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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ last drop of profit from the business. She’s always been okay with me, although Erin doesn’t agree. She isn’t a fan of their hard-nosed approach to business and she thinks the Nutters take me completely for granted.

      ‘You must admit they do have a flaming cheek the way they treat you. You’re always being leaned on to do extra shifts by that Mrs Nutjob, and you’re far too nice to say no!’

      I grin at her. ‘Erin, I enjoy being a waitress and I’m good at it. And Mrs Nutter is just trying to make the hotel a success so she and Mr Nutter can retire into the sunset.’

      Erin grunts. ‘I know you’re good at your job. I’m not arguing with that.’

      ‘And I’m about to be promoted to restaurant manager, remember?’

      ‘Of course I remember. Mr Hastings is retiring and everyone knows you’re the perfect person to step into his shoes.’ She tries to look pleased. ‘And that’s brilliant, of course. It just seemed like fate when Mrs Morelli mentioned she was looking for a caterer.’

      Her voice rises when she’s excited or agitated. I put my finger to my lips and indicate the living-room door, behind which my boyfriend is sitting on the sofa, poring over numbers on his laptop.

      ‘Sorry,’ she murmurs, leaning closer. ‘Didn’t mean to announce it to the entire universe. Is Harrison in?’

      ‘Yes. Harrison’s just back from work,’ I tell her in a normal voice, so he knows we’re not whispering and plotting. (Hardly necessary, really. When Harrison’s looking at numbers, he’s in his own little world.) ‘I’d invite you in but Harrison’s showing me some – erm – financial projections.’

      ‘Oh. Right. Well, marvellous!’ She beams, and I can see from her expression that she’s already planning a speedy escape. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?’

      Erin is thinking of buying a flat with her boyfriend, Mark, and last time she popped by, Harrison helpfully gave her a detailed run-down on the advantages and pitfalls of what every bank in Britain is currently offering in the way of mortgages. Well, it seemed like every bank to me. But that’s only because I’m not particularly great with numbers.

      Harrison is quite the opposite. He’s an accountant and currently in line for promotion at the big London firm where he works. He commutes every day from our home in Surrey and will often work late at the office on the nights I’m serving dinner at the hotel.

      ‘Better get home. I’ve bought oysters and some fizz for tonight,’ says Erin, showing me the bottle in her bag.

      ‘Ooh, what’s the occasion?’

      She gives me a rather lewd wink. ‘No occasion. Except getting Mark in a loving mood, if you know what I mean.’

      I grin. ‘Do I really need to know about this?’

      She pulls a face. ‘He’s been a bit distracted of late. I think they’re working him too hard, poor lamb. Feeding each other oysters is sure to get us back on track.’

      ‘They are supposed to be an aphrodisiac.’

      ‘Exactly! You should try them on Harrison.’

      ‘Seafood brings him out in a rash. He’s more a steak pie man.’

      Erin starts slip-sliding up the snowy path. ‘I’ll let you get back to your financial projections,’ she calls. ‘You’ve got a good one there, Poppy. Mark wouldn’t know his APR from his VPL.’

      I grin. ‘Er, neither would I. APR? Um … Annual Percentage Thingy?’

      She nods. ‘Annual Percentage Rate.’

      ‘And VPL?’ I cast around for possible words. ‘Very Preposterous Logarithm?’

      She giggles. ‘Visible Panty Line, actually.’ Closing the gate behind her, she sets off for her flat at the other end of the high street, pausing only to call, ‘Think about Mrs Morelli.’

      ‘I don’t have to. It’s not happening. But thank you for this.’ I hold up the Christmas apron. She shakes her head at me with weary affection, and I wave her off.

      Erin and I met six years ago when she started weekend-waitressing at The Pretty Flamingo to make extra cash to fund a course in flower arranging. She couldn’t stand working for the Nutters so she didn’t last long. But she’s since found her perfect job working in a florist’s in a neighbouring village, and her dream is to one day own her own shop.

      When she first arrived at the hotel, I thought she was loud and a bit of a show-off.

      Actually, I still think she’s loud and a bit of a show-off, but she’s also very kind and loyal with a fabulous sense of humour. The day I realised this, was also the day I was almost sacked by Mrs Nutter for breaking a porcelain statue of a flamingo.

      I’d been serving a couple at lunch and I’d thought they were acting a bit oddly. They were already drunk when they sat down, and they spent the entire time whispering together, giggling and glancing over at me. My suspicions turned out to be right. At the end of the meal, they left without paying.

      Realising what had happened, I dashed out after them, telling my friend and fellow waitress Maxine to let Mr Hastings know. I’ve no idea what I thought I was going to do – I just knew that I had to do something to stop them. I was racing through reception when my foot caught on a rug and I went flying against a big glass-fronted cabinet.

      The cabinet housed the owners’ precious ‘pretty flamingo’ statue, which gave the hotel its name – and when I jarred the cabinet, the flamingo inside toppled over and smashed. (Although at least Mr Hastings was able to catch the car number plate of the couple doing a runner.) Being young and naive, I felt sure I’d be sacked on the spot. But instead, I had the insurance excess docked from my next month’s wages.

      When she heard about it, Erin was furious on my behalf and marched me along to see Mrs Nutter. Erin explained why she thought the whole thing was very unfair on me, since all I’d been doing was trying to stop the thieves. I don’t think the Nutters were used to being challenged by their employees. Next month, the money was returned to me.

      Erin and I have been the best of friends ever since.

      Now, staring up at the frosty, star-studded night sky, I pause for a moment at the door, hugging myself against the cold. It’s only two weeks till Christmas Day and they’re predicting we’ll have a white Christmas this year.

      A little sigh escapes at the memory of that long-ago snowball fight. My feelings about the white stuff are always bittersweet. Which is why it’s definitely best not to dwell on it …

      Resolutely, I turn my thoughts back to Erin.

      Oh God, Mrs Morelli and her dinner party!

      A little jolt of panic surges up in my chest. It’s lovely that Erin has such faith in me. And to be fair, it’s not just her own opinion of my cooking talents that she’s going on. When we went on our cookery course down in Cornwall last year, the tutor, Greg Allan, took me to one side on the last day and said some very complimentary things. I can remember his exact words. ‘You’ve got an incredible flair for combining flavours and textures, Poppy. I think you have real talent as a cook.’

СКАЧАТЬ