About the Author

KATIE GINGER lives by the sea in the south-east of England, and apart from holidays to very hot places where you can sit by a pool and drink cocktails as big your head, she wouldn’t really want to be anywhere else. Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage is her third novel. She is also author of the Seafront series – The Little Theatre on the Seafront, shortlisted for the Katie Fforde Debut Novel of the Year award, and Summer Season on the Seafront.

When she’s not writing, Katie spends her time drinking gin, or with her husband, trying to keep alive her two children: Ellie, who believes everything in life should be performed like a musical number from a West End show; and Sam, who is basically a monkey with a boy’s face. And there’s also their adorable King Charles Spaniel, Wotsit (yes, he is named after the crisps!).

For more about Katie, you can visit her website: www.keginger.com, find her on Facebook: www.facebook.com/KatieGAuthor, or follow her on Twitter: @KatieGAuthor.

Readers LOVE Katie Ginger

‘This book is every sort of wonderful, with gorgeous characters, a stunning town and a friendship that turns in to a romance you’re not going to want to miss out on’ *****

‘Does jumping up and down, cuddling my Kindle and grinning from ear to ear count as a review?! … Katie writes with such warmth and humour and I could feel every word’ *****

‘Loved it!’ *****

‘A fantastic chick-lit page turner’ *****

‘Sweet, heart-warming, and very enjoyable. This book is like a warm chocolate chip cookie, you feel better for eating it, get a bite of exciting chocolate now and again all while just enjoying the experience. Love the book!’ *****

‘The perfect book to enjoy in a few days of quiet downtime’ *****

‘Absolutely loved this book. Couldn’t put it down. Wonderful uplifting storyline. Can’t wait to see what’s next from this author!’ *****

‘The Little Theatre On The Seafront has to be one of my top ten books of 2018. I loved everything about the book … I can’t wait to see what Katie Ginger comes up with next and I know that it will be another cracking read … a very well deserved 5* out of 5*’ *****

‘Faultlessly enjoyable’ *****

‘One of my favourite series out there … Love, laughter and nerves a plenty were bursting off the pages’ *****

‘A perfect summer read’ *****

‘I loved this book … An easy read that is just perfect for a little bit of summer indulgence’ *****

‘Wonderful storylines, brilliant characters that had me smirking, laughing, and also wiping the odd stray tear’ *****

Also by Katie Ginger

The Little Theatre on the Seafront

Summer Season on the Seafront

Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage
Katie Ginger

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Katie Ginger 2019

Katie Ginger asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008302665

Version: 2019-08-28

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers LOVE Katie Ginger

Also by Katie Ginger

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

In loving memory of Angie and Dan

Chapter 1
London

Felicity Fenchurch primped and preened in front of the camera, brushing her honey-blonde curls back from her face. The director shouted, ‘Action,’ and she gave a longing smile, dipped down to pull a tray from the oven, and gazing at the camera from under false eyelashes, pouted.

‘There you have it,’ Felicity announced, removing her pink oven gloves with a flourish. ‘A deliciously decadent fabulous four-cheese lasagne, made with fresh homemade perfect pasta.’

‘Cut,’ shouted David, and the silent studio erupted into life. ‘That’s a wrap for the day, everyone. Felicity, darling, that was marvellous as usual. How you manage to look so damn sexy serving cheesy pasta is beyond me.’

Esme Kendrick watched as they exited the studio. As a food technologist, she’d done all the cooking this morning: chopped all the ingredients, grated the different cheeses, made a velvety béchamel sauce. She’d even made the pasta at the crack of dawn before the greedy pigeons had started cooing, getting up in the dark and padding about in the cold kitchen as a wintery wind blustered around the apartment. It was November, and as cold as a penguin’s flipper outside, but to Esme November meant nearly Christmas, and there was something different about London at Christmas time. Everyone was a little friendlier, a little kinder, and with parties and celebrations the city was alive with a kind of electricity. After a rushed cup of coffee, she’d made her way to work, with the great strings of Christmas lights swinging above, glittering in the winter gloom. The lasagne, complete with a perfect golden-brown finish, had then been presented to the world as the handiwork of TV goddess, Felicity Fenchurch. In reality, all Felicity had done was smoulder at the camera and mix things in a bowl.

‘I’m so nervous,’ Esme said to Helena, her best friend and a fellow food technician. ‘Why am I so nervous about pitching Grandma’s double-layer chocolate chestnut cake to Sasha?’

Helena brushed her dark brown bob behind her ear. ‘Oh, I don’t know, is it because it’s your absolute favourite recipe of your gran’s? The one you make every year at Christmas, the one you never, ever stop talking about as soon as summer’s over and the weather gets even the slightest bit nippy. The one that—’

‘Yeah, maybe it’s that,’ Esme interrupted playfully. ‘Right, wish me luck. See you tomorrow.’

Sasha’s office was of the new modern glass variety that looks more like a greenhouse. As their producer, she was scary but fair. Never rude or patronising, not like Felicity, but she was a powerhouse – a confident, composed, I’ve-achieved-my-dreams-with-effort-and-hard-work kind of woman. The type you look up to and fear all at the same time. The glass wall, with a view onto the corridor, was lined with tall green plastic pot plants designed to make the place seem homely. Esme was just approaching the door and about to knock when she heard voices from inside. Peering through the dusty leaves of a banana plant, Felicity Fenchurch sat purring at Sasha discussing something oddly familiar.

‘I know it’s a late edition, Sasha, but I really think my granny’s triple-layer chocolate chestnut cake will be just the thing. Chestnuts are always big at Christmas and nothing screams indulgence like a chocolate cake. And what makes mine special is the addition of a secret ingredient – maple syrup. And a slightly unorthodox method of chilling the batter before baking. It’ll be revolutionary.’ Felicity smiled and bright white teeth gleamed in the dull office light.

Esme couldn’t believe what she was hearing. These were the same things – the same words – she’d used when describing her recipe to Helena yesterday. Felicity must have overheard them and now she was passing off the recipe as her own. An unpleasant feeling grew in Esme’s stomach.

‘I’m really not sure,’ replied Sasha, in cool professional tones. ‘We’ll need to drop something else and it’ll have to fit into that timeslot. I really don’t fancy redoing the entire schedule.’

‘Of course. I was going to suggest we drop the chocolate orange tart. It’s so last year anyway and with some clever cut shots from David this will be sublime.’ She smiled at David who glowed at the compliment. Felicity crossed her long legs and Esme, with heat rushing through her body, spotted the red sole of a Louboutin.

‘And,’ pitched in David, ‘I just love that it’s her granny’s recipe, don’t you? People love sentimental cooking. It’ll be a bestseller for sure.’

‘Okay then,’ replied Sasha, nodding. Her grey hair was cut into an elfin crop and her deceptively youthful face remained passive. ‘Fine. We can do it.’

Esme stepped back and leaned against the opposite wall, her legs rubbery and almost giving way. Her whole body shook with rage. Stealing boring old day-to-day recipes, as Felicity had done before, was one thing, but stealing this one was something else. This recipe was the one she used to remember her grandma, the one the whole family ate at Christmas with a toast to Gran first. Esme had thought long and hard about sharing it and it had taken her ages to be able to do it. Only this winter had she finally reached the point where she wanted other people to taste it and feel the sense of love and care it imparted, rather than holding onto it as if she was holding on to the memories of her gran. To hear Felicity passing it off as her own grandma’s recipe was low. Esme bit her lip to stop the tears from falling and anger tightened her hands into fists. Should she march in and confront Felicity or let it go? Her heart pounded, her temper causing her brain to freeze. As a strong sense of injustice took over, without thinking, she raised her hand and knocked.

‘Come in,’ said Sasha in a loud clear voice. ‘Oh, Esme, can I help you?’

Esme paused in the doorway, unsure what to say. She couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard or that her body seemed to be acting of its own accord. ‘Sasha, I … The triple-layer chocolate chestnut cake Felicity just told you about – that recipe’s not hers, it’s mine—’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Felicity replied, shooting up to standing, her face a picture of shocked indignation, but there was a flicker of fear in her eyes. ‘How dare you accuse me of—’

‘You must have overheard me talking about it yesterday. You stole it!’ Esme turned to Sasha who was also now standing.

‘Sasha, I came here tonight to tell you about my grandma’s recipe for a double-layer chocolate chestnut cake – to see if we could use it in the Christmas show,’ Felicity squeaked in outrage, but Esme ignored her. ‘It’s from a cookery book that’s been handed down through my family. It’s got all our favourite recipes in. I wanted to share this one because Gran was – it’s so special.’

Felicity sat back down and found a tissue in her bag before pressing it to her nose, pretending to cry. ‘How can you say that, Esme? You know it’s not true.’ In support, David, the director, glowered at Esme.

‘Esme,’ Sasha began calmly, her face placid. There wasn’t even a hint in her eyes that she was shocked or finding this remotely uncomfortable. Esme was. She felt decidedly uncomfortable and she had a horrible sinking feeling she should have thought this through before barging into Sasha’s office letting her fiery temper take over. ‘Are you saying that Miss Fenchurch has stolen your recipe for a … what was it?’

‘A double-layer chocolate chestnut cake,’ Esme replied as confidently as she could, though her stomach burned. Her eyes were drawn to the deep green scarf Sasha had fastened around her neck. It was floral and pretty, and at odds with her cold, harsh demeanour.

Felicity sobbed. ‘Sasha, this is absolutely outrageous. And mine is triple-layer anyway.’

‘You’ve just added one, that’s all,’ Esme blurted. ‘The recipe is the same.’

Sasha glanced from Felicity to Esme, her face expressionless. ‘Esme, you’ve made a very serious accusation here. Are you sure you want to continue with this conversation? Is it possible you’ve made a mistake and this is purely a coincidence?’

‘No,’ Esme said, quickly, her voice rising. In the back of her mind something told her to stop and think but it was too late, her mouth was still opening and the words flowing out. ‘That recipe was from my grandmother’s cookbook. Hers is the only recipe I know of with the addition of maple syrup and a method of chilling the batter.’

‘Do you have the recipe book with you, to prove that it’s yours? I assume that as you were coming to see me this evening to pitch the idea you brought it.’

‘Yes,’ said Esme, pulling her bag from her shoulder. This would prove her right. She reached into her bag, fumbling around inside, spilling the contents onto the floor. Her hand trembled as with a sickening dread, she realised she’d left it next to the kettle last night after showing Leo something. Running late this morning, she’d forgotten to re-pack it. Esme raised her eyes to heaven and gave a silent prayer, hoping this wouldn’t go against her. From the corner of her eye, she caught Felicity’s face. A sly smile spread across her plumped-up lips and she held a tissue to her eyes to hide it.

‘Do you have it with you?’ asked Sasha. ‘It would be useful to have a look at it.’

Esme bit her lip as a flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. ‘I’m afraid I left it at home.’

Felicity scoffed. ‘Probably because there is no book. You seem to lie about everything, Miss Kendrick. Is Esme even your real name?’

‘Now, now,’ interrupted David, putting a hand on Felicity’s arm. ‘I know you’re upset, Felicity, and justifiably so, but let’s not get personal.’

‘Personal?’ she shouted, clutching her chest. ‘This is very personal to me, David. That woman is accusing me of lying to the whole world. If this got out, it would be a PR nightmare for me and the studio, and I would be left with no option but to sue. I have to protect my reputation.’

Esme’s mouth flew open, irked by Felicity’s overacting. ‘I’m not the liar here, you are. You did steal it. You overheard me say I was going to pitch it and then you jumped in before I could. You must have been lurking by the coffee machine when you listened in to us chatting.’

‘Lurking? How absurd,’ laughed Felicity, brushing her hair away from her face so they could see her full shocked expression, but Esme detected a hint of concern in her voice. ‘You have no proof of that, do you?’

