Wish Upon A Christmas Cake. Darcie Boleyn

regaling us with tales of Christmases past…but, uh, she would want, no make that expect us to carry on and have a bloody good Christmas.’ He paused and I watched anxiously as his Adam’s apple bobbed furiously above his shirt collar then he cleared his throat. ‘In the new year, there will be changes afoot as my beautiful wife and I leave these shores to spend our retirement in France. So next December, if you can all make it, you will be welcome to join us in our new home. But now, I’d like to raise a toast to absent friends.’ He raised his glass and we all stood up and followed suit. I forced the wine past the lump in my throat and blinked hard. ‘I would also like to toast you all,’ Dad continued. ‘My wife – who will rustle up the most delicious meals for us over the next few days – my dear sister and niece…and um…Turmeric…ah…Tanic…ah…’

      ‘It’s Tanberk, for goodness sake!’ Gina snarled at my father, dragging a hand across her mouth and smearing her bright-red lipstick in the process. I wondered how much wine she’d consumed already; the best part of a bottle I suspected just to keep the G and T company.

      ‘Yes, of course, Tanberk.’ Dad raised his eyebrows. ‘And to my wonderful children who have brought light into my life since they arrived as tiny pink scrunched-up little…’

      ‘Enough!’ Mum laughed. ‘No one wants a rendition of Yesterday, darling.’

      ‘Okay…um…and to Sam. We’re glad to have you join us this year with your two children Jack and Holly.’ Dad raised his Champagne flute and we all joined the toast before returning to our seats.

      As we tucked into Esther’s delicious spread, I filled Karl in on the continuing success of our business and how busy we’d been over recent weeks, but I kept sneaking glances at Sam. When had he become so…Johnny Depp but the even better version? I bet his wife had to fight the admirers off with a broom. Attractive men were trouble – unless they were gay and your older brother. But I also found myself peering at Sam’s children. With their wide brown eyes surrounded by thick black lashes and ebony hair, they were beautiful. Something inside me threatened to unravel and I dug my fingernails into my palms and forced images of another child – a tiny, fragile baby who didn’t even have the chance to take a breath – out of my mind.

      Following the main course, we had dessert and coffee then Sam stood. ‘Thank you all for the company and for the food. It was delightful, Mrs Warham.’

      ‘Oh, Sam!’ Mum blushed and waved a hand at him. ‘It’s Esther to you and thank you for the compliment but it was only roast chicken.’

      Mum’s roasts were legendary in our house because they were just bloody brilliant and all of my friends who’d tried one when we were kids begged to come round again on a Sunday. I guess I inherited my cookery skills and enthusiasm for baking from her because Dad can’t open a tin of beans without turning the kitchen upside down.

      ‘Well we all enjoyed the meal immensely.’ Sam smiled, then helped his children out of their chairs. ‘But I’d better get these two to bed. Santa’s coming tomorrow night and I don’t want them getting out of their routine and being tired and grumpy on Christmas Day.’

      ‘I don’t believe in Santa, Dad. I told you that!’ The little boy pouted and crossed his arms.

      ‘What have I told you, Jack?’ Sam’s tone was calm and patient and I watched him carefully, wondering how he would deal with the issue. ‘Jack?’

      ‘You said that if you don’t believe in Santa, he won’t come.’

      ‘That’s right,’ my mother said. ‘Isn’t it, Katie?’

      As all eyes turned to me, including the children’s, my cheeks burnt. I must have been about Jack’s age when I realised that it was in fact Dad who was filling the stocking hung on my bedpost. Even though he was four years older than me and had started comprehensive school, Karl had still clung to the image of the jolly old fat man and his bag of gifts. However, once I’d discovered the truth, I insisted that he know it too. A precocious eight year old, I’d felt it was my duty to expose the fallacies of childhood at every opportunity. Karl had gone crying to his room and Esther had been beetroot to the roots of her hair and deadly silent. Her silence was far more terrifying than her ranting because I knew it meant she was really pissed at me.

      ‘Uh…yes…yes it is true. You have to believe!’ I raised my hands and shook them as I stared at the children. Immediately, I felt ridiculous. Why did I do that? Why did I do jazz hands? I took a big swig of port and stared into my glass as my cheeks blazed.

      When I raised my eyes again, Jack was looking at me with the suspicion children show to strangers and I have to admit that it unnerved me. Sometimes, kids can look at you in a way that suggests that they just see right through you. Adults often fall for the façade people sometimes erect around themselves because they want to, but children still have enough innocence to wonder why someone isn’t being as forthright as they could be. I’m just not that comfortable around children; they stir too much up. Ann coos over babies when their mothers bring them into the shop and we have colouring books and crayons ready for little ones to use. I smile at the mums and dads who come to Crumbtious as they tell me about their children’s latest achievements and I bake gluten and nut free cookies for the ones with allergies, but I just keep my distance. It’s safer that way. I need to protect my heart.

      ‘Daddy?’ Holly clung to Sam’s trunk of a thigh, her bottom lip quivering. ‘Isn’t there a Santa?’

      Sam swung her up into his arms and I nearly swooned as the muscles strained against the sleeves of his polo shirt. ‘Of course there is, Holly. Jack’s just being a bit grumpy.’

      Jack pouted and hung his head but Sam shifted Holly onto his left hip then ruffled Jack’s hair with his right hand. ‘Come on, son. Sportacus and Stephanie will need to go out.’

      Jack nodded at this and ran from the room without so much as a goodbye.

      ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow.’ Sam smiled and caught my eye. My cheeks grew even hotter. Dammit, what was wrong with me? I’d known him practically all my life but here I was like a self-conscious teenager in his presence. As if all those years hadn’t passed and I was still in awe of him like I used to be. As if we hadn’t been through so much, then walked away from each other. As if my heart hadn’t broken into a thousand pieces when we said goodbye.

      But he is all grown up now and very yummy. My stomach flipped. He’s also married with two children. Off limits. Forbidden fruit. Part of my past.

      And who, on earth, were Sportacus and Stephanie?

Chapter 3

      We took our second coffees in the drawing room which was a large airy room at the front of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto spacious gardens that glowed with solar lights in various shapes and colours. Some of the large old trees had been draped with fairy lights and they shimmered like stars in the darkness. It gave the garden a festive feeling which warmed me right through.

      I sank onto an overstuffed white sofa that nearly swallowed me whole as pillows puffed up on either side. My belly was full, my legs ached and I was tired but I knew that I’d need to stay up for a bit longer to be sociable.

      Aunty Gina and Karl were chatting about their social media accounts; apparently they stayed in contact that way.

      ‘Are you on Twitter, Katie?’ Gina asked.

      I sighed. ‘I am, but only under the shop’s name. I don’t have a personal account.’ Why would I? I barely had time to tweet for the shop let alone about myself. Come to think of it, the only real social networking I indulged in was focused around the business. Yes, I was on Facebook, but that was to keep in touch with Karl when he jetted off around the world filming in exotic locations but I didn’t have many Facebook ‘friends’. I didn’t have many real friends if I was being totally honest. Setting up Crumbtious had taken up all of my time and energy. I’d had little left for Harrison. What man wants