Книга - Four Weddings And A White Christmas

Four Weddings And A White Christmas
Jenny Oliver


'You know you're in for a treat when you open a Jenny Oliver book' Debbie JohnsonFrom the top 10 best-selling author of The Summerhouse by the SeaHannah’s holidays are normally spent nibbling chocolate coins with her daughter and praying she’s not too old for a stocking on Christmas morning. But this year, she’s been offered the dressmaker’s job of a lifetime: creating a one-of-a-kind a gown for her friend Annie’s Christmas wedding on the picture-perfect Cherry Pie Island.Many mince pies and one hot-pink organza dress later, Hannah is set to snuggle back into her old routine…until she discovers that there are three more weddings to come – and not a dress in sight!Four themes, four brides and four parties spent avoiding chef Harry Fontaine, whose cynicism is as much a wedding day guarantee as confetti and cake. Hannah has her work cut out for her! Yet, with a sprinkling of snowflakes and Christmas magic, it could be that this is the year when miracles really do happen…if Hannah will let them.Praise for Jenny Oliver‘a very uplifting story full of happy endings and guaranteed to make you smile…absolutely perfect for Christmas.’ – Goodreads‘a fitting and fabulous finale to the series’ – Goodreads‘Best enjoyed with a mug of mulled wine whilst listening to Bing Crosby’ – Goodreads‘another slice of warm Cherry Pie Island charm’ – Goodreads‘The dresses, the food, the weddings, the travel, the winter walks in Manhattan… I loved it all! ‘ – Random Book MusesWelcome back to Cherry Pie Island…The most delicious place to spend Christmas!Perfect for fans of Holly Martin, Jenny Hale and Cathy Bramley.The Cherry Pie Island seriesThe Grand Reopening of Dandelion Café – Book 1The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip – Book 2The Great Allotment Challenge – Book 3One Summer Night at the Ritz – Book 4Four Weddings and a White Christmas – Book 5Each part of Cherry Pie Island can be read and enjoyed as a standalone story – or as part of the utterly delightful series.










Welcome back to Cherry Pie Island…the most delicious place to spend Christmas!

Hannah’s holidays are normally spent nibbling chocolate coins with her daughter and arguing with her sister about whether they’re too old for stockings on Christmas morning. But this year, she’s been offered the dressmaker’s job of a lifetime: creating a one-of-a-kind a dress for her school friend Annie’s Christmas wedding on the picture-perfect Cherry Pie Island.

Many mince pies and one hot-pink organza dress later, Hannah is set to snuggle back into her old routine…until she discovers that there are three more weddings this winter – and not a dress in sight!

Four very different themes, four demanding brides and four parties spent avoiding chef Harry Fontaine, whose cynicism is as much a wedding day guarantee as confetti and cake. Hannah has her work cut out for her! Yet, with a sprinkling of snowflakes and Christmas magic, it could be that this is the year when miracles really do happen…if Hannah will let them.


Also by Jenny Oliver (#u5dd7d08f-9735-5ed0-ba25-57d9135f66f3)

The Parisian Christmas Bake Off

The Vintage Summer Wedding

The Little Christmas Kitchen

The Grand Reopening of Dandelion Café

The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip

The Great Allotment Proposal

One Summer Night at the Ritz


Four Weddings and a White Christmas

Jenny Oliver







JENNY OLIVER

wrote her first book on holiday when she was ten years old. Illustrated with cut-out supermodels from her sister’s Vogue, it was an epic, sweeping love story not so loosely based on Dynasty.

Since then Jenny has gone on to get an English degree and a job in publishing that’s taught her what it takes to write a novel (without the help of the supermodels). Follow her on Twitter @JenOliverBooks (https://twitter.com/jenoliverbooks)


Contents

Cover (#u070b85d6-484e-5a83-8b62-5447c8f7c067)

Blurb (#uf70dfcf5-4fd0-5ddc-8e0c-aea52e3522e7)

Book List

Title Page (#u639de136-85b9-5674-820e-384027425b0e)

Author Bio (#u54454ab0-3222-55d7-9b83-5e12079e8f27)

Dedication (#u40237ebb-34ff-5ec1-b5dc-b6287fb67d48)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Christmas

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Please join Annie & Matthew for a very kitsch-mas wedding

28th December, 3 p.m., at the Folly on Swan Island

followed by reception, afternoon tea and dancing at The Dandelion Café


Chapter One (#u5dd7d08f-9735-5ed0-ba25-57d9135f66f3)

Hannah walked into chaos.

When Annie White had said to meet her at The Dandelion Café on Christmas Eve, she had been expecting something more sedate. Perhaps involving a quick coffee and a slice of cherry pie as it snowed outside. Instead it was bucketing it down with rain, water dripping down the collar of Hannah’s duffle coat as she’d run to shelter under the café awning. And it certainly didn’t look like anyone was relaxing with coffees. Everywhere she looked there was someone doing something. Annie was up a ladder fixing garlands of miniature baubles to the ceiling in artful loops while calling orders to a sullen-looking teenager with red headphones on who was lining hot-pink fake Christmas trees up along the windowsill. A man who she recognised as the husband-to-be, Matt, from a photograph she’d seen, was trying to fix a light-up reindeer to the wall, swearing loudly when it wouldn’t do what he wanted, while a black-haired guy sat in a booth seat holding a tiny baby and, opposite, someone else had their head on the table fast asleep. There were boxes piled high on chairs and some that had toppled over scattering ornaments and tinsel to the floor. Pictures were leaning precariously against walls waiting to be hung while, at the back of the café, a stack of real Christmas trees lay in their white netting alongside tangled mounds of fairy lights.

It all looked momentarily too hectic. And instead of pushing the door open, Hannah took a step back into the shadow of one of the surrounding cherry trees, still under the shelter of the awning, and took a moment to collect her thoughts. To give herself a little pep talk.

Two months ago her life had been exactly as it had always been.

Two months ago her main memories of Cherry Pie Island were school games afternoons, when they’d all traipsed over for rowing, canoeing and summer swimming in the outdoor pool, usually shivering on the sidelines as the clouds closed overhead.

Two months ago she’d just completed her degree and was celebrating the fact she would no longer be referred to as a mature student.

Two months ago Annie White had bumped into her mum in the vegetable section of Sainsbury’s and when she’d asked how Hannah was, her mum had proudly produced the newspaper clipping that featured Hannah’s degree show dress.

And suddenly Hannah was sitting in Annie’s living room, sipping on Earl Grey tea, nodding as calmly as she could as Annie pointed to a huge frothy white wedding dress and said things like, ‘Just go for it, Hannah’ and ‘I want it exactly like however you want to do it. Cut it up, chop it in half, whatever. I’m handing all design detail over to you, which for me is a huge thing. But I’ve got this dress here, and it was my mum’s and I’ve wanted to use it but I’ve basically been procrastinating for months about what to do. And then your mum showed me the picture, of the dress you made, and I swear to god, Hannah, I have never seen a dress as amazing as that. It literally popped out at me. Pop. Out from the page. The real question is, I suppose, whether you can do something with this one in only two months.’

Could she do it? Hannah had wondered as she’d reached for a chocolate digestive, trying to hide the nervous shaking of her hand.

She’d thought about what she had coming up. Her work got manic this time of year with orders needing fulfilling before Christmas, but then hadn’t she worked practically every night to get this degree in order not to have to do that job any more? And then there was Christmas. Presents. Trees. Decorations. Nativities. Last Christmas when she’d been frantically putting her degree collection together she had been sure that this Christmas would be different. Would be like the Christmases she grew up with. That she would be all serene and calm, icing a chocolate cake while sipping eggnog.

‘The theme is Christmas kitsch, by the way,’ Annie had added, pulling a box of glitter-strewn, sparkling, gaudy Christmas decorations from behind the sofa for Hannah to look at. ‘And I don’t want it to be white. Other than that, it would be up to you, I promise.’

Hannah had peered into the box and seen the hot-pink fronds of fake Christmas trees lying like umbrellas waiting to be opened. The cherry-red cheeks of skating Santa Claus models. There were plastic peacocks with giant tail feathers, stacks of concertinaed Santa Clauses and tiny plastic nativities covered in glitter.

