Christmas at Thornton Hall

Lynn Marie Hulsman

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Lynn Marie Hulsman

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Summer at Castle Stone

Acknowledgements

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

Lynn Marie Hulsman

I’m a writer. My mother’s death brought an epiphany. “Life is short,” said my inner voice. “Thanks, I.V.,” I replied. “I know what I have to do.” In short order, I got an agent, co-wrote two books, ghost-wrote another, published an article, and sold a novel.

Kentucky-born, tall tales and hyperbole are in my bones. I love story. My real jobs? Equity actor. Ad copy writer for casinos, (“Loose slots!”) Stand-up comic. Pharma editor. Cheese cube passer-outer (admitted low point). I’m an Ideation Agent (sounds fake, right?) and run an improv company in NYC. My favorite, favorite thing to do is write Romantic Comedy.

I live with my family in Hell’s Kitchen, and am seen around town auctioneering for charity, hosting gay men’s fashion shows, and calling bingo games.

You can follow me on Twitter @LynnMarieSays.

For my dear friend Kate Bushmann.

Chapter One

“Juliet, it’s Phillipa from The Gastronome’s Trust. Big stuff. I hope I’m not calling too early,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.

I held the phone with one hand and stroked the still-warm, empty space next to me in the bed with my other, drinking in the sensation of being a grown-up.

I seriously cannot believe I’m me, I thought, suppressing a manic giggle. I’m in my boyfriend’s Mayfair apartment – which he owns! – answering a phone call from my agent who’s about to offer me real money for my very much in demand culinary skills to put in my – wait for it! – savings account. A savings account which now has enough for me to go back to college and complete my sociology degree. Who would have thought it? Juliet Hill – back on track. Certified Grown-up. Even my mother would have to agree. My mind was racing, even though my body hadn’t quite caught up, yet.

I’m on the brink of a new beginning, I’m moving back to New York to complete the studies I’d dropped all those years ago. And I’m moving back with my successful boyfriend…successful and athletic, I thought, wincing as I stretched out my aching limbs. After recent work trips to the States, then New Zealand, Ben seemed determined to make up for lost time: he was like the cat that swallowed the canary. Absence had certainly made his body grow fonder, and his heart, too, I hoped. So maybe, if I’m honest with myself, my world hadn’t been properly rocked last night… but then he’d practically just stepped off a plane, for heaven’s sake, I couldn’t expect nirvana. We’d have plenty of time this holiday season to get back on the same page in the old sex department.

Where is he, anyway? I peeled one eye open to check the clock on his night table. 6:55 a.m. My agent, Phillipa, certainly was getting the worm, as it were.

“Juliet,” she said sharply. “Are you listening to me? I asked if I’ve awakened you.”

“No, Pips, it’s fine,” I lied breezily, forcing myself to sound alert, “I’ve been up for ages.” Phillipa Burton, owner of London’s top agency dedicated to placing chefs in private households, expects everyone’s full-on attention. I’ve always thought of her as one of those British school-mistressy types. She scares me a little, but I pretend she doesn’t. I’m a favorite because I’ve always behaved like a soldier in her army.

“Darling,” she said crisply, “I’ve just had a specific request come in for you to work over the Christmas holiday. I explained that you blacked those dates out with us, but the client insisted I ask, and here’s the kicker…You’d need to be there tonight.” She paused. “The housekeeper rang and said if I could send Juliet Hill, they’d pay a fee for the late notice, and a holiday bonus. The call came at six, and I’m sorry to say the offer’s only good until eight o’clock this morning.”

I let her talk, knowing I’d be turning the job down. I’d tell her about my plan to move back to New York with my soon-to-be fiancé and having to leave the business altogether once the holidays ended. No need to stir up emotions and spoil the joy right now. While she tried to sell me on the job, I let my mind wander to thoughts of caroling around the piano with Ben’s cousins and uncles, mugs of warm mulled wine on the sofa, and smiling faces peeking over a crispy roast goose flanked by massive tureens of root vegetables. This Christmas was going to be special – a real family celebration. Impeccable Ben, in his well-cut suit, standing possessively with his arm around my shoulders, welcoming me into the fold, and for once in my life, I’d be wearing the right thing. Nothing too slutty, or cheap. And certainly no stains on my starched, white blouse. His family would murmur among themselves about what a perfect match I was for their Ben.

I was determined that all would go according to plan. When I’d phoned him last week to firm up this year’s holiday plans, he’d been kind of quiet on the phone from his office in New Zealand – he’s on location there for a film his firm is representing. I’d chalked his lukewarm mood up to exhaustion. Poor Ben, I’d thought. He’s lost without a girl like me to loosen him up. After all, he is English. He can’t help it if he’s tightly wound.

He told me he had something important he wanted to talk about with me. Once he said that, I’d changed the subject, fast. I hadn’t wanted him to spoil the big surprise, hoping he wouldn’t discuss logistics until after the thrill of the engagement wore off. I couldn’t help grinning and giving myself a little hug just thinking about it.

Anyway, back to the present. Focus on Phillipa. I would never act like a diva with my agent so I let her ramble. “Keep your head down, do excellent work and don’t cause trouble,” is a roadmap I try to stick to. Well, for the most part, if you don’t mind turning a blind eye to the whole Paris debacle.

