Wickham Hall: Part Four - White Christmas (7 page)

‘Oh, nice.' I arched my eyebrows. ‘Is Steve a keen cook?'

‘Well,' Mum's face coloured and she pressed a hand to her hair, ‘to be honest, Holly, I don't really know. But a bit of encouragement never hurt anyone, did it?'

I left her to her cup of tea and wandered off to find Jenny; time was ticking on and we really needed to seat the audience.

It takes time, I supposed, to find out everything about the one you love. That's part of the fun of those early days. Now that I thought about it, I knew all sorts of random things about Ben: he liked mustard on his sausages, often kept a paintbrush behind his ear and, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time, he was coming home in four sleeps . . .

‘Psst, Holly!' Jenny hissed at me, bringing me out of my daydream.

‘What's up?'

‘Give me strength,' muttered Jenny, dragging me into the kitchen. ‘Where's his celebrity charisma? Where's his stage presence? I'm tempted to grab him by the lapels of that denim jacket and yell, “Cheer up, it's Christmas!”'

I sucked in a worried breath. ‘I know what you mean, Jenny. But at least he's here. I thought for one awful moment that he had left for good when he stormed off.'

‘Most of the ladies have been here before to one of my demos. They're expecting something special. And they've paid handsomely for a ticket. I hope this doesn't all go belly up, chick.'

‘Give him a chance, Jenny.' I squeezed her arm. ‘He was probably up with the lark this morning to get here on time from Manchester. And from what I saw of his on-screen persona, I doubt he could keep that enthusiasm up for long. I imagine he saves the “crazy chef” routine until the last moment to preserve his energy.'

She eyed me doubtfully. ‘But all his emails and tweets have been so chatty and bubbly.'

‘He's probably just working himself up to it slowly; I'm sure this will be the best Christmas event the Coach House Café has ever seen. If it's any consolation, my mum thinks it's great.' I smiled.

‘I hope you're right,' she sighed, smoothing her whites down neatly, ‘because right now I'm feeling less than festive myself.'

‘Oh dear. Well, that's probably because you aren't wearing a Christmas jumper.' I raised an eyebrow and flicked at her chef whites. ‘Didn't you get the memo?'

She snorted and undid the poppers on her jacket. ‘I thought I'd be too hot, but my bra's got jingle bells on. Watch.'

We both giggled as she shimmied and tiny bells tinkled along the top of her bra.

‘Perhaps that's the answer to Daniel's depressed face,' I suggested. ‘Give him a flash. I defy anyone to keep a straight face looking at that cleavage.'

Jenny shuddered. ‘Portia would kill me with one of her stares. I wouldn't dare!'

At that moment, the kitchen doors swung open and Portia appeared, her forehead creased and her lips pressed together sourly. ‘Sorry to barge in, but have either of you seen Daniel?'

After five seconds of staring at each other in sheer panic, the three of us split up and went looking for our incredible vanishing chef. Portia decided to brave the men's toilets, Jenny ran along the corridor to the Great Hall and I went outside.

I found him in about thirty seconds.

He was sitting astride Jenny's Harley-Davidson, making revving noises under his breath.

‘Daniel!' I exclaimed breathlessly. ‘Did you get lost? We've all been looking for you. Portia's beside herself.'

He glanced up at me for a second. ‘I can't do it.'

I honestly think my blood ran cold as I imagined having to face a disappointed audience in the café. Not to mention Jenny.

‘Look, these people are your fans. Surely you don't want to let them down?'

‘I never wanted to come in the first place,' he said morosely. ‘I was supposed to be having a day off Christmas shopping with my brother today. Portia kept it as a
surprise.
'

I was confused. ‘But you're a celebrity chef; aren't you living the dream?'

‘I love to cook,' he said, climbing down off the bike. ‘Big difference.'

I frowned, remembering the tweets and emails that Jenny had proudly shown me over the last few months.

Daniel lowered himself onto the step of the kitchen service door and I squeezed next to him, shivering as the cold shot up my spine.

‘But you accepted Jenny's invitation on Twitter. Why do that if you never intended to come?'

