Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin: A heart-warming and feel-good read. Catherine Ferguson

What’s this for?’

      ‘Your promotion?’ From her expression – a half-frown – I can tell she’s already realising she’s got a bit ahead of herself. ‘Yes? No?’

      I shake my head. ‘No. But who cares?’ I force a smile. ‘I’m cooking tagliatelle tonight!’

      ‘Yum. Can I come in?’

      I grin at her. ‘Yes, as long as you bring that.’ I point to the bottle.

      It’s open in a trice and we make short work of it, with Erin lounging at the table while I cook the pasta dish, make garlic bread, and bring her up to date on my horrendous day. Later, after we’ve eaten and I’ve kept some to heat up for Harrison later, I fetch another bottle from the fridge, sloshing more prosecco into our glasses as Erin spins the open Italian cookbook round to face her.

      ‘You know what? That witch, Mimi, has done you a big favour.’

      ‘Has she? How on earth do you make that out? She stole my job!’ I’m sounding loud, even to myself, and stabbing the air with my finger, having drunk far more than I’m used to. But I’m feeling a hundred times better!

      ‘Yes, but I bet she can’t cook like you can. I bet she can’t make the most amazing Italian food like we’ve just eaten. I bet she’d be sick as a chip if you did a dinner party for Mrs Morelli and it was so great everyone in the surrounding area wanted to hire you!’

      ‘Ha! Sick as a chip! You’re right! I’ll show her. Mimi Bloody Fish Eye Blenkinsop!’

      ‘You will?’

      ‘Why not?’ I fling my arms into a dramatic shrug and knock the prosecco bottle over, which makes me giggle uncontrollably. I’m all fired up. Ready to prove Martin and Mimi wrong. I have talent! I can cook amazing food! And I should stop being timid about it!

       Chapter 6

      ‘Shall I tell her you’ll do it?’ asks Erin, when she eventually stumbles out into the cold night air around eight.

      ‘Sure.’ I beam at her. ‘I’m going to be a cook!’

      ‘You are, love. I’m going to phone Mrs Morelli now.’

      My eyes open wide in alarm. ‘Now?’

      ‘Let’s strike while the iron’s hot,’ says Erin firmly. ‘You’re on the brink of a new adventure. And it’s long overdue, if you don’t mind me saying.’

      The words ‘long overdue’ trigger a vague memory in my hazy, alcohol-soaked brain. I stab the air. ‘Need to phone that man. Tell him he got the wrong number.’

      ‘What man?’

      ‘Jedward.’ I giggle.

      ‘Who?’

      ‘He’s called Jed Turner. Incredibly sexy voice. Invited me for Christmas.’

      Erin’s eyes open wide.

      ‘Except it wasn’t me he was inviting to share his hot tub. It was Clemmy. He thinks he left the message on her phone so I need to let him know.’

      ‘Oh.’ Erin peers at me curiously. ‘I hope you did the “last-number redial” thing?’

      ‘Course I did. I’m not stupid. I put it in the pocket of my jeans and … oh bugger, they’re probably in the wash!’

      Laughing at my panic, Erin hurries off into the cold night while I charge upstairs to investigate the jeans situation. Luckily, they’re in the wash-basket and the phone number is still in the pocket. Carefully, I deposit the slip of paper in my bedside table for safety then go down to the kitchen to start clearing up.

      My phone rings half an hour later. It’s Erin and she sounds excited.

      ‘Poppy?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Get that Christmas apron ironed!’

      ‘What do you mean?’ I’ve actually stopped breathing.

      ‘I just popped in to tell Mrs Morelli you’re free on Saturday night after all, and guess what? She’s really pleased because the other caterers were going to charge an arm and a leg. You’re on!’

      ‘So the only reason I got the job is because I’m cheap?’ I squeak with fake indignation as my heart bumps around madly in my chest.

      She snorts. ‘Well, it had to come in handy eventually.’

      After she’s gone, I collapse onto the sofa to catch up on the soaps, but I find I’m staring at the TV without taking anything in. Rita could be suggesting a threesome to Norris and Ken Barlow and I wouldn’t even notice.

      What a difference a day makes.

      It began with hope, veered into total and utter humiliation at the hands of Spunky Mimi Blenkinsop, then did a smart about-turn and morphed into a landmark watershed day in my life. I’m going to be a caterer! In business for myself! There will be no more ‘far too timid’. There will be ‘astonishingly brave’ instead. And I’m going to start right now by getting that number and phoning Jed Turner.

      No shilly-shallying. I’m just going to do it!

      Smiling, I push myself off the sofa, stagger slightly to the right and nearly cannon into a nest of tables. It takes a while to remember where I put the piece of paper but eventually, I’m dialling the number.

      Someone picks up.

      ‘Hello, Jed Turner?’

      ‘Er, hi!’ It’s definitely him. I’d recognise those deep, velvety tones anywhere. ‘I hope you don’t mind me phoning. I – um – just wanted to let you know that I can’t stay at yours for Christmas, even though it sounds lovely what with the hot tub and the log fire and everything.’

      There’s a brief pause.

      ‘Shit, sorry,’ he says. ‘You’re obviously not Clemmy.’

      ‘No, ’fraid not. I’m Poppy. You got the wrong woman.’

      ‘Ah, well.’ He gives a throaty chuckle. ‘That sounds like the story of my life right there.’

      I laugh. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

      ‘Sadly, Poppy, it is. But things can only get better.’ He doesn’t seem sad. In fact, he sounds quite cheerful about it.

      ‘Very true,’ I agree, thinking of Clemmy, who he’d seemed pretty keen on.

       Clemmy is such a pretty name.

      ‘So, Poppy, I’m really glad you phoned me.’

      ‘It was no problem at all.’

      ‘If I hadn’t discovered the mistake, my carefully laid plans for a merry Christmas would have gone right up in smoke. I must have hit a wrong digit. Did I get the area code right, at least? Are you in Surrey?’

      ‘I am. I live in Angelford?’

      ‘Ah, yes. In that case you’re very close to my uncle’s holiday home. Which is where we’ll be for Christmas. Lovely area.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose it is. It’s just when you live in a place, you quite often don’t appreciate its beauty as much as other folk.’

      ‘That’s true. Do you think that also applies to people living within spitting distance of the Eiffel Tower? Or over the road from the Grand Canal in Venice?’

      ‘Over the water, you mean.’

      He laughs at my very feeble joke. ‘You’ve got an exceptional café in Angelford, if I remember rightly. Best