“Juliet!” Phillipa barked, snapping me out of my daydream again. “Did you catch that? I said eight a.m.”

“Of course, sorry,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Who requested me?” I asked, though I pretty much knew.

“So you’re interested? Are you changing your mind?”

I wavered for half a second. Of all the food-forward, over-the-top, gourmet meals I’d created, I’d never once done a traditional Christmas feast at an English hall. My wheels started to spin, planning menus and visualizing the tabletop in full cinematic Technicolor. The chance to design a dinner that would simultaneously hearken back to childhood roots so different from mine, while putting a surprising, modern spin on conventional favorites like sage and onion stuffing, roasted Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, a flaming Christmas pudding, drew me in – quite against my will. My cells started tingling, just thinking about the chance to put my signature all over a meal that jaded guests thought they knew inside out and backwards. I bit my lip.

“I’m sorry, Pips,” I said, honestly. “I want to, but I just can’t.” I was surprised to feel my eyes beginning to well.

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” she said crisply. “If I don’t hear from you, I hope you have a happy Christmas and check in with me in January.”

“I definitely, definitely will!” I said, pushing the “end” button on my iPhone with my left thumb. I looked at my naked ring finger. And when I do call, you’ll be stunned to hear that not only am I moving to New York, but I’m also engaged to be married.

So, I’m a chef, but not a chef like you’d think. I’m a chef who makes my living cooking not in any restaurant where a regular person – or a rich, powerful or famous person, actually – could book a table, but behind the legendary “green baize doors” of some of the most posh private residences in the world. I’ve made it to an apex in my career. All the meals I cook now are invitation-only.

I eventually escaped upward from testosterone-fuelled kitchens in France, and the early days of the London restaurant scene, but not before honing my culinary skills, growing a T-bone-thick hide, and a tongue like a sushi knife. Nothing else has ever come as naturally to me, and I have to say, so far, it’s given me a pretty good life. I’ve done more traveling than most people do in a lifetime, and I’ve stood in rooms with princes, war heroes and TV stars. And, indirectly, it led me to Ben. Handsome, funny, swaggering Ben in his well-cut suits.

In my wildest dreams I’d never thought I’d attract such a catch. He was the type of man who simultaneously made office interns swoon, while garnering nods of approval from mothers and grannies. Sexy, but respectable.

Rolling over onto Ben’s pillow, I put my phone down on the night table, on top of his Financial Times.

“Ben? Good morning!” I called out, propping myself up on an elbow and craning my neck to look around the corner into the bathroom. “Are you making coffee?” I really had to pee. We must have had a bottle of wine each last night. I’d talked a little about how giving up The Gastronome’s Trust – Phillipa’s agency – made me sad, but he just told me again, firmly, that going back to The States and finally getting serious about my life was the sensible thing to do. Deep down, I knew I didn’t have a leg to stand on in that department, after dropping out of college to chase a man to Paris – and look how that turned out.

So I let Ben have the last word, and wrap up the conversation. Anyway, he wasn’t much in the mood for talking, if you follow me.

I got up off the bed, and pulled the sheet around myself, just to be safe, even though I was pretty sure now that he had already left the flat.

Where would he have gone at this hour? He didn’t say anything about an early client. I walked to the bathroom using tiny geisha-like steps since the bottom of Ben’s sheet was winding itself tighter and tighter around my ankles, practically hobbling me. Stupid, maybe, since Ben saw me naked on a semi-regular basis. Then again I’ve never been a flaunter or the parade-around-naked type, whereas my best friend Posy would happily drink tea and read the morning papers without a stitch on, all the while chattering about the weather. The combination of growing up with servants and living at girls’ boarding schools had cured her of modesty.

Posy Wase-Bailey is my closest friend on earth and why I live in London now. You’ve no doubt seen her in the papers, attending this gala or that premiere. Owing to the fact that her dad is that charismatic airline owner – the one who took himself to outer space – she has spent her life in the limelight. It doesn’t hurt a bit that she’s a fearless trendsetter, often spotting the next “it” designer, and that she’s always good for a controversial quote. We’re like chalk and cheese in that way, but under the surface, where it matters, we’re soul sisters separated at birth. I cannot imagine what my life would be like had she not spotted me crying into my coffee that day in Paris. I might have fled home to the States, or worse yet, begged Stephen for one more chance.

Anyway, back to the present! Memo to self, must not dwell on the past.

Normally, by this hour of the morning, I would have mainlined caffeine. Being an addict is a job hazard. In every kitchen where I’ve ever worked, there’s been a top-shelf espresso machine and we staff pound coffees all day long. I had the briefest fantasy that Ben might bring me a cup, then sighed. I was the coffee bringer in this relationship.

I dropped my sheet and eased, undrugged, into the trickle of tepid water the English insist on calling a shower, beginning to suds my hair with the Jo Malone Lime, Basil and Mandarin shampoo sitting on the ledge, delighted to find that there was a matching bottle of conditioner. It smelled heavenly and his thoughtfulness warmed my heart. It more than made up for not bringing me a cappuccino. Normally, there was only a sad jug of Boots brand baby shampoo.

