Wish Upon A Christmas Cake

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Sam, but how are you here?’ Nerves tend to make me blunt and I’ve never been mistress of flirtatious small talk. I was struggling to hold a whole host of memories at bay and bluntness is one of my coping mechanisms.

He cast me a sideways glance as we crunched across the gravel towards the backdoor. ‘Karl invited me. He said it would do me and the kids good to get away.’

Kids? A dagger pierced my thundering heart. He was married, of course he was, and he’d gone on to have children. I remembered Karl gently telling me that he was going to Sam’s wedding a few years back. No wait, it must have been more like seven or eight years ago. I’d swallowed hard and acted like I didn’t give a damn then drunk a whole bottle of wine and cried into my pillow. The next day I’d had a sore head but I’d got up, got dressed, gone to Waterstone’s and bought a new cookery book, then baked like a woman possessed. Kneading at bread dough and beating cake mixes had always been therapeutic for me, like a form of self-hypnosis that somehow separates me from the world and my pain.

So Christmas was going to be different to the version I’d imagined when Karl had first suggested it. A happily married couple and their children would be joining us over the festive period. Unfortunately, the husband happened to be the man I’d once loved with all my heart. The pleasant warmth of the lust I’d experienced at seeing Sam so big and brawny had now completely melted away and the biting chill of the air that swirled around the house made me shiver.

‘You’re cold,’ Sam said. ‘It’s warm and cosy inside, come on.’ Had it really been nine years since I’d last seen him, when I’d told him that it wouldn’t work between us? And all because I’d thought that we wanted different things from life and that I had something to prove to myself. I’d thought that I was doing the best thing for both of us; helping us to leave a terrible experience behind. How could we have continued, moved on and loved each other, after what we’d been through? And what if it had happened again, if I’d ever had the courage to try to get pregnant after our loss, that was. No. I’d done the right thing at the time, for sure.

Sam opened the door and the heat coming from the large brightly lit kitchen literally hit me in a wave, along with the delicious aromas of roast chicken, thyme and potatoes. My stomach grumbled automatically. My mother had clearly been busy and the woman sure could cook. Sam stood back to allow me to enter first and I walked into the room.

‘There you are. At last!’ My mother’s clipped tones stopped me in my tracks. Back out…go back through the door. Leave now before she says anything else. I shrugged the traitorous voice away. As if I could actually walk away from Esther once she got going. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d pursued me, just like that time when I was seven and I told her she reminded me of Miss Piggy from The Muppet Show. She’d chased me around the streets and confiscated my favourite Barbie doll for a week as punishment. Even then, I hadn’t meant that she resembled the puppet pig physically, just that she had the same snooty self-important air and that she treated my dad a bit like Kermit.

Sam placed the box of cakes on the counter and held out a hand. ‘I’ll take your bag through to the hallway if you like. I bet you and your mum have lots to discuss.’

I allowed myself one last perusal of his lovely face with its shadow of stubble and full sensual lips and smiled. ‘Yeah. I bet we have.’

‘See you at dinner.’ He grinned at me and, in spite of my disappointment, I grinned back as I handed him my holdall. Even if he was here with his wife and kids, it would still be nice to catch up. I hadn’t seen him in such a long time and we’d once been so close.

A flush stole over my chest. At the height of my teenage crush on Sam, he’d seen me as little more than his friend’s younger sister. Yet he was always really kind, polite and considerate. He’d been bright and mature, nothing like the boys in my year at school who only ever spoke to me to comment on my big jugs. That was until I’d gotten a bit older and one night, when Sam was home from university, we’d ended up alone and realised that there was more than just friendship between us. Six years later, we’d seemed to have it all but then it had turned sour and we’d parted ways. Amicably, though it had broken my heart at the time. So yes, it would be good to hear what he’d been up to and to see how the years had treated him.

But now I had to deal with Esther and it was an experience that called for a stiff drink. I grabbed the single malt off the counter and a crystal tumbler from the tray on the side then poured a generous measure.

Here I go! Merry Christmas…

Chapter 2 (#ulink_fb1faf99-daf8-5abf-823a-6b774774404c)

Esther Marie Warham. Sixty-two. Five foot eight. One hundred and twenty-four pounds. Shoulder-length platinum-blonde hair. Wife of Charles Michael Warham. Mother of Karl Lewis Warham and Katie Alice Warham. Currently clothed in a fawn silk gypsy-style blouse and fitted black trousers which showed off her pert gym-toned bottom and nude heels.

