Christmas for One: No Greater Love (3 page)

A small part of her felt she
should
fly the nest that had kept her safe during the worst of her grief over Bill. But as Pru had once told her, the road to recovery was more like a dance, with steps left, right and backwards; as long as you arrived at happiness, Pru had advised, no one would give a fig how you’d got there. It was now December the second, about forty-eight hours since she and Piers had broken up, and bar a couple of drunken texts sent in the wee small hours, in which he’d declared his undying love and suggested they meet, there had been no contact between them. Her hectic schedule as Plum Patisserie enjoyed its pre-Christmas surge meant Meg hardly had time to think. But Lucas was happy and seemed quite oblivious to his mum’s working hours.

In the last two years, Plum Patisserie had opened new bakeries and cafés in towns and cities all over Britain, as well as branches in Barcelona and Auckland. It was Meg’s responsibility to oversee them. She had been at the Windsor store that day, one of several she’d visited in the last couple of weeks. Since Pru had stepped down from day-to-day operations, spending more and more time with her new husband in Salcombe, Meg and Milly had worked side by side, taking the business to new heights. Pru and Milly both agreed that Meg’s energy and ideas had given Plum Patisserie the shot in the arm that was needed to expand. And expand it had, all the while remaining faithful to the spirit and style of the Curzon Street flagship. Meg loved the way that in each of their outlets, whether in Bath with its beautiful Georgian façade or Edinburgh where the café nestled within walls of dark grey stone, the interior always echoed that of the Mayfair original. The brass and glass display cabinets, dark wood, bistro panelling and vintage lighting were all replicated perfectly. She felt at home in every one of them.

The recipes for the cakes, tortes, buns and breads sold in each store and café were also executed to Plum’s exacting standards. Finding the right calibre of staff had been easy. Plum’s reputation went before it and bakers and pâtissiers of note sent their applications by the sackload, keen to be part of the growing success story that was Plum Patisserie.

Guy and his managers personally trained every team of bakers and whether they were in Solihull or Lymington, everyone used the same ingredients and followed the prescribed methods. Pru and Milly had insisted on this. ‘Quality and presentation are everything!’ Meg had had this drummed into her and could now at a glance tell if the sirop de citron was made with fresh lemons, just by the colour of the glaze on a bun. And if a cherry, no matter how hidden in its almond-infused crème pâtissière, was not the dark, dark colour required, it would be rejected. Canned or frozen substitutes just wouldn’t do.

This year, every one of the outlets was carrying the Plum Patisserie Christmas range that Meg and Guy had spent hours perfecting. The results were stunning: spiced apple and mincemeat tarts with flaky pastry tops dusted in powdered sugar; brandy-infused mini Christmas puddings with tiny crystallised pomegranate berries garnishing their shiny domes; chunky individual cranberry and walnut loaves that came wrapped in Plum Patisserie waxed paper and were best eaten warm, when the moist crumbs melted on your tongue; soft-baked cinnamon and oat-crusted Christmas cookies threaded with chunks of dark chocolate and crushed macadamia nuts. There was a whole range of festive drinks to accompany them, including pumpkin-spiced cinnamon latte and cranberry and orange tea. Meg’s favourite, though, was the luxuriously rich chocolat chaud – just perfect on a cold day. Made from the finest bittersweet organic French chocolate, it was served in a large white bowl that required both hands for sipping. It arrived in front of grateful customers with dark curls of mint-infused chocolat noir scattered across the surface. These stuck to the roof of the mouth and sent one’s tastebuds crazy. Each drink came with a generous paper twist of candied peel and nuts, just one of the little touches that set Plum Patisserie apart from its rivals.

Meg yawned. It had been a long day; her train from Windsor had arrived in Waterloo an hour ago. She had battled through the windswept city, trying to hide her face from the light rain that fell. En route she had been tempted by yet another gift for Lucas. This time it was a brightly coloured jack-in-the-box that caught her eye. She knew that when the lid flipped and the garish clown popped his head from the tin her little boy would shriek and make her do it again and again. She couldn’t wait to give him all his gifts on Christmas morning. She loved the fact that he now properly understood Christmas and was as interested in his presents as he was in the wrapping paper and boxes they arrived in. It gave her so much joy to see Lucas having the type of Christmas that she had only ever dreamt of. Her thoughts flew to the three-bedroomed semi-detached house in Tall Trees Avenue and a stuffed pink unicorn that had been hers for the briefest time.

