The Little Christmas Kitchen. Jenny Oliver
Читать онлайн книгу.
grabbed her bag from the hat stand in the corner of the room – another of her grandparents’ antiques – and her mum wiped her hands on her apron and came over to where she was pulling on her trainers by the back door. ‘You’ll be back to help with the evening shift?’ she said, reaching forward to tuck Maddy’s long fringe behind her ear where it had slipped in her hurry to get her shoes on and go.
‘Yes,’ she snapped, but then paused when she saw her mum smile and said more softly, ‘Yes, I’ll be back. I need the money,’ she added with a laugh.
‘I’m sorry you lost your savings, Maddy,’ her mum added, taking her glasses off her head and putting them on so she could look at Maddy properly – straighten out her jumper so it didn’t hang off her shoulder and fix one of the pulls in the wool. ‘You’re so pretty, and you look so scruffy.’
‘Who’s gonna see me, Mum?’
Her mum paused, smoothing the fabric of Maddy’s jumper back into place, then she took her glasses off and said with a sigh, ‘London’s not that great you know. I know it seems so. And I know your sister makes it look like it is, but it’s just a place, Maddy.’
Maddy looked down at her dirty trainers. ‘I know.’ she said, rolling her lips together and thinking about all the money she’d had to hand over for the giant dent she’d put in the yacht. ‘But it’s just a place I wanted to go.’
‘Well if it’s any consolation, I’m glad you’re staying. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without you.’
‘Yeah. Me too.’ Maddy lied, and then dashed out the back door to work.
If it was summer, going to work was no hardship. Maddy worked on the boats, jumping from one to the other in a bikini top and frayed shorts, feet roughened from running on pebbles and over hot tarmac, face golden, hair thick with salt and bleached at the tips, laughing and shouting, oil streaking her arms, smelling of sun cream and swimming in the sea till sundown. But in the winter she worked in Spiros’ garage – a shabby white building with green doors that were cracked and broken at the bottom – sanding, re-painting, fixing engines that tourists had given a beating during the holiday season. She had to listen to Greek folk music as it blasted out of a paint splattered radio and every day shake her head when Spiros asked her why she wasn’t married yet and had no babies.
Spiros was on the mainland today though, delivering an engine, so Maddy was on her own. She put her own music on and flung open the windows that Spiros kept closed because the sun made the place too hot. But Maddy could cope with the heat if it meant having the view – probably one of the best on the island, out over the Mediterranean, a sheer drop down on the cliff edge and, at this time of year, accompanied by the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks.
As she leant on the window sill, looking down at the navy water, she pulled a letter out of her pocket. The headed paper said Manhattans, the double t shaped like the Empire State building. The job offer made it clear that the backing work was only for Christmas and that while there might be occasions where she was required to perform solo there was no guarantee of this, they reserved the right to replace her at any point. The address was in Soho. 15 Greek Street. She’d thought it was fate when she’d written back to accept.
This was her dream – of big cities and men in suits, of money and bright neon lights, of martinis in Soho House and cocktails at the Ritz.
Her sister had emailed seemingly just to brag that they were celebrating their anniversary at Claridge’s. Maddy had Googled the restaurant, Fera, and picked what she would have ordered on the menu. The ‘dry-aged Herdwick hogget, sweetbread, cucumber, yoghurt and blackberry’ purely because she didn’t know what hogget was and presumed that her sister would know. She wanted clothes from Topshop that she didn’t have to order online and to go to Selfridges and see a whole floor devoted to shoes. She wanted to see the Carnaby Street Christmas lights for real, not just on her sister’s Instagram.
But most of all she wanted to sing somewhere that wasn’t her mum’s taverna or her friend’s bar. Somewhere where she had been picked to go on stage because someone thought she had talent, not just because they were related to her. She wanted someone to verify what she hoped, that she was a bit better than average, and whoever that was going to be, she wasn’t going to find them in a tiny bar on a Greek island in winter.
This letter was the first rung on her ladder.
It was possibility.
It was bits of paper falling from the window down into the sea.
ELLA
The stewardess was wearing a Santa hat. The captain wished them a Merry Christmas after he hit the runway a little too fast. And everyone was handed a Quality Street as they exited the plane. Ella waved a hand in refusal, then paused as she stood at the top of the metal stairs. It wasn’t hot like mid-summer hot but it was certainly warm enough to make her wish she wasn’t wearing 100 denier tights. She breathed in through her nose, pushed her sunglasses up on her greasy hair and had to steady herself on the banister for a moment. The smell of airline fuel, the hiss of the bus brakes, a great wide sky – the type you don’t get in England. The type that stretches on and on and up into infinite possibility. A wisp of cloud like chalk on a blackboard.
She hadn’t been to Greece without Max for over a decade. And suddenly he seemed like a beautiful shield reflecting the attention and keeping her at a nice, safe distance. She felt like she’d left her armour at the Pimlico flat and was standing there naked.
‘Can you keep moving please, don’t stop on the stairs,’ the stewardess called out.
But Ella didn’t move forward, she apologised but stepped slightly to the side so that people could squeeze past her and covered her face with her hands and breathed in again. She took a massive breath and made herself run through some recent job successes, pictured her lovely flat, conjured an image of her and Max curled up on the sofa together watching Gogglebox – him stroking her hair and snorting away with delight as the commentators had the same opinion as him about The Voice while she checked Max’s accounts, looking up occasionally when he really guffawed. She forced herself to remember that Max had probably left her a hundred voicemails while her phone had been on flight mode. She took her hands away and looked again at the view and this time felt much less naked.
In Arrivals her Blackberry buzzed like a starving baby bird. A hundred messages from Adrian about the Obeille mobile phone account. No one could do it but her. They were floundering. They were going to lose it. He knew she was on holiday but could she possibly…
Nothing from Max.
On the ferry journey she ignored the view of the endless blanket of blue, unable to see where the sky met the sea, the birds swooping as they caught the breeze like kites, the olive covered mountains that crept up the horizon as the boat chugged, and kept reaching into her bag and flicking her home screen to life just to make sure that she hadn’t missed a call.
The ferry port was a tiny white building and a snaking queue of taxis. Ella strutted fast past the meandering tourists to make sure she was at the front. As she tapped her foot waiting for the two drivers at the front of the line to stop arguing she could feel a trickle of sweat down her back and glanced up at the unseasonable sunshine. She looked over the road at the familiar line of palm trees combing the air as a welcome breeze picked up, the weatherbeaten coffee stall where people stood at the counter and drank thick coffee from tiny glasses rimmed with gold, the scratch of grass where a group of men played backgammon in the shade of the palm, and thought how usually there was a driver holding a sign with Max’s name on it. Why, she wondered, was she on frenetic London time, impatiently chivvying the taxi drivers along, when really she was in no hurry to reach her destination.
When Ella was finally in the car, the driver chatted away almost to himself as she stared out the window watching the landmarks whizz by; a strip of beach lined with a couple of tourist bars, most closed for the season, the school on the bend that she’d