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

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СКАЧАТЬ dropping ‘hints’ the size of ten-tonne boulders that I should ditch the waitressing and become a self-employed caterer instead.

      But although she knows me as well as anyone alive, what even Erin fails to grasp is my lack of faith in myself.

      I just can’t do it.

      I don’t mean that I can’t cook. Because I know I can. In fact, apart from when I’m waitressing at the hotel – where everything is so very familiar after fourteen years of working there – my own kitchen is the only place I ever feel totally confident. But to set up on my own and take that huge leap into the unknown would take courage and a level of self-belief I simply don’t have.

      Sure, part of me would love to do it. Every time Erin mentions my ‘cooking enterprise’ as she calls it, a little spark of joy, apprehension and excitement leaps inside me. Just for a moment, I think: maybe I could …

      But then the memory of my stepfather’s mocking face slips into my mind. Let’s face it, she’s far too timid. She’ll never amount to anything.

      Martin lives in Australia now, with his new wife, and all the rows and the horrible tensions of my childhood are just a bitter memory. I should be able to move on but that’s easier said than done. I’ve told myself a million times that it was nothing personal. Martin was just a troubled man with anger issues, who basically couldn’t tolerate the fact I was another man’s child. But I still can’t stop the little voice in my head, nagging me that he was probably right to doubt that I’d ever be a success in life.

      Closing the front door, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Dark-brown eyes clouded with memories of the past. Waves of dark glossy hair, almost black, tumbling over my shoulders, so strikingly similar to Alessandro’s colouring in the one creased photo I have of my real dad.

      ‘Poppy? Come and look at these financial projections. I think you’ll be stunned.’

      Harrison’s voice brings me back to earth. Thankfully, my lovely boyfriend doesn’t have a bee in his bonnet about me changing my career! In fact, I think he’d be happy if I was a waitress at The Pretty Flamingo for the rest of my working life. He loves my food and is always so appreciative. He thinks cooking is a marvellous hobby to have. But as for turning a pastime into a job? Harrison thinks it would be far too risky.

      The one time I mentioned it, he gave a sort of worried grimace, checked the time in Hong Kong on his watch and said something about the unrest in the Middle East having an effect on oil prices. I couldn’t quite fathom his thought processes, since the only oil I’d be concerned with was of the cooking variety. But I got the gist. Financially, it was too much of a risk in the current climate to start a brand-new venture.

      I walk into the living room, and Harrison pats the seat beside him. ‘Erin okay?’

      ‘Yes, she’s fine. She and Mark are thinking of the Caribbean for their next holiday.’

      He winces. ‘Currency rate is appalling at the minute. And that’s a fourteen-hour flight.’

      I glance at his handsome profile as he concentrates on the screen. I can’t imagine either of these factors putting Erin off her dream of lounging under a palm tree, with Mark on hand to rub in the sun cream. Or me, for that matter. The furthest Harrison and I have been is Bournemouth. He says it’s because there are so many places we’ve yet to discover at home, here in the UK, and I do think he’s got a point. But I suspect it’s also an excuse because boarding a plane might bring on one of his anxiety attacks. (He gets twitchy when his feet aren’t safely on terra firma.)

      I’m very proud of Harrison. He has lovely wavy blond hair that makes him look a bit like an artist and he’s the most super-logical, intelligent person I’ve ever met. The thick-rimmed glasses he wears would look geeky on some men, but on Harrison, they look quite sexy. He’s also caring and very responsible – the sort of person who doesn’t take chances. He actually sits down and reads the terms and conditions, instead of flicking over them and assuming everything’s in order.

      ‘So, as I was saying before Erin arrived, if you were to transfer your savings into this high-interest account, I think you’d be onto a winner.’

      Turning, he catches me stifling a yawn and smiles. ‘You don’t really care, do you?’

      I grin at him. ‘Yes, I do. Honestly! But you’re so much better at this stuff than I am, so I suppose I just rely on you to tell me what’s best.’

      He shrugs and runs a hand through his blond waves. ‘Well, what I think is best …’ He reaches an arm around my waist and drops a kiss on my neck. ‘Come on, wriggle closer,’ he murmurs.

      I smile and hitch along the sofa, snuggling up to him. Perhaps we’ll forget about numbers for a while – a very long while.

      ‘That’s better,’ he says, tapping my back and returning to the laptop. ‘You can see the screen properly now. Now, high-interest savings.’ He rubs his hands together then peers eagerly at the screen. I study him affectionately, like a mum watching her kid tear the wrapping off a Christmas present.

      ‘Unless –’ He turns with a sexy glint in his eye and my spirits rise. ‘What do you say to throwing caution completely to the wind?’

      ‘I’m all for that,’ I murmur, running my hand along his thigh. I wonder what he has in mind? Sex on a week night, perhaps?

      He pats my knee and gives me a cheerful wink. ‘Brilliant. We’ll go for investment funds, then, shall we? Let’s live dangerously.’

      ‘Oh. Right.’

      After a while, my mind starts to wander.

      I keep thinking about Erin planning her romantic night with Mark. Perhaps I should do something similar. Harrison always says sex is best left for weekends when he’s got more energy, but I’m sure I can persuade him that a little mid-week spontaneity would be nice.

      I spring up off the sofa.

      ‘Where are you off to?’

      I wink at him. ‘Wait and see.’

      Upstairs, I rummage in my underwear drawer and find my one pair of black stockings. I’m out of practise so it takes me the best part of fifteen minutes to get them on smooth and straight. But when I wriggle into the close-fitting little red dress I bought to wear at Harrison’s work do last Christmas, I’m feeling really quite sexy. Adjusting my hair, I allow some dark tendrils to fall down, framing my face. A slick of scarlet lipstick and an extra coat of mascara and I’m ready for anything!

      I navigate the carpeted stairs carefully in my black patent high heels and strike a pose in the living-room doorway. ‘What do you think?’

      ‘About what, Puss?’ Harrison is focusing hard on the screen.

      ‘About this dress you chose for me last Christmas?’ I experiment with a sexy pout in profile.

      ‘Hm?’ he murmurs, still not looking up.

      I sigh, feeling a bit of an idiot standing there in my best harlot outfit, knowing I come a poor second to a graphic of the FTSE 100.

      ‘Harrison!’

      He glances up at the urgency СКАЧАТЬ