Chapter 10
They say dogs are man’s best friend and that a woman’s not a woman until she’s a wife. Wrong! I’m here to tell you that the most natural match in the world is a girl and her dog…end of.
Take me and Hudson, for example. We couldn’t be happier. Ever since the magical day I found him wet and skinny, huddled in the back of a Macy’s shopping bag. You know the one. With the big red star on it? Since the day I saved him, we’ve been each other’s family. Well, that’s not the whole story. I mean, the family part is. But if I were to be honest, I’d have to admit that he saved me as much as I saved him. Maybe more.
“Harf! Harf, harf!”
“Quiet, Huddie,” I scold, as he comes tearing into the kitchen, claws skittering over the polished wood floor, launched from his cozy nest on the sofa. “It’s early. You’ll wake the whole building.”
“Worf!” Not only does my little mutt keep barking, he also has the nerve to start jumping against the kitchen island where I’m up to my elbows grating frozen beef fat (suet, to those in the know) so I can to test a recipe for traditional English mincemeat Christmas pies.
‘It’s a marshmallow world in the winter…when the snow comes to cover the grouuuund…’
“Oh, the phone! Of course. You are a wonder dog, aren’t you?” My December ringtone is the jaunty Dean Martin rendition of one of my favorite retro holiday songs. I should have guessed. Hudson has a knack for barking right before my phone rings. I chalk it up to being a version of that thing animals do when they sense earthquakes and tsunamis.
“Rowf!”
“Yes, the phone. I hear it, Huddie. I’m getting it. It’s not life and death,” I say wiping my hand on a freshly bleached, extra-large Williams-Sonoma kitchen towel. “I do have voicemail, you know.”
“Hello darling, I scarcely have a minute to breathe, never mind visiting the loo, but I promised I’d ring you this week. I’m told you’re in my diary, so here I am.”
It’s Aunt Miranda. If she were Native American, her name would be more “Bursts in Frantic,” than one of the more traditional, serene names like, “Walks with Nature” or “Drifts on Clouds.”
“Good morning, Aunt Miranda,” I say slipping Hudson a pinch of the suet. He’s considerate enough to nibble it gently out from between my fingers. I know that took disciplined restraint on his part. “I’ve missed you too.” Hudson finishes his morsel, and rubs against my leg to give me a hug.
“Now Charlotte, don’t be like that! You know I always miss you, it’s only my hair’s on fire with the Rockefeller Tree Lighting tonight. As you know, those early December blizzards really threw a spanner in the works. We had this planned for the week after Thanksgiving, the way it has been for years and years. But they’ve only just managed to resurface the skating rink after the weight of the snow caused that massive crack. The commissioner only just declared it safe to the public. Pulling off this huge event this close to Christmas Day will be the triumph of my career. Between you, me, and the lamppost, it’s going to be spectacular.”
It amazes me how Aunt Miranda can talk a mile a minute when she’s downloading information to me, but the second she’s in the presence of a client or celebrity, she’s as measured and gracious as The Queen. Her chameleon-like ability to adapt has catapulted her the top of her field. My Aunt Miranda is a party planner on steroids. She produces major events all over the globe, ranging from celebrity weddings, to movie openings, to charity marathons, to high-profile ribbon cuttings. Her company, Nichols Bespoke Events, is, as they say, a major player.
“Sounds awesome.”
“Awesome? Honestly Charlotte, one would imagine you were born in The States and educated on a Disney cruise ship, rather than born in England and educated in the finest public schools.”
“You mean the finest boarding schools where you could chuck me on the Northeastern coast. I’ve lived in America longer than in England. I moved here when I was 12.”
“I know very well when you moved here. I raised you, if you’ll remember.”
“Sort of,” I mumbled.
“What’s that?” Miranda shouts, not bothering to muffle the phone with her hand. “NO! Shandelle, the horse blankets
