The Little Christmas Kitchen (15 page)

‘I’m sure it will.’ She nodded.

‘Oh don’t look at me like that.’ He held his hands up in the air. ‘Go on then, go on. Pick something. Anything. Go on, I can’t have those sad eyes on my conscience. Pick something.’

His young sidekick looked up dubiously over the rim of his Starbucks.

Maddy paused. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure. Come on, lady. It’s Christmas. Go on. Pick something. Just make it quick before I change my mind.’ He blew on his fingerless gloved hands. ‘Quick.’

Maddy bit down on her smile, her eyes dancing as she looked up at him and he rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Then she looked at everything on his stall. It was too much. She didn’t want to pick one of the expensive looking glittery ones because that felt like an abuse of his generosity nor did she need any more hideous bushy tinsel. But after a moment of indecision her eyes landed on a star just like the one back home. Big and gold but a bit battered and old. The clip-on light shining down on the stall reflected in bursts off the chipped metal of the filigree fronds. It looked like it had been languishing on the stall for years, like it needed a good home.

‘Can I have that, please?’ she asked, pointing in the direction of the star, remembering the giggle of delight she’d shared with Ella when they’d watched their dad present nearly exactly the same one to their mum.

‘The star?’ He looked over to where it sat, half covered with a fake-Disney pack of streamers. ‘And I thought I couldn’t give that thing away.’ he said, reaching forward, his large belly brushing the piles of tinsel in front of him. ‘Take it. With my blessing.’

‘Thank you.’ she said, clutching it to her. ‘I love it.’

He shook his head. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘You too.’ she laughed.

Back in the flat it was cold and dark. The emptiness hit her with a jolt. She put her bags of decorations and food down on the kitchen table and went around switching on lights, moving quickly from room to room, flicking switches and then turned the radio on in the kitchen. The station was playing
A Candlelit Christmas
live from the Royal Albert Hall, she turned it up then went in search of the central heating.

Once it was piping hot, she had a bottle of champagne open, the lights were blaring and Good King Wenceslas was booming from the radio, it felt a little less lonely.

Heading to the living room she decided to tackle the tree first. With no stand to hold it in place, Maddy had to balance the vast fir against the bookshelf and tie it in place with some string she’d been surprised to find in the cupboard under the sink. Threading it round and round till she was certain it was secure and knotting it with the same clove hitch that she used for the boats, she then went back to the kitchen and sliced up beef, onions and mushrooms to whip up her mum’s infamous stroganoff, a recipe she knew so well she could probably do it with her eyes shut. She felt like all the appliances were watching in awe and excitement. The hob flared to life like a bonfire. She smiled as she took a swig of champagne and left the pan bubbling with satisfying pops to go back into the living room and start looping the ugly tinsel from branch to branch.

She’d just moved onto adding the squashed baubles when the oven timer bleeped. Darting through to turn it off, she gave the sauce a quick stir, flicked on the kettle for the rice and was about to go back to the tree when she glanced out the window and saw the woman from next door pretending not to watch from the window.

Maddy paused.

The woman looked away, moved her head to make it look like she was perusing her book shelf.

Maddy frowned. Took a sip of champagne. She ran her tongue along her teeth wondering what to do. The woman’s flat looked dark and a bit cold, she had her cardy wrapped tight around her thin limbs. Out in the courtyard it had started to snow lightly again. Maddy put her glass down, swept her hair up into a ponytail and headed over to the big French windows.

Throwing them open and stepping out onto her balcony she tilted her head and looked up at the snow as it fell, letting her mouth stretch into a smile. After a second she dropped her chin and turned to look in the direction of the woman’s window. She was still there, her finger tracing the spines of her books.

Maddy stared till she looked her way and then waved. The woman didn’t wave back. Maddy pointed up to the sky. The woman gave a cursory glance and then went back to her books. Maddy kept on looking her way. In the end the woman flung open her window and said, ‘I thought I asked you not to look into my flat. I find it very intrusive.’

‘This is my first snow in, like, fifteen years.’ Maddy said. ‘Well apart from some really fine flakes once in Athens.’

‘Excuse me?’ The woman made a face.

‘This is my first snow.’ Maddy laughed. ‘I think it’s beautiful.’

The woman looked, like she’d never really thought much of snow at all. ‘Well.’ she said, pulling her cardigan tighter. ‘As I said, I’d prefer you didn’t look into my flat.’