She had looked from the tacky box of decorations across to Annie’s pleading face and then back to the hideous white puffy dress.

Could she do it?

Her brain had already started to chop away the layers of netting underneath the dress’s silk skirt to take out the weight. To cut off the sleeves and construct a hot-pink overlay embroidered with peacock feathers that cinched in tight at the waist and fanned out over the chest. To maybe add some detailing to the skirt, something to make it more couture, more grand. The idea of it made her stomach fizz. Made her want to screw her face up and punch the air. Made her see possibilities – a little shop, maybe, with her name above the window and a display that made people stop and stare.

She had bitten her lip.

Annie had been poised, waiting for her answer.

Two months. It would be a lot of work. A lot of late nights. There would probably be tears. There would be no serene icing of Christmas cake, that was for sure.

And now here she was, Christmas Eve, standing on the threshold of Annie’s Dandelion Café, the dress bag clutched to her chest, her heart fluttering with nerves, feeling like she was teetering on the cusp of a whole new chapter.

‘Hello?’ Hannah said, pushing open the turquoise front door, the little bell ringing to announce her entrance as crooning Christmas music escaped out into the rain. ‘Annie?’

‘Oh my goodness.’ Annie nearly slipped from her ladder in her hurry to get down. The guy holding the baby glanced up with vague interest. The teenager lounged back against a booth with his hands in his pockets. ‘Everyone leave!’ Annie shouted. ‘Leave. Matt, go!’ she said, shooing Matt and then the sullen teenager in the direction of the back door. ‘The dress is here.’


Chapter Two (#u5dd7d08f-9735-5ed0-ba25-57d9135f66f3)

Half an hour earlier…

‘Why would anyone get married?’ Harry stirred his macchiato as he sat slumped in a booth in The Dandelion Café and watched as everyone around him worked like little ants hanging decorations for the impending nuptials of Annie and Matt. He’d just got off the red-eye and felt like shit. His eyes were slits like an angry cat; the light was painful. Next to him Wilf Hunter-Brown was ramming an egg and bacon sandwich into his mouth, ketchup, yolk and brown sauce dripping onto the plate.

‘Mate. Tell me about it,’ Wilf said, mouth full. ‘Also, add to that list, why would anyone have a kid. I slept. Wanna know? I slept two hours and fifteen minutes last night. That’s it. You think you’re bad. You have a baby. A really small one that yells really bloody loudly. Then…’ Wilf paused, chewed, swallowed. ‘Then try and get excited about planning a wedding that’s not till next summer. Did you hear I’d proposed to Holly?’

Harry nodded.

‘Yeah I thought I’d told you. Anyway, at least this lot are getting theirs out the way.’ Wilf nodded towards Annie and Matt. ‘It’s a nightmare.’

Harry snorted a laugh. ‘Where is your kid?’

‘She’s snoozing in the pram in the kitchen. She, it seems, needs more than two hours and fifteen minutes sleep. Why the hell didn’t she realise that last night? Hmm? I ask you that.’

Harry shook his head. ‘Why don’t you go and lie down somewhere?’

‘Because, Harry my good fellow, I’m up. I am programmed to be up in the day and sleep at night. I can not sleep in the day.’

‘Can’t be that tired then.’

Wilf shot him a look. ‘I’m so tired I have forgotten what tired is actually like. I’m in a haze of stupefied nothingness. I’m jelly. That’s what I am, a great big wobbling jelly.’ He took another bite of the sandwich. ‘Jesus I’m tired,’ he said, then pushing his plate away put his head down on the table. ‘We will have to postpone our meeting.’

Harry nodded, as if he knew that was coming, and took another sip of his coffee.

The meeting with Wilf had been the whole purpose of Harry’s trip. He was here to discuss expansion plans of the restaurant, The Bonfire, that Harry ran and Wilf’s company owned. Currently fully booked every night for the foreseeable future and with an equally full waiting list, the feeling was that they were onto something special and should capitalise on it ASAP.

Wilf, who currently resided in the South of France, was back in the UK for Annie and Matt’s wedding and had suggested that perhaps, if Harry was coming home for Christmas, this was the perfect time to meet.

Harry wasn’t coming home for Christmas, but he was eager to pin down Wilf – not an easy task – and so had flown over anyway.

Christmas, to Harry, was a yearly irritant in his calendar. But he was actually quite looking forward to this one for the first time in his life. He’d told Wilf he was spending it with his family, but actually he hadn’t told any of his family that he was back, and planned to spend the day on his own, mooching around London, taking advantage of the empty streets to see the sights and whatever bars and restaurants might be open. Maybe even try and find a cinema. He’d been getting increasingly excited about it from the moment he’d decided on the subterfuge. The plan was hampered only by his guilt over not seeing his mum and dad, but as long as he kept shoving that to the corner of his brain he was fine.

Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by Annie’s soon-to-be step-son pointing towards the stereo that was crooning out Christmas music and saying, ‘Can we turn it off now, it’s shit.’

‘I think it’s lovely. Leave it alone,’ Annie said, just as Matt walked in, looking a bit sheepish. He was soaking from the rain, his blond hair plastered to his head. ‘Where have you been?’ Annie asked, the music forgotten, the teenager putting on his headphones in protest.

‘At the pub,’ Matt said, cringing with guilt. ‘We won the regatta, everyone wanted a drink to celebrate. I’m really sorry. And I’m a bit pissed.’

Annie, who was wobbling precariously on a ladder, trying to get drawing pins to stick in the ceiling so they would hold up some strings of tiny coloured baubles, looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Screw that shit. Harry thought. All that apologising and keeping tabs on each other. He hated it. It was one of the reasons he was so looking forward to his Christmas – nowhere to be, no one to check in with, no one to expect anything. With the meeting cancelled and Wilf snoring away in front of him, his hands under his head like a pillow, Harry wondered if perhaps he should start the celebrations now. Mosey up to London, find a decent bar and drink away his jet lag.

But then a tiny wail started in the kitchen.

Annie looked round from where she was now standing on top of a table moving the garland a fraction of a centimetre to the left. ‘That’s Willow.’

Harry nodded.

Annie opened her eyes wide at him. ‘It’s Willow.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ he said.

‘Is Wilf going to get her?’

‘Wilf’s asleep.’

‘Well wake him up,’ she said, as if Harry was being an idiot.

Harry raised a brow and then gave Wilf a shove. Nothing happened. The guy was comatose. The wailing got louder.

‘He’s not waking up.’

‘Oh for god’s sake.’ Annie put her hands on her head, clearly at the end of her tether. ‘Well go and get the baby.’

‘I’m not getting the baby.’

‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she shouted down from the ladder.

‘I’m not a baby. The baby’s a baby.’ Harry scowled.

‘Just get the baby.’

The teenager had taken his headphones off and was smirking at Harry being told what to do by Annie.

Harry sloped out of his booth seat, chewing on the inside of his cheek in annoyance. Why couldn’t she get the baby? He didn’t want to get the baby.

The noise was emanating from the black pram in the corner.

He walked closer, wincing at the sound. This was not good for his jet lag.

The kid inside looked like a prune with a huge mouth.

‘Oh Jesus.’ He sighed. He had vague memories of his younger sister being born and the noise tearing through the house. He leant over the pram and watched the little face get redder and redder.

He looked around.

He exhaled.

Then he leant forward and picked the squirming little bundle up. The wailing rebounding off his ear like an aeroplane engine. He suddenly realised that Wilf probably wasn’t asleep at all, just keeping his eyes tightly closed so he didn’t have this racket rolling round his head.

He nestled her into the crook of his arm like he used to do with his sister.

She was really tiny. All dressed in yellow.

He peered out the kitchen hatch to see that Annie had squatted down on the table and was checking to see what he was doing. He waved as if he had it all under control. Refusing to give her the satisfaction of another tell-off.

The noise was incessant. He winced again.

Fumbling around in the bag hanging from the pram handle he found a bottle and a carton of formula. What was the etiquette here? Could you just feed someone else’s baby without asking them? He looked up again through the hatch and saw Wilf’s mouth open as he snored gently. The kid was screaming. Annie was looking worried, like she’d have to come in and help if he didn’t sort this out pronto.