‘Do you have any proof, Esme?’ asked Sasha. ‘Who were you chatting to?’ She was so calm Esme wondered if she was a robot and the scarf hid a central control panel. How could anyone be so numb to another’s suffering? Esme chewed her lip, the tears welling in her eyes. She couldn’t risk Helena getting into trouble.

‘I’d rather not say,’ Esme replied, but even she knew it sounded feeble.

‘May I suggest,’ said David, the colour draining a little from his ruddy cheeks, ‘if that’s the case, we forget about this whole dreadful business. Esme has no proof and I’m sure that if there are any … similarities, as Sasha said, it’s simply coincidence.’

Esme’s mind whirled around. This wasn’t right. Felicity should be apologising to her, not the other way around. ‘Do you think we both have grandmas who left us cookery books then, David? Sasha, I know I forgot the book, but you must believe me. I haven’t made this up.’

Sasha glanced at Felicity then back to Esme. ‘Esme, you’ve accused a colleague of lying and stealing ideas. This is very serious.’

‘It’s slander and harassment,’ added Felicity who stood up to leave. ‘I will not sit here being insulted by this – this – liar any longer. Either sort it out, Sasha, or I walk.’ She marched to the door.

‘Now, wait a second, Felicity.’ Sasha rose from her chair. ‘Let’s not do anything rash.’ She turned to Esme, her face was softer, but her voice remained cold and matter-of-fact. ‘Esme, I’m sorry, but without any evidence you need to withdraw your complaint and apologise to Felicity.’

Esme sat frozen, staring wide-eyed and bewildered. Slowly, she shook her head. It wasn’t just her being cheated here, her grandma was too, and she wouldn’t stand for it. ‘No. No, I won’t. I know I don’t have proof with me. I left the book at home by accident. If you let me go and get it—’

‘Absolutely not,’ Felicity shouted from the door. ‘I mean it, Sasha. Unless this is resolved now, I walk. I don’t want to, but I will. I’m not lacking for offers, as you know.’

Sasha hesitated and Esme knew what was going through her brain. Without Felicity and the ratings she brought, the whole network could go down. Her show, Felicity Fenchurch’s Fabulous Feasts, was the only way they were keeping up with the other channels. ‘Esme, I’m sorry,’ Sasha continued. ‘I think we need to get this sorted out now. I’m very surprised you didn’t bring the recipe with you if you were going to pitch it. Felicity could simply have a similar recipe. If you apologise to her, we can put this all behind us.’

Still at the doorway, holding a tissue to her eyes, Felicity’s voice was almost childlike as she said, ‘Even though this unfounded accusation has damaged our relationship beyond repair, Esme, I’m a professional and if you apologise, I’ll try and move on.’

Could she apologise? Could she say she was wrong and back down now? Was she even sure she was right? Esme took a deep breath but her mind was made up. Sometimes you had to be strong and stand up for yourself. It’s what her gran had taught her and she wouldn’t back down now. The secret ingredient and method were too similar, she wasn’t mistaken. Esme’s shoulders and neck hurt from the tension, even her legs ached, but she shook her head again. ‘I’m sorry, Sasha, but I won’t apologise. I’m right.’

‘Then I’m afraid I have no choice, Esme. This counts as gross misconduct so it’s instant dismissal.’ Esme felt the tears spring to her eyes but there was no way she would cry in front of Felicity and David.

‘I’ve been sacked?’ Her voice sounded strange where she had to force the words past the ball of anger and hurt lodged in her throat. It didn’t seem real. Somehow Esme managed to back out of the room while her whole body sparked with suppressed rage. Visibly shaking, she edged passed Felicity and left.

***

The glittering Christmas lights of London sparkled in the evening darkness. Giant snowflake lights hung high in the air, twinkling overhead, but Esme barely noticed them through her tears. She walked into someone, mumbled an apology and carried on with her head down. The heavy crowds of tourists bustled around her and snippets of Christmas songs carried on the air from the shops she passed. Instead of enjoying the wonderful Christmas vibe – that special atmosphere of excitement Esme loved most about London at this time of year – she dipped her head and marched on as fast as she could. By the time she reached her and Leo’s apartment, tears were flowing freely down her cheeks.

Unbuttoning her heavy winter coat, she hung it on the rack then loosened her scarf, feeling drained and exhausted. Walking into the kitchen, she knew there was only one thing she could do to make herself feel better. Cook. She’d make Leo’s favourite meal. A nice thick, juicy steak, rare and pink in the middle, and a proper béarnaise sauce with lots of good French butter and fresh tarragon. She’d even make asparagus roasted with sea salt as a side dish. A small smile crept over Esme’s face as she searched the fridge for the ingredients but it was instantly replaced by a frown and cold teardrops on her cheeks. How could things have gone so badly wrong today? She shouldn’t have acted on impulse and marched in there. She should have waited and thought about what to do. Now she’d thrown her job away and her heart was filled with regret.

Leo got up from the sofa. ‘Esme, you’re home.’

‘Yep. And I got fired,’ Esme replied, matter-of-fact, chopping the butter into small cubes before turning to see his face frozen in panic.

‘What?’ He looked even more shocked than she’d expected and walked to the window to stare out, gripping the hair at the back of his head. She’d hoped for a hug but as he stayed where he was, she poured two glasses of wine and took them over. When he turned back he reached for his wine, then his dark grey eyes gazed at her with concern.

‘What happ—’

Esme bit back tears but took a deep breath. ‘Felicity stole my recipe again. One of Grandma’s. She must have overheard me talking about it with Helena at lunch yesterday and then decided to pitch it before I could. When I went to Sasha’s office this evening, she was there saying it was her family recipe. I was so upset, Leo, and I don’t know why, but I went in there and confronted her.’

‘You did what?’

‘I know, I know.’ Esme rubbed her throbbing forehead. ‘I don’t know why I did it either. Well, I do. I did I because it was the right thing to do. She was even claiming it was from her granny and you know how long I’ve waited to share this special recipe but couldn’t bring myself to do it.’

Finally, Leo reached out to her but didn’t pull her into a hug, he touched her hand. He was clearly struggling to process everything she’d said. ‘Are you sure you were right? I mean, I know you’ve said before about her doing this, but couldn’t it just be a coincidence? You can be a bit dramatic sometimes.’

Esme wiped a tear from her cheek. Leo was always saying she was being dramatic when she lost her temper or got upset. His clear, decisive mind didn’t get her passionate, emotional one, and maybe she was being dramatic, but it didn’t stop her being right. ‘A coincidence? No. That’s what she’s claiming but she even said about using maple syrup and chilling the mixture first. She could only’ve known that if she was ear-wigging.’ Esme thrust her hand into her mop of ragged curls. ‘It’s one thing to steal a recipe but another to steal a grandma. She probably doesn’t even have one anymore. I bet she devoured hers like a praying mantis. And she’s tried to make it three layers instead of two. It won’t work as triple layers, it’ll just slide about then fall over, not unless you make the sponge thicker or use something other than double cream as a filling.’

‘What are you going to do?’ He turned to face her, his expression tense.

Esme feigned a hopefulness she didn’t feel. ‘I’m sure I’ll pick something else up quickly, in a few months; or worst-case scenario, I’ll go freelance.’ Suddenly, Leo took her hand and led her to the table.

‘Esme, can you come and sit down, please? I need to talk to you.’ Esme paused. His face was serious as he placed his wine glass down, and her heart thudded in her chest. For the last few months he’d been secretive and she and her friends thought maybe he was going to propose. Was this the moment? Sat on the chair, next to their tiny dining table, he knelt down in front of her and Esme’s heart rocketed up into her throat. She took a big breath in and bit the insides of her cheeks to stop herself grinning like a fool.

‘Esme, I’m sorry, I should have done this weeks ago, the timing is terrible.’ She wanted to shout that it wasn’t. It wasn’t at all. It was perfect timing. Leo raked a hand through his hair and she watched, hoping his hand would reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a tiny box. ‘I know today’s been difficult for you and I …’ He shook his head. ‘I should’ve done this before now.’

Esme bit her lip. She was going to get married!

‘I think we should break up,’ Leo announced.

Her mouth opened then closed again as she stared at him in disbelief. What? What had just happened? Everything fell silent except for the blood pounding in her ears and her short gasps of breath as she tried to control her emotions. Leo’s eyes dropped and he stood up.

‘I just feel we’ve become friends more than husband-and-wife material, don’t you? And I think it’d be the best thing for both of us if we just moved on. Don’t you think so?’

If he’d hoped for some kind of agreement from Esme, he was going to be disappointed. ‘But it’s nearly Christmas,’ she said quietly.

‘It’s not even mid-November, Esme. It’s nowhere near Christmas.’ Leo went to the window. His slightly curmudgeonly attitude to Christmas suddenly seemed far less endearing and much more Scrooge-like, and as if to confirm it, he said, ‘I can give you a few days to move your stuff out, you don’t have to go right now. I’m not a monster.’

Dazed, Esme tried to think but she couldn’t, she could only feel – and all she felt was that she had to get out. She stood and placed her wine glass on the table, then went and picked up her handbag from the sofa. As she retrieved her coat from the rack, Leo said, ‘Esme, where are you going? We can still have dinner and—’

She closed the door softly behind her.

Esme trudged through the rain to the Singapore Sling, ignoring it soaking her hair and running down her face, mixing with her tears. She’d left her hat and scarf at the flat, but wasn’t going back for them. She’d rather get wet. Every fibre of her being felt crushed. As she descended the steps to the cellar bar, leaving the world behind, a drop of rain fell from the sign and trickled down the back of her neck. She wanted to hide. To hibernate below ground and never come out.

After an emergency call to Helena, her friends were with her in half an hour. Esme’s heart, pounded and punched by the day’s events, felt broken and bruised. When she thought of Leo, the last thread of love snapped and her heart deflated like a burst balloon. She could even picture it in her chest all floppy, sad and wrinkled.

Mark, Lola and Helena gathered around Esme, open-mouthed and with drinks untouched as she told them all the details of her day from hell. Dance music thumped in the background and harsh neon lights lit their usual table in the corner. At least the DJ wasn’t playing Christmas songs. The last thing Esme wanted right now was Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ blasting out while her life hit an all-time low. Having finished, Esme couldn’t stop the great sob that emerged in a high-pitched puff of air, making Mark and Helena jump.

‘Christ, sweetie,’ said Mark, ‘you need more than just a drink after all that.’

‘I don’t think I can stomach one right now.’

‘Rubbish,’ he replied. ‘What you need is an enormous cocktail with a little umbrella in.’ His bright blue eyes popped against his dark hair and olive skin. ‘And as for that witch, well—’

Esme sobbed.

‘And Leo is a complete knob,’ said Lola. ‘I can’t believe after five years together this is how he treats you.’

‘What will you do now?’ Helena asked sympathetically. Esme simply shrugged. ‘Tomorrow you need to go out and register with agencies,’ she commanded. Helena was scarily matter-of-fact and dealt with everything with an almost military attitude. Esme watched the bubbles fizz in her glass. She had no idea what life beyond today would look like. She didn’t yet know if she’d make it to tomorrow. ‘You can stay with us as long as you need to,’ Helena added, glancing at Mark as they were housemates. But Esme didn’t fancy sleeping on their sofa for the foreseeable future. And Eric, Lola’s other half, worked from home so their spare room had been turned into an office. She let out a giant sigh.

‘I’ll have to move back home for a bit, won’t I? I can’t rent in London without a job and I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get another one. I haven’t got any savings and I can’t scrounge off you guys indefinitely.’ She leaned forward and rested her head on the table as a raindrop dripped from her soaking wet hair onto her nose.

‘It wouldn’t be scrounging, you’re our friend,’ replied Lola. ‘If Felicity Fenchurch walked in here right now, I’d punch her on the nose.’

Helena rubbed Esme’s back. ‘From what you’ve said, back home isn’t exactly—’

‘London?’ offered Esme. ‘No, it’s not. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘Could you freelance and commute in?’ asked Mark.

