Under The Mistletoe. Kerry Barrett

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      ‘That envelope. It could be important.’

      He was right. Perhaps it was a bill and unlike Mum, I didn’t stash my mail, unopened, into the nearest drawer. I flicked off the telly before leaning back against the beige throw. I ran my acrylic nail along the seal and tugged out a document. Maybe I’d won that competition I’d entered last month for a Hollywood makeover. I sighed. No such luck. It was an application form.

      ‘Why didn’t you just bring this home with you?’ I left it on the sofa, stood up and walked a few steps over to the open-plan kitchen.

      ‘Work has procedures. Plus there’s been a freeze on recruitment. I just left your name with the personnel woman last week and crossed my fingers. I can’t believe your luck.’ A sparkle actually returned to his eyes.

      ‘You want me to work full time at CountryHouse Potatoes? But I thought we’d agreed – I’d temp until the right job came along. Can you really see me sorting spuds?’

      ‘Why not?’ he asked and raised both eyebrows.

      Good question. CountryHouse Potatoes was a great employer. The pay wasn’t bad, and from what Adam said, the staff canteen food was yummy. If the position was temporary, I’d have already been at the post box.

      ‘I’m, um, used to working with pretty silver sugar balls and candied roses.’ I smiled. ‘Your average potato is uglier than my bunion.’

      ‘Ha, ha. Come on, Kimmy. It’s in catering. Put your mind to it and you could be supervisor in half the time I took. All this time you’ve spent at Best Buns bakery, with no chance of moving forward… If you forgot this mad cake-making idea of yours, you could be earning real money, getting promoted…’ His voice sounded even more animated than when he watched football.

      ‘But I’m going down to the job centre again on Monday.’ I opened one of the rickety cupboards and took out a pan. It was not a mad idea. Even the psychic I’d visited at the local Easter Fair said I was “born to bake”.

      He picked up the form. ‘You can’t go on like this forever, babe. I want to be with someone who’s willing to look further ahead than next week’s edition of Starchat.’

      ‘I don’t complain about your sport magazines.’

      Dismissively he waved his hand. ‘They don’t encourage me to waste money on dye kits and fake tans.’

      ‘I thought you liked my blonde hair?’ I bent down, opened the fridge door and took out some eggs.

      ‘Wasn’t your hair light brown when we first met?’

      I stood up and turned around. ‘Women call that “mouse”. ’

      ‘For all I cared it could have been black, green, streaked with pink or shaved off. It’s you I like, Kimmy – your contagious laugh and your… sense of right and wrong.’

      I grinned. ‘Like when I refused to do any housework until you agreed to go halves on a vacuum cleaner that worked?’

      He gave a wry smile. ‘No. I was thinking of the time you handed in that fifty pound note you found on the supermarket floor.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t need to be with some glamorous, hotshot business woman. Marriage, kids, decent house and maybe a Chelsea football club season ticket – that’ll be enough for me.’

      I put down the eggs. ‘You feel pretty sure you’ll have kids one day, right?’

      ‘So?’

      ‘I bet you’ve even pictured them and thought of names. That’s no different to me, except that I’ve imagined my successful cake company, my clients, the shiny van I’ll use as I drive to their homes. I even know what kind of pedigree dog I’ll buy with the profits – he’s called Chico and wears a leopard print coat and matching booties.’

      I’d grown up with status dogs, Mum’s boyfriends strutting around with Rottweilers or Staffies. They’d never let me dress them up or strategically place a few ribbons.

      ‘And it’s not just about the money,’ I continued. ‘Baking’s my life. I even dream about recipes at night, Peanut.’

      Peanut was my pet name for him, because of his one big vice: an addiction to Snickers, the nutty chocolate bars.

      ‘But since your redundancy, you’ve made no concrete plans to get this supposed business off the ground.’ His cheeks flushed. ‘In fact, you’ve just given away a box of cakes. You should have charged the postman.’

      ‘I’ve catered for kiddies’ parties,’ I said and my chest tightened. ‘And it’s paying off. I met Megan at her niece’s do. Everyone thought the cakes I made for her wedding were awesome. At last I’m moving on to more upmarket work. The bakery taught me all I know.’ I was rambling now. ‘The next step is to work somewhere I can make the right contacts.’

      ‘That’s a plan?’ he said. ‘So, exactly what kind of job are we talking about?’

      ‘Um…childminder to the kids of someone famous; receptionist in a top hairdressing salon…’ I could just see me now, delivering cakes to some top football club. The Wags would become my best friends. The men would insist Chico become their mascot… I started beating the eggs, not wanting to catch Adam’s eye. My plan sounded feeble, I knew that, but networking was my only chance. And let’s face it – no one at CountryHouse Potatoes could introduce me to a chart topping singer or Olympic champion.

      ‘The most famous person living in Luton is either dad to fifteen kids by fifteen mums or on trial for murder,’ muttered Adam.

      ‘That’s a bit harsh. I thought you liked living here.’

      ‘I do, but it pays to be realistic. Wise up, Kimmy – baking cakes is no way to escape the nine ‘til five. Round here, people have to work their butts off to earn an honest living. What makes you think you’re any different?’

      ‘I don’t, it’s just…You saw Megan’s cupcake tower – the spirals of pink buttercream icing; the ribboned gift boxes. I was up until three in the morning finishing that display.’ I lifted my chin. ‘And what about the selection of mini Christmas-themed cakes I made for that charity coffee morning, at the community centre, last week? Everyone went wild for the cute Stollen slices, cinnamon cupcakes and chocolate logs… ’ A lump rose in my throat. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got what it takes? You know I work hard. Don’t you believe I’ve got the talent?’

      ‘That Megan was a one-off, babe – she got married to her boss and they moved away to London. No one else around here can afford a wedding cake that per mouthful costs more than they earn per hour. As for the charity bash, you sold those cakes at a discount price for the good cause. Your profit hardly covered your costs. Times are hard; we don’t live in some crappy reality show with a quick-fix prize. However much you want it, building a successful business can take years – you ask my Uncle Ron.’

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with setting your sights high.’ I bit my lip.

      ‘So long as it’s not so high that your head’s stuck in the clouds.’ Adam stood up. ‘I’m sick of feeling as if my life’s on hold. We can’t plan a decent future just on my wages. The factory offers regular money, benefits СКАЧАТЬ