He never said so, but I could tell Ben wasn’t wild about my keeping toiletries here. He’s a neat freak, so I made it a point to carry out whatever I’d carried in, like my travel toothbrush and trial-sized toothpaste. I’d left my gold drop earrings on the sink once, and the next morning, after he left for work, I found them on the kitchen table in a creamy, business-sized envelope with my full mailing address on it. I smiled thinking about it. It’s habits like uber-organization that got him a place as a solicitor at Thompson Loyal, his logical stepping-stone to his goal – being a real New York lawyer. What a mature quality. It would make my mother drool. Posy on the other hand once said she thought Ben was a bit OCD.

Did he leave for work? I thought to myself, rinsing the last of the conditioner out of my hair. Ben’s usually like Pavlov’s dogs when he hears shower water running, sprinting in and stripping along the way. He loved shower sex. Me, not so much. “Where’s your sportsmanship?” he’d ask me, winking. “It’s a challenge when I’m slippery.” Usually, I was glad to give him what he wanted as, let’s face it, most females of the species would kill to be with Ben. I could see it in super-hot girls’ eyes when Ben and I were out for drinks or dinner. And I could practically hear them thinking, “He’s a solid 9 and, she’s, well…not.”

Clean, I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a white Turkish towel off the towel warmer. English people are so weird about bathrooms. They aren’t interested in ambient heat or water pressure, but they’d rather die than press a room-temperature towel to their bodies. I could forgive the quirks, though, since being converted to full-on Anglophile. I’d lived here long enough that England felt like home, and there was no denying that Ben being an Englishman was part of the turn-on.

It had been over a year since I’d met Ben at the London Aquarium benefit. I guess you could say we went from zero to sixty, fast. I think I called him my boyfriend the first day we woke up together. If I was honest, I’d have to admit it stung that he still hadn’t introduced me to any of his family, except for one sister over a quick after-work drink.

Well, the tide was about to turn, and I had big plans to make it all turn out like in the movies. Maybe his mother would invite me to call her “Mum”? Could I say that without feeling like a poser? Or would it be “Mother Flannery”?

I was determined that this Christmas would be perfect, especially since the last one had been a major disappointment. He had invited me to his family’s home, but at the eleventh hour, he’d called from the New York office. He made a thousand apologies and cancelled the whole holiday plan, explaining that he’d have to stay in the U.S. through New Year’s, while I was stuck in London alone.

“I’m crushed, Darling,” he had cooed transatlantically into the phone. “And so’s my family. Dad especially. He said he wanted to get a good look at my girl to see if she fit in with the Flannery clan. Please try to understand.”

I remember the squeezing feeling I’d gotten in my stomach. At the time, I’d sensed a whiff of Stephen. Don’t catastrophize, Juliet. Ben is not your old boyfriend.

“You do wish you were here with me, don’t you?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Ben had replied impatiently. “Of course I want to be with you. It’s just quite impossible at the moment. Be practical, Juliet.”

It sounded like something my mother would say, and I was embarrassed. I was being selfish, wasn’t I?

“Any man who wants to put a little money in the bank, maybe raise a family someday has to get ahead, right?” Ben asked. “It’s torture to climb the ladder at Thompson Loyal, but those who can’t stand the heat should get out of the kitchen. I am proving my worth. If my boss says jump, I have to ask how high? Being abroad at Christmastime is just one of the many small sacrifices I have to make while I’m junior.”

I chose to ignore the fact that Ben had called me an idiot, and focus on how my heart sizzled at the word family. Oh my god, does Ben want a baby? Wait! Do I want a baby? Would we have more than one? 28 isn’t that young, after all and…

“They call work work for a reason,” he’d lectured on. “I have to be on location in the Big Apple because old Martin Loyal has us representing that film production studio in Soho – The New York Soho – and it’s all hands on deck here. Contracts for directors and film stars, insurance riders for the special effects…you know, boring.”

“I’m sorry you have to work,” I had told him. At that point, I’d started feeling dumb. Who wouldn’t rather be wined and dined and taken to bed than stuck in a boring law office discussing contracts and insurance? This was proof that he was good husband material.

Don’t fight him on this one, Juliet. Support him, and soon, you’ll be working in the kitchen to prepare holiday dinners for your own little family, not for strangers.

“Sorry, Ben. Of course you’re right. Just making sure you don’t have something cooking with The Statue of Liberty,” I’d said, trying to laugh it off.

“You’re the only absurdly tall woman who carries a torch that I’m giving it to,” he’d flirted.

“What’ll you do for the holiday? You won’t be in some diner eating pressed turkey and instant mashed potatoes alone, will you?”

“Don’t worry about me, one of my mates from the office here has claimed me. I’ll be seen to…Look, I have to run. I miss you like mad and can’t wait to get a handful of your…Yes, Bob? Right! I’m just hanging up! Bye, Jubes,” he whispered, “Happy Christmas. I’ll call when I can.”

Today would be more about getting back to normal as a couple than about fantasy land, though. We had trip plans to solidify, details to discuss about scheduling. I was tired but running on twitchy excitement. With Ben gone already, I could have slept late, I thought, wrapping myself in his waffle robe (“It’s a dressing gown, Jubes, I’m not a judge,” Ben would have scolded me). I went into the kitchen, still harboring a tiny glimmer of hope that he might be sitting at the table going over briefs and sipping a cup of coffee.