‘Too far and too expensive.’

‘What about some catering work? You know, weddings and stuff?’ suggested Helena.

Esme hesitated. ‘Yeah, maybe. But I’d still need a good reference and I don’t think I’m going to get one of those now.’

‘I know,’ said Lola. ‘You could write that cookery book you’re always talking about.’

Lola had been Esme’s best friend since school and knew her inside out. They came from the same town, went to the same university and had moved to London when they’d finished their studies, living together in a grotty two-bedroom flat above a kebab shop. She was also eternally optimistic, which was both helpful and, at times, annoying. ‘You need to see this as an opportunity, not a setback. Okay, so you move back home for a bit. Without having to pay stupidly high London rent, and without your time being taken up by Felicity, you could write your cookbook and get it published. This is your chance to focus on it.’

‘Do you really think so?’ asked Esme, who felt a tiny spark of hope in the darkness of the last few hours.

‘Of course you could,’ agreed Helena. ‘You’re the best food tech around. Not only that, you’re great at creating recipes too.’

Mark nodded. ‘You look at this mess. Felicity thought your recipes were so good she wanted to steal them. And when I think about all the dinner parties where you’ve cooked for us, OMG! That salmon thing you made when I split up with Andrew? Trust me, it made it all worthwhile.’

Esme smiled and nudged Mark with her shoulder. ‘What would I do without you guys?’

‘Die of thirst, probably. I’m going to get another round.’

‘Where will you stay tonight?’ asked Helena, taking Esme’s hand. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to go back to the flat.’

‘She’s staying with me and Eric, aren’t you?’ said Lola. ‘But you’re not borrowing my pants like you did at university.’

‘I had an excuse then,’ Esme replied. ‘I didn’t know how to do washing.’ But suddenly her face clouded in concern. ‘There is one thing.’

‘What?’ asked Mark, pausing on his way to get more drinks. ‘After everything you’ve been though today, I can’t believe there’s anything worse to deal with.’

‘Oh yes there is,’ replied Esme, resting her head on the table and speaking from under her arms. ‘I still have to tell my mother.’

‘Well, you’re on your own there, love,’ said Helena, smiling. ‘I’ve met your mum and she is batshit crazy.’

Chapter 2
Sandchester

Joe Holloway made a Herculean effort to laugh at his friend Danny’s joke. It wasn’t that the joke wasn’t funny – Danny’s jokes were always funny – but laughing felt unnatural to Joe and had done for a long time.

He stared into his pint glass and swilled the liquid around, then drained it in one big gulp. Even though it was only a normal Wednesday night, the pub was full of his friends and the people he’d known all his life, laughing and chatting. He’d been back for a few years now and everyone in the small town had welcomed him with soothing noises, but it was the pity he couldn’t stand. It still came out in the nervous glances directed his way and the gentle, careful conversation.

Their usual pub hadn’t changed since he was a teenager, drinking underage. The only thing that was different was the music. The Britpop of the Nineties had been replaced by warbling women singing with fake husky voices, or middle-aged rock pop that made him want to grab the controls and turn it over. Danny’s hand hit his shoulder and squeezed. A squeeze that signified he was becoming morbid again. Introverted and, as Danny so kindly put it, a killjoy.

Joe glanced up from his stool and studied the scratched wooden bar before giving a weak smile. Danny nodded towards the two grinning ladies with a cheeky wink and Joe made an effort to smile at the taller woman. He recognised the signs. Her glances from under long eyelashes, eye contact that lingered a little too long. It was getting late, almost ten-thirty, and he should be thinking of heading off. He had work tomorrow, but that hadn’t stopped him before and wouldn’t now. That ‘one quick drink’ had ended up being two or three, then four or five, and now he couldn’t remember how many he’d had. The two women Danny was chatting up were smiling and laughing, caressing wine glasses in long slim fingers. The tall blonde glanced at Joe again, cocking her head to the side so her hair fanned out. She swept it all back over one shoulder. What was her name again? She’d told him when Danny invited them over but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. Did it start with an A? Annie? Amelia? Something like that. He frowned, trying to remember as she came closer and leaned against the bar. She wasn’t dressed in a short skirt or dress, or covered in make-up – the usual Saturday night get-ups. She wore jeans and a tight jumper. She was cute.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself much?’

Joe glanced up and studied her face. She was pretty. At least, she was pretty after the few too many he’d had. Almond-shaped eyes, nice figure. Danny nudged him again and gave him a knowing look. Joe shook his head and returned to his drink. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

He didn’t feel like saying anything else right now so tapped his finger in time with the music playing in the background. The trouble was women often took his lack of chit chat as him playing the strong and silent type. It wasn’t. He wasn’t brooding either. He was just so bloody depressed he often didn’t speak at all, for hours, days if he could help it. From the corner of his eye he saw Angela, or whatever her name was, shuffling uncomfortably.

‘Do you still work at the estate agent’s in town?’ she asked, running her fingers down the stem of her empty wine glass.

Joe nodded at the barman and nudged his glass forward. Fred refilled it. He scratched his stubbled cheek. ‘Um, yeah. Do you want a drink?’He didn’t really want to buy her one, but he had that longing again. A longing to be held, a longing for physical contact, for intimacy. For sex.

A slow smile spread over her face. ‘I thought you’d never ask. Dry white wine please,’ she said to Fred. Her hair was just like Clara’s, the colour of straw. Joe turned away at the familiar surge of nausea that arose whenever he thought of her. His throat tightened. If only things had been different.

Fred delivered his drink and one for … Amy? Joe took his and gulped, numbing the pain. If he kept it locked away, he was able to make it through the day pretty much intact and in the evenings threw himself into video games. It was soothing entering another world where he didn’t have to be himself.

‘You’re not very talkative, are you? Just like when you were at school.’

‘We were at school together?’ he asked, not looking up.

That was the other shitty thing about coming back. He saw all these people he’d gone to school with. All those who’d thought he was cool. Joe scoffed to himself and felt Amanda glance at him. He wasn’t cool anymore. He was a loser, the biggest loser he knew, with a giant, steaming turd of a life.

The song had changed and the husky singer sang, ‘In the arms of the angels.’ Bollocks, thought Joe. Every song was about heartbreak or death these days, or something worse. He felt a sudden desire to leave but then that familiar urge for human contact pulled at him, sticking his butt to the seat. He didn’t want to talk though. He hated all the questions these women had, like they could fix him if they could just have a little chat about it all.

She giggled. ‘Danny remembered me, he told you when we came over. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already?’ She wrapped her hair around her finger.

Joe tried to picture what she might have been like when they were at school but he soon gave up. It was so hard to concentrate sometimes. Somehow his mind always wandered back to Clara, as if she was sneaking around in his head, trying to make him deal with it all. He knew she wouldn’t want him to be like this, but he couldn’t break out of the deep, dark black hole he’d fallen into.

‘I’m Annabelle Crawley. I was three years below you at school.’

He nodded. ‘Oh yeah, I remember.’ He didn’t remember. Who remembered kids three years below you at school? You just ignored them, you didn’t acknowledge them, or worse, become friends with them.

Annabelle snuggled in closer. ‘It’s okay. I know you don’t have a clue who I am, but I forgive you. You can get to know me now.’

Joe glanced at his watch, knowing exactly how this night would end and, from the gleam in her eye, so did she. The feel of her body pressed into his arm was enough to convince them that another one-night stand was just what he wanted, even though he’d feel empty again in the morning. But swallowing his pint he knew it was pointless thinking any further ahead than the next day, and that was pushing it sometimes. He felt like his soul was lost, roaming somewhere outside his body, out there in the world. It would come back fleetingly during the reprieve of company, only to go missing again. He knew it wouldn’t stay this time, but he’d like to feel like himself again, even if it was only for a short while. Turning to Annabelle, he began talking a little more.

Chapter 3
Sandchester

Carol, Esme’s mum, sat opposite her at the large kitchen table. From the strange expressions she was making, Esme knew she was fantasising about ways to harm Leo Chalmers. Stephen, Esme’s father, sat quietly listening.

‘So that’s why I’m here, at half past eight on a Thursday morning,’ said Esme, examining her mum’s floral bathrobe tied around her waist. ‘I didn’t wake you up, did I?’

‘No, dear,’ replied Carol. ‘We were just having sex—’

‘Some tea,’ interrupted Stephen, glaring at his wife. ‘We were just having some tea. In bed. Watching telly.’ He scratched his head and a redness crept out of his stripy pyjama top.

Esme shuddered. Since she had left home after finishing university, and her younger sister had moved out eight years ago, her parents had very much enjoyed a more active sex life. More than once when she’d been home for Christmas, or down for some family occasion, Esme would hear them and bury her head under the pillow. After last Christmas, Leo had insisted they stay at the hotel outside town, even though it would cost them more money to get taxis to and fro. But that wasn’t going to happen now, she thought sadly. They wouldn’t relish the prospect of having their daughter back home anymore than she wanted to be there, but they were always supportive and just what Esme needed right now. Stephen cocked his head to one side and smiled at his daughter.

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said her mum. ‘You’ll get back on your feet and if that Leo turns up here, I shall … I shall …’ She grabbed a dinner knife, covered in marmalade. ‘I shall stab him in the back for stabbing you in the back. I can’t believe his name’s Chalmers. Charm, my arse.’

Esme tried to smile, but tears were forming in her eyes again, even though she was sick of crying. That morning, climbing into the taxi at Sandchester Station, which was unstaffed because no one ever wanted to visit the boring little town, Esme had rubbed at her tired eyes. Turning up at her mum and dad’s house, at the age of 33, with all her belongings crammed into one suitcase, and a Christmas pudding under her arm, was thoroughly depressing. At least it hadn’t been raining. ‘He didn’t stab me in the back, Mum. And he didn’t say there was anyone else. He just said we were more like friends than, you know.’ She blushed and stared down at the table with its red check tablecloth.

‘Well, darling,’ Carol replied, taking her cup. ‘Your room is all yours until you find somewhere else.’

‘I don’t know how I’ll find somewhere else. I need a job first.’ She ran a hand through her un-brushed hair and her fingers caught in the knots. She’d never felt so low.

‘About that,’ said Stephen, pouring another cup of tea. ‘We were saving up some money for your wedding.’

‘Wedding,’ repeated her mother, nodding. She’d always had this weird habit of randomly repeating the last word of other people’s sentences.

‘But as things have changed, you could use it to put down a deposit on a rental if you like. I’m sure you’ll find some work soon, you’re so good at your job. But just remember one thing, Esme.’ She paused at her dad’s sincere expression. ‘Don’t ever go backwards. Always move forwards. Going back never helps.’

‘Never helps,’ repeated Carol. ‘That means no going back to that scumbag. Even if he comes crawling on bended knee with the biggest diamond you’ve ever seen. Men like that don’t change.’

‘How much do you have saved?’ asked Esme.

‘About three thousand pounds,’ Stephen answered.

Esme raised her head. ‘Really? Thank you. Thank you so much. ‘It was more than generous and enough to cover not just a deposit but the first few months’ rent too. Tears escaped from her eyes and she studied her parents. The wrinkles on her mum’s kind, round face crinkled and her dad’s mouth lifted into a grin. They were always so kind and supportive. Even if her mum did have homicidal tendencies and her father was now talking in pop-psychology book clichés, they were great parents.

‘Have you told your sister yet?’ asked Stephen.

‘No.’ Esme dipped her eyes as if she was six and had been told off.

‘Why not?’

‘She’ll be upset with me for losing my job. She’ll think I should’ve—’

‘She will not,’ interrupted Carol, now waving the marmalade knife at Esme. ‘Alice will be pleased you’re home and proud that you stood up for yourself, just like I am. We’ll go and see her after breakfast. Little Daniel will be so happy to see his Aunty Ezzy.’

