Christmas at Thornton Hall. Lynn Marie Hulsman

job hazard. In every kitchen where I’ve ever worked, there’s been a top-shelf espresso machine and we staff pound coffees all day long. I had the briefest fantasy that Ben might bring me a cup, then sighed. I was the coffee bringer in this relationship.

      I dropped my sheet and eased, undrugged, into the trickle of tepid water the English insist on calling a shower, beginning to suds my hair with the Jo Malone Lime, Basil and Mandarin shampoo sitting on the ledge, delighted to find that there was a matching bottle of conditioner. It smelled heavenly and his thoughtfulness warmed my heart. It more than made up for not bringing me a cappuccino. Normally, there was only a sad jug of Boots brand baby shampoo.

      He never said so, but I could tell Ben wasn’t wild about my keeping toiletries here. He’s a neat freak, so I made it a point to carry out whatever I’d carried in, like my travel toothbrush and trial-sized toothpaste. I’d left my gold drop earrings on the sink once, and the next morning, after he left for work, I found them on the kitchen table in a creamy, business-sized envelope with my full mailing address on it. I smiled thinking about it. It’s habits like uber-organization that got him a place as a solicitor at Thompson Loyal, his logical stepping-stone to his goal – being a real New York lawyer. What a mature quality. It would make my mother drool. Posy on the other hand once said she thought Ben was a bit OCD.

      Did he leave for work? I thought to myself, rinsing the last of the conditioner out of my hair. Ben’s usually like Pavlov’s dogs when he hears shower water running, sprinting in and stripping along the way. He loved shower sex. Me, not so much. “Where’s your sportsmanship?” he’d ask me, winking. “It’s a challenge when I’m slippery.” Usually, I was glad to give him what he wanted as, let’s face it, most females of the species would kill to be with Ben. I could see it in super-hot girls’ eyes when Ben and I were out for drinks or dinner. And I could practically hear them thinking, “He’s a solid 9 and, she’s, well…not.”

      Clean, I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a white Turkish towel off the towel warmer. English people are so weird about bathrooms. They aren’t interested in ambient heat or water pressure, but they’d rather die than press a room-temperature towel to their bodies. I could forgive the quirks, though, since being converted to full-on Anglophile. I’d lived here long enough that England felt like home, and there was no denying that Ben being an Englishman was part of the turn-on.

      It had been over a year since I’d met Ben at the London Aquarium benefit. I guess you could say we went from zero to sixty, fast. I think I called him my boyfriend the first day we woke up together. If I was honest, I’d have to admit it stung that he still hadn’t introduced me to any of his family, except for one sister over a quick after-work drink.

      Well, the tide was about to turn, and I had big plans to make it all turn out like in the movies. Maybe his mother would invite me to call her “Mum”? Could I say that without feeling like a poser? Or would it be “Mother Flannery”?

      I was determined that this Christmas would be perfect, especially since the last one had been a major disappointment. He had invited me to his family’s home, but at the eleventh hour, he’d called from the New York office. He made a thousand apologies and cancelled the whole holiday plan, explaining that he’d have to stay in the U.S. through New Year’s, while I was stuck in London alone.

      “I’m crushed, Darling,” he had cooed transatlantically into the phone. “And so’s my family. Dad especially. He said he wanted to get a good look at my girl to see if she fit in with the Flannery clan. Please try to understand.”

      I remember the squeezing feeling I’d gotten in my stomach. At the time, I’d sensed a whiff of Stephen. Don’t catastrophize, Juliet. Ben is not your old boyfriend.

      “You do wish you were here with me, don’t you?”

      “Don’t be an idiot,” Ben had replied impatiently. “Of course I want to be with you. It’s just quite impossible at the moment. Be practical, Juliet.”

      It sounded like something my mother would say, and I was embarrassed. I was being selfish, wasn’t I?

      “Any man who wants to put a little money in the bank, maybe raise a family someday has to get ahead, right?” Ben asked. “It’s torture to climb the ladder at Thompson Loyal, but those who can’t stand the heat should get out of the kitchen. I am proving my worth. If my boss says jump, I have to ask how high? Being abroad at Christmastime is just one of the many small sacrifices I have to make while I’m junior.”

      I chose to ignore the fact that Ben had called me an idiot, and focus on how my heart sizzled at the word family. Oh my god, does Ben want a baby? Wait! Do I want a baby? Would we have more than one? 28 isn’t that young, after all and…

      “They call work work for a reason,” he’d lectured on. “I have to be on location in the Big Apple because old Martin Loyal has us representing that film production studio in Soho – The New York Soho – and it’s all hands on deck here. Contracts for directors and film stars, insurance riders for the special effects…you know, boring.”

       “I’m sorry you have to work,” I had told him. At that point, I’d started feeling dumb. Who wouldn’t rather be wined and dined and taken to bed than stuck in a boring law office discussing contracts and insurance? This was proof that he was good husband material.

       Don’t fight him on this one, Juliet. Support him, and soon, you’ll be working in the kitchen to prepare holiday dinners for your own little family, not for strangers.

      “Sorry, Ben. Of course you’re right. Just making sure you don’t have something cooking with The Statue of Liberty,” I’d said, trying to laugh it off.

      “You’re the only absurdly tall woman who carries a torch that I’m giving it to,” he’d flirted.

      “What’ll you do for the holiday? You won’t be in some diner eating pressed turkey and instant mashed potatoes alone, will you?”

      “Don’t worry about me, one of my mates from the office here has claimed me. I’ll be seen to…Look, I have to run. I miss you like mad and can’t wait to get a handful of your…Yes, Bob? Right! I’m just hanging up! Bye, Jubes,” he whispered, “Happy Christmas. I’ll call when I can.”

      Today would be more about getting back to normal as a couple than about fantasy land, though. We had trip plans to solidify, details to discuss about scheduling. I was tired but running on twitchy excitement. With Ben gone already, I could have slept late, I thought, wrapping myself in his waffle robe (“It’s a dressing gown, Jubes, I’m not a judge,” Ben would have scolded me). I went into the kitchen, still harboring a tiny glimmer of hope that he might be sitting at the table going over briefs and sipping a cup of coffee.

      No such luck. No Ben…and no coffee. My brain felt like lead. I didn’t think I could make it to the Pret around the corner to buy one before getting dressed, so I grabbed a bag of ground espresso from the freezer. I twisted off the portafilter and saw that there was no filter basket inside. Urghh! I’d asked Ben a dozen times to tell his cleaner to leave the machine alone. First, she washed all the parts with soap, which ruined the taste of the lovely pure Kona coffee I kept here, and second, she never put it back together properly.

       Irked and jonesing for my java, I held onto the kitchen counter with a tight grip, plotting out my next move. Go out for coffee, or look for the missing piece. Just be methodical, I told myself. It can’t have disappeared. Just look one place at a time, and you’ll find it.

      I’ll admit to feeling a bit smug as I worked from top left to bottom right, searching the cabinets. I was thinking how adult it was of me not to flip out just because I’d been awake for this long with no coffee. And wasn’t I grown-up for not wishing that Ben’s cleaner would be deported before her regular Wednesday shift so she could never touch this espresso machine, ever, as long as she was alive?

      As I rifled through each cabinet and cupboard, I grew more and more frantic. Agitated, I moved on to the drawers. Rubber bands, twine, and scissors in this one. Potholders,