No such luck. No Ben…and no coffee. My brain felt like lead. I didn’t think I could make it to the Pret around the corner to buy one before getting dressed, so I grabbed a bag of ground espresso from the freezer. I twisted off the portafilter and saw that there was no filter basket inside. Urghh! I’d asked Ben a dozen times to tell his cleaner to leave the machine alone. First, she washed all the parts with soap, which ruined the taste of the lovely pure Kona coffee I kept here, and second, she never put it back together properly.

Irked and jonesing for my java, I held onto the kitchen counter with a tight grip, plotting out my next move. Go out for coffee, or look for the missing piece. Just be methodical, I told myself. It can’t have disappeared. Just look one place at a time, and you’ll find it.

I’ll admit to feeling a bit smug as I worked from top left to bottom right, searching the cabinets. I was thinking how adult it was of me not to flip out just because I’d been awake for this long with no coffee. And wasn’t I grown-up for not wishing that Ben’s cleaner would be deported before her regular Wednesday shift so she could never touch this espresso machine, ever, as long as she was alive?

As I rifled through each cabinet and cupboard, I grew more and more frantic. Agitated, I moved on to the drawers. Rubber bands, twine, and scissors in this one. Potholders, tea towels, and sponges in that one. Soon I was ripping through the deep drawers all the way over by the table, where, realistically, no coffee filter would ever dwell. Still, I was on a mission.

A tiny, distant voice tried to tell me that I’d crossed a line. I had the vague sense that if Ben walked in, he wouldn’t be amused at my ransacking his flat. But that didn’t stop me. Another drawer. Place mats, table cloths, and candlesticks, but no filter. A cabinet. Photo albums, maps, and board games, but still no filter. Deep in my rational mind, I knew that the filter wouldn’t be around the corner in the lounge, but my rational mind was deeply asleep and my coffee-addicted animal sense was propelling my body.

I flung open the double doors of the cabinet below the television set, and pulled out a stack of file boxes. That’s when I saw the corner of the padded envelope sticking out of The Economist, on top of a pile of folders. My body beat my brain to the panic. Blood roared through my ears as I eased out the envelope and held it in my hand.

Amanda Selmont

39 East 79th Street

New York City, NY 10075

Amanda, the 5’ 2”, ice-blonde from Manhattan? The one who called the cocktail dress I’d worn to the company party “appropriate”?

I watched my hands tear it open like I was watching a movie of someone else’s hands. I slid out a thick, creamy slice of stationery and watched a tasteful pair of platinum hoops fall to the floor. Amanda’s earrings.

Is that who had seen to him last Christmas?

I flashed back to the cream-colored envelope that had once held the earrings I’d left overnight. The envelope that had my full mailing address on it. The one I’d been naïve enough to be charmed by. Ben wasn’t a neat freak! He was a son-of-a-bitch liar who walked around behind me cleaning up any proof that I’d set foot in his bachelor pad.

Tucked inside the large envelope I now held was a thinner, smaller envelope. I pressed it between my fingers and thumb. Whatever was inside crackled against the paper. My heart was clawing at my ribcage, skittering and wild. I knew I didn’t want to see what was in there, but my eyes couldn’t convince my hands to stop tearing paper. To my horror, I reached in and pulled out the world’s scratchiest lace thong, dotted with rhinestone studs. I held it up to find that one side of it was ripped, threads dangling.

That goddamn son of a—He’d lied about his flight! To my face! He’d gotten back a day early and holed up in his love cave with Amanda. Right here in London. Had that bitch been in his bed – the bed that I’d just crawled out of – the night before I was? Did he leave early this morning to meet her for a quickie before work?

Oh my God, did I just use her shampoo?

I had to get out of there…I was wearing nothing but silk underwear and a trench coat when I’d shown up last night (on Posy’s advice), so I tore into Ben’s bedroom and grabbed a pair of his gym pants, rolling them up at the waist, and his black Ralph Lauren cashmere turtleneck. I stepped into my high heels as I was running, leaving the door to the flat wide open in my wake. Dramatic maybe, but after what I’d been through with Stephen, there was no way I was going to be made a fool of again.

Out on the street, I pulled my coat tightly around myself and marched towards the tube station. The wind was bitterly cold, but the air was dry and its sting felt harsh on my face, like a slap. I welcomed it. It cut through my numbness.

I was a girl without a plan. Suddenly single, obviously there would be no wedding in my future. Without Ben to encourage and support me, would I be able to finish my studies and become a therapist? A small voice inside asked if I’d even want to. I felt as though I were filled with helium, hovering.

It was only 7:45 a.m. and the street was busy with commuters. Eyes brimming, I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, where many a worker bee slammed into me or swore at me under his breath.

As far as I could see, I only had one option. I dug in my bag for my phone and stabbed in the number for The Gastronome’s Trust.

“Pips, Juliet Hill here. I’ll take that job. Where do I need to be and when?” Although I didn’t really need to ask. There was only one client who I knew would play a card like a two-hour deadline – Jasper Roth.

“Oh, my dear, that is good news,” she trilled. “Fab, just fab. You report late tonight, I’ll text you the details. You’ll be working at Thornton Hall.”

