settling and the scratching of mouse claws. Nevertheless, it had every creature comfort one could imagine, and everyone inside its walls was pampered to a tee.
This is the area where anybody who thinks he is anybody has a weekend home. Highgrove, Prince Charles’s place, is right down the road, and you’re likely to run into “serious” film stars and models who’ve married rockers while you’re shelling out six pounds for a baguette at the local bakery or buying artisanal goat cheese, made in-house by a former Britpop band’s bassist. Think The Hamptons, but with thatched roofs.
I stopped the car at the gate that was the entrance to the main house, got out and punched the code into the security panel, and got back in. The gates eased open. Putting on my brights, I drove slowly and carefully over the cattle grid. Even though I expected it, the loud machine-gun fire of the grate always stopped my heart, and tonight, it slammed me back into reality. For a while there, I’d forgotten about how I ended up here on December 22nd.
Sighing, I drove slowly around the circular drive toward the former stable that was now a garage, and paused in front of Thornton Hall’s massive front door. With the elaborately decorated wreath and other festive touches bedecking it, the ivy-covered stone mansion was more breathtaking than usual. Fairy lights were twinkling all over the façade, and candles were burning behind shuttered windows. The people who lived here were gearing up for a yuletide filled with beauty and cheer, surrounded by friends and family. While I was working over the holidays having just been dumped. Wow, my life blows.
Immediately, Aunt Suze’s voice rang in my head: “Failure is an opportunity to reinvent.” I sat up a little straighter, continued to pull my car around and blinked the last remaining snow flurries out of my eyelashes. There, that’s better, now I’m not even thinking of Ben and Amanda. Until I was. And how she was probably at Ben’s parents’ right this very minute. She and his family would all be merrily gathered around the piano, singing Christmas songs and remarking that they’d “never thought Juliet was right for Ben”. Amanda would be gliding gracefully around the fire-warmed room in three-inch heels, fully at home in the scarlet-red velvet evening dress and white fur stole she’d worn for the occasion. A distinguished uncle would comment on how clever it was for Amanda to be of an appropriate height for a woman. Ben would ring for servants to take away the mulled wine, and bring champagne, then he’d get down on one knee and…
Suddenly, I heard a sickening metal crunch as I smashed my car into the estate’s riding mower, parked right outside the garage. “Aaaah!” I moaned weakly, as my head bounced off the side window. I quickly backed up and my front bumper fell to the ground. I killed the engine and lay my head down on the steering wheel.
“Really?” I said out loud. “Story of my life. The minute I get where I’m trying to go, I crash and burn.” Unbuckling, I eased myself out of the car, just as Rex, the Earl’s favorite retriever, came barreling toward me, charged up by the now-falling snow. Jasper, my boss and the Earl’s son-in-law, wasn’t a big dog person. But he hadn’t much room to complain, as it was the Earl’s estate, however much Jasper had his eye on it. I wondered if the poor beast had been “accidentally” let out in the cold.
“Hey boy,” I called, happy to see a friendly face. I squatted down and opened my arms, and he knocked me off balance, on my rear in a slushy puddle. “Ho, ho, ho,” I said, as he licked me heartily. “Merry Effing Christmas to me.”
Rounding the house to the back entrance, I was met by Seamus, the estate manager, the most senior of the staff. He took my hand warmly in both of his, his genuine smile making his eyes crinkle. “Welcome, welcome again, lovely Miss Hill,” he said, bowing with mock formality. “We’re so glad to be working alongside you, especially in this joyous season!” He had on a scarf but no hat, and his thin, wispy, black comb-over was blowing comically in the wind. I gave him a peck on the cheek, and he chuckled, pleased. “Having you and Edward cooking will be a grand thing, indeed.” He nudged me aside gently and picked up my luggage to take to Dove’s Nest, the cottage in which I always stayed. He made pleasant chitchat, but my mind was miles away. Oh, man, Edward is here, I thought. The Gastronome’s Trust hadn’t told me that part. I fished in my bag for a lipstick.
****
My first ever job here had had me training with the Hall’s permanent chef, Edward. Before I’d met him, I’d heard through the grapevine that he was well liked by the staff and family – except possibly Jasper Roth. I’d also heard from a couple of the maids and another chef from my agency that he was sex on legs. And they were not wrong. Since that training stint, on occasion I’d been brought on as sous-chef to assist Edward with an especially large party or event, and to fill in when Edward was on vacation. The Earl and Countess were endlessly hosting weddings at The Hall for extended family. This was the kind of house that was staffed up at all times.
The first time we were introduced in the kitchen of The Hall, Edward had turned around from the stove and smiled. His face was so handsome. Not hard, but not pretty in any way, edged with the faintest 5 o’clock shadow. I sucked in my breath and blurted the first thing that came to my mind, “I love your Crocs!” I’d been told he was good looking, but that simple fact didn’t begin to paint the picture. It wasn’t just about his looks. It was more his essence. I felt like an animal, pulled in at cell-level by whatever invisible scent or sound it was he gave off that made me want him. When he locked eyes with me, I embarrassed myself by thinking that he had decided right then and there to take me to bed.
“I’ve never seen them in white!” I blathered. “Are they comfortable?”
“Like walking on air,” he said slowly. His voice landed right below my belly, and vibrated there.
“But I’ve worn Danskos like yours, too,” he said easily. “Now I’ve got my foot problem solved, maybe you can help me manage my ‘chef’s arse.’” He laughed a velvety laugh, and his eyes twinkled. Against my will, I laughed, too.
Chef’s arse is the insider term for the occupational hazard of moving constantly in a sweaty environment, causing your pants to chafe, which might be the reason for chefs’ fabled tempers. It was a bold thing to say to a stranger, very un-English. I took a step closer to him.
“I swear by cornstarch,” I told him. “But a friend in New York told me about this ointment called Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.” I realized I was flirting, but couldn’t stop myself. It felt like jumping off a cliff. “And it leaves you smelling sweet like a baby.”
“Sweet is good,” he said, smiling at me with his wolfish, lopsided grin.
“Everything in moderation, I suppose,” I’d said. I heard my own voice and it sounded hollow and echo-y, as if I was hearing someone else talk down a long tunnel. I was alarmed at the attraction I felt. For heaven’s sake, Juliet, I said to myself. Keep it in your pants.
“Well, fun’s over,” I said briskly, pulling myself back together. It was time to behave like a professional chef, instead of a starry-eyed fangirl. “This food isn’t going to cook itself.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve got loads of time.”
“I’ll hold up my end, Chef,” I told him, pulling out a cutting board. “No need to baby me.”
“Ah, don’t be one of those,” he’d told me, with soft, amused eyes. “Life’s too short.”
****
“Seamus, but you really don’t have to wait on me,” I told him as he carried my bags to the back entrance of the Hall. “I’m just staff, remember?” I said, making a feeble attempt