Tearing the carton and pouring it into the bottle he shook it once and then pop in the mouth, crying stopped. All the muscles in his body relaxed. He could feel the creases in his forehead iron out. The little prune guzzled away. He made a face of distaste at it then walked back into the café.

‘Ahh.’ Annie sighed from where she was standing on the top of the ladder, her arms above her head as she pressed another drawing pin into the ceiling to hold up a garland. ‘You look like an Athena poster.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harry said, sliding back into the booth. ‘You want the baby?’ he asked her.

‘No, I’ve got decorations to hang. You know Athena posters? Black and white, bloke with no top on holding a baby? On teenagers’ walls?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

Annie raised her brows and looked away as if she’d tried hard enough with this guy and had more important things to deal with. ‘River, how are the trees going?’

Harry frowned. ‘Your name’s River?’ he asked the kid with the headphones.

‘Yeah,’ he said, glaring at him from behind a hot-pink tree. ‘What about it?’

‘Nothing. Just a crazy name.’

Matt, who was trying to fix a flashing reindeer to the wall, while clearly pretending he was less drunk than he actually was, glanced over at Harry and said, ‘We were young when we had him. I liked the river.’

‘Kudos to you,’ Harry said and looked back down to the baby sucking the bottle as if her life depended on it. ‘Willow and River. I wouldn’t expect anything less from a place called Cherry Pie Island.’

‘Are you mocking us?’ Annie asked.

‘Yes.’ Harry nodded.

‘Just because we don’t all live in New York City…’ She got cut off as the door opened and a brown-haired woman poked her head around it. ‘Oh my goodness. Everyone leave!’ Annie shouted. ‘Leave. Matt, go!’ she said, as Matt, clearly relieved to be able to leave the light-up reindeer, jumped down from his ladder and skedaddled out the back door with his son. ‘The dress is here.’

Harry watched the brunette looking nervous on the threshold. She seemed to be waiting until everyone left, including him.

‘Come in, come in,’ Annie called. ‘Ignore Harry. He’s an idiot with a baby.’

Harry tipped his head to one side. ‘Touché,’ he said, but the tired-looking brunette didn’t glance his way again. She was clutching a blue dress bag tightly to her chest. She had the kind of bags under her eyes that they show on ‘before’ models in commercials. He wondered if she was ill.

‘Is there somewhere we can go?’ she asked.

Annie shook her head. ‘I’ve got new tenants in the flat upstairs. Don’t worry, I’ll just lock the door.’

Harry pretended not to be really interested in what was going on. He looked at the baby. It had fallen asleep. Gently pulling the bottle from its mouth he tried to shift position, but she did a little whimper when he moved. He was stuck where he was. His left arm had gone numb.

Annie cleared the decorations off one of the booth tables. ‘Hannah, I can’t tell you how excited I am about this. I literally couldn’t sleep last night. Is it good? Do you like it? Will I like it?’

He watched Hannah swallow. ‘I think you’ll like it. I hope you’ll like it. The thing is, it’s not finished yet, so you’ll have to use your imagination. OK?’

Harry frowned. He glanced at his watch to double-check the date. The wedding was in four days. She was cutting it a bit fine, wasn’t she?

‘I can do that. I have a great imagination.’ Annie laughed. She had her hands clasped in front of her like a kid about to open Christmas presents. ‘OK, show me. And, Harry, not a word to anyone about the dress, OK?’

He shrugged. ‘Seriously? You think I talk about dresses?’

Annie gave him a look and then turned her attention to the unveiling of the dress. Harry watched as the brunette lay the bag down on the table. She was definitely nervous but clearly trying to hide it under a confident smile and chit-chat.

‘So how’s it going? Have you got all your kitsch?’ Hannah asked Annie as she struggled with the zip that seemed to be stuck.

‘Great. I’ve been up and down the country getting every vintage decoration I can lay my hands on. Matt thinks I’ve gone bonkers but I want it to be like walking into a nineteen forties Christmas card, you know? All bright colours and old-school Christmas and, well, if you can’t go a bit nuts for your wedding when can you? Is the zip OK?’

‘Yep, no worries, just a bit stuck.’

Harry noticed that her hand was shaking.

Annie rattled on a bit more about the decorations. Both as nervous as each other, he presumed. Then as the zip got moving again, Annie stopped talking and put her hands over her face as if she didn’t want to look, scared by what she might see.

How annoying would that be, he thought. At his restaurant he quite often refused to serve people who didn’t like the first course. Told them to bugger off. If they didn’t like his stuff then he had no interest in feeding them.

Hannah opened the bag.

He heard Annie gasp, but annoyingly she was blocking his view of the dress inside. He peered over as subtly as he could and not wake the baby. His arm still throbbing with cramp.

The suspense was painful. Like one of those moments when he’d be forced to watch X-Factor at his parents’ house and the person on stage was so terrible that it made his mum cover her face with a cushion and his dad sit forward with glee.

This was a potential cushion moment.

Annie was silent.

Hannah looked like she might burst into tears.

Every muscle in Harry’s body had tensed in anticipation.

Annie moved slightly to her right as she reached forward to touch the fabric giving Harry the view he’d been waiting for.

Oh dear god.

What he saw was quite possibly the craziest, brightest monstrosity he’d ever seen. Shocking swatches of hot-pink fabric, a marshmallow frothy skirt, scraps of netting dotted with green and blue beads. Is that what wedding dresses looked like nowadays?

‘Oh my god.’ Annie put her hands over her mouth.

Quite so, Harry thought. She hates it.

‘Anything you don’t like I can change,’ Hannah said quickly. ‘But remember it’s not finished.’

‘You’ve done all this in just two months?’ Annie said, her voice a bit wobbly.

She likes it?

Hannah nodded.

‘I can’t believe it. My mum’s going to have a fit when she sees what we’ve done to her dress.’ Annie did a little snort hiccup that sounded like she might have started crying.

She hates it.

He felt for Hannah. She was holding the dress a bit like he was holding the baby, like her life depended on it.

‘But seriously, Annie, what do you think? Remember all the drawings you’ve seen – that’s what it will look like in the end,’ Hannah said, her voice wavering.

Harry felt his stomach clenching. There was no way, he thought, that she could transform this into something half-decent in four days.

But clearly Annie thought different because she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, and sighed, ‘I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I can completely see it. I can see the vision.’

And, while even squinting his eyes Harry couldn’t see the vision one little bit, he found himself exhaling with unexpected relief.

Feeling more like his mum poking her head round the cushion when it was all over, than his dad who always wanted the judges to stick the boot in even more, he leant back in his seat, able now to relax. Surprised at how involved he’d got. He never cared one iota what happened to the rubbish X-Factor contestant, he was usually just wishing he wasn’t watching X-Factor.

‘You’re a miracle worker. Amazing. I completely trust everything you’re doing,’ Annie said and Harry watched Hannah’s reaction. Her hands had stopped shaking, she was smiling and, to his surprise, he was smiling too. Grinning even. He stopped as soon as he caught himself. He was not a grinner.

But it was too late, Hannah had seen him and was giving him a coy little smile back.

Oh god, Harry sighed to himself, she thought he was flirting.

But then she said, ‘Urm, I think the baby might have been urm, might have been sick on you.’

Harry frowned and looked down. His black wool jumper was covered in white baby vomit. Great.

‘Here,’ Annie said, with a laugh. ‘Here’s a tea towel. You clean yourself up, Harry.’


Chapter Three (#u5dd7d08f-9735-5ed0-ba25-57d9135f66f3)

For Hannah, Christmas Day passed in a rainy haze of food, presents, stress and sewing. Her five-year-old daughter, Jemima, was up at four and then six and by seven she was dragging her stocking behind her and clambering onto Hannah’s bed, jabbing her forehead to wake her up.

Hannah, her sister, Robyn, her brother, her brother’s boyfriend and her parents had all gone to bed at one in the morning – each having been working on a job concerning either the dress or Christmas Day.