Chapter Two

Numb, I pointed my elderly Golf in the right direction and drove out of the city of London. I’d been to Thornton Hall enough times to know the way. Although, I have to say I was surprised that Jasper Roth, America’s wealthiest tycoon, was invited to his wife’s ancestral home this particular Christmas. It had been all over the Daily Mail and other rags that he and Lady Penelope were suffering trouble in paradise. Based on what I think nearly happened between him and me in the drawing room at the Hall last time I catered for the family, I figured she’d finally caught him cheating. But then that whole incident between him and me was kind of a gray area. And we were drinking that mellow port, the one that slid like silk down the throat and left you thirsty for more. And he was so sincere when he confessed that despite his success, what he really wanted was to feel a part of someone’s life.

Was he really about to kiss me, or was it just a weird moment of connection between us? Maybe I imagined the whole thing. That’s probably the real truth. Face it, I couldn’t be trusted to separate the good guys from the bad guys, could I? I’d been duped by both Stephen and Ben. Whatever. Fucking men. No wonder Mother had opted out.

Oh, God…Mother. I nearly swerved off the road, thinking of how my mom was going to react to my news of my break-up with Ben. I think she saw Ben as a guide toward sense and stability. It was no secret that she held out hope for my giving up “being a cook”, to go back and complete my studies, the plan Ben wholeheartedly supported.

It was hard to believe that, as of last night, I’d been ready to do exactly that. To start a life that Mother was excited about. Thinking about disappointing her made my head split. Or maybe that was the hangover. I concentrated harder on the road, lightheaded with hunger and the starkness of my new reality. If I had moved to New York and gone back to school, Ben in tow, Mother would have had to admit I wasn’t flighty. That I did have direction. Of course, flighty to her was switching from math camp to science camp my last year of high school. But marrying Ben would have given me gravitas. Or I hoped she’d see it that way. On the one hand, a successful lawyer, he’s a highly sensible choice, I thought, looking for a turn-off. On the other, although she approved of his profession, he is a man. And who knows if she could approve of any member of that gender.

Men didn’t exactly play a starring role in my childhood. My grandmother, a surgeon and lab scientist in Chicago, divorced my grandfather when my mother was little. When she visited us, she flew solo. And my father, by the way, is a sample cup. Mom made sure I knew all about the science of conception, and what a sperm donor was, from the time I could toddle.

“Juliet,” she told me time and again, “I wanted a child, not two children. Men, my dear, are children. Besides that, they cloud the brain. Take it from me, solidly establish who you are before you try blending with someone else. That way, you don’t get lost.”

Her personal philosophies were sensible, well thought-out, and written in stone. She expected me to benefit from her experience and buy in hook, line and sinker. Growing up with my mother, good enough had never been good enough. She’s not a barrel of laughs, Mother, but she gets the job done and she taught me to do the same. I got A’s in school, and sacrificed dating and boys to do it. That suited her fine. I followed her directions until graduation, all the while gazing wistfully at the artsy crowd who smoked clove cigarettes, and even at the stoner crowd who smoked pot. At least they looked relaxed. When it came time for college, I got accepted to Duke, Vanderbilt, Penn and Cornell. Mother was horrified to the point of dumbstruck when I chose Bard, a liberal arts college near Woodstock, New York. She knew I wanted to be close to my aunt, who I may as well tell you is Suze Wyatt, the life coach you’ve seen on The Eva! Show.

Everyone who ever lived has dreamt of being interviewed by Eva, the most famous and altruistic self-made woman on the planet. The woman who singlehandedly made book clubs cool, and started schools for girls in every remote corner of Africa. The woman who revolutionized daytime television. Everyone except for Mother. She hated Eva.

To this day, I cannot believe I had the strength to defy Mother and go to Bard. It was like a little compass in my head directed me away from the life I had lead up to that point. Had the college not given me a full ride, Mother would have blocked my going.

“What are you going to do, Juliet?” she had mocked. “Cruise through university taking basket-weaving? Next you’ll be telling me you’re studying to be a life coach! Why not skip college, seek an apprenticeship with Dr. Phil, and get your own TV show.” A thinly-veiled dig at Aunt Suze. She practically gagged when she mentioned television. She owned one solely for research purposes. An irrational thorn in her side, reality TV sent Mother into paroxysms of soapboxing. How many times had she ranted “Project Runway! Don’t the sheep realize that it’s not a competition, it’s a show about a competition? The producers get those kids drunk and they hide their scissors, all so we can watch them throw punches and scratch each others’ eyes out! And don’t get me started on the worst of the bunch, The Food Channel”?

“Just because I love the food channel, it doesn’t mean my brain is soft,” I’d told her. “I happen to like Prunella Paulson.”

“I wrote a journal article on that woman entitled ‘Images of Breasts: Conflating our Desire for Flavor and Nourishment with Sexuality.’ She sells with her boobs.”

“What about Piers Conley-Weatherall?” I asked, naming another well-known TV chef. I smiled just thinking about him. “How can you not love that guy with his outrageous, curly hair and accent?” I mimed throwing a handful of spices into a pot. “Who’s your daddy?” I shouted in a gleeful Yorkshire accent. I never missed an episode. I know lots of people are like this with celebrities, but I felt like I really knew him. I followed him on Twitter because I loved all the sweet tweets he sent about his kids and the normal life his family seemed to have. They ate dinner, they went camping, the kids were allowed to believe in Santa Claus – something of which Mother didn’t approve. “He just draws you in.”

