Mistletoe Mansion. Samantha Tonge

stood up and turned around. ‘Women call that “mouse”. ’

      ‘For all I cared it could have been black, green, streaked with pink or shaved off. It’s you I like, Kimmy – your contagious laugh and your… sense of right and wrong.’

      I grinned. ‘Like when I refused to do any housework until you agreed to go halves on a vacuum cleaner that worked?’

      He gave a wry smile. ‘No. I was thinking of the time you handed in that fifty pound note you found on the supermarket floor.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t need to be with some glamorous, hotshot business woman. Marriage, kids, decent house and maybe a Chelsea football club season ticket – that’ll be enough for me.’

      I put down the eggs. ‘You feel pretty sure you’ll have kids one day, right?’

      ‘So?’

      ‘I bet you’ve even pictured them and thought of names. That’s no different to me, except that I’ve imagined my successful cake company, my clients, the shiny van I’ll use as I drive to their homes. I even know what kind of pedigree dog I’ll buy with the profits – he’s called Chico and wears a leopard print coat and matching booties.’

      I’d grown up with status dogs, Mum’s boyfriends strutting around with Rottweilers or Staffies. They’d never let me dress them up or strategically place a few ribbons.

      ‘And it’s not just about the money,’ I continued. ‘Baking’s my life. I even dream about recipes at night, Peanut.’

      Peanut was my pet name for him, because of his one big vice: an addiction to Snickers, the nutty chocolate bars.

      ‘But since your redundancy, you’ve made no concrete plans to get this supposed business off the ground.’ His cheeks flushed. ‘In fact, you’ve just given away a box of cakes. You should have charged the postman.’

      ‘I’ve catered for kiddies’ parties,’ I said and my chest tightened. ‘And it’s paying off. I met Megan at her niece’s do. Everyone thought the cakes I made for her wedding were awesome. At last I’m moving on to more upmarket work. The bakery taught me all I know.’ I was rambling now. ‘The next step is to work somewhere I can make the right contacts.’

      ‘That’s a plan?’ he said. ‘So, exactly what kind of job are we talking about?’

      ‘Um…childminder to the kids of someone famous; receptionist in a top hairdressing salon…’ I could just see me now, delivering cakes to some top football club. The Wags would become my best friends. The men would insist Chico become their mascot… I started beating the eggs, not wanting to catch Adam’s eye. My plan sounded feeble, I knew that, but networking was my only chance. And let’s face it – no one at CountryHouse Potatoes could introduce me to a chart topping singer or Olympic champion.

      ‘The most famous person living in Luton is either dad to fifteen kids by fifteen mums or on trial for murder,’ muttered Adam.

      ‘That’s a bit harsh. I thought you liked living here.’

      ‘I do, but it pays to be realistic. Wise up, Kimmy – baking cakes is no way to escape the nine ‘til five. Round here, people have to work their butts off to earn an honest living. What makes you think you’re any different?’

      ‘I don’t, it’s just…You saw Megan’s cupcake tower – the spirals of pink buttercream icing; the ribboned gift boxes. I was up until three in the morning finishing that display.’ I lifted my chin. ‘And what about the selection of mini Christmas-themed cakes I made for that charity coffee morning, at the community centre, last week? Everyone went wild for the cute Stollen slices, cinnamon cupcakes and chocolate logs… ’ A lump rose in my throat. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got what it takes? You know I work hard. Don’t you believe I’ve got the talent?’

      ‘That Megan was a one-off, babe – she got married to her boss and they moved away to London. No one else around here can afford a wedding cake that per mouthful costs more than they earn per hour. As for the charity bash, you sold those cakes at a discount price for the good cause. Your profit hardly covered your costs. Times are hard; we don’t live in some crappy reality show with a quick-fix prize. However much you want it, building a successful business can take years – you ask my Uncle Ron.’

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with setting your sights high.’ I bit my lip.

      ‘So long as it’s not so high that your head’s stuck in the clouds.’ Adam stood up. ‘I’m sick of feeling as if my life’s on hold. We can’t plan a decent future just on my wages. The factory offers regular money, benefits and prospects. You could always do your cake thing when we’ve retired and got a house with a bigger kitchen.’

      ‘Retired? I’ve only just turned twenty-one and you’re only a year older! I mean… isn’t that rather a long time off?’ At times he reminded me of Mr Potts, my Year Eleven form teacher, who advised us to choose the most boring career we could think of because it would probably pay the most.

      ‘I… didn’t expect things to turn out like this either, you know,’ he said and gave a small sigh. ‘I always imagined I’d earn enough to buy a place on my own, get a new car every year and afford a two week holiday in Spain…’ Adam plonked himself down on the sofa again and ran a hand through his short sandy hair, down to the back of his head. Suddenly I longed to do the same to him.

      ‘You do great,’ I said, softly. ‘Not all your mates have even left their parents’ homes yet.’

      He shrugged. “I thought you moving in last year meant that you were ready to settle down. People like us don’t get to drive sports cars or live in houses with their own tennis courts.’

      ‘Leona Lewis does all right.’ I picked up the hand-whisk and mock-mimed a ballad.

      ‘So, now you’re going to audition for the X Factor?’

      ‘We’ve got years ahead of us together,’ I said. ‘What’s the rush to cement our relationship, literally, by tying ourselves down to a mortgage?’ I glanced at the oven clock. ‘I’ve got to hurry or I’ll be late for Jess.’

      Adam’s mouth went into a thin line. ‘Look…’ he said, eventually. ‘Why don’t we cool things for a bit? I’ve been thinking for a while that, well… It’s for the best, babe… in the long run… Maybe you should move out.’

      A ball of coldness hit the inside of my chest. No. Adam had to be joking. He couldn’t mean it. We’d had a great time, ever since I moved in last summer. “Kimberley Jones has shacked up with her boyfriend” was my best ever Facebook status. Hoping I didn’t smell too sporty, I walked over and sat on his lap.

      ‘How about I find a regular bar job, to combine with the temp agency stuff? That would bring in extra money, until my baking takes off?’ I slipped my arms around his broad neck and gazed right into his eyes. ‘We both know you couldn’t manage without me. Who else would pair up your socks or keep you supplied with clean trackie bottoms?’

      His hands slipped around my waist and I leant in for a snog. However, Adam prised me off, like some rockstar rejecting a crazed fan. He reached over to the small coffee table and picked up the local paper, flicking through to the Home Search section. Then he passed it to me.

      ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ I stuttered, feeling ever so slightly sick. ‘And on a practical level, how can I afford a place of my own, just like that, let alone find one a couple of weeks before Christmas? Mum won’t welcome me back.’ Especially as boyfriend number… I’d lost count… had just moved in. Like all the rest, he sported barbed wire tattoos and thought he was the next Eric Clapton.

      ‘You might find a flat share,’ said Adam and folded his arms. ‘Makes you realise, doesn’t it, how important it is to have a reliable income?’

      ‘I’ve more than pulled my weight!’ A wave of red-hot indignation replaced the coldness in my chest. ‘Days stuffing envelopes paid