If Hannah had the time and breathing space to have taken a step back from the proceedings she would have realised how lovely it was – all of them dotted about her parents’ kitchen either sewing or chopping or reading the cooking instructions for the turkey. Her dad walking round making sure everyone’s glasses were topped up, her mum, Clarice, reminiscing about bygone Christmases while her sister challenged the memories and her brother, Dylan, asked Hannah annoying questions:

‘So you think it was Harry Fontaine or you know it was Harry Fontaine? I mean, did he just look like him or was it him?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hannah said, pins in her mouth, kneeling in front of the dressmaker’s dummy hemming the silk skirt of Annie’s wedding dress.

‘Well why didn’t you ask him?’ Her brother made a face.

‘Because he wasn’t very friendly – just watching my panic, all smug.’

Her brother paused his flicking through the recipe book. Always the one to look busy but not actually do anything. ‘We ate at his restaurant once when we were in New York – The Bonfire – do you remember?’ he said, glancing over to where his partner Tony was helping Hannah’s sister ice the Christmas cake. Tony nodded without looking up.

Her brother went on, ‘He came out the kitchen and asked a table to leave because they were all on their mobile phones. Can you imagine? Just clapped his hands and pointed to the door. They were so embarrassed. You could see the whole restaurant sliding their phones from their tables and into their pockets.’

‘He looked a bit of a pain,’ Hannah said.

Tony glanced up from the cake that was being edged with tiny gingerbread houses like a wraparound street scene and said, ‘Very good-looking though.’

Hannah shook her head. ‘I didn’t notice.’

She saw her mum look up sharply from her beadwork, smile and then look back down again.

‘What?’ Hannah asked.

‘I met your father at a wedding,’ she said, standing up to grab another strip of beaded net from the table that needed finishing.

‘That’s nice,’ Hannah said, one brow raised as she carried on pinning the hem.

‘I’m just saying!’ Her mum laughed and went back to her chair to start on the new piece of fabric.

Now, as Hannah lay in bed and Jemima prodded her and she felt her back click into place as she turned over, the aching from the hours of sewing taking its toll, she thought, not for the first time, of couples who shared this role fifty-fifty. And she considered what a luxury that must be. To have someone else in the bed who would let her sleep for maybe another half an hour and take Jemima to look at the Christmas tree, or go with her to make Hannah a cup of tea. Wow, a cup of tea in bed. That would be a treat. She had a sudden image of the good-looking guy, Harry, in the cafe holding the sleeping, vomiting baby in his arms but dismissed it just as quickly – he was not the type to make someone a cup of tea in the morning.

‘Wake up, Mummy. Wake up!’

There was always Jemima. How old did someone have to be before they could be put to use to make tea?

‘I’m here, I’m here! I’m awake. OK.’

She was so tired she felt sick, but as Jemima snuggled up next to her Hannah leant down and smelled her hair. All soft and warm and sleepy like when she was a baby. Her warm little pyjama-clad body pressed up close to Hannah, the grin splitting her face in two as she pulled chocolates and light-up pens and crayons out of her stocking made Hannah remember the last five Christmases that had gone by. And think how different each one had been. The early years when Jemima just shook the Christmas tree and all the decorations fell off, while Hannah was still in the shocked new parent daze, to now when she stood and stared wide-eyed at the Christmas lights in the street, cried at Santa in John Lewis, petted reindeer at the farm, and sang loud and out of tune as an octopus in the bizarre nursery nativity, making Hannah shed a little tear and Dylan stand up and clap while other parents ssh’d him. They were a little unit now. The epicentre. The two of them tightly bound with her relatives added on like pompoms.

‘Wakey wakey!’ Her brother barged in holding a tray with four cups of tea and a packet of chocolate digestives.

Tony followed behind, looking a bit sheepish in his satin smoking-jacket dressing gown. ‘Hello, Hannah,’ he said, clearly embarrassed to be in her bedroom.

‘Move over, squirt, make room for us all.’ Dylan shovelled Jemima over, making her giggle, and plonked himself down on the bed. Tony took the armchair in the corner, crossing his legs out in front of him and resting them on the corner of the bed. Robyn came in a couple of minutes later, her hair all askew, her glasses on wonky, complaining about how early it was. ‘Any why don’t we have stockings any more? It seems really unfair,’ she said, curling up at the end of the bed.

‘Because we’re forty,’ Dylan said, incredulous.

‘Yeah but I like a stocking and it’s Christmas. There shouldn’t be an age limit on a stocking.’

Jemima looked up from where she was unwrapping the foil off a chocolate Santa and said a little warily, as if she didn’t quite mean it, ‘You can share my stocking, Aunty Robyn.’

Robyn tipped her head and smiled. ‘Thank you, Jem, that’s very kind. But that’s all yours and you should enjoy it. I will have a chocolate coin though.’

Hannah sat back against her big white cushion and took a sip of the piping hot tea her brother had made.

As she looked at the mug, almost surprised that her cup-of-tea wish had been so easily granted, she realised that the actual idea of someone else coming into this set-up was unthinkable. Who could they be that she would allow them to sit here as part of this precious Christmas morning?

The door bashed open again as her parents appeared. ‘What a lovely scene. All my family together.’ Clarice put her hand up to her chest and smiled. ‘This is the reason I had you all.’

‘Except for Hannah, because she was a mistake.’ Dylan laughed around his chocolate digestive.

‘She was not a mistake,’ Clarice said with a scowl. ‘She was the perfect surprise.’

Hannah rolled her eyes. Ten years younger than her twin siblings, there was no doubting she had been quite a massive mistake – surprise – whatever they wanted to call it. But actually it was her parents’ decision to keep her, even though she had so clearly been a mistake, that had been the main deciding factor in her decision to keep Jemima. That if they had decided to get rid of their mistake, then she wouldn’t have been born.

Hannah had been so close to not having Jemima – to not have to sit with all her family and say, I’m pregnant and the father is some gorgeous bloke I met on holiday who seems to have lied about his phone number and I never knew his surname.

But she did have her. And she had sat with all her family, at the kitchen table of their big, old crumbling Victorian family house, and said exactly that. But she had ended with, I think I’m going to keep the baby and I’m going to need loads of help.

Hence why she now lived in a newly converted flat on the top floor of their house that used to be a junk storeroom, and had absolutely no idea how she would live a day without them all.

‘So,’ said Clarice, settling herself down on the sofa to the right of Hannah’s bed. ‘Here are your stockings,’ she said, pointing to Frank who revealed them from behind his back like a magician.

‘No way!’ Dylan was aghast.

Robyn looked delightedly smug as Frank handed them each a red felt stocking.

Jemima narrowed her little eyes and said, ‘Does that mean I’ll get my chocolate coin back?’

As Robyn tipped her stocking upside down and chucked Jemima a chocolate coin from the contents, Hannah reached her hand into her little red stocking, feeling the same childish excitement that she used to as a kid. Inside was an assortment of small packages all wrapped up with ribbon and a handful of chocolate coins in the toe. She got to the bottom expecting the usual tangerine, but found instead that this year it was apple and held it up with a bemused frown.

‘Dylan ate all the satsumas,’ her mum said with a shrug.

‘Doesn’t Santa bring his own satsumas?’ Jemima asked and they all paused, looking panicked to one another for an answer.

It was Clarice who leant forward and said, ‘Yes he does, darling, but because this lot are really far too old for stockings and he’s making an exception giving them to them in the first place, he asks us to supply our own fruit.’

Jemima nodded, her mouth full of chocolate Santa. ‘That’s understandable,’ she said.

‘Yes. Except then Dylan ate it,’ Clarice continued, with a glare Dylan’s way. But Dylan was paying no attention whatsoever and was happily ripping through the paper on his stocking presents.

Hannah, on the other hand, had laid all hers out in front of her and, as she listened to her mum and Jemima’s exchange, was deliberating on which present to pick first. Eventually she went for the square one – the heaviest – and instantly smiled as she unwrapped it.

In her hands was a simple wooden picture frame and in it the picture of her degree show dress that had featured in the style supplement of a national newspaper.

The press photographers had only been at the end of year show because one of the other graduates had a film star dad who called in favours from his A-list actress buddies to model his daughter’s clothes. But nestled in among those shots was Hannah’s graduation show-stopper. The dress that had launched all of this. That had been seen by Annie and inspired the phone call that had taken Hannah back to Cherry Pie Island and led to the wedding dress commission. It still made Hannah catch her breath to see it, her dream, all those brutally gruelling years later, fully realised.