Mother scowled. “Him.”

“I think he’s adorable,” I said. “He’s the kind of man you’d spontaneously hug.” Mother raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe not the kind of man you’d spontaneously hug, but the kind normal people would. Admit that you like my apron with his face on it! It’s really cute.” I’d won it in a Facebook contest.

“The apron that asks, ‘Who’s Your Daddy?’ No, the man has a catchphrase, Juliet. He sings to food. He lives life in a dream. I don’t want to discuss him.” She took a long, hard look at me. I was a little uncomfortable under her gaze. “Really, sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re my daughter.” That stung. I wanted to be her daughter. She was my mother, and we all worship our mothers, don’t we? I vowed then and there that I’d become the kind of woman she would admire, someone she’d see as a scholar and a colleague. Become the therapist she wanted me to be.

But I still loved Piers.

I didn’t bring it up again, but I watched his show, even reruns, every night with the sound turned low, before falling asleep. Something about him soothed me.

Mother is the most respected psychiatrist in Louisville, Kentucky, where I grew up. She divides her time between her elite clinical practice and teaching at the university. For kicks, she writes science articles. I like to think I’m more fun than she is, but I did inherit her work ethic. If she could succeed, I could succeed.

A car blared its horn, startling me out of my reverie. Focus on the job at hand, I told myself.

I glanced at my dashboard clock. I was making good time. Jasper Roth told the agency to have me arrive before the early guests were going to bed so that I’d be on deck to make midnight sandwiches and still be up early to lay the elaborate and excessive breakfast he always demanded.

The hours at Thornton Hall were long and brutal, but at least Rose the housekeeper would be there. Just thinking about her nearly made me cry. The pure kindness she beamed was so unfamiliar: I think Mother skipped parenting school the day unconditional love was taught.

I rifled around in my purse for a breath mint, remembering I hadn’t eaten all day and hoping to take the edge off my hunger. On the passenger seat beside it, among the many bags of groceries, was a sack of Welsh blue potatoes from Sainsbury’s. Roth reveled in having the best and most expensive of everything, so in the morning, I’d roll the potatoes in some dirt from the driveway and wrap them in brown paper. That way, when my boss came to micromanage, he’d assume I’d gone to the market and purchased them from a farmer. I needed a shortcut or two. I’m doing the best I can, I thought. And that’s good enough. Aunt Suze told me to repeat that to myself as often as possible.

Thrown next to the potatoes was a pile of wrapped gifts for Ben’s family. I’d almost chucked them, but my frugal side put the brakes on that. If nothing else, I could pass them out to the staff at Thornton. After last year’s cancelled Christmas, I’d made sure to shop in advance for all Ben’s relatives, including the family spaniel. I’d even asked Posy to “style” me for the evening I was sure he’d pop the question, though without telling her why. From the beginning, she’d never been Ben’s biggest fan.

I finally saw a BP station. I was bursting, and I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Was the queasiness in my stomach only hunger? Or dread? I felt so disenfranchised. I hit the loo, then bought myself a Lucozade, a packet of crisps and a pork pie in cellophane. Sitting under a street lamp in the parking lot, I took huge, greedy bites. I knew I was eating for comfort, but didn’t care. I deserved any pleasure I could get at the moment. This ersatz meal was a lurid example of what chefs eat when they’re not working, and I inhaled it with gusto.

With the heat off in the car, I was freezing. It was the bone-deep damp that can’t be escaped here. Why does England have to be so cold? My cottage on the grounds was likely to be as freezing inside as it was outside when I arrived. Had taking this job been a panic choice or the right thing to do?

Slugging back my Lucozade (which was making me even colder…why in God’s name didn’t I get a cup of tea?), I wished I could beam myself back to before I’d even met Ben. I longed to be in Posy’s lavish Parisian apartment, where she’d taken me in for nearly three years. She rescued me in Paris after I’d followed Stephen there, although she’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that I rescued her.

Given my start in Paris – struggling junior chef barely earning enough for rent – that level of luxury was something I never dreamed of. Well, to be honest, given my middle-class suburban ranch house growing up, being in Paris was something I never dreamed of either. Like a lot of things before I’d met Stephen. Like being stone-cold dumped in the most romantic city in the world.

Stop dwelling, Juliet. That’s “anti-luck thinking” according to Aunt Suze. Positive visualization will manifest positive results. God, Mother would have a field day if I said that out loud. I secretly subscribe to “Suze Wyatt’s Make Your Own Luck” e-newsletters. My aunt also authored the book Follow Your North Star to Happiness. Following her lead, I created my own “Heart Phrase”. Goofy, I know, but when Aunt Suze explains that we should all pick a mantra and proclaim our truth, it sounds so right.

“Food is my new passion.” I’d tested that out on Mother from Paris, when I’d started working my first kitchen job at Chez Henri. After being humiliated in the city of love, I couldn’t go crawling home, so I took the only job I could get, and made the best of it.

“I’m sorry,” she’d said. “Did you just say, ‘Food is my new passion’?”