Nipping into Babbo’s in Mayfair, Meg picked up two hearty portions of chicken parmigiana; that would be plenty for the three of them. Lucas would love the spaghetti and she and Milly would scoop the garlicky tomato sauce, thick slices of milky mozzarella and crunchy breaded chicken on to warm, fresh-baked crusty bread. She considered buying a bottle of red but decided against it, knowing her capacity for alcohol was limited and she had another busy day tomorrow.

The last time she had drunk had been at a pub lunch with Piers, at the Old Red Cow in Smithfield. They had shared a cheese board, with pear chutney and oat cakes, as they sipped at cold pints of strong dark ale. Piers had tutted at her choice of drink, asking if she wouldn’t prefer something a little more ladylike. She had snorted her laughter and asked what he would suggest – Babycham? She felt the familiar cringe and wave of sadness wash through her. She had tried too hard to be the girlfriend she thought he wanted and in doing so had lost part of herself. Never again. She would heed Milly’s advice and the next time would only jump for someone who got her knickers in a spin and knocked her socks off, someone who loved her exactly how she was. She smiled at the idea of taking advice from a woman who drew moustaches on her face with indelible ink and spent hours of each day dressed as a pirate. No wonder she was single.

Meg’s knee-high boots clicked on the icy pavement. Gathering her warm, camel-coloured coat about her neck, she lowered her head against the cold wind that whipped up the leaves and sent the litter in the gutters swirling. She slowed as she approached the display window at Plum’s. ‘Evening, Dimitri, Anna. Still smiling? Good, good. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think that triple salchow is really coming on.’

Meg looked up at the foggy window of the café. It was twenty minutes until closing time and Guy looked dead on his feet. She knew he had had quite a day; the team from
Good Housekeeping
magazine had been in to photograph the Plum Patisserie range for Valentine’s Day – as always, they were thinking and planning ahead, crucial if they were to meet the long lead time of the glossies. The shop and café were packed and a queue of customers, both tourists and locals, snaked down Curzon Street. Everyone was eager for some warm freshly baked boules de campagne and a few slices of the ever-popular, deliciously crumbly winter-spiced tarte aux pommes.

Guy caught sight of Meg and knocked on the window. She let herself in, to the accompaniment of the little brass bell that tinkled overhead on the doorframe. She inhaled the smell of freshly ground coffee, hoping it might give her a lift.

‘Hey, chérie! How was Windsor? Has the Queen been in to the new store yet?’ Guy smiled.

‘Not yet!’ Meg laughed. ‘Busy day?’

‘Phew! You are not kidding.’ Guy mopped at his noticeably un-fevered, powdered brow. ‘It’s been crazy! I’m looking forward to a hot bath, a foot rub and a large glass of gin – not necessarily in that order.’ He giggled. ‘Want to see the photos we got today? The Valentine’s Day range is simply magnifique!’

‘Ooh yes!’ Meg called on the last of her energy reserves and followed him down the back stairs to the floor below. Guy raced ahead so that when she entered the office he was already standing there with his arms spread wide and two large prints dangling from his hands. They showed a beautiful selection of romantic fancies: cupcakes crowned with fondant red hearts, white chocolate tortes with pink mallow hearts falling in a decadent flutter from tier to tier, and brioches baked in heart-shaped moulds and dusted with sliced strawberries and icing sugar.

‘Oh, they look wonderful!’ Meg enthused.

‘They do, don’t they? I had to sample them all.’ He patted his flat stomach.

‘You get all the good jobs, Guy. Mind you, if I ate what you did every day, I’d be the size of a bloody bus!’

Swooping forward, he kissed her forehead. ‘You would be the prettiest bus in Mayfair.’

‘Thanks. I think.’ Meg laughed. ‘Better be getting back. I’ve got supper here and Lucas will be getting hungry.’ She lifted the bag of chicken parmigiana.

‘That poor child will think all food comes in brown paper bags. Do you ever cook for him?’ Guy tutted.

‘When I have the time!’ Meg replied without hesitation.

‘Touché. Ooh, give him this from me!’ Guy reached behind her and plucked one of the Valentine’s cupcakes from the shelf. ‘Tell him his Uncle Guy made it from scratch. Or should I put it into a paper bag so he knows it’s food?’ He winked.