‘You’re not crying, are you?’ her mum said, looking worried.

Hannah shook her head.

‘She is,’ Jemima whispered.

‘I’m not, I promise,’ Hannah said, wiping her eyes with the duvet cover. ‘I’m just tired.’

‘Tired and emotional.’ Her brother sighed.

Hannah got out of bed and gave her mum a hug. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘Thank you for helping me get this far. I owe you everything.’

Her mum pushed her back and held her by the shoulders. ‘It’s been our pleasure, Hannah. You owe us nothing. It’s your life now. You’re there. You’re on your way.’

Hannah nodded, wiped her eyes again. ‘It’s scary though.’

‘It’s exciting.’ Her mum smiled.

‘It’s snowing!’ her brother shouted.

‘Really?’ Robyn and Jemima jumped up.

‘No, just kidding.’ Dylan laughed. ‘Just wanted to lighten the tone.’


Chapter Four (#u5dd7d08f-9735-5ed0-ba25-57d9135f66f3)

Christmas Day, it was a nightmare.

Not only was it pouring with rain, but Harry had to cycle forty minutes with a slow puncture to get to his parents’ house.

‘Harry!’ His mum stood in the doorway wearing her apron, her black hair falling from its bun, her slippers on and her earrings shaped like Christmas wreaths, flashing green and red lights. He remembered her wearing them to his school play she’d had them so long.

‘Hey, Mum.’ Harry slicked his soaking hair back from his face. ‘Happy Christmas.’

‘It’s such a surprise. I didn’t even know you were here. Why didn’t you tell us you were here? Your sister had to find it on Twitter. You twittered it and you didn’t even tell us?’

‘I didn’t twitter it, Mum. Tweet it – it’s called tweeting. I didn’t tweet it, the restaurant tweeted it. If I’d known they were going to tweet it, I promise, I would have told you.’ Harry rested his bike against the porch wall.

His mum frowned. ‘But that still means that you weren’t going to tell us you were back. You’re never back, Harry. We miss you.’

Harry scratched his head. ‘Can I just come in?’

His mum stood to one side and let him pass, trying to help him with his soaked leather jacket as he did and Harry batted away the fuss.

‘Let me put it on the radiator, here, give it to me.’

‘Mum, it’s fine.’

‘No, I’ll put it on the radiator.’

In the end it was easier for him to hand her the jacket. Two of his nephews careered down the stairs as he edged his way into the living room, the whole house shaking as they swung from the banister.

‘Hello, Son.’ His dad looked up from over his reading glasses and put his paper down. He was wearing a paper hat and the sight of it – too small for his head – made Harry cringe.

His sister was in the kitchen cutting vegetables and peeling potatoes. There were dancing Santas and flickering Christmas lights. Someone had opened the sherry. His grandmother was snoozing already in the corner, wearing her holey slippers and her polyester housecoat. His uncle was shaking all the presents with one of the nephews, deciding what was in what and there was Now That’s What I Call Christmas blasting out the tape deck on the stereo.

Harry couldn’t bear Christmas. He couldn’t bear being trapped again in the confines of his house. The desperate need to breathe overtook him as the walls seemed to close in.

‘So you were going to ignore your old mum and dad, were you?’ His father sat up from the sofa, heaving himself to the edge so that he could then push himself to standing. ‘No, don’t explain, it’s fine with me. It’s just your mother I was worried about. Heartbroken. But I understand. Too old to be with us. Too old to come home.’

Harry ran his hand through his hair. ‘It’s not that I’m too old. I just– I’m here for work. It just so happens to be Christmas. Honestly, it just seemed easier not to make a fuss.’

‘Not make a fuss?’ his uncle said, looking up from where he was kneeling by the tree. ‘It’s Christmas. It is fuss!’

‘And your mother’s cooked enough for the bloody army, so…’

‘I haven’t got any presents,’ Harry said, when he saw a package wrapped under the tree with his name on the tag. Why hadn’t he brought any presents? There was nothing like coming home to remind one what a selfish bastard he’d become. But then, he rationalised, he hadn’t intended to be here until yesterday when some idiot at the restaurant had tweeted about him being in the UK.

‘Now here we go.’ His mum came bumbling through with a bottle of prosecco and a glass with holly leaves all over it. ‘Let’s have a toast to Harry.’

His sister was standing in the alcove between the two rooms. ‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘What’s he done to have a toast?’

‘Silvia, ssh,’ hushed his mum. ‘To my lovely Harry, home for Christmas.’

Harry held up his glass a fraction. Saw his dad give him the same look he used to give him as a boy – behave, his eyes said, don’t do anything to upset your mother. Silvia watched him warily from behind the sofa. His nephews came hurtling in and didn’t even pause to shout, ‘Hi, Harry, bye, Harry.’

Then everyone huddled onto the two sofas together, squished close until his mum went and got a couple of dining chairs so they could sit, all of them in the lounge. His aunt appeared in her Christmas jumper and, sitting down next to Harry, made a big show of faux-scolding him about how upset his mum had been that he’d almost bypassed them all. Harry tried to smile.

In the end, when the noise became too suffocating, and his dad had asked him every question there was about the restaurant, his finances, the rent on his apartment, the importance of the property ladder, whether he was making his money work as efficiently as he could, his pension, and his mum had asked him about his love life and his aunt had commented that he was never with anyone then asked if he was gay with a snort, adding that there was a new gay couple in Eastenders, and his nephews had asked if he’d got them presents, Harry had to stand up and say that the best thing he could do was help with the food.

‘Such a wonderful chef,’ his mum mused as he left. ‘Just wonderful. I don’t know where he gets it from. I’m bloody useless, aren’t I, Charlie?’

‘You’re the best cook in the world, Jan.’

Harry closed his eyes as he walked away. His dad’s idea of being the best cook was having his set meals ready and on the table at seven. Same thing every Monday, every Tuesday, every day. When Tesco had started stocking fresh pasta as well as dried and his mum had given it a go, his dad had taken a couple of mouthfuls and said, ‘Not again, Jan. Let’s not have this again.’

Harry remembered watching him from across the table, sipping on his orange squash, thinking, I love you but I never want to be like you. I never want to turn out like you. All those rules and structures and set ways to live. Veer off them in this household and everyone knew they’d done something wrong. Harry would sit in his dad’s chair to watch TV after school, but as soon as the key clicked in the lock his mum would poke her head into the room and say, ‘Out of there now, Harry.’

Now, as he stood in the kitchen – same wallpaper, same cups, same tablecloth – he glanced over at his sister, who looked warily back at him.

‘Just be nice, yeah?’ Silvia said. ‘Just for a couple of hours, just be nice. OK? You’re here. Don’t mess it up.’

Harry made a face. ‘I’m not going to mess it up.’

Silvia just raised her brows and looked away.

‘What can I do?’ Harry asked, bending down to look at the shrivelling turkey in the oven.

‘Nothing, it’s all under control.’

‘Your turkey’s gonna be overdone.’

‘No it’s not.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘It’s not. Jamie said to do it like this.’

Harry looked around. ‘Who the hell is Jamie?’

‘Oliver.’ Silvia stabbed the cookbook with her finger. ‘Jamie Oliver.’

‘Bloody Jamie Oliver.’ Harry shook his head and then went over and closed the book. ‘Let me do it,’ he said, opening the oven and finding some oven gloves so he could rescue the bird.

‘Do what you like, Harry, you always do,’ Silvia said, pushing the chair back and leaving the room.

In the kitchen Harry felt a semblance of himself. Tea towel tucked into the pocket of his jeans, he dealt with the turkey, added spices and seasoning to the carrots, sprinkled the stewing red cabbage with sugar and apple slices, perked up the sprouts with some honey and bacon, and generally added some finesse to the whole package. He would have liked a few more ingredients to play with. A bit of kale maybe or some chestnuts, but he felt he’d done pretty well with what he’d had to work with.

He hadn’t brought any presents, the least he could do was sort out the dinner.

***

‘What the bloody hell’s on these sprouts?’

Everyone at the table turned to look at Harry’s dad, who had pierced a sprout on the end of his fork and was eyeing it with distaste.

Silvia sat forward, resting her chin on the palm of her hand and Harry could feel her watching him.