“No,” I’d answered quickly. At this point, most people could say, “Put Dad on the phone.” I imagined a jolly father who would say, “Don’t mind your mother. You know she loves you. I’m proud of you for following your dream.” Although, unfortunately, there is no jolly father.

Back in Paris, Posy introduced me to Charles, an American, and his lover, Luc. They opened my small-town eyes. Charles threw legendary parties, during which he draped the apartment with red velvet swags and rigged up champagne fountains from fish-tank pumps and vintage birdbaths. His motto had always been I know it’s too much, but is it enough? Luc got me that first job at Chez Henri, as a hostess and busser, lying wildly about my French. I was a spectacular failure at front-of-house. My first night, I insulted the local commissaire de police by seating him next to the kitchen, and delivered an expensive bottle of port to a restaurant critic’s table, calling his mistress by his wife’s name. I forced myself to suck it up. In my halting French, I apologized and told the chef and owner Henri that if he wanted to send champagne to make up for my blunders, I’d work the hours to pay for it. Impressed, Henri told me something in French that sounded like, “You are a man, and I like that in certain women.” Instead of a pink slip, he gave me an apron, and sent me to the kitchen where I learned to cook through trial by fire, under Henri, that exceptional chef with a mercurial temper. To this day, when people ask me where I trained, I tell them, “In Paris, at The School of ‘Not Like That, Stupid!’”

After living through the shock Stephen had handed down, I needed a purpose. Henri pissed me off enough to want to show I could win. So far in Paris, my only goal had been not to curl up and die. Now I had something to master. It was weird, because it was the opposite of intellectual, but I worked better when I turned my brain off.

And I was enchanted. I cooked my way through a variety of restaurants in Paris, took weekend courses and did short stints in France’s other regions, always staying just long enough to learn the best of what each chef had to teach me. And that was my life in France. Work, sleep, an occasional free day, when I went to museums or bought cheap seats at the ballet or theatre. I was happy socializing with Posy and my new gay best friends, or curling up with a good book. I had a good run there. Until London. Until Ben.

I started the engine, cranked up the heater, and checked my phone. I was both furious and relieved that there were no messages from Ben. I imagined him sitting at his huge desk. Smug and satisfied, he was probably having an office drink about now, gearing up for the holiday. I supposed he hadn’t yet realized I was gone. There was only one text:

Call me anytime, day or nite. need ur advice urgently P xx

Fumbling with my earpiece, I had a brief thought that I probably shouldn’t drive and talk about stuff that upsets me, but I needed to hear her voice.

“Are you sitting down?” Posy demanded. “I’ll bet you’re lying down, you right old slapper! I suppose you couldn’t be troubled to ring Posy back because you were on the receiving end of an epic shagging. You American girls,” she teased. “When the boyfriend shows up, it’s all ‘Bye-bye, Bestie, I’ve got a ride to climb aboard…’”

Normally, I’m delighted at this send-up. I’d never worn the “bad girl” label, and it made me sound sassy. Part of me dreamed of donning thigh-high boots and false eyelashes, and falling into bed with strange men who smoked. Between slow drags, they’d slide their eyes up and down me and say, “Juliet, you are one hot slut.” Anyway, um, back to the present!

I’d never admitted to Posy that Ben and I weren’t exactly chandelier-swingers. Ben’s only the second man I’ve been with, in fact. And now, I wasn’t with him. My throat closed as I choked on a giant sob.

“Hello? My little tartlet? Aren’t you speaking to Posy? I’ve called to tell you I’ve been proposed to!”

“What?” I sputtered. “By whom? Oh God, not Baz! I mean, it’s Baz, isnt it? I mean, what?”

I’d been tiptoeing around confessing that I wasn’t a fan of Posy’s latest boyfriend. Trashing someone’s love interest is dangerous territory. One minute a couple splits up and you’re pointing out that the guy has bad breath and talks with a whistle, and the next thing, they’re having a baby and you’re not invited to the christening.

“I’m lying. It’s a joke!” Posy exclaimed. “I called to tell you I gave Baz the boot!”

“Really?” I asked, relieved.

“Too right! He may well murder in the sack, but hadn’t you noticed? He’s a bit of a wang! All he ever cared about was having the latest Gucci sunglasses to wear on that yacht of his. We were aboard that thing every weekend, and he mostly just got plastered with his mates and yelled ‘I’m king of the world!’ whilst peering off the bow. We broke up just in the nick of time, too. You know that uber-sexy, silver fox author of Get Fit the Yogi’s Way? Well, after his book launch party, he took me to his flat and showed me how to bend in ways I’d never dreamed possible, if you catch my drift.”

“Isn’t he kind of old?”

“Who cares, as long as he’s hot and fit. There are lots of older blokes I fancy. Like the new James Bond, you know, what’s-his-name. And your man Piers Conley-Weatherall.”

“Eew, I don’t think of him like that.”

“Maybe I have more of an open mind. He’s cute and he can cook.”

“Posy, I have to tell you something,” I said.

“Don’t say it, I know. I can’t commit, and you’re halfway down the aisle, Mrs. Bridey MacWeddingband. Where are you, anyway?”

“Driving,” I said, remembering that I was. “Listen Pose, Ben cheated on me.” My hands were shaking so badly, I had to pull over and put on my hazard lights while I told her everything. She punctuated my story with interjections of “That bastard!” and “That bastardy bastard!”