‘Not me; I've never even been on Twitter.' He shook his head, staring down at his feet. ‘Portia does all that . . . social media stuff. She says it's important for profile-building.' He shrugged. ‘I just want to be in the kitchen, cooking. I never wanted to be a celebrity.'

My heart sank as I looked at my watch. The audience was expecting the demo to start in seven minutes. And I had a celebrity chef who didn't even want to be a
celebrity
, let alone cook.

I scrabbled around for something motivating to say, but before anything profound came to mind, Daniel turned to me and blinked his solemn grey eyes.

‘You know my show
Kitchen Secrets
?'

I nodded.

‘That started as a joke because I never let anyone else in the kitchen with me. I'm quite a private person; I cook for myself, for relaxation. I crank up the music, throw myself into my cooking and lose myself in my own world. My wife pushed me to audition for TV. Sometimes I think she gets more out of it than I do; it's certainly given her career a boost.'

‘But you look completely at home behind the camera, why don't you want to do this demo?' I asked, attempting to keep the frustration out of my voice.

‘A camera – yes. Just me and a cameraman in the kitchen.' He gulped and his face seemed to drain of all colour. ‘Not several hundred pairs of eyes all staring at me, waiting for me to make a mistake.'

I sighed inwardly; Jenny, our very own chef, could not only cook, but was a great entertainer too. She would jump at the chance to be in his place. What a shame that all these people had come to see him and not her. Unless, of course, they could work as a double act . . .

I jumped to my feet. ‘Just wait there, don't move a muscle.'

Ten minutes later Daniel, Jenny and I were assembled in the kitchen, waiting while the audience settled themselves into their seats. Portia was at the book-signing table trying to flog DVDs.

‘Jenny will do most of the talking,' I soothed. ‘You just do the cheffy bits.'

He nodded nervously.

Jenny winked at me. ‘And Daniel, if you start to panic, just hum “Jingle Bells”.'

‘What? Why?'

His jaw dropped as Jenny ripped open her top and wiggled her chest at him. ‘Every time you hum, I'll come to your rescue.'

A smile spread across his face and he shook his head. ‘I've seen it all now.'

‘Not quite all.' She grinned. ‘I've got matching knickers. Now come on, we've got an Elizabethan Christmas dinner to dish up to a hundred hungry fans.'

She linked arms with him and the two of them strode into the café singing ‘Jingle Bells' quietly to themselves.

‘So now that the roast goose is in the oven, we're going to crack on with the potted pheasant. I'll start the cider reduction, while Daniel prepares the pheasant.'

I hovered at the side of the demo area, completely entranced. I know she's my friend and I know I'm biased, but Jenny Plum really was a star; not only was she able to slice onions at speed whilst making eye contact with the audience, but she was also full of trivia and titbits of the origins of the dishes the two of them were creating. What's more, she was brilliant at drawing Daniel into the conversation . . .

‘What are you putting in that pestle and mortar, Daniel?'

‘We're going to pack some really bold flavours into this dish.' He held out his hand, looked around for the camera to do its close-up and then swallowed, realizing there wasn't one. Luckily, I was filming it on my iPhone, so I quickly stepped forward and zoomed in. He flashed me a grateful smile. ‘I've got some mace, some star anise and some peppercorns to give it some heat.'

‘Jenny's a genius,' murmured Portia in my ear. ‘I don't know how she's done it, but he's totally calmed down.'

‘So you use all of the pheasant?' asked a rotund lady in the front row.

Whoops. Portia had spoken too soon; it seemed Daniel was only calm when he forgot that the audience was there.

‘Er.' Daniel blinked at the lady. ‘“Jingle bells” . . .'

Jenny perked her head up and began to dance on the spot.

Portia's hand flew to her throat. ‘What on earth . . .?'

‘We're just using the breast in this recipe,' he replied, with a sly glance at Jenny. ‘But the recipe has plenty of wiggle room for personal taste.'

‘Potted pheasant would have been a traditional Christmas dish in Elizabethan times. Are there any food-related Christmas traditions in the Denton household?' Jenny asked him.

Daniel smoothed his hair back from his face and thought about it for a moment. ‘My grandfather only cooked one dish and that was a raised game pie for Boxing Day. I haven't made one for years, but now that you've reminded me, I might give it a go again this year.' He grinned.

