passenger seat and followed Zach towards the quaint little teashop. It was the first time she had seen Berryford in the daylight and the village was Christmas card perfect. Shafts of welcome sunshine wriggled through the clouds highlighting the buildings with a copper-infused radiance, their roofs finished off with a dribble of white icing. Of course, the magnificent Christmas tree had become the focal point of the village green, with the village hall on one side, The Flying Fox pub on the other, and a row of cottages built from the same honeyed stone as Stonelea Manor to their left.

‘It’s so pretty, isn’t it?’ she sighed. ‘The way the snow sits on the branches and along the eaves of the church.’

‘Are my ears deceiving me? Can it be that Amelia Harper, advocate of tropical breeze, palm trees and sun-drenched beaches is presenting to the jury a soliloquy on the positives of the snow-covered English countryside?’

‘Maybe,’ she laughed as she caught her first glimpse of Kate’s Kitchen.

A plethora of twinkling fairy lights laced the bow-fronted windows of the café like a giant’s necklace and the jolly beat ofI Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Dayspilled out into the street. It was impossible to see inside as an opaque sheet of condensation masked the windows, with streamers of water running down to the sill. When Zach pushed opened the door, the tinkle of the brass bell made her smile which turned into a full-on beam when she saw who was rushing forward to greet her.

‘Millie, darling! You came!’

‘Hello, Blake. I’m reliably informed that you make the best hot chocolate in the whole of the county, so no pressure.’

‘Your sources are as immaculate as your taste in companions,’ Blake smirked, sending Zach a mischievous wink. ‘Grab a seat and I’ll be right over.’

Millie chose a table next to the window, peeled off her borrowed wax jacket and took a moment to glance around the room. Kate’s Kitchen was like any traditional café you’d stumble across in many of the villages peppered around the Cotswolds. She knew a few enterprising owners had traded up to become chic bistros, offering a diverse range of organic, locally-sourced menus; pheasant, rabbit, goose accompanied by fresh asparagus and samphire and home-made ginger and melon ice cream.

However, it was apparent that the eponymous Kate had chosen not to follow this dash into the “Elite Culinary Club” to satisfy her customers. The interior presented a neat synopsis of village life; warm, welcoming and relaxed. Every corner had been decorated with handmade wreaths of holly and ivy jostling for space against their more brazen cousins – wire rings woven with neon-coloured tinsel and baubles. The whole ensemble was presided over by a Christmas tree that would not have looked out of place in Barbie’s weekend castle.

Who knew you could evenbuycerise-pink tinsel Christmas trees?

Animated chatter swirled around the room on the wings of the most delicious fragrance of warm spices mingled with vanilla and honey and the strange addition of a top-note of chlorine. She glanced at the young couple sitting at the lemon gingham-covered table next them, ploughing their way through a sharing platter crammed with doorstopper sandwiches, triangles of home-baked corned-beef-and-potato pie, and a short pyramid of well-risen cheese scones. On a rosebud-painted china cake-stand were slabs of cake and a selection of miniature jam doughnuts.

Millie thought of the afternoon tea they served at Étienne’s; thinly sliced cucumber or smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches, melt-in-your-mouth fruit scones with lashings of Chantilly cream and homemade raspberry jam, and a selection of dainty patisseries to round off the treat, all beautifully presented on Etiènne’s signature gold-rimmed Royal Doulton china. It would look like a doll’s tea party compared to this hearty fayre. She hoped that Blake wasn’t thinking of bringing them one to sample. She didn’t think her stomach could cope after the over-indulgence of breakfast.

‘Oh, don’t mind them,’ Blake scoffed, catching her staring at her neighbours and misinterpreting her frown as one of disapproval for their canoodling. With a flourish worthy of a music maestro, he deposited two tall mugs, topped with swirls of cream and crowned with flakes of chocolate, on the table in front of them. ‘Grant and Martha got together at the tree-lighting party last night and they’re already acting like the new Romeo and Juliet. Ooops, forgive me, I forgot to bring your cake!’

Blake rushed back to the counter, his gingham apron flapping at his waist, and carefully carried two rosebud china places back to their table as though they were the crown jewels.

‘Voilà!’

‘What exactlyisthis?’ asked Millie, wrinkling her nose as she eyed the slab of treacle-laced cake. She could almost feel her arteries contracting in horror as she contemplated a taste-test. Up close, the cake looked more like something she would use to build a barbeque than enjoy as an afternoon treat.

‘Try it.’

Millie broke off a corner and was surprised at how heavy and dense it was. Give her a glazed fruit tart or a raspberry and vanilla crème mille-feuille and she’d been the happiest pastry chef in the Cotswolds. She had never been a fan of lard-based pastry, or of heavy suet puddings, or jam donuts either.

‘Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but my customers need me! Enjoy!’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Zach, noticing her hesitation and a glint of familiar mischief appearing in his mahogany eyes. ‘Ah, is Kate’s baking not up to your Parisian Patisserie School standards?’

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