After breakfast, Carol drove them to Alice’s house as if she were a Formula One driver in the last race of the season. Esme’s fingers ached and her knuckles were white from holding onto the seat. It had been like a terrifying ride at an amusement park. Her ears were ringing from the angry shouting Carol had given every other passing driver. The old Ford had taken ages to heat up as well. They’d sat on the driveway waiting for the windscreen to de-mist while rain began to pour. As November took hold, the weather was wet and cold but without the buzz that December brought. Christmas lights were on here too, but with far less glitz and pizzazz than London. The local radio station insisted on playing the odd Christmas song, and though Leo used to hate it, Esme didn’t. She loved Christmas and despite everything, this one at home with her family would be great. They’d eat, drink, laugh and just be together. She wouldn’t have to rush back early on Boxing Day morning because Leo couldn’t put up with her mum any longer.

Alice opened the front door and stared wide-eyed at her sister. They had the same red hair, inherited from their mother, though Carol now dyed hers platinum-blonde in an ill-advised attempt to reverse the aging process. If her hair had actually gone platinum-blonde it would have looked amazing, but it still went a bit orangey-yellow in places and no one was brave enough to tell her. Alice’s figure had grown plump since having Daniel, while Esme’s was slim and toned from regular trips the gym, but it was clear to anyone they were family. The London gym Esme and Leo had gone to had been swanky and exclusive – she’d have to start running again or something now she was home. She couldn’t afford a gym membership anymore. Yet Esme envied her sister for her absolute contentment with herself and her life.

‘Hello, sis,’ said Esme, as she approached.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Alice, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘I didn’t think we’d see you till Christmas Eve.’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Aunty Ezzy!’ called a little voice from behind Alice’s legs.

‘Hello, little man,’ she replied, whisking her 4-year-old nephew up into a huge hug. Daniel was gorgeous, with red hair and large blue eyes rimmed with thick lashes. Esme squeezed him tight. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

‘Me too. Are you staying here?’ he asked, staring up.

‘Not in your house, I’m with Granny and Grandpa for a bit.’

Alice frowned and peered at their mum. ‘You two better come in and tell me what’s going on.’

*

Three cups of tea later and everyone in Esme’s life was now up to speed on what a disaster it was. Esme stared around the kitchen where every cupboard door and each side of the fridge was covered in her nephew’s artwork.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Alice. ‘I just can’t believe it.’ She glanced from Esme to Carol, until she too began wielding sharp implements clearly imagining harm to Leo.

‘I know,’ said Carol, ‘that’s what I said.’

‘And we all thought he was getting ready to propose. You said he’d been secretly shopping and organising stuff. You said he’d been looking at jewellery. I just assumed—’

‘Me too,’ Esme replied. ‘And all the gang did as well.’

‘As well,’ Carol repeated. ‘Another woman,’ she said after a pause sitting back in her chair at the breakfast bar.

‘I don’t think there is, Mum,’ said Esme. ‘He told me he felt we’d just grown apart.’

Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, you can stay here as long as you like, you know that. Though I can’t promise little man won’t wake you up at five-thirty every morning. Oh, and he likes to do that by jumping on your head.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Esme, grinning. The central heating was on and the house was lovely and warm. Being there with her mum and sister was like being given a great big hug. ‘Mum and Dad said they have some money I can use to get a little place while I find a new job.’

‘Do you think that’s a good idea? Taking on a place while you try and find work?’ Alice bustled around the kitchen cleaning the surfaces and loading the dishwasher.

‘Don’t worry, Alice, I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m going to write my cookbook while I look for work. If I don’t try now, when will I ever have the chance again? I need a kitchen to work in and I can’t use Mum and Dad’s all day with them pottering around me. It’ll drive me crazy. And them,’ she added, smiling at her mum. ‘I was hoping I could pick up a cheap little flat and freelance while I write.’

Alice paused and checked on Daniel who, at that precise moment, was trying to fit the television remote control into his mouth. ‘Darling, please don’t put that in your mouth, or anywhere else for that matter.’ He put it down and picked up one of his dad’s video games. ‘And don’t play with that, please? It’s Daddy’s. Why don’t you draw Aunty Ezzy a picture?’

‘Ooh, pictures,’ said Carol, excitedly. ‘I’ll go and watch him while you chat to Esme.’ She disappeared into the living room happy at the prospect.

‘Dad said rental prices are quite cheap at the moment,’ Esme continued. ‘Mum and Dad gave me enough to cover the deposit and about three months’ rent. I really think this is the time to at least try. I don’t have commitments like you and I need to make the most of this opportunity.’

Alice wiped over the worktop again. ‘You sound like Lola,’ she teased.

‘I know. Annoying, isn’t it?’ Esme watched her mum sitting happily with Daniel, kissing his head every few moments. ‘Don’t tell Mum, but I’m just trying to look on the bright side so she doesn’t worry too much. I’m pretty much falling apart internally.’ She gave a loud sniff.

Alice, who was just about to fill the kettle again, left it and came over, giving her sister a squeeze. ‘I know, Ezzy, but it’ll be okay, I promise. And if you’re sure this is the right thing to do, I might know someone who can help. Are you really determined to get a place?’

‘Definitely. If I live with Mum and Dad for more than a few days, I’ll turn suicidal.’

‘Okay, well, Joe Holloway might be able to help us.’

‘Joe Holloway?’ Esme stopped and cupped her hands around her mug. ‘Joe who we all fancied like mad at school?’

‘Yeah. He’s an estate agent.’

‘An estate agent? I always thought he’d end up like a spy or something.’

Alice rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway, you fancied him like mad when we were at school, not me. Rumour has it he’s still a bit of a ladies’ man. Loves a one-night stand.’ She sat opposite and took Esme’s hands. ‘Are you sure getting a place isn’t too risky?’

‘If the worst happens, I’ll only be renting so I can just move back home. I won’t end up in lots of debt. And what have I got to lose? I’m 33, Alice. I need to take this chance now. If I don’t, I’ll get back into the nine to five, and keep putting it off. You know what it’s like, there’s never a perfect time, is there?’

Alice didn’t have a chance to answer as Esme’s phone started ringing. It was Helena. ‘Hey, Hels, everything okay?’ There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘Helena? Are you all right?’

‘Umm … not really, love, I’ve got some bad news.’

Esme’s heart sank. What else could’ve happened? It was only ten o’clock. What else could have gone wrong already? Was she being sued by Felicity? Oh, please God, don’t let her be sued by Felicity. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m so sorry, honey, but Mark just told me he thinks Leo’s moving in some new woman.’

‘What?’

‘I hate telling you this over the phone but Mark just rang him to arrange coming to get your stuff. He thought the quicker we get this all sorted the better. Leo said he needs as much out as possible in the next few days and Mark said, “Why? Have you got someone moving in already?” and he went really quiet and mumbled something, then said he had to go and hung up. We just thought you should know.’

Esme felt numb and her mind stopped working. ‘Oh, right.’ The trouble was it had been Leo’s place originally and she’d moved in three years ago, but it had never completely felt like home. Without thinking, he’d refer to it as his place and it had stung. Now he’d tossed her out and moved someone else in. The scumbag.

‘Mark’s going to get the stuff tomorrow; I think Eric’s helping. I’m so sorry, honey. It might just be a guilty conscience, but you know what Mark’s like. He’s got second sight when it comes to this sort of thing. He doesn’t normally get signs wrong.’

Esme nodded, but forgot to speak, her mind frozen. Like a fool she’d believed Leo when he said he thought they’d become more like friends and had sat here defending him to her mum and sister. Esme had hated the idea of their relationship ending but could accept it if growing apart was the reason. It felt more respectful somehow for them to have simply changed over time. But this? Cheating? This was just nasty.

‘Esme?’

‘Can I speak to you later, Helena? I’m with Alice right now.’

‘Yeah, of course. I’m so sorry, honey. We all love you and he’s a shit. Say hi to Alice for me.’ Esme hung up and told Alice.

‘That dirty rotten bastard,’ Alice shouted, then glanced over her shoulder to check Daniel hadn’t come into the kitchen. ‘He must have been seeing her behind your back for ages. You don’t just move someone in a day after you’ve chucked your current girlfriend unless something has been going on for a while. He must have had it all planned. What an absolute …’ She trailed away seeing Esme’s face.

A sharp pain shot though her temples and her head ached. Her heart thumped hard in her chest. At least it was still beating, she reminded herself. Even with all this. It was broken, but beating. Alice took Esme’s hands in hers and looked her straight in the eye.

‘I’m so sorry, Ezzy. But we’ll make this work, I promise. All of us together. We’ll make this work. And soon this’ll be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.’

Esme placed her hand on top of Alice’s, sniffing back tears. ‘I love you, sis. But we’d better remove all the sharp objects before we tell Mum.’ Alice nodded and quickly hid the knife block behind the bread bin.

As expected, Carol went off like a rocket and when later that day Esme told her dad, he pursed his lips in outrage, which was quite a lot from him. That night, in the little box room at her parents’ house, in her old single bed, Esme cried and cried until she could hardly breathe. A pile of tissues lay on the floor beside her and were scattered over the duvet. Her old Nirvana posters stared at her, Kurt Cobain’s eyes making her feel watched and judged. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, in the still, quiet house, in the still, quiet cul-de-sac, Esme fell asleep, wondering how she’d gone from living her best life to being at the bottom of the scrap heap without a hope in hells chance of climbing back up to the top.

Chapter 4
Sandchester

Joe scratched the back of his head, checked around for customers, and gave the photocopier a swift kick. The damn thing was playing up again and had been for ages. If the paper wasn’t getting stuck, it decided it had run out of toner and he had to get down on his hands and knees and wiggle different bits about until the annoying red light stopped flashing. It wasn’t that he knew what he was doing. It was just that being the youngest of the office staff by a good twenty years, it was supposed he knew more about technology than the rest of them. He didn’t.

Fridays at the estate agents were always quiet for some reason. Maybe people didn’t want the hassle of tidying their houses and making them presentable for viewings, and those who were buying left all the looking for Saturdays, when they could do so without worrying about taking time off work. Either way, he was fed up. He’d completed all the admin he had to do, and the four games of solitaire he’d just played on his computer had done nothing to alleviate his boredom.

The photocopier spluttered into life and kicked out the paper he had been waiting for, as well as a few extra sheets for good measure. He took them and ran a finger round the collar of his shirt. He was sweating. In November. The radiators were on full blast and old Mr Rigby, who owned the business, insisted on having a couple of heaters on as well. It was only about eight degrees outside, but it was as hot as Dubai in here – a place he would definitely rather be right now.

Even though he’d been back for a long time, he was still getting used to working nine to five back in England. After moving to Australia with his girlfriend, Clara, he’d worked a normal working week. But with long lunch hours, swims before work, and barbecues on the beach after, it had made the slog of the daily grind so much easier to bear. He stared out of the window at the threatening grey sky and pouring rain, and sighed. The landline on his desk rang and he hurried over to answer it. ‘Good morning, Rigby Estate Agents, Joe speaking. How can I help?’

‘Hi, Joe?’ said a singsong female voice.

‘Hi, how can I help?’ He didn’t recognise the voice.

‘It’s Annabelle.’

‘Annabelle?’

‘Yes, Annabelle.’ She sounded annoyed now. ‘We met in the pub the other night and then we … we went back to yours.’

‘Oh yes. I remember.’ He did, just about. He’d made sure they hadn’t swapped numbers, he didn’t want to lead her on, but if she’d found the work number and rung that, she clearly wanted more than he could give. He realised he’d been quiet for a while and glanced up to see Mr Rigby smiling at him. Keeping his voice professional, he asked, ‘What can I help you with?’

‘I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner sometime?’