I sipped my Jura and held the fiery amber liquid in my mouth as I waited for my mother to begin talking herself in circles.

And waited.

‘How are things at the shop, Katie? Were you busy today?’

I swallowed the whisky and stared at my mother. What, no reprimand for being late?

‘Good thanks. We’ve been really busy.’

‘Will Ann be all right there tomorrow without you?’

I took another swig from my glass. ‘Uh, yeah, her boyfriend’s helping her out.’

This wasn’t my mother; it must be an imposter, a dopplegänger arrived to lure me into a false sense of security so it could dash my confidence to the ground once more.

‘Ah there you are, my favourite girls!’ My father crossed the kitchen and planted a kiss on the top of my head. ‘How was your journey, Katie?’

I snuggled against his chest and breathed in his familiar and lovely Dad smell of pine aftershave, washing powder and cigars. Despite Esther’s protests, my dad still indulged in an evening cigar or two; it was a habit I doubted he’d ever quit. I gazed up at him, grateful for his arrival, yet wondering if he’d noticed this strangely altered version of my mother. In the past, he’d often rescued me from Esther’s tirades before I completely crumbled into a blubbering heap or snapped and gave her a tongue lashing in return. I hadn’t really done the latter since I was about twenty-three and I was proud of my self-control. I loathed confrontation of any kind and had always been keen to avoid it. ‘Hey, Dad. There were a few delays along the way but it wasn’t too bad, thanks. How’re you?’

With his thick white hair combed back with pomade, his naturally jet-black eyebrows and his year-round tan, Dad reminded me of Blake Carrington from 80s TV series Dynasty. Of course, he could have been said to resemble Alistair Darling, but Blake Carrington was a preferable comparison in my mind. Dad was handsome in that traditional way, like the movie stars of the thirties. Somehow, the white hair and black eyebrow combo suited him. He had charisma, strength, self-confidence and that old-school British charm.

‘I’m very well thank you, angel. Thoroughly enjoying my retirement, actually. Plenty of golf, tennis and time with my wife.’ He squeezed my shoulders and winked at me conspiratorially, then crossed the kitchen to my mother’s side. She was mashing potatoes and her powerful movements had caused her well-maintained blonde waves to fall over her face. I watched as Dad tenderly pushed her hair behind her ears then kissed her cheek. She immediately coloured and stopped punishing the spuds before turning slightly to allow my father to kiss her on the lips. I’d never understand my parents. They were such a strange combination. I seemed to have come out somewhere in the middle – I had some of Dad’s business sense and drive, yet I also occasionally suffered from Mum’s neuroses. But no one’s perfect, right?

Just then my Aunty Gina floated into the kitchen. Gina is Dad’s younger sister. She’s ten years his junior. Granny and Granddad had a surprise arrival, as they liked to call her. Knowing my aunt as I do, I bet she was a surprise.

‘Ooohhh! Hello, Katie. So good to see you, darling.’ She drifted over to me. Gina doesn’t walk, she floats and drifts. She always dresses in brightly coloured billowing materials and refers to herself as a spirit of the revolution, even though she would only have been a child during the sixties. But she constantly plays The Mamas and the Papas, Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix and when she gets drunk, which she does all too often, she rants about capitalism and her time on a Kibbutz and how we’ll all be sorry one day.

‘Hello, Aunty Gina.’ I proffered a hand to shake but she swatted it aside and enveloped me in a bear hug, forcing the air from my lungs. Her perfume of choice was a heady mix of patchouli and rose which I could taste as I sucked in a breath when she released me. Suddenly aware of a cold feeling in my groin, I glanced down to see that the wet patch spreading over the crotch of my jeans and the hem of my jumper was the remains of my whisky.

Gina followed my eyes. ‘Oopsy!’ She shrugged and smacked her scarlet-painted lips together. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’ She patted my shoulder, then saluted me as if we were rebels sharing a secret solidarity before drifting over to the fridge where she helped herself to a G and T.

Thanks, Gina.

