Christmas at the Dancing Duck

‘And you’re still happy to go ahead with the sale?’

‘It’s not a question of being happy,’ snapped Kirstie, her temper rising. Josh always knew which buttons to press to fire up her emotions. ‘It’s a question of having no other choice – which I’m sure Livie and Harry will have already explained to you.’

Josh did not respond but spent the next ten minutes concentrating on the winding roads that led to the village of Cranbury. Kirstie allowed her thoughts to drift. Josh was right. Deep down, even though it had come as a huge shock when their accountant had told her they would have to sell their childhood home and break the final tie to the business their parents had left them, she did think it was the best solution to the problem. Running a village pub meant working long, unsociable hours and now that Ethan was around it was a mammoth task for Olivia, even with Josh employed as bar manager to help out when Harry was at work.

However, she also knew from Olivia that there had been fierce opposition from the villagers. Every single one of them, even old Mrs Didcot who had never so much as set foot in the pub, had rallied round since they had announced the sale to try to bolster their flagging finances with a well-attended summer fayre – and Kirstie had seen the photographs on Facebook of a fabulous Hallowe’en disco and Bonfire Night party. But it had all been to no avail.

The least painful option was to sell quickly and move on. But it was tough knowing the strength of local feeling, especially delivered through the dulcet tones of Josh Turner.

They had arrived in Cranbury. Its familiarity sent a spasm of nostalgia and homesickness through Kirstie’s veins. Topped with a sprinkle of snow, it really would look like a scene from a traditional Christmas card. St John’s parish church, where she and Olivia had been christened and where Olivia and Harry had been married, and where their parents’ funeral had attracted the largest congregation for a decade, loomed to her left. She looked quickly away to her right to feast her eyes on the impressive façade of the Dancing Duck on the opposite side of the village green. The sight whipped the breath from her lungs and sent tears burgeoning along her lashes.

The sun had disappeared over the horizon, but the whitewashed frontage of her childhood home was charming, illuminated by the amber glow of the street lamps, its golden letters declaring boldly to the thirsty visitor that they had arrived at the door of The Dancing Duck. Out of habit, she reached for her phone to take a photograph to upload to Instagram, but she thought better of it. After the Facebook comments, did she really want her followers to know where she was hiding out for the next two weeks?

She experienced a sharp nip of loss that she would have to curtail her inclination to share her every move with the world. Then again, she thought with a sinking feeling, would anyone be interested? Cranbury was as far from the glitz and glamour of London’s West End as a disgraced TV presenter could get.

She stared up at the wrought-iron sign swinging from a post, depicting the silhouette of a duck suspended in mid-air. She could remember with absolute clarity the day her father had returned from the sign writer’s. It was the first time she had been allowed to taste champagne at the age of fifteen. She and Olivia had pretended to be drunk and had spent the afternoon dancing to Robbie Williams in the Old Barn with all the other teenagers of the village who had accompanied their own parents to join in the unveiling celebrations, Josh and Harry among them.

‘Well, the least you can do now you’re here is to throw yourself into the Christmas celebrations Livie has been planning for the last three months. It’s just a shame that I know for a fact you wouldn’t have been here if you hadn’t revealed to the whole world your pathological hatred of Christmas.’

Kirstie cringed as Josh strode though the arch of the oak front door. So much for hoping the villagers would have better things to do than be glued to their TV sets at eleven o’clock on a weekday morning when Kirstie’s Kitchen was broadcast. And for all those who weren’t, she was certain that Josh would have relished the opportunity to fill them in on the details of her humiliation.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_8dfb7f53-be94-595a-8c1a-677c9cd94340)

‘Kirstie! Ah, I’m so pleased to see you!’ squeaked Emma, rushing out from behind the polished mahogany bar, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

Despite not having seen her since she’d been down to Cranbury to visit her sister after Ethan was born, Kirstie felt like she had only just left her best friend and fellow teenage conspirator the previous week.

‘Emma, you look amazing! I love what you’ve done to your hair, and is that one of your new necklace designs? I love it!’

Kirstie feasted her eyes on her friend, taking in the wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair, which now sported a pale pink streak through the fringe. She had always envied Emma’s courage in experimenting with her appearance, although she didn’t know what Brad would say if she turned up for filming one morning with pink highlights, never mind Lionel who thought pierced ears were deplorable.

A spasm of resentment shot through her chest as she thought of Flora, the person Lionel had replaced her with as a special guest presenter for the Christmas kitchen episodes.

Flora Swift was a fabulous chef and Kirstie knew she would do a great job, but that was also what she was worried about. What if Lionel decided to make her short, temporary stint, more permanent? She determined to spend the whole two weeks of her enforced exile researching the best new year recipes for a healthy and fat-free lifestyle. She already had a few ideas swirling around her head and just needed to spend some quiet time jotting them down and expanding them.

‘Well …’ Emma was holding out her delicate silver and jet necklace for Kirstie to inspect more closely, mischief playing around her eyes ‘… if you like it, and you’re on Santa’s “Nice” list, you might just find one in your Christmas stocking this year.’

‘It’s gorgeous, but then everything you design is gorgeous. You’re so talented, Em. How’s Bijoux Baubles going?’

‘Just secured an order to stock the hotel gift shop up at Craiglea Hall and I’ve been commissioned to design a couple of wedding tiaras and matching necklace, bracelet, and earring sets. But enough about me. What on earth possessed you to …’

When Emma noticed the expression on Kirstie’s face she clamped her mouth shut, pursing her lips theatrically. Both girls cast a look over to where Josh was busy pulling pints, completely at home behind the bar. A group of regulars laughed at something he said, then they all turned in unison to send quizzical looks in Kirstie’s direction. She groaned inwardly as a blast of heat rose into her cheeks. She suddenly felt exposed, as though she was standing in the bar of her childhood home stark naked.

