Christmas at the Dancing Duck

Kirstie chewed and swallowed quickly, just about managing to conceal the involuntary grimace with a bright smile. The flavours crashed around her taste buds and sent receptors to her brain telling the rest of her body to recoil.

‘Mmmm, amazing!’

Tom smiled to camera, raising his slug-like eyebrows, as if to say, ‘well, of course’, whilst Kirstie took the chance to swallow down the last morsel. Yet the taste of the dreaded peel lingered at the back of her throat. Ever the professional, she dredged up her best smile.

‘Well, that’s all we have time for today on Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen. A huge thank you to our guest, Tom Carrington, for sharing his amazing recipes and ideas with us. I hope you have all been inspired to try something different. Join us tomorrow for advice on how to liven up your gingerbread recipes. Not only will we be making a battalion of gingerbread men sporting another seasonal icon, the Christmas sweater, but we’ll also be baking Christmas tree decorations and a whole village of gingerbread houses. So, it’s goodbye from Tom, and goodbye from me.’

Kirstie held her smile for a few seconds, until the camera panned back, and then turned to Tom.

‘Thanks, Tom. That was great. Really informative.’

‘No problem, Kirstie. It’s always a pleasure to be a guest on Kirstie’s Kitchen, especially for one of the Christmas episodes. But why don’t you tell me what you really thought of my mince pies?’ He laughed.

‘Ah, you noticed, eh? It’s nothing to do with your baking skills, which of course are legendary! I just hate everything to do with Christmas culinary treats – gingerbread – yuk, Christmas pudding – yuk. I also detest panettone and stollen – in fact anything that relies on heavy doses of nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon, and ginger. But my all-time pet hate has to be mince pies.’

Kirstie was on a roll and it felt good to confess her aversion to someone, especially a fellow chef who would understand what that meant. Apart from the enforced contact with spice-filled pastries, she loved her daily twenty-minute segment on daytime TV. It was her perfect job and one she had never dared dream of landing when she was slogging her way through drama school. Daytime TV Presenter, her résumé said, and she adored the title.

However, she also loved her new life in London. From the moment she jumped into the back seat of her chauffeur-driven lift to the studios, often before the sun had even poked its head above the horizon, her day was filled with frenzied activity. Meetings with stylists to select the perfect outfit to wear that day, uploading the photographs to her Instagram account to keep the show’s fans happy, then filming before spending the afternoon brainstorming ideas for the following week’s show.

Her day wasn’t over when she left the building either, because there was always an event to attend in the evening – a product launch or a book signing or a celebratory dinner – not to mention the occasional red carpet appearance at the national TV awards.

She had to admit that occasionally she felt as though she was living in a dream world. Bridget had gleefully informed her earlier that morning that one of her Twitter followers had labelled Kirstie Harrison a national treasure. A national treasure! Just like Mary Berry, or Nigella Lawson, or Delia Smith! She had refused to believe Bridget until she showed her the tweet. It was true that she was as passionate about food as those talented chefs, and brimming with enthusiasm to showcase the wonderful and quirky recipes from around the country, and around the world, to FMTV’s loyal viewers.

Nevertheless, she had known that she would struggle with this particular week’s profusion of Christmas bakes. She wasn’t a fan of all things festive, but the food was the worst. It evoked so many painful memories and she had tried to persuade the show’s producer, Brad Baxter, to do something different during the lead-up to the big celebration – such as Pan-Asian alternatives to the standard Christmas fayre – but he had looked at her askance, as though she had just told him that Santa Claus wasn’t real and suggested he cancel Christmas altogether.

‘I also loathe chocolate yule logs, those little marzipan figures dressed as Father Christmas, iced cinnamon rolls …’

‘Gosh, don’t hold back, Kirstie.’ Tom laughed, holding up his palms in mock horror.

‘Sherry trifle, brandy butter, Christmas cookies …’

‘Okay, I get the picture!’

‘Sorry, Tom. I should have told you. It’s just that I …’

‘Kirstie! Kirstie! Oh my God! Kirstie!’

‘What’s the matter?’ She swung round to see Brad rushing across the studio floor towards her, waving his arms in the air, his eyes wild, his silver hair more bouffant than ever and his usually tanned face the colour of overworked pastry.

‘Brad? What … what’s going on?’

‘You’ve just regaled the whole of the Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen audience with a monologue on how much Kirstie flipping Harrison hates Christmas!’

‘I don’t know what you …’

Kirstie’s stomach clenched and a surge of nausea swept up from her chest into her throat.

