Christmas at Thornton Hall. Lynn Hulsman Marie
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from where I’m sitting! Embrace what makes you happy, even if there’s no guarantee. You’re trying too hard for the sure bet, and your mother’s like a siren calling you back to her version of stability. You gambled by taking a chance with Stephen and you’ve been beating yourself up ever since. You grabbed what made you happy, then it was gone. So what? You’re still alive, and you had a bit of good fun. Nothing lasts forever. Speaking of taking a chance, what about that scrummy resident chef Edward at Thornton Hall?”
“What about him?” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic. I undid my seatbelt and wrestled off my hoodie, phone pinned between my shoulder and ear.
“You could have had him for twenty pence and a slap on the arse.”
“I was with Ben!”
“Not at first, you weren’t.”
“Anyway,” I said, rebuckling, “you witnessed how Stephen diverted me off course. And then Ben. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I go looking for another man to rain down chaos on me.”
“Why go looking? Won’t Edward be doling out the goodies this Christmas?”
“Posy, Thornton Hall is where I work! There’s a quaint saying in America, ‘Don’t poop where you eat.’”
“Oh, I know that one!” she squealed, like she’d won a prize. “Only we say shit.”
“Why won’t you let me be a good girl?” I asked, exasperated.
“Because deep down, you’re not,” she said.
“Just you watch,” I said. “I’m going to learn from my mistakes, like a mature woman should. I’m almost 30!”
“No you’re not!”
“I’m 28.”
“Well that’s positively ancient! Better start saving for vaginal rejuvenation surgery.”
“Vaginal what? Never mind! I’m about to start the next chapter of my life, and you’ll see how making sane, adult choices leads to contentment. No Edward. No drama.”
“Right. Maybe your mum’s satisfied to bed down with her psychology journals, but I predict you won’t be wearing socks to sleep in for long. Besides, thirty is the new hot. Let’s neither of us sign our death certificates just yet. Once you’ve had true love, you can’t very well settle for a substitute.”
“When have you had true love?” I asked.
“God, is that the time? Forget stupid, bastard Ben and ring me when you get to Fancypants Manor. Love you loads. Byeee!”
I cautiously pulled back onto the highway, tires crunching through the gravel in the thick darkness. I put Posy and Ben out of my head and kept my eyes focused on the black road ahead. It’s amazing how remote this part of the country can feel, given its actual proximity to London’s bright lights. Music of the season blared from my speakers. “I’ll have a bluuuuuue Christmas…without youuuuuu…” I didn’t feel blue or even angry. I felt nothing, and was glad to be headed for a job, where the preparation and clean-up would propel me forward. There was always something to be done in the kitchen of a full house. I longed to sleepwalk through my days. I welcomed the loss of myself.
I finally turned off the last shared road onto the mile-long private drive on the estate. Thornton Hall, arguably one of the grandest estates in the Cotswolds, is an eighteenth- century number featuring countless wings and annexes. I’d worked in lots of grand houses, but The Hall was by far the most imposing. It was old and draughty, never silent, even at night – I always heard creaking, settling and the scratching of mouse claws. Nevertheless, it had every creature comfort one could imagine, and everyone inside its walls was pampered to a tee.
This is the area where anybody who thinks he is anybody has a weekend home. Highgrove, Prince Charles’s place, is right down the road, and you’re likely to run into “serious” film stars and models who’ve married rockers while you’re shelling out six pounds for a baguette at the local bakery or buying artisanal goat cheese, made in-house by a former Britpop band’s bassist. Think The Hamptons, but with thatched roofs.
I stopped the car at the gate that was the entrance to the main house, got out and punched the code into the security panel, and got back in. The gates eased open. Putting on my brights, I drove slowly and carefully over the cattle grid. Even though I expected it, the loud machine-gun fire of the grate always stopped my heart, and tonight, it slammed me back into reality. For a while there, I’d forgotten about how I ended up here on December 22nd.
Sighing, I drove slowly around the circular drive toward the former stable that was now a garage, and paused in front of Thornton Hall’s massive front door. With the elaborately decorated wreath and other festive touches bedecking it, the ivy-covered stone mansion was more breathtaking than usual. Fairy lights were twinkling all over the façade, and candles were burning behind shuttered windows. The people who lived here were gearing up for a yuletide filled with beauty and cheer, surrounded by friends and family. While I was working over the holidays having just been dumped. Wow, my life blows.
Immediately, Aunt Suze’s voice rang in my head: “Failure is an opportunity to reinvent.” I sat up a little straighter, continued to pull my car around and blinked the last remaining snow flurries out of my eyelashes. There, that’s better, now I’m not even thinking of Ben and Amanda. Until I was. And how she was probably at Ben’s parents’ right this very minute. She and his family would all be merrily gathered around the piano, singing Christmas songs and remarking that they’d “never thought Juliet was right for Ben”. Amanda would be gliding gracefully around the fire-warmed room in three-inch heels, fully at home in the scarlet-red velvet evening dress and white fur stole she’d worn for the occasion. A distinguished uncle would comment on how clever it was for Amanda to be of an appropriate height for a woman. Ben would ring for servants to take away the mulled wine, and bring champagne, then he’d get down on one knee and…
Suddenly, I heard a sickening metal crunch as I smashed my car into the estate’s riding mower, parked right outside the garage. “Aaaah!” I moaned weakly, as my head bounced off the side window. I quickly backed up and my front bumper fell to the ground. I killed the engine and lay my head down on the steering wheel.
“Really?” I said out loud. “Story of my life. The minute I get where I’m trying to go, I crash and burn.” Unbuckling, I eased myself out of the car, just as Rex, the Earl’s favorite retriever, came barreling toward me, charged up by the now-falling snow. Jasper, my boss and the Earl’s son-in-law, wasn’t a big dog person. But he hadn’t much room to complain, as it was the Earl’s estate, however much Jasper had his eye on it. I wondered if the poor beast had been “accidentally” let out in the cold.
“Hey boy,” I called, happy to see a friendly face. I squatted down and opened my arms, and he knocked me off balance, on my rear in a slushy puddle. “Ho, ho, ho,” I said, as he licked me heartily. “Merry Effing Christmas to me.”
Rounding the house to the back entrance, I was met by Seamus, the estate manager, the most senior of the staff. He took my hand warmly in both of his, his genuine smile making his eyes crinkle. “Welcome, welcome again, lovely Miss Hill,” he said, bowing with mock formality. “We’re so glad to be working alongside you, especially in this joyous season!” He had on a scarf but no hat, and his thin, wispy, black comb-over was blowing comically in the wind. I gave him a peck on the cheek, and he chuckled, pleased. “Having you and Edward cooking will be a grand thing, indeed.” He nudged me aside gently and picked up my luggage to take to Dove’s Nest, the cottage in which I always stayed. He made pleasant chitchat, but my mind was miles away. Oh, man, Edward is here, I thought. The Gastronome’s Trust hadn’t told me that part. I fished in my bag for a lipstick.
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