‘Yeah, um, no, thanks.’ There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line. ‘What I mean is …’ He leaned down behind his desk, pretending to look for something in the bottom drawer. He didn’t want the whole office to hear him and brushing off a lady could be quite difficult sometimes. He knew that from experience. Joe kept his voice low. ‘The other night was great, but I’m not looking for anything more right now. Nothing serious.’ It was a bit of a corny line but he’d used it before and it had worked fairly well. Plus he meant it. He wasn’t leading anyone on. He wouldn’t do that. He mentally crossed his fingers, hoping it would work again now. Annabelle said nothing and he could feel the anger emanating from her and travelling over the air waves.

‘Oh. Okay.’ Her voice was curt and clipped. ‘Well, I guess I’ll see you around then?’

‘Yeah, okay. Bye.’

She hung up and Joe sat up from behind his desk. Calls like that were the worst part of one-night stands. The fact that they weren’t fulfilling didn’t bother him. He didn’t want to be fulfilled. He couldn’t anymore. Sometimes, like with Amy – no, Annabelle – he felt bad for a while, but he never promised them anything more. He wasn’t a complete bastard. Joe was adjusting his tie when the office phone on his desk rang again. ‘Good morning, Rigby Estate Agents, Joe speaking. How can I help?’

‘Hi? Is that Joe Holloway?’

He didn’t recognise the female voice on the other end of the line, and his brow wrinkled. He hoped this wasn’t another one-night stand wanting more. Before Annabelle, his last one had been a few months ago, so it would be odd her calling now. Why did he do this to himself? It never helped and it just caused more trouble. If they were going to start phoning him at work, he could lose his job. ‘Yes, this is Joe. How can I help?’

‘It’s Alice Potts. I’m looking for some properties for my sister, Esme.’

‘Alice?’

Oh God, was this Annabelle calling back pretending to be a customer? Trust him to pick a psycho. He gazed at the rain battering against the large glass windows and pictured her suddenly standing there, wielding a knife. Joe shuddered but tried to remain professional. Mr Rigby was typing slowly with two fingers and hadn’t seemed to notice.

‘Alice and Sean Potts. You helped my husband and I find our first house.’ Alice laughed. ‘You’d know me better as Alice Kendrick. We were at school at the same time. My sister, Esme, was in your year, I was a year below.’

A small smile pulled the corner of his mouth upwards. ‘Alice and Esme Kendrick? Yeah, I remember you guys now. I thought Esme moved to London?’ She’d been the talk of the town having worked hard to get to a good London university and then found a job working for a television company. ‘She was one of the major success stories of our school. Not like the rest of us normal folk.’ He sat back in his chair and played with the telephone cord.

‘Yeah, my sister was always super-focused. So, she was hoping to see some places tomorrow. Is there any chance you could line up a few viewings?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Joe replied, grabbing his notebook and pen. It didn’t give him much time, and he wondered what the rush was, but still, business was a good thing. ‘Is she renting or buying?’

‘Renting.’

‘Any particular times for the viewings?’

‘Nope. She’s free all day.’

He made a note. ‘And what about budget? What type of properties does she like?’

‘Budget needs to be as small as possible. She doesn’t want to spend much per month and as beggars can’t be choosers, just show her anything that’s cheap.’

That was odd, but he made a note anyway. ‘Okay, I’ll call you later with the details. Can you give me your number? Or should I take Esme’s?’

Alice hesitated for a moment before replying. ‘No, take mine. She’s not really ready to … no, never mind. But if you could call me, that’d be great.’

Joe took the details and hung up. Esme Kendrick? Now there was a turn up. But what was Alice going to say? She’s not really ready to what? He rested his elbows on the desk, tapping his pen against his notepad. Looks like things were going well for Esme and her boyfriend, presuming she had one, if they were getting a place down here as well as having one in London. Of course she’d have a boyfriend. She was probably married by now, or at least engaged. She was always the most intelligent, not to mention the prettiest, girl at school. Joe could picture her now as a grown woman all pale-skinned and wide-eyed, with that mop of red curls like some Highland beauty from the Middle Ages.

He went to the filing cabinet and pulled out some brochures for the cheapest rental properties. If it was a holiday or weekend place, why rent? And why the tight budget? It all seemed very strange, but before he could think about it any further, an old male voice from the other side of the office said, ‘Joe, this bloody printer is messing about again. Can you come and unblock it?’

Filing his questions at the back of his mind, Joe closed the drawer, took a deep breath and replied. ‘Yes, Mr Rigby. On my way.’

Chapter 5
London

Leo paced the streets of London, taking long confident strides amongst the crowds of people leisurely ambling along. The rain was pouring down in great, heavy sheets and the dark sky was solid with cloud. He tutted as a couple came to a sudden stop in front of him to look in a shop window at the elaborate Christmas-themed decorations. With a sarcastic, ‘Excuse me,’ he edged around them and carried on, wishing he was indoors, dry and warm, staring out of his apartment window at the priceless view beyond. He loved looking out of that window at the skyline, a mixture of grand buildings and tall grey skyscrapers.

It wasn’t a priceless view though, was it? he mused. It had cost a hell of a lot of money – too much money, some had said – but that was London, and London prices. Leo pulled the collar of his coat in tighter. You had to invest in yourself and your future – that’s what people didn’t understand. No one liked to admit it, but the address on your CV could make all the difference to getting that job or not. Take Esme. She’d struggled with finding permanent work until she moved in with him and then, wham, she got that amazing job with Felicity Fenchurch. He’d always prided himself on helping her career like that, encouraging her to be as ambitious as him. It was such a shame it ended the way it did. Esme’s job and them. But then, she’d always been headstrong and now she’d thrown away her career.

Leo overtook a group of tourists and in his pocket, he tightened his grip on the ring he had bought Veronica. It wasn’t an engagement ring, though he had secretly looked at those too, but he didn’t want to rush too much. Poor Esme. From the look on her face that night, it was almost as if she thought he was going to propose or spring a romantic holiday on her. She’d always been fanciful though and would often let her imagination run wild. The day after they’d split, she’d come at the crack of dawn, even before he was up for the gym, and packed a suitcase, clearing out her clothes and special mementoes, like her memory box. She hadn’t said a word, just moved silently around the room. At first, he’d pretended to be asleep but, realising he couldn’t do that forever, he’d gone and hidden in the bathroom, thankful she had cleared that first. It wasn’t cowardly, he told himself. It was tactful and made things easier for her. It was the least he could do. She must be devastated. But she’d be fine. She was one of those people who’d always be fine. Later, she had texted saying Mark would come and get the last few bits when it was convenient, and he was to contact Mark directly to arrange it. She didn’t want to speak to him, or see him, and to be honest, he couldn’t blame her. He knew deep down he should have given her more time, but it was difficult to say no to Veronica.

Swerving to the right and cutting up a middle-aged man who was trundling along at a snail’s pace, staring up at all the Christmas lights, Leo charged down the tube station steps. The warm air rose up to grab him, a sudden contrast to the cold air outside. He was meeting Veronica soon and he couldn’t wait to give her the ring. He was sure she’d love it. Still, as sad as things were with Esme, at least now he was now able to move on and be with someone who got him. Someone who was just as ambitious as him. The type of person he was meant to be with. Leo smiled to himself. Veronica was equally as driven, strong and determined, but if she had one fault, it was that she was a little bossy. She had to be, he supposed, being his boss and leading the team, but sometimes she forgot to turn it off when they were together. Since yesterday morning, when he told her Esme had gone, taking most of her stuff, she’d been demanding Leo chase Esme to confirm when she’d remove the last of her things. He’d told her he couldn’t do it yet – it had only been two days since he’d ended it. To phone now would be callous in the extreme, but it hadn’t stopped her mentioning it again in the office this afternoon. Leo suspected Mark knew that he’d allowed someone else to move in already and would no doubt have told Esme. He was glad he didn’t have to face her at the moment when it would still be raw and hurtful for her.

A train pulled in and he jumped on. Leo was looking forward to going back to his flat and pictured the piles of Veronica’s things already dotted here and there – a spare bag, a book – happy that he’d done the right thing. Esme’s lack of ambition had been holding him back from his life goals for a long time now. Another reason why Veronica was the perfect partner for him. That and her insanely long legs. Together they could achieve anything. They’d started their affair six months before he’d broken up with Esme and a fleeting regret for cheating on her passed through him but quickly faded. Sometimes these things happened.

He was meeting Veronica at the flat and then they were going to a fancy restaurant where he’d give her the ring. Every time he tried to take Esme to a fancy restaurant she had this annoying habit of trying to figure out exactly what was in a dish and how she could cook it. It had been endearing at first but as things had started to go wrong, he’d found it boring. There was no way Veronica would do something like that. The new watch on his wrist shone as he reached his arm up to hold onto the bar. Whilst at the jeweller’s he’d bought himself a new watch. Well, why shouldn’t he? He’d been through a lot lately, he deserved a little treat.

Chapter 6
Sandchester

‘So, I’ve got these three properties that are in your price range,’ said Joe, handing Esme the details on a freezing cold Saturday morning. ‘They’re all vacant so we can see them today.’

Esme took them and peeked at Joe over the top of the paper, pretending to read. He had been gorgeous at school, in that bad boy kind of way, with black hair worn long at the front so it flopped into his sea green eyes. He’d looked like something from a boy band. His untucked shirt always hung loose and his school tie was short and fat, like the cool kids wore them. Esme would go the long way round to science so she could pass him on her way and see him leaning back against the wall with one leg bent. Now, he was handsome in a mature I-know-what-I’m-doing kind of way. His hair was cut short and his eyes, though ringed gently with crow’s feet, were intelligent and kind. His grin was still wide, pulling up slightly more at one side, but he had straight white teeth and a chiselled jaw. Esme had met him at the estate agent’s at nine o’clock and been nervous since she got up. And not just at the idea of finding a new place to live. Doubts were still ringing in her brain that she was making another huge mistake, going from one terrible decision to another. But she was also anxious about seeing Joe again. She’d wondered if he was still as handsome and if his face had aged well, but he wasn’t on Facebook and Esme hadn’t wanted to ask Alice for fear of teasing.

‘Which one did you want to look at first?’ Joe asked, putting his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a well-cut navy suit with a pale blue shirt and dark blue tie.

‘Oh, umm …’ Esme checked the details again and tried to ignore the blush creeping up her cheeks. The first property was a small flat on the seafront in a converted Georgian house. It had sconces and high ceilings, and great views onto the beach. The second was an even smaller flat above a takeaway pizza place at the horrid end of the high street – Esme put that one to the back. The third and final property was a shabby-looking cottage on the outskirts of town, with views over the fields.

‘Shall we go to the seafront flat first?’ said Esme. ‘It looks fabulous.’ She imagined large sash windows with a built-in seat where she could sit and read her cookery books or watch winter storms roll in from the sea.

‘Sure thing.’ He grabbed his coat and opened the door for her. Esme retied the belt on hers as a cold wind blasted in.

The sky was a dense pale grey from the rain clouds gathering to bring another damp, cold day. A strong wind blew her curls over her face and she tugged her hat down onto her head to keep them at bay. She’d been back home for three days now and her head and heart still ached for Leo and the life she’d left in her favourite city on earth – London. Would she ever get that life back again?

Last night she’d disappeared to her room after dinner like a sulky teenager, and dredged through her phone, staring at the photos of her and Leo together, hoping to spot signs of when things had begun to go wrong. No clues had been forthcoming. He was always smiling and had his arms around her. She’d been completely blindsided by their break-up; had no idea it was coming. She’d trusted him when he’d said he was working late because they were busy at work. She’d even been pleased for him, knowing how much his career meant to him. But now she knew he’d been lying. They’d been together for five years and she’d been so sure he’d propose soon. Then last month, after checking their internet history when looking for a recipe she’d come across but forgotten to bookmark, she found he’d been looking at jewellery, engagement rings to be precise, and had assumed it couldn’t be long. She’d thought that his secrecy was him planning something big. She’d been so stupid.

