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

every day from our home in Surrey and will often work late at the office on the nights I’m serving dinner at the hotel.

      ‘Better get home. I’ve bought oysters and some fizz for tonight,’ says Erin, showing me the bottle in her bag.

      ‘Ooh, what’s the occasion?’

      She gives me a rather lewd wink. ‘No occasion. Except getting Mark in a loving mood, if you know what I mean.’

      I grin. ‘Do I really need to know about this?’

      She pulls a face. ‘He’s been a bit distracted of late. I think they’re working him too hard, poor lamb. Feeding each other oysters is sure to get us back on track.’

      ‘They are supposed to be an aphrodisiac.’

      ‘Exactly! You should try them on Harrison.’

      ‘Seafood brings him out in a rash. He’s more a steak pie man.’

      Erin starts slip-sliding up the snowy path. ‘I’ll let you get back to your financial projections,’ she calls. ‘You’ve got a good one there, Poppy. Mark wouldn’t know his APR from his VPL.’

      I grin. ‘Er, neither would I. APR? Um … Annual Percentage Thingy?’

      She nods. ‘Annual Percentage Rate.’

      ‘And VPL?’ I cast around for possible words. ‘Very Preposterous Logarithm?’

      She giggles. ‘Visible Panty Line, actually.’ Closing the gate behind her, she sets off for her flat at the other end of the high street, pausing only to call, ‘Think about Mrs Morelli.’

      ‘I don’t have to. It’s not happening. But thank you for this.’ I hold up the Christmas apron. She shakes her head at me with weary affection, and I wave her off.

      Erin and I met six years ago when she started weekend-waitressing at The Pretty Flamingo to make extra cash to fund a course in flower arranging. She couldn’t stand working for the Nutters so she didn’t last long. But she’s since found her perfect job working in a florist’s in a neighbouring village, and her dream is to one day own her own shop.

      When she first arrived at the hotel, I thought she was loud and a bit of a show-off.

      Actually, I still think she’s loud and a bit of a show-off, but she’s also very kind and loyal with a fabulous sense of humour. The day I realised this, was also the day I was almost sacked by Mrs Nutter for breaking a porcelain statue of a flamingo.

      I’d been serving a couple at lunch and I’d thought they were acting a bit oddly. They were already drunk when they sat down, and they spent the entire time whispering together, giggling and glancing over at me. My suspicions turned out to be right. At the end of the meal, they left without paying.

      Realising what had happened, I dashed out after them, telling my friend and fellow waitress Maxine to let Mr Hastings know. I’ve no idea what I thought I was going to do – I just knew that I had to do something to stop them. I was racing through reception when my foot caught on a rug and I went flying against a big glass-fronted cabinet.

      The cabinet housed the owners’ precious ‘pretty flamingo’ statue, which gave the hotel its name – and when I jarred the cabinet, the flamingo inside toppled over and smashed. (Although at least Mr Hastings was able to catch the car number plate of the couple doing a runner.) Being young and naive, I felt sure I’d be sacked on the spot. But instead, I had the insurance excess docked from my next month’s wages.

      When she heard about it, Erin was furious on my behalf and marched me along to see Mrs Nutter. Erin explained why she thought the whole thing was very unfair on me, since all I’d been doing was trying to stop the thieves. I don’t think the Nutters were used to being challenged by their employees. Next month, the money was returned to me.

      Erin and I have been the best of friends ever since.

      Now, staring up at the frosty, star-studded night sky, I pause for a moment at the door, hugging myself against the cold. It’s only two weeks till Christmas Day and they’re predicting we’ll have a white Christmas this year.

      A little sigh escapes at the memory of that long-ago snowball fight. My feelings about the white stuff are always bittersweet. Which is why it’s definitely best not to dwell on it …

      Resolutely, I turn my thoughts back to Erin.

      Oh God, Mrs Morelli and her dinner party!

      A little jolt of panic surges up in my chest. It’s lovely that Erin has such faith in me. And to be fair, it’s not just her own opinion of my cooking talents that she’s going on. When we went on our cookery course down in Cornwall last year, the tutor, Greg Allan, took me to one side on the last day and said some very complimentary things. I can remember his exact words. ‘You’ve got an incredible flair for combining flavours and textures, Poppy. I think you have real talent as a cook.’

      It felt truly amazing, hearing that from an expert. But I’m starting to wish he’d never said it. Erin was with me at the time and, ever since then, she’s been dropping ‘hints’ the size of ten-tonne boulders that I should ditch the waitressing and become a self-employed caterer instead.

      But although she knows me as well as anyone alive, what even Erin fails to grasp is my lack of faith in myself.

      I just can’t do it.

      I don’t mean that I can’t cook. Because I know I can. In fact, apart from when I’m waitressing at the hotel – where everything is so very familiar after fourteen years of working there – my own kitchen is the only place I ever feel totally confident. But to set up on my own and take that huge leap into the unknown would take courage and a level of self-belief I simply don’t have.

      Sure, part of me would love to do it. Every time Erin mentions my ‘cooking enterprise’ as she calls it, a little spark of joy, apprehension and excitement leaps inside me. Just for a moment, I think: maybe I could …

      But then the memory of my stepfather’s mocking face slips into my mind. Let’s face it, she’s far too timid. She’ll never amount to anything.

      Martin lives in Australia now, with his new wife, and all the rows and the horrible tensions of my childhood are just a bitter memory. I should be able to move on but that’s easier said than done. I’ve told myself a million times that it was nothing personal. Martin was just a troubled man with anger issues, who basically couldn’t tolerate the fact I was another man’s child. But I still can’t stop the little voice in my head, nagging me that he was probably right to doubt that I’d ever be a success in life.

      Closing the front door, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Dark-brown eyes clouded with memories of the past. Waves of dark glossy hair, almost black, tumbling over my shoulders, so strikingly similar to Alessandro’s colouring in the one creased photo I have of my real dad.

      ‘Poppy? Come and look at these financial projections. I think you’ll be stunned.’

      Harrison’s voice brings me back to earth. Thankfully, my lovely boyfriend doesn’t have a bee in his bonnet about me changing my career! In fact, I think he’d be happy if I was a waitress at The Pretty Flamingo for the rest of my working life. He loves my food and is always so appreciative. He thinks cooking is a marvellous hobby to have. But as for turning a pastime into a job? Harrison thinks it would be far too risky.

      The one time I mentioned it, he gave a sort of worried grimace, checked the time in Hong Kong on his watch and said something about the unrest in the Middle East having an effect on oil prices. I couldn’t quite fathom his thought processes, since the only oil I’d be concerned with was of the cooking variety. But I got the gist. Financially, it was too much of a risk in the current climate to start a brand-new venture.

      I walk into the living room, and Harrison pats the seat beside him. ‘Erin okay?’

      ‘Yes, she’s fine. She and Mark are thinking of the Caribbean for their next holiday.’