‘You are so not funny.’ Meg inhaled the rich vanilla-scented sponge and lightly prodded the thick pool of fondant icing. ‘And I can’t lie. I haven’t eaten all day and this will probably not survive the walk up the stairs.’

‘I’ll be checking – Lucas tells me
everything
!’ Guy turned on his heel and swept out of the office. Meg laughed. He was right, he and Lucas certainly shared a lovely bond.

She walked into the flat to find Milly on the phone and pacing the hallway as she tutted and shook her head in response to the caller. Meg waved and pointed at the bag of supper. Milly rolled her eyes and pointed to the sitting room, indicating that that was where she would find her little boy.

Over the four years Meg had lived in the flat, she had stamped her own personality on the interior; gone were some of the fusty oil paintings, replaced by big, bold prints that added a splash of colour to the neutral decor. An enormous leather beanbag sat in pride of place in the sitting room and Lucas’s toys were dotted around, bringing just the right amount of hominess to the grand Georgian design.

Meg leant against the wall and pulled off her boots, flexing her newly freed toes against the marble floor, enjoying the coolness of the tiles beneath her tired feet.

‘Lucas!’ she called, holding the cupcake out like bait.

‘Mummy!’ He ran from the sitting room.

‘Hey, baby.’ She bent down and smothered his face with kisses. ‘Guy sent you a cake. You can have it after your tea, okay?’

Lucas nodded and went back to the telly. Having grown up with fine patisserie and fresh baking all around him, such a gift was nothing special.

She switched the oven on and removed the lids of the foil containers, releasing the glorious smell of garlicky chicken parmigiana into the room before placing the food on the top shelf to heat through.

Milly walked in and stood with her hands on her hips and her eyes closed. ‘Blimey, Meg, that was a long one. I’ve got a hot ear.’ She placed her fingers against her reddened lobe.

‘What’s the matter?’ Meg had heard enough of the conversation to know there was a problem somewhere. She licked her fingers clean of stray tomato sauce, laid three plates on top of the stove to take the chill from the white china, then rummaged in the cutlery drawer for knives, forks and spoons.

Milly rubbed her top lip, which was thankfully on the mend and no longer so tender, after having been scoured with a rough sponge to remove her indelible-pen moustache. ‘Bloody New York, that’s what’s the matter.’ She let out a large sigh.

‘Is that the whole city you’re fed up with or just a particular part of it?’ Meg smiled as she washed a handful of lettuce in the colander.

‘One particular part of it, sadly, that sits on Bleecker Street and West 11th.’

‘The new store? Why, what’s up?’ Meg tore the lettuce and arranged it in piles on the plates before adding some thinly sliced rings of red pepper and some leftover sweetcorn that she had stored in a little glass bowl for just such an occasion. She couldn’t abide waste.

‘They’re really behind schedule. The café isn’t even close to ready for opening – there’s a problem with the lighting or something, I couldn’t really figure it out. But what I do know is that all the electrics are behind. Three of the staff are having a bit of a wobble, worrying this great new venture might not even get off the ground. Juno hinted they’re threatening to walk and I can tell she’s trying to give me the good news all the time, and not being that honest. She’s stressed.’ Milly rested her bum against the counter top and folded her arms. ‘They need a visit. It needs a bit of steering.’

Meg paused from her dinner preparations and looked over at Milly. She knew what was coming next.

‘Would you mind, Meg? I know you hate leaving Lucas, but he’ll be fine, I promise, and it will only be in and out, four days tops.’

Milly was right, she did hate leaving her little boy. And although she’d handled the complex problems that some of the new British stores had thrown up, this felt like a big deal. New York? She’d only ever seen it on the TV. She’d barely even been out of the UK, just on a couple of breaks to France with Milly and Pru. She’d never been abroad for work, had never even dreamt of travelling that far away by herself. As ever, she was only one memory away from being the little girl with her clothes in a carrier bag, feeling awkward in a stranger’s house and wanting to go back to her mum. All she really wanted was to be at home, preparing for Lucas’s fourth Christmas, wrapping presents, stocking up on chocolates and watching a bit of telly.

Milly drew breath. ‘You could go at the beginning of next week and be back in no time. There’s no one else I trust to sort it out, Meg. I’d go myself, but I’ve got all the Christmas press interviews to give and I want to be on hand for the holiday stock deliveries for the new shops. Guy is brilliant here, but he’s not really one of life’s problem-solvers.’