Glancing towards Joe as he strode to his car, Esme gave herself a mental shake. Today she had to try and look forward, look to the future. And there was always something fun about nosing around other people’s houses. This excitement, mixed with her nerves at being in such close proximity to Joe, knotted her stomach as she climbed into his waiting car.

*

Joe watched Esme yank the green beanie hat down onto her head and wondered what on earth she was doing back in boring old Sandchester. Usually couples looking for holiday homes viewed everything together – quite nauseating. All the lovey-doveycuddliness as they ‘ummed’ and ‘awwed’ over period features or places that were within easy reach of the motorways or train station. Perhaps her other half was one of those uber-busy, suited and booted, successful types. A doctor saving lives, or a surgeon elbow-deep in brains curing epilepsy. Maybe he was a scientist building space rockets, or perhaps creating a vaccine for space flu. Whatever he did, Joe bet it was essential or pioneering, or life-saving. Something epic that made his being an estate agent seem normal and boring. There wasn’t a ring on her finger, though. No big shiny diamond or wedding band, so they hadn’t got that far yet. Not that it was any of his business, he reminded himself.

Keeping his eyes on the path avoiding the puddles, he unlocked the car. He’d forgotten how pretty Esme was. In fact, she was even prettier now than she had been back then. In her teens she’d been gangly — all arms and legs that didn’t seem to work properly. She’d been clumsy, he remembered with a smile. Now she was much more in proportion, had grown into herself. ‘So, how’s life?’ he asked, climbing into the driver’s seat.

Esme hesitated. ‘Oh, you know … fine.’

The radio kicked out a Christmas song and Esme shivered. Joe reached over and turned the heater on. From the pause, he guessed she didn’t want to talk about it to him which he could understand. He was a stranger.

‘What about you?’ she asked, staring out the window. ‘What have you been up to since school?’

His mind flew to Clara and a sharp pain shot into his heart. ‘The usual stuff,’ he replied, ensuring his voice was level and calm. ‘Uni, a bit of travelling. I went to Australia for a while.’ That was it. That was all he could manage. Before she asked anymore questions, he said, ‘So you want to see the seafront property first? It’s great, but it’s not super-huge. With the budget you’ve got, I’m afraid you won’t get lots and lots of space.’

‘That’s okay. I just need a decent-sized kitchen, that’s all.’ Her voice carried a slightly resigned tone. Joe glanced at her. She had a pretty profile and the mass of red curls were poking out from under her green beanie hat, emphasising the beautiful deep colour of her hair.

‘So you still love cooking and all that sort of stuff?’

‘Yep, I do.’ Esme smiled. ‘Cooking always makes me feel better.

‘You were the only one who paid attention in home economics.’

‘I don’t know why you lot hated it so much.’

He shrugged. ‘We were 15 and knew about microwavable burgers. To us, there was no point in cooking anything else.’

Esme laughed. ‘I suppose not. Though microwavable burgers are super-gross.’

‘They really are,’ he said, laughing too. ‘I have no idea why I ate them. It was like meat-flavoured cardboard in actual cardboard.’

As they sped through the town, from the corner of his eye, Joe saw her watch out of the window. ‘The town hasn’t changed much, has it? Esme asked, glancing towards him.

Apart from some new-build housing developments, it hadn’t. The streets were lined with boring bungalows and quiet suburban cul-de-sacs. A few new coffee shops had opened up on the high street but that was about all. It wasn’t a match for Oxford Street. On the radio the DJ announced another Christmas song. Some people had already started decorating. and here and there large inflatable Santas loomed out of front gardens or from behind hedges. He thought it was a bit early, personally.

Joe drove along the seafront, following the sea to the far end of town and pulled up in front of a beautiful Georgian house that had been divided into flats. Esme climbed out of the car and stood back to admire the large black front door and sash windows. ‘All you have to do is cross the road and you’re right on the beach,’ said Joe. The grey clouds had followed them from the town centre and a light rain began to fall. He pulled out the keys and opened the main door. ‘It’s the top flat.’

Esme climbed the stairs two at a time, almost beating him to the top and he was hopeful she’d like it. He found the front door keys and led them inside. They walked down a small hall, so small in fact, they nearly had to go sideways like a crab, emerging into a tiny sitting room, off which was an even smaller kitchen. Esme’s face clouded. Joe knew that look but gave her a moment to look around. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, when she came back into the sitting room after checking out the rest of the flat, but he could already guess the answer; her eyes weren’t sparkling as they had outside.

‘I don’t think the kitchen area is quite big enough for what I need.’

‘What do you need it for exactly?’ asked Joe, looking confused. He’d assumed this was some kind of weekend or holiday flat where even the most ardent of bakers would lay off the self-catering.

‘I’ll be doing a lot of cooking. So I need some decent workspace.’

‘Right.’ Joe nodded. That was weird. Most people did the minimum amount of cooking in their holiday homes, preferring to eat out. But then Esme had always been different. Looking around, the cooker was squeezed into a corner, the fridge stuck out and there were only three cupboards and a tiny bit of workspace. They’d called it a galley kitchen in the details but even that was pushing it. ‘Are you going to be here a lot then?’

Esme looked down at the floor, her cheeks colouring. ‘I’m, umm, I’m having a bit of a change of direction.’

That didn’t sound too good, but he didn’t want to pry. ‘Oh, okay.’

She was walking around the tiny kitchen opening and closing the cupboard doors. ‘I, umm, I left my job in London and then … then my boyfriend and I broke up, so I’m back here for a bit. I’m trying to make a new start.’

Joe raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t imagined it was anything so bad and was even more surprised that she’d told him so openly. Then he remembered that she’d always been honest and outspoken at school. ‘Sorry. That’s really tough.’

Esme scratched her head underneath her hat. Her eyes were so sad and her pale skin resembled porcelain. A part of him wanted to make her feel better, to let her know she wasn’t alone in her heartbreak, but he couldn’t get the words out. ‘Which one would you like to try next then? I’m guessing this is a no-go?’

Esme gave a polite smile. ‘If this were bigger, it’d be perfect. I’d love to live by the sea.’

‘The only thing I’ve got like this that’s larger is double the price.’

Esme frowned. ‘I know I’ve got limited options.’

‘What about the flat in Palmerston Road? The one above the pizza shop?’ He tried to sound cheerful but was pretty sure it wouldn’t be her thing.

‘I have to be honest, I’m not keen on the pizza place.’

‘It’s not actually in a pizza shop,’ replied Joe, smiling.

‘Above it, then. I bet it smells of greasy pizza all the time,’ Esme said, aimlessly walking to and fro.

‘It doesn’t. It’s quite nice inside. It’ll just get a bit noisy when the pubs kick out. It’s the best pizza place in town.’

Esme’s eyes widened and a smile lit her face. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’

‘I am.’ He grinned.

‘Well, I’ll make a note to try it, but I don’t really want to live above it. Besides, I make a mean pizza myself with fresh tomato sauce, basil, olives and sautéed artichokes. It’s really good.’

The thought of it made him hungry. ‘That sounds amazing. I’ve never had things like that on a pizza before. I stick with pepperoni, or tuna if I’m on a diet.’

Esme giggled. ‘I don’t think pizza is a diet dish even if it has tuna on it.’ A slight glow came to her cheeks and she turned one of the brochures over in her hands. ‘What’s the deal with this cottage?’

‘Ahh, now, that’s a bit of an oddity.’ Knowing the state of it, he hesitated. ‘It’s only just come onto the books, so we haven’t had a chance to clean it yet. It belonged to an old woman who passed away. The family are looking for a buyer, but they’re happy to rent it too, just so long as the building’s in use. It doesn’t have central heating, but it is full of character. It’s surrounded by the countryside and I think it’s one of the most unusual properties we’ve ever had. Want to have a look?’

Esme nodded. ‘It sounds interesting.’

‘It just needs a little bit of TLC.’

‘Don’t we all?’ A shadow came over Esme’s face. How she was so positive when she’d had such a terrible time, he didn’t know.

A moment’s silence fell between them and Joe read the brochure for the flat above the pizza shop. To be fair, it did look a bit grubby and the kitchen there was tiny. The owners obviously thought their tenants would survive on pizza from downstairs. He made a mental note to redo the photos when he was finished with Esme. She wandered to the window and took one last look out to sea before following him out of the flat.

Joe drove them to the outskirts of town, leaving behind the unremarkable new-builds and ordinary streets lined with terraced houses. The roads gave way to a narrow country lane, widening here and there for cars to pass. Before long, field upon field lined the sides of the road. Some held horses covered with heavy blankets and they seemed happy enough roaming about in the cold; others were bare and the smell of damp mud followed them. They turned off the main lane and drove down a narrow dirt track until the cottage came into view. They drew closer and Joe saw a smile creep over Esme’s lips.

As decrepit as it was, it was pretty and picturesque, as it said in the brochure. A rose bush climbed up either side of the front door and though no flowers were growing at this time of year, it didn’t look bleak. Small, hardy bushes of rosemary grew around the walls of the house here and there, haphazardly marking the boundary. A couple of tiles were hanging at odd angles on the roof, and the nearest neighbours were a mile and a half east. If she was going to be clattering around in the kitchen at all times of the day or night, which he suspected she would be, there would be no one nearby to bother her. ‘What do you think?’ asked Joe, pulling on the handbrake.

‘It’s like a fairytale.’ Esme grinned at him and climbed out the car. She walked to the door and pulled back some of the bare branches of a rose bush climbing up the outside to reveal a name plaque. Mr Rigby must have missed it when he came to value the property and take the photos. ‘Mistletoe Cottage,’ Esme read aloud. From her tone he wasn’t sure if she liked it or not, then turning back, she grinned.

‘Yeah, that’s the name of the place. Listen, I know it’s quite isolated but all the local supermarkets deliver out here, as well as the takeaways, not that you’ll be needing those.’ He pulled up the collar of his coat as a gust of wind swept around them, but at least the drizzle had eased off. ‘Also it’s only a twenty-minute walk into town.’

‘What’s over there?’ Esme asked, pointing to a large wood on the brow of a nearby hill.

‘That’s Parkin Wood. It’s a great place to walk. There are tracks to follow and streams and stuff. There’s nothing scary over there.’

She nodded and turned again to look at the cottage. ‘I like it.’

‘Just remember what I said about the inside, okay? It’s not modern and new and shiny. It’s all a bit old and dusty.’

Esme frowned. ‘That’s not very estate agenty of you, is it? Aren’t you supposed to be glossing over all the terrible things and telling me it’s a great opportunity or something like that?’

‘It’s a bit late now,’ he said with a smile. ‘You already know about the ancient decor and no central heating.’

‘That’s true.’

His voice softened. ‘If you like it, then great, but I’m not going to give you the hard sell. You need to know warts and all what’s going on with this place.’

She turned to look at him and he was caught by the sincerity in her eyes. ‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’ Just as a blush rose up her cheeks, she looked away. ‘Can we have a look inside?’

‘Of course.’ Joe fumbled in his pocket and found the correct keys. He opened the front door and held it for Esme to enter, then switched on the light as it was so dark. Esme gasped.

The open-plan living room was full of old furniture. Two large comfortable-looking sofas sat around a Seventies coffee table in front of an open fire. In the corner, an old lamp with a rose-patterned fringed shade stood next to the window. Only a wooden workbench separated the kitchen and living room. On the other side of this, a long unit with an old-fashioned butlers sink sat underneath a huge window with views out to the back garden. Esme went and peered out. It was hard to see where the garden finished and the fields began; all around there was nothing but green.

Esme glanced at Joe and he saw the light in her eyes. They were a beautiful amber colour, like golden syrup, and her pale skin glowed luminescent in the winter light. Something happened to his heart and he felt it beat for the first time since he and Clara had split up. He shook his head to chase the thoughts away. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s amazing,’ Esme replied, looking around her.