‘Sorry, Em. I just need to …’

She grabbed her bag, which Josh had abandoned in the middle of the room, and dashed up the stairs to the flat where Olivia, Harry, and Ethan lived, Emma following in her wake. When she had ditched her luggage in the spare room, she returned to the tiny kitchen, which her sister had redecorated in pastel pinks, mints, and baby blues and grabbed the coffee Emma had made for her.

‘I’m sorry, Kirstie. I know how hard this must be for you. I know what Christmas is like for you and Olivia after … well, after what happened to Don and Sue. Do you want to spill the whole sorry tale about what happened at the studio on Monday?’

‘It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said what I did, but the sound guy, Martin, has always had it in for me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it on purpose. It certainly didn’t surprise me that he was the first person to upload the incriminating video to YouTube and Twitter.’

Kirstie was about to enlarge on her conspiracy theory, but she was suddenly engulfed by a dark sweeping lethargy. She sunk down into her sister’s chintzy sofa and heaved a sigh. No good would come of blaming anyone but herself. She glanced at her best friend. Her turquoise eyes were filled with such compassion that a surge of self-pity tumbled through her chest and she burst into tears.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about Martin. What happened was totally my responsibility, but oh, Em, you know what I’m like when I get a sniff of anything associated with Christmas. I can just about manage to get through the main celebrations: birthdays, anniversaries, Mother’s Day, but when I get so much as a hint of cloves, or cinnamon, or worst of all, crushed pine needles, well, my resolve just crumbles and I’m an emotional wreck.’

‘What did Brad say?’

‘He was really lovely about it. He knows what happened to my parents, but even so, he had no choice. Flora Swift is doing the Christmas episodes for the next two weeks instead of me.’

‘I know, I saw her this morning …’

Kirstie stared at Emma, desperate to ask what she thought of the diminutive blonde with a penchant for stilettos and displaying her impressive cleavage, but she feared the answer.

‘Brad’s asked me to come up with something innovative to kick off the new year, something that will appeal to the health-conscious and those anxious to lose the Christmas pounds. It’s the first time he’s asked for my input on programme content so I’m really excited. I’ve got a few ideas about who I might want to appear as guests too. I’m sure the Christmas fiasco will just be a blip in the scheme of things.’

‘So, does that mean you’re definitely still selling the Dancing Duck and staying in London?’

‘Of course I am!’

Kirstie realized too late that she had replied to Emma’s question a little too quickly. She saw from the smidgeon of optimism on her friend’s face that she had hoped that because of the Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen fiasco, she had come home to help Olivia turn the fortunes of the pub around.

‘Emma …’

‘Sorry, I just thought, maybe, you’d decided to … well, get involved a bit more. Perhaps with your undeniable hospitality skills, we’ll be able to make the place viable. I just hoped …’

Kirstie’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak but words failed her. How could Emma say that?

‘Em, you know we had no choice but to sell, don’t you? Livie and Harry have tried everything to boost the pub’s income, even restructuring the finances, before they announced they would have to put the pub on the market. There really isn’t any other option. Apart from winning the lottery and we both know that’s not going to happen. Not with my luck!’

With her eyes, she begged Emma to support what had been a very painful decision – for God’s sake, she needed someone on her side. With Olivia missing in action, she couldn’t possibility face the next two weeks by herself, especially when everyone would be ramming the Christmas spirit down her throat. She suspected she wouldn’t find a single person within a five-mile radius of Cranbury who agreed with their decision to hand over the business their parents had nurtured and cherished to a complete stranger – a wealthy London lawyer to boot. It was almost treason! She had no idea where Miles Morgan chose to spend his downtime – Knightsbridge probably.

‘It’s okay, Kirstie. I do understand. But that’s no reason to give up hope. Miracles do happen, you know. Fairy godmothers and godfathers exist, especially at this time of year. Hey, have I told you about Calvin?’

‘Who’s Calvin?’ asked Kirstie, her spirits lifting as they moved onto the safer ground of Emma’s dating exploits – always fertile pasture for gossip and giggles. Emma could often be found floating on the wings of Eros as she made her way through the eligible men of the parish. However, after two or three dates, she usually discovered some unpalatable fault that terminated the love story after the prologue. One unfortunate guy was ditched simply because he wore the same cologne as her father, another for having a lifelong passion for Formula One. She wondered what Emma would rake out of Calvin’s personality closet so she didn’t have to progress to a dreaded fourth date.

‘He’s a male model. Lives in Salisbury. I met him at a wedding I went to last weekend. The bride wanted bespoke jewellery – and a matching headpiece. Think turquoise stones encased in delicate silver filigree and snowdrop earrings. I also designed a silver link bracelet and a single charm for Archie to give to Zara on the actual day as a keepsake. You never know, maybe he’ll order another one for their anniversary or the birth of their first child, which a little bird has told me is imminent. Great marketing strategy, eh? Bond Street here I come!’

Emma’s eyes sparkled as she described her jewellery designs. Kirstie loved seeing her friend so animated about what had been her passion since high school. It was exactly how she felt about her presenting career.

‘We have to squeeze every single coin of happiness out of life – you know that more than anyone, Kirst.’

‘Sure I do. However, at the moment I just happen to be bankrupt in the happiness stakes.’

Ever the optimist, Emma shook her head sadly and laid her hand on Kirstie’s arm. The long scarlet ribbons dangling from the fluted sleeves of her home-made kaftan tickled the back of Kirstie’s hand.

‘You look exhausted, even more so than usual. Did I ever tell you that you work too hard at that TV studio?’

‘Emma …’