‘It’s er…’ he swallowed. At the restaurant his dad would be out on his ear by now. Harry never explained what he cooked. ‘Well, there’s a bit of marsala and…’ Harry coughed. Everyone was looking at him. He felt his cheeks begin to flame. ‘Bacon. There’s bacon in it, it er, it should be pancetta but bacon works. It brings out the taste.’

His dad narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t want bacon in my sprouts,’ he said. ‘I want sprouts in my sprouts.’

‘Well maybe give it a try, Charlie.’ His mum wiped her hands on her Christmas napkin and tried to smooth over the tension building in the air. ‘I think they’re very nice. Very different.’

‘Just smother it with gravy and you won’t notice, Dad,’ Silvia said, as she tried to stop her boys from kicking each other under the table.

‘I would, if someone hadn’t messed around with the gravy.’

‘Oh for god’s sake, Dad.’ Harry shook his head. ‘It’s not messed around with, it’s just different. Taste it. It doesn’t all have to taste the same, every day.’

‘It’s not every day, is it? It’s Christmas Day. I like things to taste like they should on Christmas Day.’

‘Urgh. That’s such an annoying thing to say.’ Harry shook his head. He saw Silvia giving him a warning glance across the table. His nephews had stopped kicking each other and were staring, entranced by what was about to ensue.

‘Harry.’ His dad raised his brows at him. ‘You may be some hotshot over there in New York, but here you are still my son and in my house you will respect me, your mother, all of us. You are not too big to be sent to your room.’

‘Yes I am, Dad.’ Harry bunched up his napkin. ‘That’s the thing, yes I am. I knew this was a bad idea.’

‘Harry—’ He felt his mum put her hand on his arm as he was just pushing back his chair. ‘Harry, please.’

Harry shut his eyes for a moment. He saw himself sitting on his bed alone practically every Christmas that he hadn’t been too old to be sent to his room. Banished for some reason or another. Sometimes completely deserving of the punishment, sometimes not, but lonely all the same. His mum would sneak up and give him a bowl of Christmas pudding and brandy butter and her little portable TV that she had in the kitchen. She’d wink and say, ‘Won’t be much longer.’ And he’d wonder why she made him stay there. Why she didn’t just override his dad. Why he got to be the leader.

Now, at the dining table, his unpulled cracker next to his plate, the rain hammering on the window, his dad picking the bits of bacon out of the sprouts, his sister watching warily, his mum’s hand on his arm – wrinklier than he remembered – he used every ounce of willpower that he possessed to force his bum back down on the seat. To focus on his food. To take a bite of beautiful, tender Brussels sprout with the sweet honey flavour of the bacon and try not to wish that his dad might have liked it just because he’d cooked it.

No one said any more about it. Gradually, the atmosphere relaxed. The boys, disappointed that the show was over, went back to their under-table kicking. They pulled their crackers. They wore their hats. Except Harry, who accidentally-on-purpose ripped his trying to get it on, and then they ate Christmas pudding which was faultless, in his dad’s opinion, because Tesco had made it and made it the same every year.

‘So you’re over for business?’ his dad said when the presents had been opened and the kids were playing with their new stuff and his mum was asleep on the sofa.

‘Yeah. It’s meetings with the owners. Looking at the future. What we’re going to do, how we might expand – what we can achieve with the brand. That kind of thing.’

‘Sounds very fancy.’

‘Not really. Just, you can’t stand still, can you?’

His dad sank back into the squashy cushions of his chair – perfectly moulded to his contours over the years. ‘I worked in the same company all my life. Never wanted to do anything different. Got a good pension. Good friends.’ He shrugged. ‘I think sometimes there’s too much weight put on moving on. Moving forward. Growth. Growth? How much can we grow? Economy flatlines and we’re all still trying to grow.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Harry’s uncle, who was opening another bottle of sherry.

Harry shook his head. ‘It’s not just about expanding for the sake of it, Dad, it’s meeting a demand. If a company is successful then they have the potential to grow. People want what we’re offering so, by expanding, we’re filling a need in the market.’

‘I just can’t believe there’s room for any more restaurants.’ His dad shook his head. ‘I was driving down the high street the other day and what do I see? Another coffee shop. How much coffee are people drinking? And the whole riverside’s been dug up and turned into restaurants. Everyone out there stuffing their faces.’ He folded his hands in his lap and did a sigh of distaste. Then he sat forward and pointed a finger at Harry. ‘It’s because they’ve got nothing else to do. No hobbies.’

Before Harry could reply, Silvia leant over the back of the sofa and said, ‘Not sure golf and watching the snooker count as hobbies, Dad.’

Harry knew she was trying to steer the conversation onto safer, jokier ground but he couldn’t let it lie. ‘Dad, you can’t compare what I do at The Bonfire with some mass-produced high-street chain restaurant. They’re two different things. We’ve won awards.’ He edged forward on the sofa, trying to emphasise his points by getting closer to his dad. ‘We’ve changed the way people cook. We have critics queuing up to eat there. I built that. You know? From nothing.’

His dad frowned. ‘But at the end of the day, it’s just food, Son.’

‘It’s not just food.’

‘I think it is.’ His dad did a half-laugh as if Harry was fighting the obvious. Harry felt the same frustration as he felt as a kid boil up inside himself. ‘I do see what you’re trying to say, Son, but it’s really just food. And what’s food? Fuel to get us to the end of the day. Admittedly yours is fancy food, but still food.’ His dad sat back and Harry noticed that his attention was being diverted to the sweet sherry his uncle was splashing generously into glasses. Clearly distracted by the fact the alcohol might be being wasted, he added, ‘No. I just can’t agree, I don’t think we need more of it,’ before getting up and retrieving the sherry bottle.

Harry saw Silvia wince out the corner of his eye.

It’s just food.

He felt like he’d been skewered on the sofa.

Three years ago he’d sent his parents the money for plane tickets to New York for the opening of the restaurant. His dad had said there was no way he’d be getting on a plane, not with all the terrorism in the world and his mum had said that there was no way she could come without his dad because she’d be completely out of her depth in such a big city. They’d given the money to Silvia and her husband, who had gladly accepted, left their kids with the grandparents, and come to New York for what had been one of the best weekends of Harry’s life. In his head his sister had always been this slightly annoying person who’d appeared in the world when he was about to turn eight, after years of his parents trying for another baby and never getting anywhere. But suddenly, in New York, after a good few years absence from each other, he’d seen her as the person she’d grown up to be. Funny, a bit snarky, beautiful, cool in her own way, and they’d had their time. Finally. It had almost made up for his parents not being there.

‘Don’t worry, he’s just pissed,’ Silvia said, coming round to sit next to him on the sofa. The problem with them knowing each other better was that she could now see how much his dad affected him, and Harry couldn’t just sulk silently in the corner.

Harry nodded and leant back against the cushions with a sigh. ‘I don’t think I ever knew he thought like that.’

‘Oh come on, you know he’s never got it.’

‘Yeah I’ve always known he didn’t really understand what I did. But, Christ, I always thought he respected it. What an idiot.’

‘Who? Him or you?’ Silvia asked, rolling her head to look at him with a half-smile.

‘Me,’ Harry said. ‘And him,’ he added. ‘And you as well if you want.’

She laughed then, patting him on the thigh, said, ‘Come on let’s put Lord of the Rings on and play Bananagrams.’

Harry closed his eyes. ‘That does not sound like it’s going to make things better.’

But, actually, for Harry, playing Bananagrams ended up being the most enjoyable part of the day, especially when he and his sister, and even his mum, kept winning and his dad, much to his seething annoyance, kept losing. He left when it seemed the politest possible opportunity to do so.

‘And don’t forget to sort out your pension,’ his dad shouted from his chair as Harry walked towards the front door.

Harry shook his head. He felt his mum put her hand on his back. ‘It’s just his way of saying he loves you.’

Harry scoffed. ‘You really think that?’

‘I know that,’ she said.

‘Well I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think it’s the case at all,’ Harry said, his hand on the door latch. ‘Thanks for today, anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t, you know…’

His mum nodded with a smile.

‘And thanks for the present.’ He held up the white apron with “YES, CHEF!” printed on the front that he wouldn’t wear in a million years.