‘Interesting,' said Jenny. ‘Now the Elizabethans loved pies . . .'

And she was off again, describing the elaborate pies made as centrepieces, one even containing a whole peacock. The audience loved the double act and whenever Jenny asked for volunteers, nearly every hand shot straight up in the air.

The three hours flew by and towards the end, when Daniel was putting the finishing touches to the elaborate fruit cake that was to be shared amongst the audience, the door opened softly and Lady Fortescue slipped into the café.

In fact, I almost missed her; I was so engrossed in watching Jenny modelling miniature marzipan fruits and it took me back to my first day here when she had been making something similar for the Women's Institute.

‘Now for this last delicate operation, we need an extra pair of hands.' Jenny smiled at the audience. ‘Any volunteers?'

I nearly fell over when Lady Fortescue raced forward, as usual looking effortlessly elegant in soft grey trousers and a silk blouse.

‘Lady Fortescue, ladies and gentlemen!' declared Jenny, leading the applause as Her Ladyship donned an apron.

Daniel handed Lady Fortescue a fine brush and then showed her where to add the touches of gold leaf to the icing on the top of the cake, and the three of them brought the demonstration to a close by handing round slices of cake to a delighted audience.

An hour later all the guests had gone and Daniel was stowing the last few unsold DVDs in their car. Lady Fortescue, Jenny and I were lingering over a cup of tea and mulling over the success of the day.

‘Just food for thought,' said Portia, ‘but would you be interested in taking part in an episode of
Kitchen Secrets
, Jenny? I think you'd be a natural in front of the camera.'

Jenny's face flooded with colour. ‘Me? Well . . . if you think—'

‘She'd love to,' I interjected. ‘And I agree, she is a natural. In fact, how about
Kitchen Secrets at Wickham Hall
? We've got so much history here and I think viewers would love to see behind the scenes.'

‘Excellent idea, Holly,' Lady Fortescue exclaimed. ‘Um, perhaps there would be a cameo role in it for me?'

My heart soared; it had been so long since any of my suggestions had found favour with Her Ladyship.

Portia took out her notebook and scribbled something down. ‘I'll have a word with the director and be in touch.'

Jenny and I braved the cold and the dark to wave off Daniel and Portia in the car park. Jenny shook her head as their tail-lights finally disappeared into the distance. ‘I cooked with Daniel Denton. I can't believe that just happened.'

‘Believe it, Jenny.' I chuckled. ‘I've got the video to prove it.'

‘Just think, chick. I could be on TV. I couldn't wish for a better Christmas present.'

I was so happy for her, but even so as I wrapped my arm round her waist and we turned to go back inside a sigh escaped from me.

‘Aww, that was heartfelt! Don't worry, your turn will come.'

I laughed softly, shaking my head. ‘I've already told Santa today that all I want for Christmas is the impossible.'

‘Hey, chick,' she said squeezing my shoulders, ‘I just made the miserable Daniel Denton smile and almost got myself a TV contract; I'm living proof that the big man can work miracles.'

‘In that case,' I laughed, ‘I'd better work on getting myself onto the “good” list.'

The week sped by and before I knew it it was Friday and I was on elf duty.
Today I win at Christmas
, I thought, pulling on the green and red stripy tights of my elf costume. I caught sight of my painted rosy cheeks in the mirror and grinned; my customary habit of remaining unobtrusive had gone completely out of the window.

I turned slowly to check my reflection in the mirror in the ladies' loos one final time to make sure that my tunic wasn't twisted and my hat was on straight and then hurried back up to the office to hang my own clothes up neatly. It was the Fortescues' Christmas at Home event tonight and although I was working and therefore wouldn't be in a fancy party outfit, I still wanted to make a good impression – especially on Ben, whose aeroplane would be somewhere in the skies right now.

My heart gave a little jolt at the thought of him, as it had been doing all day . . .

After a morning spent emailing exhibitors about next year's Wickham Hall Summer Festival, I'd treated myself to a warming jacket potato for lunch in the café. I was about to embark on my first ever stint as Santa's elf with Jim in the grotto. I was really looking forward to it; if three hours with Jim dressed in that Santa outfit didn't make me feel Christmassy, nothing would.