Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin: A heart-warming and feel-good read

‘He’s called Jed Turner. Incredibly sexy voice. Invited me for Christmas.’

Erin’s eyes open wide.

‘Except it wasn’t me he was inviting to share his hot tub. It was Clemmy. He thinks he left the message on her phone so I need to let him know.’

‘Oh.’ Erin peers at me curiously. ‘I hope you did the “last-number redial” thing?’

‘Course I did. I’m not stupid. I put it in the pocket of my jeans and … oh bugger, they’re probably in the wash!’

Laughing at my panic, Erin hurries off into the cold night while I charge upstairs to investigate the jeans situation. Luckily, they’re in the wash-basket and the phone number is still in the pocket. Carefully, I deposit the slip of paper in my bedside table for safety then go down to the kitchen to start clearing up.

My phone rings half an hour later. It’s Erin and she sounds excited.

‘Poppy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Get that Christmas apron ironed!’

‘What do you mean?’ I’ve actually stopped breathing.

‘I just popped in to tell Mrs Morelli you’re free on Saturday night after all, and guess what? She’s really pleased because the other caterers were going to charge an arm and a leg. You’re on!’

‘So the only reason I got the job is because I’m cheap?’ I squeak with fake indignation as my heart bumps around madly in my chest.

She snorts. ‘Well, it had to come in handy eventually.’

After she’s gone, I collapse onto the sofa to catch up on the soaps, but I find I’m staring at the TV without taking anything in. Rita could be suggesting a threesome to Norris and Ken Barlow and I wouldn’t even notice.

What a difference a day makes.

It began with hope, veered into total and utter humiliation at the hands of Spunky Mimi Blenkinsop, then did a smart about-turn and morphed into a landmark watershed day in my life. I’m going to be a caterer! In business for myself! There will be no more ‘far too timid’. There will be ‘astonishingly brave’ instead. And I’m going to start right now by getting that number and phoning Jed Turner.

No shilly-shallying. I’m just going to do it!

Smiling, I push myself off the sofa, stagger slightly to the right and nearly cannon into a nest of tables. It takes a while to remember where I put the piece of paper but eventually, I’m dialling the number.

Someone picks up.

‘Hello, Jed Turner?’

‘Er, hi!’ It’s definitely him. I’d recognise those deep, velvety tones anywhere. ‘I hope you don’t mind me phoning. I – um – just wanted to let you know that I can’t stay at yours for Christmas, even though it sounds lovely what with the hot tub and the log fire and everything.’

There’s a brief pause.

‘Shit, sorry,’ he says. ‘You’re obviously not Clemmy.’

‘No, ’fraid not. I’m Poppy. You got the wrong woman.’

‘Ah, well.’ He gives a throaty chuckle. ‘That sounds like the story of my life right there.’

I laugh. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

‘Sadly, Poppy, it is. But things can only get better.’ He doesn’t seem sad. In fact, he sounds quite cheerful about it.

‘Very true,’ I agree, thinking of Clemmy, who he’d seemed pretty keen on.

Clemmy is such a pretty name.

‘So, Poppy, I’m really glad you phoned me.’

‘It was no problem at all.’

‘If I hadn’t discovered the mistake, my carefully laid plans for a merry Christmas would have gone right up in smoke. I must have hit a wrong digit. Did I get the area code right, at least? Are you in Surrey?’

‘I am. I live in Angelford?’

‘Ah, yes. In that case you’re very close to my uncle’s holiday home. Which is where we’ll be for Christmas. Lovely area.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. It’s just when you live in a place, you quite often don’t appreciate its beauty as much as other folk.’

‘That’s true. Do you think that also applies to people living within spitting distance of the Eiffel Tower? Or over the road from the Grand Canal in Venice?’

‘Over the water, you mean.’

He laughs at my very feeble joke. ‘You’ve got an exceptional café in Angelford, if I remember rightly. Best chocolate-fudge brownies in the world. Am I right or am I right?’

‘You’re right. We do. Although, can I suggest you try the raspberry-cream-and-white-chocolate cheesecakes next time?’

‘I’ll make sure I do that.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Then we can compare notes.’

‘You won’t regret it. I tried to make them myself but nothing tops their version.’

‘Are you a good cook, then?’

‘Er, not bad, I suppose. The kitchen’s my favourite room in the house.’

‘Yes? What sort of things do you make?’

I smile, wondering if he’s just being polite. But I don’t think he is. He sounds genuinely interested.

‘Everything, but Italian food is my speciality.’

‘Can you make pasta from scratch? And tiramisu?’

‘I can. Actually, I’m making tiramisu for a special dinner party,’ I say, deciding on the spot that this is what I’ll make for Mrs Morelli’s dessert.

‘My mouth’s watering. This sounds like it’s far more than just a hobby, if you don’t mind me saying. Are you a chef?’