better than I could have dreamed: The gingerbread houses are flying off the shelves, along with all the Christmas baking equipment. Morag—our new director—sat down with me one evening and we completely refreshed our stock. We went out on a limb on a few festive items that we both felt instinctively were right—and they’ve totally outperformed. The mixing bowl decorated with gingerbread men sells out as soon as we put it on the shelves, and the holly-leaf version is nearly as popular. In fact, we’ve had to start waiting lists.
It’s three weeks since Bob’s gloomy assessment, and even he blinked in surprise as he came in last Saturday. The place was buzzing. Jake was calling out, “Get your gingerbread house! Three for two on gift wrap!” Nicole was assisting Morag with a children’s table decoration activity, while their parents all browsed the shop. There was a happy hum of chatter and the tills were bleeping nonstop. We won’t know till January how everything’s shaken down, but it’s looking OK. It’s looking better.
To be fair, Nicole and Jake have both worked their socks off. We’ve run as many late-night shopping events as we can, with different themes and promotions. It’s been pretty exhausting, and we’ve had to reprioritize a bit. The house is a mess, the kitchen is a tip, we haven’t even thought about our own Christmas, and we’re all a bit frazzled…but it’s worth it.
Jake even managed to be polite to the customers last night at our first-ever seniors’ event. He appeared truly delighted to see my lovely shuffly brown-mug customer, whose name turns out to be Stanley. He was also über-charming to Sheila and Sheila’s mother, aged ninety-eight, who told Jake about six times how handsome he was and how she’d always wanted a toyboy.
Morag has never looked happier—she’s got completely free rein now and is making loads of plans for the New Year. I’ve made a few plans of my own too. I’m going to launch cooking lessons for customers, once a month. I’ll call it the Dinner Party Club, to go alongside the Cake Club, and I’m already working on menus. I’ve even wondered if I might get back into a bit of catering, for customers, as a sideline. I mean, why not? Suddenly everything is feeling possible.
Meanwhile, the Farrs Instagram page has changed from pictures of Nicole to photos of customers and cakes and—my idea—Farrs’ items in funny locations around London. There’s a food mixer in a phone box and a chopping board balanced on top of a red pillar box, and Vanessa even posted a picture of a Jell-O mold on her judge’s chair in court.
As I head outside to give Jake a cup of tea, he greets me with “Five days till Christmas! Ho ho ho!” We had a small staff debate about whether ho ho ho was quite right for a gingerbread man, with Greg claiming it was copyright Santa Claus. But I thought ho ho ho sounded festive and jolly. And these days, what I say tends to go. (Then Stacey wanted to join in and found a Gingerbread Girl costume online. Oh my God. Totally inappropriate. Plus she would have got hypothermia standing out there in stockings and suspenders.)
“Here you are, Gingerbread Man,” I say, handing Jake his cup of tea.
“Gingerbread Guy,” Jake corrects me, as he always does, and I roll my eyes at him. I think Gingerbread Guy is un-Christmassy—but if he wants to be Gingerbread Guy in his own head, let him.
“Oh, I’ve got a message from Leila,” he adds. “Everyone’s invited over for drinks on Christmas Eve. Six o’clock; bring a bottle.”
A year ago, Jake would never have hosted a “bring a bottle” party. He would have been all grand and served champagne and boasted about the canapés. He’s a different person these days. Kind of chastened—but also more relaxed, as though he doesn’t need to pretend anymore. His eyes aren’t strained. He laughs more. I think Leila’s dad treats him pretty brusquely, and a few times Jake has said maybe he and Leila should move into our place.
But I think it’s great. I think Leila’s dad is exactly what Jake needs right now.
“Wonderful,” I say. “Tell Leila I’ll be there.”
“She said, if you want to bring anyone…” Jake trails off cautiously and shoots me a questioning look.
“No.” I force myself to smile. “Just me.”
I haven’t confided in Jake about Seb—our relationship hasn’t changed that much. But from his expression I’m pretty sure that