“So that’s it,” I finished. “It’s not a direct dump, like Stephen, but once again, I feel like a fool.” I looked out the windshield at the dark countryside, feeling very alone.

She paused, then said, “Thank God, Jubes. I am so happy for you.”

“Happy? My heart is broken, I’ll never be loved, I’ll die old and childless and, once again, it proves that Juliet cannot follow through on a plan, just like my mother always said.” I fished for some tissues to wipe my runny nose.

“Plan, my arse! Come on, then. Plans are for old fogies, and schoolmarms, and, and, city planners!”

“But how can you say you’re happy we broke up? I thought I got it right this time. Now I’m alone!” I practically wailed.

“Nonsense. You’ve got me.”

“I don’t want to go back to the States on my own. You know, without Ben.”

“So don’t go back to the States.”

“Then what would I do with my life?”

“Um, you’d live here and work as a chef like you have been doing! And love it! You get hired by the coolest clients. Liz Hurley calls you ‘Sister,’ for eff’s sake! You’re at the top of your game. It’s what you do. You’re brilliant at it. Screw being a boring old therapist. You’re a hot chef. Chin up! You could be me, with my boring ex-boyfriend and my crap job,” Posy scolded me.

“In what way is your job crap?” I asked. I didn’t question the ludicrous boyfriend.

“Well, it’s not as good as yours,” she replied stubbornly.

“It’s apples and oranges. Besides, don’t you think going the therapist route is the right thing to do? Food is just a stopgap to pay the bills for now.”

“You’ve been saying that for years, and when you do, I hear your mother talking. If you want to know what I think, I’ll tell you—”

“You always do.” I interrupted.

“—Here’s what I think: You’re mother wants you to be her mini-me, so she puts down your career as a chef. I think you’re avoiding the issue. Hey, listen to me. Maybe I should be a therapist!”

“I wouldn’t give up the day job just yet: your job’s awesome. You work at a sleek, sexy publishing house, surrounded by brooding, bookish young sexpots who wear glasses and corduroy, and seduce you at launch parties when the cheap Chianti is flowing.”

“As an assistant! And they only keep me because I speak French, and keep reeling in richies and B-list celebs from Dad’s world to-do memoirs and cookbooks.”

“Well of course that’s why they keep you,” I told her. “You’re a star. There’s no shame in leveraging your assets. Admit you love your job!”

“I’ll admit I love my job when you admit you love your job. Say it! Say you love being a chef.”

My mouth started forming the words, then I hesitated, tapping the steering wheel. “It’s not that simple.”

“It looks simple from where I’m sitting! Embrace what makes you happy, even if there’s no guarantee. You’re trying too hard for the sure bet, and your mother’s like a siren calling you back to her version of stability. You gambled by taking a chance with Stephen and you’ve been beating yourself up ever since. You grabbed what made you happy, then it was gone. So what? You’re still alive, and you had a bit of good fun. Nothing lasts forever. Speaking of taking a chance, what about that scrummy resident chef Edward at Thornton Hall?”

“What about him?” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic. I undid my seatbelt and wrestled off my hoodie, phone pinned between my shoulder and ear.

“You could have had him for twenty pence and a slap on the arse.”

“I was with Ben!”

“Not at first, you weren’t.”

“Anyway,” I said, rebuckling, “you witnessed how Stephen diverted me off course. And then Ben. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I go looking for another man to rain down chaos on me.”

“Why go looking? Won’t Edward be doling out the goodies this Christmas?”

“Posy, Thornton Hall is where I work! There’s a quaint saying in America, ‘Don’t poop where you eat.’”

“Oh, I know that one!” she squealed, like she’d won a prize. “Only we say shit.”

“Why won’t you let me be a good girl?” I asked, exasperated.

“Because deep down, you’re not,” she said.

“Just you watch,” I said. “I’m going to learn from my mistakes, like a mature woman should. I’m almost 30!”

“No you’re not!”

“I’m 28.”

“Well that’s positively ancient! Better start saving for vaginal rejuvenation surgery.”

“Vaginal what? Never mind! I’m about to start the next chapter of my life, and you’ll see how making sane, adult choices leads to contentment. No Edward. No drama.”

“Right. Maybe your mum’s satisfied to bed down with her psychology journals, but I predict you won’t be wearing socks to sleep in for long. Besides, thirty is the new hot. Let’s neither of us sign our death certificates just yet. Once you’ve had true love, you can’t very well settle for a substitute.”

“When have you had true love?” I asked.

“God, is that the time? Forget stupid, bastard Ben and ring me when you get to Fancypants Manor. Love you loads. Byeee!”

I cautiously pulled back onto the highway, tires crunching through the gravel in the thick darkness. I put Posy and Ben out of my head and kept my eyes focused on the black road ahead. It’s amazing how remote this part of the country can feel, given its actual proximity to London’s bright lights. Music of the season blared from my speakers. “I’ll have a bluuuuuue Christmas…without youuuuuu…” I didn’t feel blue or even angry. I felt nothing, and was glad to be headed for a job, where the preparation and clean-up would propel me forward. There was always something to be done in the kitchen of a full house. I longed to sleepwalk through my days. I welcomed the loss of myself.

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