A Brambleberry Manor Christmas - Rosie Green

CHAPTER ONE

As I drive through the wide, ornate gates of the Brambleberry Manor estate, a single snowflake drifts down onto the windscreen, making me catch my breath and stare up at the flat grey sky with wonder.

A tug of excitement mingles with the nervous apprehension in the pit of my stomach at the daunting task that lies ahead. The forecasters are predicting a white Christmas, and it seems that in spite of everything that’s happened to Tavie and me over the past year, the arrival of snow still has the power to make my heart lift with joy, like it did when I was a kid.

The car hitches over a speed bump, jerking me back to reality, and my brief burst of delight melts like a snowman in the rain. I glance anxiously at the cake carrier on the seat beside me. No harm done. But the knot in my stomach tightens with each curve in the grand driveway, as I draw nearer Brambleberry Manor.

I allowed Fen to talk me into accepting the job – cooking for a week-long house party at the manor, hosted by her mum, the formidable Marjery.

But am I really up to it?

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the waist-band of my too-tight skirt cutting in. The trouble with cooking for a living is that you’re continually having to taste to get the seasoning just right.

I sigh. Who am I trying to kid? I can’t blame my ‘generous curves’ on anything except my greed for carbs when I’m feeling worried or sad – and I’ve been feeling both of those emotions in spades, ever since last Christmas Eve when my whole world came crashing down around me.

Without warning, a flash of memory from that terrible day ambushes me.

Spotting Harvey’s car and the ambulance behind it. Pulling up by the kerb, so abruptly that the driver behind me hit the horn in protest. Staring in shocked disbelief as the stretcher was loaded into the back of the vehicle…

I glance quickly in the mirror and see the pain in my green eyes reflected back at me. Even now, the sound of someone punching the horn whisks me right back to those traumatic events. I’ve grown quite adept at blocking that harrowing day – and what followed – from my mind. But sometimes, nothing I do or think can stop the memories flooding in…

Checking for cars behind me, I come to a stop and sit there for a moment, the engine idling, taking a few calming breaths as I prepare to face Marjery. Another check in the mirror doesn’t really help. The two bright spots of nervous colour in my cheeks make me look like Coco the Clown’s tragically unfunny cousin, and my shoulder-length chestnut hair is already starting to slip from the moorings of my ponytail tie.

I have a sudden urge to turn the car around and drive home…get into my pyjamas, snuggle under a blanket, and watch endless recordings of Strictly Come Dancing. I want that so badly right at this moment. Strictly has been my saviour over the twelve months since Harvey’s fatal heart attack. When I’m lost in the glitz, the costumes and the romance of it all, I can forget the bad stuff for a while…the fact that since Harvey died, my life has changed beyond all recognition…and the fact that Octavia (or ‘Tavie’, as I always think of her) now resents me for still being alive while her darling dad is lost to her.

For a second, I’m genuinely torn between the job and a desperate longing to turn around.

But then I think of the threatening letters, demanding payment, stuffed in a drawer at home. I have Tavie to think of. I wasn’t married to her dad, but I still think of her as my step-daughter, and she’s my priority now. Cooking is my only real talent. And if earning a living from it is the only way I can hope to keep the roof over our heads – the house Tavie has lived in all her life and would be devastated to leave – then I need to push through this wobble and just get on with it!

Easing off the handbrake, I motor on along the final stretch.

I’ve cooked for a string of small dinner parties during the three months since I started my venture. But catering for a house party like this – in the run up to Christmas, with all the festive touches that entails – is in a different league