Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin: A heart-warming and feel-good read. Catherine Ferguson
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goes swimmingly – especially the main course. I’ve been unable to source the casserole steak I wanted, so at the last minute, I change my carefully made plan and opt for a slow-cooked version instead. Good decision, as it turns out. The meat melts off the bone and is so good, it’s worthy of being written into my diary of champion recipes!
Afterwards, I drive Erin home and we sit outside her flat for a long time, totally exhausted but high on the triumph that was the evening. Mrs Morelli was full of praise and vowed to tell all her friends and neighbours.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’ says Erin. ‘I could open a bottle of fizz. We really should toast your very first success.’
‘Oh, thank you, but I don’t think I could get up the stairs, I’m so knackered.’ I smile at her, feeling tears prick unexpectedly at my lids. ‘I couldn’t have done this without you, Erin. You’ve no idea how much your support and your enthusiasm means to me.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’m your friend. That’s what friends do.’
I shake my head. ‘Not everyone. I love that you’re so excited for me, and that you mean every word of it. At the risk of sounding sentimental, you really are special. Mark is a lucky man.’
She colours up with pleasure. ‘Aw, shucks. Okay then, I’m brilliant.’
‘You are. And I couldn’t be more delighted that things are working out for you and Mark. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you, Erin.’
Now it’s her turn to have suspiciously shiny eyes.
We hug tightly and she gets out.
‘This is just the first triumph of many!’ she says, and I smile at her, wishing it could be true.
I drive home, eager to see Harrison and tell him all about my night. He’s in the kitchen making coffee, and pops his head round the living-room door.
‘Hey, it’s my own personal Nigella!’ he jokes. ‘Want one?’ He holds up the coffee jar.
‘Yes, please.’ I flake out happily on the sofa and call through, ‘How was your night?’
‘Brilliant. They’re a really great group of guys.’
‘No females, then?’
‘No. Why don’t you come along to the next meeting and redress the balance slightly?’
‘Er, maybe.’ Is he serious? Surely not.
I always think it’s good for couples to have separate hobbies. It gives them more to talk about. But on the other hand, it would be nice to share our hobbies, too. I’m always wanting him to join me in the kitchen on a normal night, because the idea of couples chatting about their day in the cosiness of the kitchen as they chop vegetables, and perhaps open a bottle of wine and share a kiss or two, sounds heavenly to me. But Harrison always says the kitchen is my domain, just as the car maintenance is his. I don’t think he means it in a sexist way. It’s more a compliment, really, implying that my cooking is so much better than his.
He comes into the room and holds out my coffee. ‘I wasn’t being serious, you know, about you coming along to the next one.’ He smiles and sits down beside me. ‘You’d be bored stiff in under three minutes, I reckon.’
I smile at him. ‘You might be right.’
He springs up and puts on my favourite CD, then settles back on the sofa, pulling me into his side and sipping from his mug. We listen to the music for a while in silence and I snuggle into Harrison, thinking about my wonderful night and how lucky I am. If I could stop yawning, I’d tell him all about the slow-cooked beef and how pleased Mrs Morelli was with the dinner, but to be frank, it’s lovely just nestling here in companionable silence.
Before long, I hear a tiny snorting noise and turn to see Harrison’s head is thrown back. His mouth is open and he’s snoring gently. I nudge him and whisper, ‘Time for bed?’
He comes to and gives a huge yawn. ‘Yes. Bed,’ he agrees, standing up and holding out his hand to me.
‘You go. I’ll be up in a minute,’ I tell him.
‘Okay, Puss. Don’t be long.’
‘Mrs Morelli was really pleased,’ I tell him as he heads for the door.
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Morelli – you know, the woman I cooked for.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. Well, that’s brilliant.’
I smile excitedly. ‘I know. It couldn’t have gone any better, really, despite the problem I had with the terrible cut of meat. I ended up having to slow cook—’
His phone buzzes with a message.
‘Sorry, Puss.’ He glances at me apologetically and wanders out, studying his text. ‘You can tell me all about it in the morning,’ he calls from halfway up the stairs.
I sit there, staring at the blank screen of the TV. After all the excitement of the night, it would have been lovely if Harrison had wanted to toast my success.
No wonder I’m feeling a bit deflated.
*
Next morning, I’m making toast while Harrison does his morning vanishing act behind The Financial Times, when the landline rings.
I dive on the phone, assuming it’s Erin calling to see how I’m feeling after last night.
It’s a man’s voice.
‘Hi, Poppy. I hope you don’t mind me phoning, but I was just wondering how last night went?’
For a second, I’m thrown. But not for long. That deep voice with a hint of gravel is unmistakeable.
‘It’s Jed. The total stranger who invited you for Christmas by mistake?’
‘Jed. Hi. Um – it went brilliantly, thanks.’
‘Was the customer happy?’
I smile. ‘She was over the moon and her guests couldn’t stop complimenting the tiramisu.’
There’s a rustle as Harrison pops his head round the newspaper and gives me a ‘who’s that?’ look.
‘Sorry, I’ve got to go,’ I tell Jed. ‘But thanks so much for calling.’
‘No problem. I’m just glad it went well. Have you got a name for the business, by the way?’
‘Well, not really. Although, my friend Erin thinks she’s come up with a corker.’
‘Which is?’
I close my eyes and smile as I say it. ‘Diner Might.’
There’s a brief silence, then the sound of hearty laughter. ‘Diner Might. Dynamite. I like it. Although maybe not quite the sophistication you’re aiming for?’
‘That’s just what I thought. Any suggestions gratefully received.’
‘Right, I’m on it.’
‘Is Clemmy coming for Christmas?’ I ask on impulse, not caring that Harrison is listening.
‘Yes, she is.’ Jed sounds surprised that I should ask. ‘I’m meeting her when I get off the train at Easingwold on the nineteenth.’
‘The two p.m. train?’ I smile, recalling how adamant he was about leaving London promptly for the holidays.
He gives a throaty chuckle. ‘On the dot. She’s cut off her long red hair, apparently, so I’ve told her she has to wear a carnation otherwise I might not recognise the new sophisticated Clemmy.’
I laugh, feeling the tiniest bit deflated, which is strange. Although, on reflection, it’s probably because, while Jed and Clemmy will be enjoying their Christmas together, Harrison will be away in Spain and it’ll