‘Well you see I’m celebrating with a drink and I’ve just decorated my tree and made dinner and I thought, you know, maybe you might like to pop over for a glass of something. You’d be welcome to eat as well.’

The woman narrowed her eyes, suspicious. ‘No I don’t think so.’

‘Honestly, I have loads and I can’t eat it all myself.’

A movement at the window next to Maddy caught both their attention and they looked to see a young guy in a baseball cap glance at them then pull his curtains tight with a scowl.

‘People don’t want to communicate here, do you understand. We like to live our own lives.’ The woman nodded towards the shut curtains as if proving her point.

‘I’m just being neighbourly. Friendly.’

‘The fact we are neighbours is incidental.’ she said. ‘It certainly isn’t a prerequisite to friendship.’ Then she closed her windows and walked away.

Maddy stepped back from her balcony and wandered back to the stove. She stirred the thick, creamy sauce distracted by the conversation, tasting a little on her wooden spoon and instinctively adding more paprika while thinking about being rebuffed.

The timer to say the stroganoff was ready went off just as Maddy was standing on her tiptoes on one of the living room chairs trying to hook the star onto the top branch. She jumped down and looked up to see that it was tilting wonkily to the right but decided to correct it later because she was starving. One half of a cheese and tomato sandwich and some champagne was not the kind of sustenance she was used to. It wasn’t piles of spinach pies, glistening vine leaves of salty Dolmades or warm bread with gloopy olive oil the colour of straw.

But the image of the woman at the window ruined the first taste of her stew. The idea that she was too set in her ways, too stubborn to join her infuriated Maddy. Along with the notion that she could so easily turn down a hand of friendship without even getting to know her.

In the end Maddy stood up, leaving her plate untouched, and went to the sink to rinse out the plastic container that the mushrooms had come in. She spooned in piles of fluffy rice then topped it with the stroganoff, a sprinkling of flame red paprika and flakes of chopped coriander before sealing the lid and nipping out into the hall to ring the woman’s bell, leave it on her doorstep and run back to her own flat before she saw her. When she went back to her own dinner it tasted as fabulous as it was supposed to, the bitter taste of annoyance gone.

The next morning Maddy was making a cup of tea in one of the thin-rimmed, beautiful white Sophie Conran mugs, wearing Ella’s White Company waffle dressing gown and waiting for her croissants to bake while wondering whether a job in the seediest street in Soho counted as making it, when her doorbell went.

The woman next door was standing on her step. Immaculately dressed in coffee coloured trousers and a cream polo neck. She had on a slick of lipstick which Maddy hadn’t seen her wear before and a dusting of rouge on her cheekbones. She reminded her suddenly of Veronica, the clothes almost an identikit of her dad’s wife’s wardrobe.

Mistress.

Veronica would be furious if she heard herself described as his mistress. As ‘his’ anything. She’d terrified Maddy with her feline eyes, their perfect flick of black across the lashes, her sharp, clipped French accent, her stories of growing up in Paris, Montmartre, of how the girls were too dependent, too spoiled, not their own people. For women to survive in this world they needed to be strong, independent, streetwise. Able to stand on their own two feet, she’d said looking pointedly at Maddy who was clutching the tatty scrap of blanket that she wouldn’t give up even at nine years old.

‘Good morning.’ her neighbour said in a tone a touch nicer than curt.

‘Morning.’ Maddy said, holding her cup with both hands as an icy breeze from the hallway curled its way into the flat.

‘I’m returning this.’ The woman held out the empty mushroom container.

‘Oh.’ Maddy looked at it. ‘You could have just recycled it.’

‘I wouldn’t want to presume.’ the woman said, thrusting the plastic box at her.

‘Did you like it?’ Maddy asked. ‘The stroganoff.’

‘Yes. Very much.’ the woman said, her lips tight. ‘Although I can’t bear coriander. It’s the devil’s herb.’

Maddy snorted a laugh, ‘Well I’ll make sure I don’t use it again.’

‘Don’t do anything on my account.’ the woman replied.

The door across the corridor opened and a man in a suit walked out.

‘Hi.’ Maddy said.

He looked up and around as if unsure if she was talking to him.

‘Hi I’m Maddy. I’m staying here for a while.’

He looked confused, his blond brows drawing into a puzzled frown.

‘And this is–’ she pointed at the woman.

‘Margery. I’m Margery. Margery Pearce.’ she said, almost nervous Maddy thought.