Then, suddenly, his mum threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight and said, ‘Oh, my boy. Why do you have to live so far away?’

‘It’s where the work is, Mum.’

She squeezed him tighter. ‘Sometimes I worry that it’s to get away from us.’

He laughed and, even to him, it sounded like a weird fake one. ‘No, of course not,’ he said and saw Silvia watching from the doorway, one brow raised.

His mum let him go, wiping a tear away with her apron.

‘Bye, Sis,’ he said with a quick salute. ‘Any time you want to pop to New York let me know.’

Silvia smiled. ‘I will. And any time you want to pop home,’ she said, with big eyes as if she was urging him to do so a bit more often. ‘Let us know! Maybe more than half a day in advance.’

‘Will do,’ he said, with no intention of doing so whatsoever, and headed out into the cloudy darkness, the rain still pouring and shaking the Christmas lights off the branches of the trees.


Chapter Five (#ulink_8855afb6-71f0-5092-be38-3a6e9125b8dc)

To Jemima’s delight, Boxing Day was spent in front of the television while everyone sewed. The fitting on Christmas Eve had proved that Annie had somehow lost weight over the festive period when everyone else put it on so, as well as finishing all the embroidery, doing the skirt, the sleeves, the neckline, Hannah also had to take it in a half inch. And so the day after Boxing Day was also spent in front of the television, again to Jemima’s delight, while everyone sewed.

‘So she’s invited me to the wedding,’ Hannah said, glancing up at Dylan as she pinned cream ruffles to the skirt.

‘And?’ Dylan was playing Top Trumps with Jemima.

Over at the living room table, her mum was embroidering peacock feathers to one end of the hot-pink overlay while her dad was beading the other end. They were like Lady and the Tramp with vibrant pink net. Lying in front of the TV, watching Frozen, Tony and Robyn were making more ruffles for Hannah to attach to the skirt.

‘Well,’ Hannah scratched her head. ‘Should I go?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t think it’s a sympathy invite? Just because I made the dress?’

Dylan frowned down at his Top Trump. ‘Of course it is. You haven’t been friends with them since school.’

‘So I shouldn’t go?’ she said, sitting crossed-legged on the floor.

‘Hannah, you don’t have time to stop,’ her mum called over from the table.

Hannah went back to pinning the ruffles.

‘Of course you should go. I’d go. All your old friends’ll be there. If anything, just go to get a peek at that Emily Hunter-Brown. She’s a bona fide famous person now. She was in your year, wasn’t she? From what I read in the paper, she’s engaged to Jack Neil now. Remember him from school. God he was a dish.’ Dylan sighed at the memory, then added, ‘Take it from me, Hannah, as your elder and wiser…’

Jemima giggled.

‘The older you get, the much smaller the opportunities to make new friends become. So when they do come up, you should pounce on them immediately.’

Hannah thought about when the last time she’d made a new friend was. She’d met people at college but they were all fifteen years younger than her and, while they’d been fun to hang out with, she’d felt a bit like their uncool mum, having to bite her tongue when they talked about all the drugs they were taking. There were her baby friends that she talked kid stuff with. Work friends that she bitched about her boss with. But new friends who just knew her as Hannah – not as crazy-busy ‘Jemima’s mum’ or the person who could never do the overtime that everyone else did because she had to pick up from nursery – she hadn’t made one of them in a while.

‘Always in life, Hannah,’ Dylan went on, ‘do what works for you.’

‘I think Uncle Dylan is cheating, Mummy.’ Jemima turned her head round to look at Hannah.

‘I am not, you little ratbag,’ Dylan said with a laugh and bashed Jemima with a sofa cushion, making her giggle.

‘I don’t know, Dyl. I’m going to be so tired once this is done.’ Hannah picked up another cream ruffle just as Tony came over and dumped a whole load more onto her pile. ‘And there’s Jemima.’

‘You’re a machine, Hannah. You can keep going for another twelve hours just to drink champagne and eat little cakes. Even I could do that and I have the stamina of a dying fly. And your daughter has a rich, diverse and talented extended family who insist that she is left in their care so she can learn and develop into a thoroughly rounded human being. Hence why we are currently playing One Direction Top Trumps.’

Hannah looked from Dylan to the three-quarters finished dress that hung from the dressmaker’s dummy and was just beginning to look as good as it should. Behind it the Christmas tree twinkled and the fire crackled and she felt her mind and her body at war. Physically she was so exhausted that she wanted to fit Annie in the dress and then scurry home to the big sofa and eat a mince pie with a glass of wine. But that would be the same as Christmas last year and similar to the one the year before. Whereas her mind was quietly fizzing with excitement. With the possibility of the people. The life. Of going back again to Cherry Pie Island. It was like standing in front of a television screen and being invited to step inside to where the colours were brighter and the life richer. Where people married their childhood sweethearts, ran cute little cafés and dressed like hot-pink Christmas trees.

‘So, what do you think? Have I persuaded you to go?’ Dylan asked with a confident little smirk on his lips.

Hannah glanced back at him. ‘I think you might have done.’

‘Ha. Brilliant. I knew it. I’m a genius.’ He laughed and then made Jemima give him a high-five.


Chapter Six (#ulink_26d1a064-ca2c-553f-aad8-f1cd8de7dcfd)

‘Nah, mate. I’ll stay here, you’re alright. She doesn’t want me coming to her wedding. She doesn’t know me. And she sure as hell doesn’t like me,’ Harry said as he served up golden, buttery bacon sandwiches. He’d spent years tweaking his perfect method of making them. Sizzling streaky bacon pressed down in the pan with the base of another to make sure every inch was crispy, then lined up widthways on the bread to ensure even distribution when cutting. Next came the tiny, sweet cherry tomatoes grilled till they split. The whole sandwich then dipped in whisked egg and touched back down on the highest heat to hiss and pop and turn the bread a rich golden brown. All served with big mugs of stewed tea.

‘I have to have brown sauce,’ said Wilf as he pulled up a seat at the island unit in his sister Emily Hunter-Brown’s kitchen.

‘You can’t have brown sauce. It’ll ruin it. It’s perfect as it is. I promise.’

Wilf shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘God you’re a philistine. I don’t know how you own so many restaurants.’

‘I am a connoisseur of taste, my dear chap. But I also appreciate the little luxuries in life, such as a bit of HP sauce.’

As Wilf was talking, Emily appeared and slid onto the stool next to him. When Wilf had said Emily’d put Harry up as well as himself, Wilf’s fiancée Holly and their baby, Harry had tried to refuse, saying he’d check into a hotel, but then Wilf had emailed him a photo of Montmorency Manor, Emily’s home, and said it practically was a hotel. He could have as much or as little privacy as he wanted. And Wilf had been right, but Harry felt as if he’d been here too long already. He was ready to go home, back to normality. But of course Wilf, having said ‘let’s discuss business over the holidays’, hadn’t wanted to talk business until Christmas was done, and then now till the wedding was done, and all Harry hoped was that he could get it all in the bag prior to New Year, be back in New York and back in the restaurant to make sure no one buggered up the eight course New Year’s Eve menu he’d spent months finalising.

‘What you have to understand about my brother, Harry…’ Emily drawled, her white-blonde hair all mussed-up on top of her head like a halo. ‘Is that he had a very dysfunctional childhood. His only comfort came from matron at boarding school – the big-bosomed provider of the HP sauce,’ she said with a smile, then picked up her sandwich and added, ‘This looks dreamy,’ before taking a giant bite.

Wilf scoffed. ‘Well, dear Sister, I’d take a bottle of HP over having my whole life catalogued in Hello! magazine. Or indeed hidden amongst redundant Blockbuster video stock. Which reminds me…’ He held up a hand. ‘Harry, have you had the pleasure of witnessing Emily’s fledgling film career? I can probably get my hands on a copy of When the Wind Blows, if not?’

‘Oh piss off, Wilf,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows it was crap. It was a crap script and I was crap in it. So it’s pointless bringing it up.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re so lame at arguing.’

Wilf did a huge, guffawing laugh and then pulled Emily into a sideways hug which she did her best to bat away.