Dad smiled as I stood up and attempted to dust myself off with a tea towel. ‘Why don’t you get changed and I’ll help your mother finish dinner. I hope you’ve brought some of those fancy cakes of yours because I can’t stop thinking about the ones you made for Granny’s birthday.’ I watched as his face fell for a moment but he quickly concealed his grief.

‘They’re in there, Dad.’ Apart from the ones currently freezing out in the barn. I pointed at the box on the counter and cringed as the image of Sam trying to prise it from my hands popped into my mind. ‘Of course I’d bring cakes with me. It would be criminal not to.’

Dad smiled as he peered into the box, then nodded approvingly. ‘They look good.’

I crossed the kitchen to the open doorway then realised I had no idea where I was going. As if reading my mind, Esther said, ‘Take a left at the top of the staircase then you’re the third door along. We selected a lovely room for you.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ I turned away quickly, not wanting her to see the surprise on my face at how pleasant she was being. It made me want more, yet simultaneously made me a bit uneasy, as if someone was playing a trick on me.

I left the kitchen and wandered into the hallway.

And stared.

I swear that my jaw actually fell so far open as I gazed around me, that it hit my chest.

A huge staircase with a polished oak banister and ornate iron spindles ran from the middle of the hall and branched off in two directions as it ascended. There were several rooms off the ground floor hallway, one of which I assumed must be the dining room as I could hear the clink of china and the tinkling of cutlery as someone laid the table. Music came from the room adjacent to it, which was just off the grand double-front door. I realised that it must be the drawing room or lounge, depending on which century you were from. I scanned the hallway to see more rooms on the other side of the staircase too. Obviously the building was enormous from the outside but the inside reminded me of a cathedral. No, make that two cathedrals combined.

This house would need some serious exploration. Once I’d got changed, of course. I dared not hold my family up any longer.

***

I kicked the door to my room open as I was juggling my holdall, my handbag and trying not to let the whisky on my jeans seep through into my M&S knickers. I flicked through my memory to my shower at the flat then recalled popping a white pair on. Great! If whisky soaked into them it would be hard to get out, which meant that I’d never be able to dry the stained pair on the washing line. I blamed Esther for my obsession with whiter-than-white-whites. Socks, knickers, bras and aprons all had to be blindingly clean and white or…or what? I didn’t know the answer to that one but it was just a fact I’d grown up knowing. What if you get knocked down by a bus today and you haven’t got your best knickers on? What if you want to try something on when you’re out shopping and there’s a communal changing room? What if the vicar comes for tea? (Strange that one, how would he know what state my knickers were in?) What if you meet the queen? (Did Elizabeth II have x-ray vision then?) But Esther’s convictions were so strong that they could actually assume the appearance of facts. I guess that’s a mother thing.

As the door to my room swung wide, my jaw went slack for the third time since I’d arrived.

‘WOW! WOW! WOW!’

The bedroom was dimly lit by two floor lamps that stood either side of the bed but I could see that the room was huge. I could have fitted our whole flat into it. There was a king-size four-poster bed with its head against the wall to my left, an enormous mahogany wardrobe on the wall behind the door, two long sash windows in front of me and a large antique dresser to my right. Next to that was another door.

I dumped my bag on an ornate and presumably antique ottoman at the foot of the bed, then crossed to the windows. They overlooked the gravel path at the side of the house and the barn where I’d parked my car. I was sure I could see a few Florentines glowing in the darkness as they froze solid. I gave my Beetle a little wave then pulled the curtains against the inky blackness of the night and crossed the room to the other door.

Behind it was an exquisite en suite that filled me with both joy and relief. There’s nothing worse than having to leave your room when you’re staying away from home just to go for a pee in the middle of the night. At least I’d be spared such indignity. Besides, a big old house like this would be a bit spooky once everyone had gone to bed, so I was glad I wouldn’t have to creep across the landing and risk bumping into a headless nun or something. If the manor house was haunted, of course. Which it probably wasn’t. And anyway, I don’t believe in ghosts. Or – and this thought was far more pleasant – I could be innocently walking along, wearing my best silky nightie which showed off my curves – but not my lumpy bits – and bump into Sam. Oh, to crash into that wall of chest then be scooped up into those bulging arms. I’d be faint obviously, so he’d have to take me back to my room and give me mouth to mouth as his huge body covered mine and then…

Nothing. He was married. He had kids. Forget it. Forget him. That was all in the past.