Christmas at the Dancing Duck. Daisy James
Читать онлайн книгу.
about Christmas culinary delights when everyone and their dog knows you hate them? The word hypocrite springs to mind! Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen now has a serious image problem to rectify and I can’t let you go back on screen until it’s sorted, one way or another.’
The last four words sent the bottom of Kirstie’s stomach plunging to her toes before it bounced back up again to lodge uncomfortably in her chest like a slab of concrete. The implied threat lingered in the air between them.
‘But, Lionel, I’m sure we can …’ began Brad.
‘Let me read you some of the headlines. “Kirstie drops Christmas Clanger!”, “Kirstie’s Festive Farce!” And don’t get me started on the two thousand retweets under the KirstiesKitchenCalamity hashtag.’
A curl of nausea made its insidious journey through Kirstie’s veins as the enormity of what had happened started to seep through the shock and crystallize.
‘If we continue with Kirstie as the presenter we’ll be a laughing stock and you know I can’t let that happen. I’ve already put a call in to Flora Swift who’s agreed to be our guest presenter until Christmas is over and done with. Everyone knows she adores Christmas after that travel piece she did from Santa’s grotto in Lapland last week. At least that way we’ll be able to salvage some of our reputation.’
Lionel gave Kirstie a scorching look that caused her to sink even deeper into her chair. She felt like she had just been slapped in the face. Heat burned in her cheeks, and whilst a maelstrom of thoughts churned through her brain she couldn’t put them into any kind of order to argue her case to be allowed to stay. Tears pressed against her eyelids but she squeezed her fists in her lap to prevent the tears from falling. She had to keep her integrity intact in case Lionel decided to cancel her show altogether.
‘I’ll get Flora to call you, Brad. I want all this sorted by tomorrow morning.’
And with that Lionel stalked from the room, his stacked heels click-clacking down the corridor like an out-of-sync metronome. Kirstie met Brad’s dark pewter eyes and was grateful to see them filled with sympathy.
‘I’m sorry, Kirstie. You have to understand that the network has no other option. Social media will have a field day with this, but it will blow over – everything does. We’ll get Flora to do the Christmas episodes and then start afresh in the new year, perhaps focusing on the best cuisines available for the January dieters and detoxers. Why don’t you lie low for a couple of weeks, use the time to research something amazing for the healthy food episodes and which chefs you want to make a guest appearance? I’m thinking Japanese cuisine will be a popular choice, and the Mediterranean diet is another one.’
Brad held her eyes. There was not a hint of anger or disappointment, just kindness and compassion, which only served to make Kirstie feel worse. Guilt now mingled with mortification and embarrassment to make a very uncomfortable concoction rolling around her abdomen.
‘I’m sorry, Brad, I really am …’
‘I know you are, Kirstie.’ Brad reached across the desk to squeeze her hand. ‘And again, it wasn’t your fault. You are one of our most diligent presenters. You always read the research; you’re on time, well prepared, and all our celebrity chefs really enjoy working with you and, of course, our viewers love you. But you do work far too hard, so it’s no wonder that occasionally your emotions get the better of you. I know you won’t like me saying this but, despite Bridget’s best efforts, I can see the stress lines starting to deepen around your eyes. Why don’t you turn this nightmare into an opportunity to spend some time with your family? When was the last time you took a trip down to see your sister and baby nephew?’
‘Erm, I saw Olivia in July when Ethan was born.’
‘Exactly, that was five months ago. Don’t you want to see how much Ethan has grown? I know Martha is always nagging me to go with her when she visits Rosie. There’s something special about your first grandchild, I’m told. I wish I had this chance to indulge in some family time.’
Kirstie seriously doubted the veracity of Brad’s last sentence. He was as much of a workaholic as she was – perhaps even more so – although for very different reasons.
‘Go home, spend Christmas with your sister at that gorgeous country pub of hers. What is it called?’
‘The Dancing Duck,’ she mumbled.
‘Such a fabulous name. I’m sure it’s the busiest time of the year and Olivia wouldn’t turn down the offer of an extra pair of hands, especially now she has the baby to care for on top of everything else.’
Brad’s kind concern was too much for Kirstie. She gulped in a quick lungful of air in an attempt to calm her raging emotions.
‘I suppose so.’
She didn’t think it was the right time to go into the fact that the pub her parents had lavished all their time and effort on for decades – her childhood home, in fact – was in the process of being sold.
‘Exactly. By the time you get back, this unfortunate incident will be ancient history. I suggest you leave straight away. Use the rear exit, though. I don’t have to be psychic to predict the paparazzi will be gathering like ravenous vultures at the front door already. Don’t worry, Kirstie. Just go home and find that elusive Christmas spirit!’
Kirstie stood up. The only Christmas spirit she would be acquainting herself with was the kind you found at the bottom of a bottle marked Gordon’s.
After a short journey through the teeming streets of London, Kirstie shot from the warmth of the monosyllabic driver’s black cab into Waterloo station and scoured the flashing departures board, grateful the train that would take her to Winchester, the closest station to Cranbury, was waiting at platform five.
A blast of arctic December air whipped the breath from her lips, lifting her corkscrew auburn curls from her shoulders and slapping them across her face. Goose pimples rippled over every inch of her skin and her teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Why hadn’t she dressed more warmly? However, the question was a rhetorical one because she didn’t actually own a winter coat. One of the perks of working for FMTV was that they paid all her travel expenses so, if the company car wasn’t available, she usually took a taxi to work. As a committed workaholic, she didn’t need an extensive outdoor wardrobe for the weekend. Cue the reason she hadn’t dated for the last six months either.
She squirmed when she thought back to the lecture Max had given her when he ended their relationship in June, citing abandonment and boredom, but failing to mention his dalliance with a certain minor royal.
At the end of a whirlwind week she was usually too exhausted to be the life and soul of the party and preferred to stay in with a takeaway and a bottle of Chianti. When Kirstie did find the energy to socialize, she, along with her neighbour Poppy and occasionally Bridget when she wasn’t out on one of her internet dates, would saunter down two flights of stairs to the wine bar beneath their studio apartments.
It was a solitary life, but it was the only way she could keep her demons at bay. Being constantly busy meant they had no chance to poke their ugly faces above the parapet and insist on a public airing.
As Kirstie made her way to platform five, she realized she was attracting curious glances from her fellow travellers trying to place her, probably after seeing her on-screen faux pas. She had watched it on YouTube so many times she could recite her cringe-inducing monologue backwards, the images curling around her brain as if on non-stop ticker tape.
She had also tortured herself by scrolling through the countless showbiz gossip columns, which usually stuck to sartorial criticism but had decided, on this occasion, to stretch themselves to cover her fall from grace under the overly dramatic heading Breaking News! Our Kirstie Curses Christmas! Whilst #KirstiesKitchenCalamity was no longer trending on Twitter, so-called Facebook