‘What are you talking about …’ She narrowed her eyes in the direction of their sound man. ‘Oh, no, don’t tell me … don’t say it …’

‘Martin forgot to cut the mic!’

Chapter 2 (#ulink_776baee3-cc6b-5b16-b354-80a5b5206295)

Kirstie stared at Brad. His lips were moving but she had no idea what he was saying. She watched him turn to Tom and shake his hand, picking up the words ‘thank you’ and ‘great show’. Before she could gather her senses, she felt Brad grab her elbow and, with a false smile pinned on his face, guide her swiftly from the studio. She could feel the camera crew’s eyes following her every step. When they reached the corridor, Bridget came running towards them, her make-up apron flapping at her waist.

‘Oh, my God, Kirstie, I’m so sorry …’

But Brad was in no mood to pause to receive sympathetic overtures from anyone.

Once they were in his office, he indicated for Kirstie to sit before sinking into his own desk chair. She watched him drop his face into his palms, massage his temples for a few moments, then raise his head to meet her gaze. Her heart pounded out a cacophony of anxiety when she saw his expression.

‘What on earth was all that about? “I hate everything to do with Christmas culinary treats …”’

‘I’m so sorry, Brad. I had no idea the mic was still on …’

‘Clearly. And yes, you don’t have to say it. Martin is a complete and utter moron and you can rest assured that I’ll be speaking to him after I’ve spoken to you. It’s not the first time his incompetence has dropped us in it, but it’ll certainly be the last.’

Kirstie watched the muscles in Brad’s chiselled jaw tighten as he struggled to maintain his composure. But Brad Baxter was a seasoned professional. She knew he had seen and heard everything that could go wrong on a live TV stage in his twenty-five years with FMTV and he would also know what had to be done to put things right.

‘But accusations and disciplinary procedures will have to wait. What’s important is for us to minimize the damage his error has caused as quickly as possible and reduce the impact on the rest of the Christmas Kitchen series.’

‘I’m sorry. I wish there was some way I could take back everything I said to Tom. I shouldn’t have …’

‘It’s not your fault, Kirstie, but you have to understand that our viewers will be bound to be upset about what they heard you say off camera. What on earth possessed you to say those things?’

Kirstie opened her mouth to launch into an explanation, but before she could utter a word the door to Brad’s office flew open and in stalked Brad’s boss, Lionel Grant.

‘What the f …’ Lionel stopped himself from swearing just in time, but his fury was etched clearly in his expression. ‘For Christ’s sake, Brad, it’s an absolute fiasco. The fifty-second segment has already gone viral and #KirstiesKitchenCalamity is trending on Twitter. Believe it or not, Kirstie, my dear, you are the new Christmas Grinch. Our competitors are loving this and I can’t wait to hear what our sponsors have to say about it. I hope you have a damage limitation plan up your sleeve, Brad, because I’m holding you responsible.’

Kirstie couldn’t let Brad take the rap for her blunder so she found her voice at last, although her throat was dry and the words came out as though she was a twenty-a-day smoker.

‘Lionel, I’m so sorry. This is completely my fault. I had no idea the mic was still on. But even so, I should never have said those things in the first place. I messed up. I’ll make a personal apology before tomorrow’s show and then we can move on …’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Erm, no, I …’

‘How can you present a show about Christmas culinary delights when everyone and their dog knows you hate them? The word hypocrite springs to mind! Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen now has a serious image problem to rectify and I can’t let you go back on screen until it’s sorted, one way or another.’

The last four words sent the bottom of Kirstie’s stomach plunging to her toes before it bounced back up again to lodge uncomfortably in her chest like a slab of concrete. The implied threat lingered in the air between them.

‘But, Lionel, I’m sure we can …’ began Brad.

‘Let me read you some of the headlines. “Kirstie drops Christmas Clanger!”, “Kirstie’s Festive Farce!” And don’t get me started on the two thousand retweets under the KirstiesKitchenCalamity hashtag.’

A curl of nausea made its insidious journey through Kirstie’s veins as the enormity of what had happened started to seep through the shock and crystallize.

‘If we continue with Kirstie as the presenter we’ll be a laughing stock and you know I can’t let that happen. I’ve already put a call in to Flora Swift who’s agreed to be our guest presenter until Christmas is over and done with. Everyone knows she adores Christmas after that travel piece she did from Santa’s grotto in Lapland last week. At least that way we’ll be able to salvage some of our reputation.’