The businessman smiled, ‘Hugo. Pleasure to meet you.’

‘You too.’ Maddy smiled. ‘Perhaps we can all have a drink sometime.’

Hugo laughed, incredulous, ‘Perhaps we can.’ he said, and chucking what looked like his gym bag over his shoulder, strode out the building.

‘So Margery Pearce–’ Maddy said, ‘can I tempt you with some freshly baked croissants?’

Margery wrapped her arms around her, looked left and right and then said, ‘Well, I don’t know.’

‘They’re Christmas ones, I add slivers of cranberry and orange zest to the chocolate. My mum says they’re the best she’s ever tasted. Come on. Please.’

‘Oh very well.’ Margery said and stalked in past Maddy, who smiled into her teacup as she took a sip.

CHAPTER 19

ELLA

The next morning Ella woke up to the sound of tables being moved, chairs scraped, brakes hissing against the hum of chatter. Tentatively opening the window that looked down over the taverna she saw a stream of people getting down from a tourist bus and hurrying through the rain to the shelter of the restaurant.

It hadn’t stopped pouring all night. The water had tapped ominously on the awning and the tin pots of gnarled geranium stalks lining the restaurant edge as she tried to sleep. The dark circles she saw under her eyes in the reflection of the window were a testament to how much of the night she’d spent awake. Her mind a constant loop of unsolved problems. At the forefront was Max’s email that she’d finally read at the supermarket where internet was an extortionate one euro for five minutes.

Darling, Unfortunately I think I’m going to have to file for divorce. I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m a shit. I always have been. (I blame my parents… come on, go with me on this one. You’ve met them!) It’s just all this god damn lying, and messing about, it’s exhausting. I’m no good at complex. You’ve seen me try and work that bloody kettle. Are you smiling at that? I want you to smile. You have a very beautiful smile that I will miss, but I hope actually that I’ll see it again because you won’t hate me and see that I’m a spineless bastard who just loves two women.

The problem is, I find, as always, I want both. But, with you, you see, I think you always wanted me to be more. To have more character, more backbone, more depth, more something. And I’m actually just pretty simple. You’re too good for me. (Christ even I can see that’s a cliche but because it’s true and I can’t think of better I’m not going to delete it. *shows that I’m simple* Is that what those stars are for? Fuck I have no idea. *Simple* No, I’m not convinced that I’ve got this star usage quite right. I’ll have to ask someone from our IT department.)

Anyway. You see I’m nervous. I’m rambling. Going for cheap laughs. Christ, this is probably the longest thing I’ve written since English GCSE. Amanda, I think, is happy with me as I am. I have no pressure to be better, which is actually quite a relief (but I’m not saying it’s your fault. Not at all. You were right to push me. I’m just weak. I’m a man! Ha ha.)

Ok, so enough with the rambling. Time to wrap this thing up. Keep the flat. I’ll take the cars and the place in Suffolk
–
that seem fair? If not, let me know.

Hope Greece is superb. Heard the weather is awesome. Have an ouzo for me, pumpkin. (There’s actually a tear in my eye. Honestly.)

Max x

What affected her most deeply was that after reading – after staring at the email with tears in her eyes until the five minutes timed out and a box popped up asking her if she wanted to extend her session, after closing it all down with shaking fingers and paying the shopkeeper another euro for a Fanta Lemon – her presiding emotion, after the initial shock of devastation, was relief. A sense that she had been walking, trudging, for the last few years along a very beautiful path, but carrying with her a huge suitcase with no handle. She realised, as she picked the label off her Fanta, that while holding the suitcase in her arms she hadn’t quite been able to look over it, only peek round the side to the breathtaking view ahead.

As she sat on the concrete step out the front of the supermarket on the top of the hill, watched kids playing football in the street, an old guy in a workshop bashing away at a bit of metal as Greek folk music played loud, saw Dimitri in the distance bailing out his boat, watched her mum, through the plastic rain covers, chatting to a table of customers, Ella realised just quite how out of her league she had been in Max’s world. His view was of cocktails on his dad’s yacht, anchor dropped just off the coast of Ibiza, soft chill out tunes playing as girls lounged in bikinis that never got wet. His view was of champagne and truffles grated on his pasta, taking the dogs to the shoot, getting his top hat out for Ascot and his old school blazer for Henley. His view was all rose tinted, all great, all life is good. Parties, sky diving, VIP tickets to festivals, business class to New York.