‘It comes with all this stuff, too. You wouldn’t need any furniture.’ Esme focused on the tiny fridge making a strange humming sound. ‘Well, maybe a new fridge. Is this enough workspace for you?’

‘Yes, definitely,’ she answered, running her fingers over the heavy wood of the worktop. Her elegant fingers traced the nicks and dents made over time.

‘Did you want to see upstairs?’

Esme nodded and followed Joe up the rickety wooden stairs. The top floor had two bedrooms and a small bathroom. To say it was dated was an understatement. The bathroom furniture, while clean, was avocado green, and the tiles were salmon pink. The two bedrooms were on the small side; it would be a squeeze to get anything other than a double bed in them. Giant cobwebs lined the corners of every ceiling. The place needed a good clean but was structurally sound. Esme darted here and there while Joe struggled to keep up. ‘What do you think then?’ he asked when, on the landing, she finally stood still.

‘I love it,’ she muttered more to herself than him, then cleared her throat. ‘I love it.’

‘Are you sure?’ Joe asked. She’d had such a rough time, he didn’t want her making a mistake.

‘I am,’ she nodded, enthusiastically. ‘It just feels right. It’s hard to explain.’

Joe stood watching her. The look on her face showed how much she loved it. Her eyes gleamed and she was unable to stay still. She walked back downstairs and he trailed after her. ‘You do remember it hasn’t got any central heating, don’t you?’

‘It’s fine. I’ll just wear lots of jumpers.’ Esme read the brochure again. ‘I’m going to do it. I’m going to take this one.’

‘This one is much cheaper than the rest,’ said Joe, reminding himself he was working. And yet, he wavered, not wanting to add to her already difficult life. ‘Are you sure? You can always have a second viewing another day, if you want?’

Esme gave a wry smile. ‘Why are you trying to dissuade me?’

He clutched the keys and dropped his eyes to the floor. ‘I just want you to know what you’re getting into. We can make some bad decisions when we’re recovering from a broken heart.’

Esme smiled. ‘I’m sure, okay? If there’s one thing you should know about me, Joe Holloway, it’s that I know my own mind. Heartbreak or no.’

‘Yeah, I remember from home economics,’ he replied, smoothing down the back of his hair. ‘You used to argue with the teacher all the time.’ Her using his full name, like the teachers had at school brought a strange tingle to his chest and without really thinking he placed his hand there. ‘Come on then, let’s get the paperwork sorted.’

Chapter 7
Sandchester

The paperwork was signed that afternoon and by the time Saturday evening came, the sky dark and the wind beginning to groan, Esme was officially the new tenant. When she went home and told her mum, she felt a small bubble of excitement about life for the first time since it had all come tumbling down around her. As much as her heart was still shattered into a hundred pieces, she wasn’t one for sulking or staying still. She was lucky to have the money from her parents; not many people would get such a chance, and she was determined to make the best of it. Having said that, her mum still had some reservations.

‘So you’re becoming a hermit?’ asked Carol, furiously cleaning the kitchen table, her features tight with worry. And considering she didn’t furiously clean anything unless she really had to, it showed the depth of her concern.

‘I’m not, Mum. I can still walk into town from there. I just need a torch when it gets dark.’

‘You’ll get murdered,’ Carol replied, her voice rising a little.

‘No, she won’t, dear,’ said Stephen. ‘There was more chance of that happening in London than there is here in Sandchester. She’ll be fine. Well done, love. Good work.’

Esme smiled.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Carol asked, calming down a little. ‘I don’t like the idea of my baby girl being out there in the middle of the woods all on her own.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ Esme had replied, getting up from the breakfast bar and giving her mum a big hug. ‘It’s not in the middle of the woods, it’s just on the outskirts of town and I am sure about it. Even if I wasn’t, it’s too late now. I signed the paperwork earlier.’

Leaving the cloth, Carol stood up straighter, a smile beginning to light her face. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better have a drink and celebrate then.’ Stephen opened a bottle of fizz and Esme couldn’t help but count her lucky stars at having such supportive parents. ‘To new beginnings,’ Carol said.

‘To new beginnings,’ Esme repeated and felt a little of her heartbreak soften.

*

Esme moved in the next morning with her few meagre possessions and set about cleaning everything. Everyone had offered to help, including Alice, but for some reason she wanted to do this on her own. When she’d moved in with Leo, he’d been so set on where everything had to go, and knowing how organised he was, she hadn’t argued. He’d always been fastidious and she didn’t want to disrupt his life as she was moving into his place. She wanted to slot into it gently because he’d said it became their place that day, but in reality, it had always been his. This was hers, and Esme wanted to clean the place herself with music blaring out, in a bid to stamp her authority on the cottage, and on her life. Somehow, it felt like an important marker, the start of a new phase, even though she hoped it was only a temporary stop, and she’d be back in London before too long.

When her friends arrived late Sunday morning, when the sky was pale and filled with the watery winter sun, she could see their panicked faces through the windscreen before they’d even got out of the car. Mark, Helena and Lola climbed out, muttering to each other, but Esme couldn’t make out what was said until she opened the solid wood front door.

‘Sweetie, what have you done?’ asked Mark, walking over to give her a hug. A dark scarf was wrapped high around his neck making the bright blue of his eyes stand out against his beautiful olive skin. ‘You’re going to live in a gingerbread house in the middle of nowhere. Like a witch.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Esme replied, crossing her arms over her chest trying not to shiver. She stood next to him facing the cottage and cocked her head. ‘Okay, so it is a bit crazy old lady, but it’s so sweet and cosy inside. And you’ll never guess what it’s called?’

‘What?’ asked Lola.

‘Mistletoe Cottage! How cute is that! It grows in the trees around here as well. Look.’ Esme pointed to a tall tree to the right of the cottage and the bright green mistletoe encircling its branches.

Mark paused. ‘Are you telling me you know different types of plants already? You’re getting countrified.’

‘I’m from the country, Mark. I’ve always been countrified. It just wore off a bit in London. Believe me, I still found myself saying things like “Ooo, it’s going to rain,” every time I came home and saw a cow sitting down.’ Mark stared, astonished.

‘Well, I love it,’ said Lola, smiling. ‘And us country folk always say weird things like that. My mum used to say wind from the east for two weeks at least when we were facing a cold snap—’

‘Or saluting magpies,’ added Esme.

‘Sweet Barbra Streisand,’ Mark mumbled, then smiled broadly. ‘But it is actually very cute, even though it’s in the middle of nowhere. Did you know we couldn’t use the satnav to get here? It tried to take us into a field. We got a very strange look from a horse when we pulled up at its gate. It’s a good job you texted us directions.’

Helena’s eyes were wide as she tried her best to smile. ‘Who was the last person to live here?’

Esme stared at the ground and mumbled, ‘A crazy old lady. But it’s much better now I’ve cleaned up.’

‘I’m telling you now, my sweet,’ said Mark, ‘you are not buying any cats.’

‘Deal,’ Esme replied, and led them inside.

Esme sat on the old worn sofa, now covered with pretty throws and cushions donated by Carol and Alice. Leo hadn’t liked cushions. He found them annoying, so Esme hadn’t ever really bought any, but as this was her home, she could decorate it however she wished. Joe had even said she could paint if she wanted too; the landlord didn’t mind at all. The owners didn’t care what she did as long as the rent was paid and someone was in there so it didn’t get damp. Mark brushed the seat with his hands before sitting and Esme tutted at him before bringing over a tray with steaming cups of tea.

‘It does have a certain something,’ said Lola. ‘It’s old-fashioned and homely.’

‘I think it’s called shabby chic,’ Esme replied.

‘Definitely shabby, sweetie, not so much chic.’ After gawping around, Mark gave Esme a reassuring grin. ‘But I agree, it does have a certain something. It’s bloody cold though.’

‘It doesn’t have central heating,’ Esme replied.

Mark’s astonishment returned and Esme had to stop herself laughing at his incredulous expression. ‘How do you keep warm?’

‘I’ve got a log fire but I don’t know how to light it. So it’s lots of jumpers and this little four-bar fire-thing Dad gave me. I might even treat myself to some thermals.’

‘Jesus wept,’ he replied, shaking his head.

Lola sat forward and took a cup of tea. ‘I’ve been thinking about this whole cookbook thing.’ Esme worried she was going to say she’d changed her mind and now thought it all a terrible idea, or that Esme was mental. ‘I think you should start a blog while you do it and record the recipes you test.’

‘Me? Write a blog?’ Esme fiddled with the corner of a cushion. Technology wasn’t her strong point and whilst she was quite outgoing, did the world care what she had to say?

Helena brightened. ‘Lola, that’s a great idea. Esme, you should totally write a blog, you’d be amazing. And if you’re cooking and stuff, testing recipes, you could post all the ones you’re not going to use in the book.’

Esme considered this new development. Lola did work in marketing, which meant she knew more about this stuff than any of them. If she said it was a good idea, it probably was. She could start a blog with no outlay, but could she write stuff that people actually wanted to read?

‘I think that if you want to publish a recipe book,’ said Lola, ‘it’d be good for you to build your own brand first. Then you’ll be well known, or at least known, when you’re approaching publishers; you’ll have an audience ready-made for them to sell to.’

Esme pictured her name on a website with people writing kind comments about her food, then she’d be mentioned in magazines and on TV shows and soon they’d be referring to her as a blogging sensation now launching her own recipe book. Okay, so maybe that was getting a little bit ahead of herself, but if she was going to embark on fulfilling her dream, she might as well dream big. ‘Okay,’ she said, nodding. ‘Yes, I will. I’ll do it. We need a name though.’

‘You have a name,’ said Mark, teasingly.

‘You know what I mean,’ Esme replied. ‘For the blog. I can’t just call it Esme’s Blog. Even I think that’s boring and I know nothing about marketing.’

‘How about The Easy Cook?’ said Mark. ‘Don’t you say all your recipes are easy to make?’

Helena laughed. ‘No way.’

‘Why not?’

‘It makes me sound like a slapper,’ Esme cut in.

‘What about The Outback Cook?’ offered Lola. ‘You are in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Oh, no.’ Mark shook his head. ‘She’s not Australian and the back of beyond isn’t the same as the outback. People will expect recipes for kangaroo meat or something.’ Esme’s mind shot back to Joe. He’d mentioned travelling to Australia. Then he’d suddenly switched the conversation back to business. It was a stupid thing to say but he’d grown up a lot since she’d seen him last. Not just physically. He’d seemed too old in a way, weighed down almost, but then, being a grown-up did that to you sometimes.

‘Recipeasy?’ asked Helena.

‘I like it, but I think it’s taken,’ said Esme. She regarded the old furniture and the ancient kitchen, her grandma’s recipe book already sitting on the worktop waiting for her. ‘How about Grandma’s Kitchen? I’ll be using my grandma’s recipe book and you guys know how special she was to me.’ Thinking about the blog, she wanted the world to know how special her grandma had been. So full of advice and love, and with the most caring, nurturing nature. Esme had loved her with all her heart.

Esme’s friends turned to her and for a moment, said nothing, then their faces erupted in wide grins. ‘It’s perfect,’ said Mark, clapping.

Helena nodded. ‘I love it.’

‘Definitely,’ said Lola. ‘It’s just right.’

‘That’s got to be it, hasn’t it?’ Esme bounced in her seat with excitement.

‘To Grandma’s Kitchen,’ said Helena and they all clinked their tea cups as a toast. The living-room light flickered for a few seconds and Mark and Helena eyed each other.

‘Ghosts, or dodgy electrics?’ he asked.

‘Neither,’ Esme replied. ‘It’s just that bulb is a bit loose.’

Mark shook his head. ‘I do hope you know what you’re doing, Ezzy.’

Esme chuckled. ‘Yeah, so do I.’

After they finished their tea, Esme gave them a tour of the house and enjoyed watching Mark’s expression when he saw the bathroom.

