Christmas at Thornton Hall. Lynn Marie Hulsman

      Where is he, anyway? I peeled one eye open to check the clock on his night table. 6:55 a.m. My agent, Phillipa, certainly was getting the worm, as it were.

      “Juliet,” she said sharply. “Are you listening to me? I asked if I’ve awakened you.”

      “No, Pips, it’s fine,” I lied breezily, forcing myself to sound alert, “I’ve been up for ages.” Phillipa Burton, owner of London’s top agency dedicated to placing chefs in private households, expects everyone’s full-on attention. I’ve always thought of her as one of those British school-mistressy types. She scares me a little, but I pretend she doesn’t. I’m a favorite because I’ve always behaved like a soldier in her army.

      “Darling,” she said crisply, “I’ve just had a specific request come in for you to work over the Christmas holiday. I explained that you blacked those dates out with us, but the client insisted I ask, and here’s the kicker…You’d need to be there tonight.” She paused. “The housekeeper rang and said if I could send Juliet Hill, they’d pay a fee for the late notice, and a holiday bonus. The call came at six, and I’m sorry to say the offer’s only good until eight o’clock this morning.”

      I let her talk, knowing I’d be turning the job down. I’d tell her about my plan to move back to New York with my soon-to-be fiancé and having to leave the business altogether once the holidays ended. No need to stir up emotions and spoil the joy right now. While she tried to sell me on the job, I let my mind wander to thoughts of caroling around the piano with Ben’s cousins and uncles, mugs of warm mulled wine on the sofa, and smiling faces peeking over a crispy roast goose flanked by massive tureens of root vegetables. This Christmas was going to be special – a real family celebration. Impeccable Ben, in his well-cut suit, standing possessively with his arm around my shoulders, welcoming me into the fold, and for once in my life, I’d be wearing the right thing. Nothing too slutty, or cheap. And certainly no stains on my starched, white blouse. His family would murmur among themselves about what a perfect match I was for their Ben.

      I was determined that all would go according to plan. When I’d phoned him last week to firm up this year’s holiday plans, he’d been kind of quiet on the phone from his office in New Zealand – he’s on location there for a film his firm is representing. I’d chalked his lukewarm mood up to exhaustion. Poor Ben, I’d thought. He’s lost without a girl like me to loosen him up. After all, he is English. He can’t help it if he’s tightly wound.

      He told me he had something important he wanted to talk about with me. Once he said that, I’d changed the subject, fast. I hadn’t wanted him to spoil the big surprise, hoping he wouldn’t discuss logistics until after the thrill of the engagement wore off. I couldn’t help grinning and giving myself a little hug just thinking about it.

      Anyway, back to the present. Focus on Phillipa. I would never act like a diva with my agent so I let her ramble. “Keep your head down, do excellent work and don’t cause trouble,” is a roadmap I try to stick to. Well, for the most part, if you don’t mind turning a blind eye to the whole Paris debacle.

      “Juliet!” Phillipa barked, snapping me out of my daydream again. “Did you catch that? I said eight a.m.”

      “Of course, sorry,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Who requested me?” I asked, though I pretty much knew.

      “So you’re interested? Are you changing your mind?”

      I wavered for half a second. Of all the food-forward, over-the-top, gourmet meals I’d created, I’d never once done a traditional Christmas feast at an English hall. My wheels started to spin, planning menus and visualizing the tabletop in full cinematic Technicolor. The chance to design a dinner that would simultaneously hearken back to childhood roots so different from mine, while putting a surprising, modern spin on conventional favorites like sage and onion stuffing, roasted Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, a flaming Christmas pudding, drew me in – quite against my will. My cells started tingling, just thinking about the chance to put my signature all over a meal that jaded guests thought they knew inside out and backwards. I bit my lip.

      “I’m sorry, Pips,” I said, honestly. “I want to, but I just can’t.” I was surprised to feel my eyes beginning to well.

      “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” she said crisply. “If I don’t hear from you, I hope you have a happy Christmas and check in with me in January.”

      “I definitely, definitely will!” I said, pushing the “end” button on my iPhone with my left thumb. I looked at my naked ring finger. And when I do call, you’ll be stunned to hear that not only am I moving to New York, but I’m also engaged to be married.

      So, I’m a chef, but not a chef like you’d think. I’m a chef who makes my living cooking not in any restaurant where a regular person – or a rich, powerful or famous person, actually – could book a table, but behind the legendary “green baize doors” of some of the most posh private residences in the world. I’ve made it to an apex in my career. All the meals I cook now are invitation-only.

      I eventually escaped upward from testosterone-fuelled kitchens in France, and the early days of the London restaurant scene, but not before honing my culinary skills, growing a T-bone-thick hide, and a tongue like a sushi knife. Nothing else has ever come as naturally to me, and I have to say, so far, it’s given me a pretty good life. I’ve done more traveling than most people do in a lifetime, and I’ve stood in rooms with princes, war heroes and TV stars. And, indirectly, it led me to Ben. Handsome, funny, swaggering Ben in his well-cut suits.

      In my wildest dreams I’d never thought I’d attract such a catch. He was the type of man who simultaneously made office interns swoon, while garnering nods of approval from mothers and grannies. Sexy, but respectable.

      Rolling over onto Ben’s pillow, I put my phone down on the night table, on top of his Financial Times.

      “Ben? Good morning!” I called out, propping myself up on an elbow and craning my neck to look around the corner into the bathroom. “Are you making coffee?” I really had to pee. We must have had a bottle of wine each last night. I’d talked a little about how giving up The Gastronome’s Trust – Phillipa’s agency – made me sad, but he just told me again, firmly, that going back to The States and finally getting serious about my life was the sensible thing to do. Deep down, I knew I didn’t have a leg to stand on in that department, after dropping out of college to chase a man to Paris – and look how that turned out.

      So I let Ben have the last word, and wrap up the conversation. Anyway, he wasn’t much in the mood for talking, if you follow me.

      I got up off the bed, and pulled the sheet around myself, just to be safe, even though I was pretty sure now that he had already left the flat.

      Where would he have gone at this hour? He didn’t say anything about an early client. I walked to the bathroom using tiny geisha-like steps since the bottom of Ben’s sheet was winding itself tighter and tighter around my ankles, practically hobbling me. Stupid, maybe, since Ben saw me naked on a semi-regular basis. Then again I’ve never been a flaunter or the parade-around-naked type, whereas my best friend Posy would happily drink tea and read the morning papers without a stitch on, all the while chattering about the weather. The combination of growing up with servants and living at girls’ boarding schools had cured her of modesty.

      Posy Wase-Bailey is my closest friend on earth and why I live in London now. You’ve no doubt seen her in the papers, attending this gala or that premiere. Owing to the fact that her dad is that charismatic airline owner – the one who took himself to outer space – she has spent her life in the limelight. It doesn’t hurt a bit that she’s a fearless trendsetter, often spotting the next “it” designer, and that she’s always good for a controversial quote. We’re like chalk and cheese in that way, but under the surface, where it matters, we’re soul sisters separated at birth. I cannot imagine what my life would be like had she not spotted me crying into my coffee that day in Paris. I might have fled home to the States, or worse yet, begged Stephen for one more chance.

      Anyway,