Just then the big sliding doors of the kitchen opened and Emily’s partner Jack came in from the garden, all sweaty from a run. ‘Hey. Something smells amazing,’ he said, going over to Emily and kissing her on the forehead before necking her glass of water. ‘Is there one for me?’ he asked.

‘Jack, you’re all sweaty, it’s gross,’ Emily said, wiped his sweat from her face with a tea towel while Harry pushed a plate his way.

‘You love it!’ Jack laughed. ‘Love me, love my sweat,’ he added as Emily grimaced and threw the tea towel at him so he could dry his face. Jack just chucked it over his shoulder, more interested in the bacon sandwich. Taking a huge bite he sighed as he chewed. ‘What a treat! Thanks, Harry.’ Then, after he’d swallowed, added, ‘So, what have I missed?’

‘Wilf is just giving Harry the low-down on my epic film career,’ Emily answered with a faux smile in Wilf’s direction.

‘Well if you will put yourself out there, Sis, you’ve got take the criticism.’

Jack leant over and gave Emily a sympathetic little squeeze.

‘Still too much sweat, darling,’ she said, pushing him away, but he wouldn’t let her go and in the end she laughed and let him hug her tight. ‘You’re so manly,’ she mocked, then gave him a big, flamboyant kiss on the lips, after which she turned to Wilf and picked the argument up where it had left off. ‘It was like ten years ago, Wilf. No one needs to talk about it or see it.’

‘I did actually see When the Wind Blows,’ Harry said, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter. ‘I didn’t think you were as bad as everyone said.’

‘Thank you, Harry.’ Emily held her hands wide as if vindicated. ‘For that, you may stay as long as you like.’

Wilf rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah and for that you can find yourself a suit because you’re coming to the wedding. And if you don’t come, you’re staying here and babysitting Willow. Up to you.’

‘Stop scowling at them,’ Wilf whispered out the corner of his mouth as he and Harry sat on the hard wooden seats of Swan Island Folly – a little temple that had been built to celebrate the great poems of someone Harry had never heard of in the eighteenth century.

‘I just don’t see the point,’ Harry muttered back, watching the groom, Matt, and the moody teenage son, Water, no River, pacing and looking increasingly nervous as the bride got later. ‘Why do you need to do this?’

‘What?’

‘Get married.’

Wilf considered it for a second, then said, ‘Tradition.’

‘Hang on, what did you just say?’ Wilf’s fiancée, Holly, sat forward, Willow asleep on her shoulder. ‘Were you kidding? You think people get married just because of tradition?’

Wilf made a face like he’d done something wrong without really thinking about it and wishing the right words were in his head so that he could reply with the right answer. ‘No,’ he said instead.

Harry’s lips twitched. He liked Holly a lot. She reminded him of his sister. He’d heard a lot about her before he met her, what with Wilf being his boss, but the gossip hadn’t really done her justice. No one could ever quite describe what she looked like, only to say she wasn’t Wilf’s usual type. Which was a roundabout way of saying she wasn’t model-stunning, but it also suggested that she had a brain and didn’t fawn annoyingly over him like all the others always did. Harry thought Holly was very pretty in a freckled-nosed, pale-skinned kind of way, but mainly he thought she was brilliant because of her obvious calming effect on Wilf. Since they’d been together things got done, plans got made, he wasn’t pissed when he turned up to meetings, nor did he flounce out bored if things didn’t go his way. She’d also probably been one of Harry’s favourites to talk to on this trip. She was calm and down-to-earth and as Harry didn’t sleep very well and she was up half the night feeding Willow, they’d had some pretty enjoyable night-time chats. She’d told him stories of life growing up on Cherry Pie Island and her time rowing at the Olympics. He’d talked about his life in New York. It had only got weird once when she’d talked about her mum leaving when she was a kid and had looked away embarrassed, tears clearly catching her by surprise. Harry had gone to get her a tissue but she’d used Willow’s muslin to dry her face by the time he got back. Then she’d stood up and said she was going to go and wake Wilf up because she needed a hug. And Harry had been kind of surprised, expecting her to soldier on on her own. But that probably said more about him than it did about her.

Back in the Folly, Holly wasn’t going to let the subject of marriage lie, and in a hushed whisper, because Willow was showing signs of stirring, said, ‘So what is it then, Wilf? Why did you propose?’

Wilf took a deep breath. ‘Because, er…’

Holly raised a brow. ‘It’s the done thing?’

The music started.

The crowd quietened down.

Harry watched as Wilf’s brain seemed to click into gear. He was willing him not to mess this up.

‘No. Absolutely not. It’s a public show of my deep and unutterable love for you, my gorgeous, darling, terrifying partner and my sweet, wailing baby,’ Wilf said, then before Holly could reply he leant round so he could give her a big kiss without disturbing the baby, and with one eye open said, ‘Ooh here’s the bride.’

Harry saw the dressmaker, Hannah, first. Saw her slip into a seat at the back, a second before Annie entered. He watched her fidget with her hands in her lap and then sit on them. He quite enjoyed seeing her nervousness, her apprehension. It was interesting. Far more interesting than all the beaming smiles around him.

Given the dress he’d seen at the café, he’d assumed Hannah would be wearing something equally way-out. Have layers of bizarre jewellery and some odd diaphanous Aztec number on. But she was wearing navy. Really simple except for a luminous-yellow belt. Flat shoes. Hair up. Red lipstick. Almost disguised bags under her eyes. She looked like her Christmas had been as stressful as his own. And surprisingly attractive.

But then the bride came in and he stopped looking at Hannah. The whole crowd seemed to inhale collectively. It was like before their eyes Annie had transformed from stressed café-owner to Hollywood movie star. To supermodel. To eye-wateringly ravishing beauty. Harry had been intending to cast a glance back at the groom to see him wince at the weird hot-pink dress, but since he’d last seen it the dress had been refined, shaped, pressed, little organza sleeves had been added and darker beads and crystals to dim down the crazy pink. Green and blue peacock feather embroidery snaked around the bodice and, just below the waist, gave way to soft cream silk and then, almost like a shredded workhouse dress, underneath the silk were ruffles like feathers that frilled to the ground. She looked amazing. Her cropped blonde hair was all slicked and cool, and her make-up made her eyes all big like a Pixar character, but it was the dress. The dress made her like the very best it was possible for her to ever be and more so. Harry was gob-smacked.

When he could tear his eyes away he looked back at Hannah who was still staring nervously, clasping her hands tight, her eyes squinted as if she couldn’t quite look and her mouth tense. As if she could sense someone watching her she turned his way and when her eye caught his, Harry found himself nodding, then, quite bizarrely, in a gesture he’d never before done in his life, he gave her a thumbs up.

She frowned and he spent the rest of the service wondering what had come over him.

***

The gardens of the folly had been decorated with strings of white bunting and fairy lights that were now dripping in the rain. Blobs splashing down onto evergreen leaves and into puddles on the paved path. A ferry was waiting to take the guests the short hop over to Cherry Pie Island for the reception at The Dandelion Café. Harry held his umbrella over Holly and baby Willow while Wilf chatted to one of the guests.

‘Wilf just doesn’t really get it, does he?’ Holly said, holding Willow tight against her as she stepped onto the boat and picked up a glass of champagne a waiter was holding on a tray. ‘I mean. That’s what he actually thinks, isn’t it? He actually just thinks people get married because of tradition.’

Harry shrugged. He was slightly distracted looking for the dress designer. He wanted to somehow smooth over the thumbs up incident. To make it quite clear he wasn’t a thumbs up kinda guy, but he had absolutely no way of knowing quite how to get that across.

‘What do you think? Harry?’ Holly nudged him with her arm to get his attention.

‘Yeah, he does. I know. But you do have a kid so…’

‘So?’ Holly tipped her head to one side and looked at him with a sigh. ‘That doesn’t mean we should automatically marry. If we’re not getting married for the right reasons then probably better for Willow that we’re not married. You were the one saying it was ridiculous.’

‘Oh yeah, I think the whole notion of marriage is completely insane. Why you’d want to lock yourself into a relationship is beyond me.’ Harry saw a drip of rain land on Holly’s arm and moved the brolly so she was completely covered. ‘The automatic response has to be to want to escape. It stands to reason. It’s suffocating.’





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