‘Are you fucking joking?’ he asked. ‘Salmon and avocado? It’s like something from The Good Life.’

‘Now there’s an idea,’ said Helena, winking at Esme. ‘You could grow your own veg, keep some chickens …’

‘Great idea,’ Esme replied, suppressing a grin. ‘I could even get a greenhouse.’ Mark’s jaw dropped.

‘You could keep a goat too and make cheese. It’d all be great for your blog,’ chipped in Lola.

‘Stop it,’ shouted Mark, covering his ears. ‘I’m going downstairs.’

In the afternoon, they put their coats on and strolled around the fields in the crisp winter air, chatting about work. Esme missed the buzz of the studio and the excitement of the city as Lola told them about a play she and Eric had been to see. But as Esme breathed in the fresh, chill wind, her skin felt cleaner for its freshness and even Mark commented on how peaceful the place was. As the sky began to darken, she cooked them dinner and they ate huddled on the sofa, discussing the break-up.

‘I have to say,’ said Helena. ‘You’re doing very well, honey.’

‘I’m trying,’ Esme replied. ‘I still cry. A lot. I miss you guys though.’ She reached out and took Helena’s hand.

‘We miss you too,’ Lola replied. ‘And your puddings.’

Esme tutted. ‘I know what you’re getting at and don’t worry, I made pavlova.’

‘Yay!’ everyone shouted and Esme giggled as she went to collect it from the kitchen. She missed her friends more than she could say. They’d always been there for her, celebrating every success and commiserating with every failure. They’d helped her sell her stuff when she moved into Leo’s. She’d had to let go of her beloved second-hand furniture because Leo insisted there wasn’t room for it and it didn’t go with the sleek, minimalist style he preferred. He wasn’t one for clutter and considering she could be so clean and organised in the kitchen, Esme was rather messy out of it. Esme hadn’t minded clearing out some of her old junk, being so in love and happy, but sometimes, when she was upset, she did miss the familiarity of those old worn knick-knacks.

Even though she offered for them to stay over, her friends all returned to London that night as they had work the next day. It was only an hour and a half’s drive and she couldn’t blame them. The spare room at the cottage hadn’t been cleaned yet and was so full of stuff you couldn’t actually move. The gang had all agreed a drive back to London was better than sleeping on the sofa in the freezing cold living room. As she waved them off, Esme felt tears sting her eyes. She hoped her friends hadn’t seen them; she didn’t want them to worry. But she wished she was in the car with them returning to the sights and sounds of the city she loved. It was so alive and vibrant, and Christmas time in the city was the best. A different sort of buzz lingered in the streets. One of joy and fun, rather than focus and concentration. But standing here in the middle of nowhere, in the darkness, the trees swaying in the wind, she felt very much alone.

That night, in the silence of the house, Esme snuggled in bed. Wrapped in three layers of clothes, she shut her eyes and tried to sleep. She hadn’t slept that well since returning home. Her bedroom at Mum and Dad’s felt too cramped and claustrophobic, and here, in the open fields, Esme missed the constant hum of traffic she had grown so used to. The silence of the countryside felt heavy and dense and she tossed and turned, hoping sleep would come. When it didn’t, Esme sat up and picked up her laptop from beside the bed. If sleep proved elusive, there was no time like the present to start her own blog. She clicked on some cooking blogs for inspiration and anticipation tingled through her body. She pored over images to use, giving just the right feel of cosiness and class. She didn’t want it to look anything like Felicity Fenchurch’s awful super-cute, twee blog that was all pink with giant pictures of her face looming out at you. Esme wanted hers to be about the food, and about love.

Before long, Grandma’s Kitchen was up and running. And as the sun came up and shone through her window, she closed the laptop, the battery out, and fell into a peaceful sleep.

*

Grandma’s Kitchen

Hi everybody, I thought I’d better begin my blog by introducing myself to you! My name’s Esme Kendrick and I love, love, LOVE cooking! Sorry for using big shouty letters but I do really love cooking! I’ve been working as a food technologist on some TV shows since I graduated university, but have always wanted to cook my own food and write about it, so that’s why I’ve started Grandma’s Kitchen.

It’s named after my lovely grandma who left me her ancient and amazing recipe book. It even has recipes from her mum and grandma in it, so it’s a real family heirloom. It means the world to me, and I hope that through sharing my successes and failures with you, you’ll enjoy trying out some new recipes and begin to love cooking as much as I do.

So what more can I tell you? My grandma, Pearl, was a brilliant cook and taught me everything I know. I think that, after discovering what a liability my mum was in the kitchen, she focused all her energy on me and my sister, Alice. Mum won’t mind me saying that – she’s an amazing mum, but she never really liked cooking and much prefers a takeaway or having dinner in the pub to slaving over a hot stove. One of my earliest memories is of Mum trying to cook a sausage casserole and it going so horribly wrong that Grandma had to step in. I remember she turned this burnt, crazily spiced mess into something delicious she called Cowboy Casserole. I’ll share the recipe with you later. You’re sure to love it!

I’ve just moved back to my hometown after my life took an unexpected change of direction. It’s been a bit of a knock, but you have to keep moving forward. My dad always says never go backwards, so I’m taking the plunge and starting this blog. The recipes you’ll find here will be family-friendly (my sister insisted! She said cooking different dinners for the adults and kids would drive her insane!) and are easy to follow with no weird ingredients. I can’t wait to share my first recipe with you soon!

*

After a couple of hours’ sleep, Esme awoke and went downstairs to write her first proper recipe for the blog. It was the first Monday she should have been at work and it felt strange to be her own boss and not have anywhere to go. Esme wrestled with a restlessness that filled her muscles with unspent energy as she flitted around the kitchen making herself a cup of tea.

So much had happened in such a short space of time. Less than a week ago her life had been ticking along as normal, her routine engrained in her mind and body. She could have walked to the tube station blindfolded and told you exactly what Leo would say in any given situation. She wondered what he was doing now. He’d have been to the gym and be at work already. Resisting the urge to cry, Esme clicked through her blog– her future – and sat back on the sofa, waiting for the number of hits to start pinging. Deep down, she knew this wasn’t going to happen, but couldn’t resist watching for half an hour anyway.

She picked up her grandma’s recipe book. The black leather cover was worn and frayed at the edges. The red ribbon she had inherited with it was beginning to fray as it forced numerous pieces of paper covered with scribbles and scrawlings back inside. She took off the band and opened it to leaf through its pages, examining each one and the delicate handwriting listing the recipes.

Affection and tenderness warmed her through. Her great-grandma’s fingers had touched these pages, as well as her grandma’s and her mum’s. Carol’s attempts at cooking from her youth were weirder and wilder, involving a lot of Seventies aspic-based recipes and random swearing. But her grandma had been an amazing cook and family legend had it that Esme’s great-grandma had been incredible too, creating exciting dishes even through rationing. This was why Esme loved cooking so much. It was history, their history. It meant her grandma who had helped her through so much, whose loss she had felt so deeply, would never be forgotten if her recipes were still being cooked, and the love that went into them still existed.

An old torn piece of paper fell from the side and she picked it up, turning it over in her fingers. It was a recipe for vanilla biscuits and in the margin, in a small, elegant hand, she could see the words, ‘Carol loves these’. Her grandma had written it and Esme smiled at the thought of her mum as a little girl, begging for biscuits just as she and Alice had done. She carefully placed it back inside and glanced again at the counter on her blog. It still registered zero hits. She checked the clock. It was now just after lunch and boredom gnawed at her brain. Esme made herself a bowl of cereal and sat back down on the sofa, still in her pyjamas, two jumpers and her favourite big, fluffy bed socks. Pulling one of the throws off the back of the seat, Esme tucked it around her as the cold of the cottage tried to seep into her bones.

Spooning soggy cornflakes into her mouth (she hated them all hard and crunchy), she opened the book to her favourite comfort food recipe. Just reading the words ‘orange tea bread’ made Esme’s mouth water. Maybe this could be her first recipe for the blog? After leafing through the book and scanning the index in her brain, Esme decided this was definitely the right one to begin with, and even though she’d made it so many times before, she wanted to test it one last time, just to make sure the measurements were all correct. Esme moved to the kitchen and began weighing out flour, butter, sugar and boiling oranges for the tea bread.

The rickety old cottage was soon filled with the sweet smell of oranges and when the loaf was cooked and cooled, Esme cut a piece and smothered it with butter. Taking a bite was like being 5 years old again, home from school at her grandma’s house while her mum worked. Esme remembered being hungry and happy sitting with her grandma at her old fold-out table, talking about the things she had done at school that day, or playing Happy Families with Alice. It was one of her favourite recipes of all time.

Esme re-read the instructions she’d written down, changing some of the wording and some of quantities to suit her own palate. Instead of white sugar, she had added light brown sugar for a hint of toffee and though she could use orange juice or flavouring, real oranges were better. Two hours later, she helped herself to another slice of the delicious bread and typed up her findings, posting for the second time.

*

Grandma’s Kitchen

Hi again, everybody. For the first-ever recipe here on Grandma’s Kitchen, I wanted to share one of my favourites and one that means a lot to me. This is great for a tea party (if people still have those) or kids’ parties, or just as a snack for yourself. I’m presenting my comforting and delicious Orange Tea Bread! Ta da!

This is delicious warm or cold and you can even have it as dessert with some ice cream, crème fraiche or mascarpone. I used to eat this when I was little and it’s still my favourite comfort food recipe today. And I don’t mind telling you, I need a little comfort at the moment. If you’re going through a bit of a hard time, like me, this is just what you need. It’ll give you a warm fuzzy feeling right through to your soul.

It’s really simple to make, so don’t worry. All you do is: gently simmer an orange or two small clementines in a small amount of water for about an hour until soft. You don’t even have to peel them! Once they’ve boiled and cooled, whizz them up into an orangey mush. The last time I made this with my mum, which was shockingly a couple of years ago now, she kept stealing most of my orange mixture to add to a glass of Prosecco. It makes a wicked posh Buck’s Fizz. Needless to say, mum got sozzled and I finished the cooking alone. Now … cream the sugar and butter together then add everything else and spoon in the orange mixture.

To see if it’s cooked, test it in the middle with a skewer. If the skewer comes out clean, it’s done.

Enjoy! And let me know how you get on!

*

After the snack, Esme checked the counter again. Still nothing. It was four o’clock and the bright afternoon sun was beginning to set, casting the brown fields in a warm orange light. Writing the post had been difficult. Esme struggled with how much to say and how much to hold back. She didn’t want the world to know every little detail of her life, but she wanted to be open and connect with her readers on a personal level. Some of the blogs she’d read were so cold; just a list of direct instructions that read like orders. She wanted people to read hers and feel like they were with a friend. That they weren’t alone. But sitting staring at the counter wasn’t helping her mood so Esme changed into her running clothes and laced up her trainers.

She’d missed running when she was in London. Leo always used the posh gym, saying it wasn’t safe to run outside. Esme hated it. A treadmill just wasn’t the same as the ground beneath your feet. As Esme left the house and began running through fields with nothing and no one around, she felt a strange sense of freedom. As she ran, the wind blew away the few stray hairs that had escaped from her ponytail and it cooled her cheeks, even though she was hot and sweaty. Her lungs filled with clean air and her heart, beating hard, reminded her she was alive, fit and healthy, even if that heart still ached for the man she’d loved so much.

An hour later she opened the front door, her lungs burning from the effort, her body fired up and igniting. The smell of the orange tea bread still hung on the air, making her smile. With the energy that had been pulsing through her body now spent, Esme ran a bath, washing her long red hair with a jug. After changing into clean pyjamas and adding four more long jumpers to keep out the cold, she checked the counter again. Still nothing.

This was excruciating. How long did she have to wait for someone to read her blog? There were millions of people in the world – surely one of them wanted to read about cooking? Esme sighed and grabbed her phone to call Lola.

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