Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin: A heart-warming and feel-good read. Catherine Ferguson

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СКАЧАТЬ Poppy, it is. But things can only get better.’ He doesn’t seem sad. In fact, he sounds quite cheerful about it.

      ‘Very true,’ I agree, thinking of Clemmy, who he’d seemed pretty keen on.

       Clemmy is such a pretty name.

      ‘So, Poppy, I’m really glad you phoned me.’

      ‘It was no problem at all.’

      ‘If I hadn’t discovered the mistake, my carefully laid plans for a merry Christmas would have gone right up in smoke. I must have hit a wrong digit. Did I get the area code right, at least? Are you in Surrey?’

      ‘I am. I live in Angelford?’

      ‘Ah, yes. In that case you’re very close to my uncle’s holiday home. Which is where we’ll be for Christmas. Lovely area.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose it is. It’s just when you live in a place, you quite often don’t appreciate its beauty as much as other folk.’

      ‘That’s true. Do you think that also applies to people living within spitting distance of the Eiffel Tower? Or over the road from the Grand Canal in Venice?’

      ‘Over the water, you mean.’

      He laughs at my very feeble joke. ‘You’ve got an exceptional café in Angelford, if I remember rightly. Best chocolate-fudge brownies in the world. Am I right or am I right?’

      ‘You’re right. We do. Although, can I suggest you try the raspberry-cream-and-white-chocolate cheesecakes next time?’

      ‘I’ll make sure I do that.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Then we can compare notes.’

      ‘You won’t regret it. I tried to make them myself but nothing tops their version.’

      ‘Are you a good cook, then?’

      ‘Er, not bad, I suppose. The kitchen’s my favourite room in the house.’

      ‘Yes? What sort of things do you make?’

      I smile, wondering if he’s just being polite. But I don’t think he is. He sounds genuinely interested.

      ‘Everything, but Italian food is my speciality.’

      ‘Can you make pasta from scratch? And tiramisu?’

      ‘I can. Actually, I’m making tiramisu for a special dinner party,’ I say, deciding on the spot that this is what I’ll make for Mrs Morelli’s dessert.

      ‘My mouth’s watering. This sounds like it’s far more than just a hobby, if you don’t mind me saying. Are you a chef?’

      His question stops me in my tracks. I’m not a chef. But if Erin has her way, I’ll certainly be cooking for a living. The pints of prosecco I’ve drunk make me bold. I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’m a caterer, specialising in Italian food. I do private dinner parties.’

      My heart gives an odd little thump. Just saying those words makes me feel like a different person. More confident and self-assured, somehow.

      ‘Sounds amazing. Are you working tonight?’

      ‘Er, no, not tonight.’ Suddenly I feel like a fraud. I’m very glad Jed Turner can’t see the burning heat creeping into my face. ‘My – um – next engagement is on Saturday.’ Why am I trying to impress a man I don’t even know?

      ‘Looking forward to it?’

      ‘Yes! At least, I think so.’

      He laughs. ‘You don’t sound sure.’

      ‘I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all,’ I confess. ‘The woman I’m cooking for was born in Italy.’

      ‘Ah, so there’s that extra pressure to deliver genuine Italian flavours,’ he murmurs, hitting the nail right on the head.

      ‘Absolutely!’

      ‘Well, you sound very passionate when you talk about cooking and that’s a great sign. I’m sure you’ll impress on Saturday.’

      ‘Thank you.’ My face flushes even redder with pleasure.

      ‘I’ll keep your number,’ he chuckles. ‘Just in case I ever have an Italian-food emergency. I live over the border in West Sussex, but an emergency is an emergency.’

      ‘Especially if Italian food is involved.’

      ‘Well, exactly. Getting spaghetti hoops out of the can without a decent tin opener can be a real challenge for a bloke like me.’

      ‘I just happen to have a range of excellent can openers.’

      ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Poppy.’

      There’s a brief pause and I rack my brains for something to say. It’s been such fun talking to Jed Turner …

      ‘So are you going to call Clemmy?’ The question escapes before I can stop myself. I close my eyes, feeling like a right idiot.

      ‘Er, yes. I definitely will.’

      ‘I hope she accepts your invitation after all this palaver.’

      He laughs. ‘I have a feeling she will. She’s a lovely girl. Cute and adorably accident-prone. She just needs to believe in herself a bit more.’

      ‘Oh?’ It sounds like he likes Clemmy a lot.

      ‘Yeah. She was bullied at school for having blazing red hair and being on the plump side, and these things stick.’

      ‘Kids can be horrible. Does she live in Surrey as well?’

      ‘Yes. She doesn’t have a car so she can meet me off the London train in Easingwold and I’ll whisk her over to join the gang at Westbury Edge.’

      My heart snags.

       Westbury Edge?

      I swallow hard. An image of the lake in the tiny hamlet of Westbury Edge flashes into my head, with the little whitewashed cottage on its shores mirrored perfectly in the glasslike surface of the water. It’s eighteen years since I was last in that cottage – but it’s burned on my brain as if it all happened only a week ago …

      ‘Poppy? Are you still there?’ Jed Turner asks.

      ‘Yes! Sorry, the connection’s not great,’ I say, crossing my fingers and hoping he doesn’t think I’m completely weird. ‘You – er – work in London, then?’

      ‘Yes. It’s been crazy lately, but I’m leaving at lunchtime on the nineteenth of December. So, come hell or high water, I’ll be on that two p.m. train heading home for the Christmas holidays!’

      ‘Sounds good.’ My legs are still shaking from hearing СКАЧАТЬ