# Footsteps in the Snow and other Teatime Treats

Trisha Ashley

From her novels to her magazine articles Trisha Ashley has been writing all her life and this is a collection of her work brought together in a single edition for the first time.A fabulous collection of short stories from the Sunday Times bestselling author. Perfect to curl up with on a winter’s evening.

## Footsteps in the Snow and other teatime treats. Trisha Ashley


## Copyright

Avon

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

77-85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Trisha Ashley

Trisha Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007585458

Version: 2014-08-19

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue: What the Dickens?

1. One Man’s Treasure

2. Tipping the Scales

3. Melting Moments

4. Honey and Spice

5. Breaking the Ice

6. A Bit of Christmas Relish

7. Not Just for Christmas

8. Footsteps in the Snow

9. Slightly Cracked

10. A Kitten too Far

11. The Cinderella Dress

Read on for a first look at Trisha’s brand new novel Creature Comforts …

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

## Prologue: What the Dickens? Bestselling novelist Trisha Ashley on forging her own Christmas traditions.

As always, Christmas seems to hover tantalisingly on the horizon for ages like an unattainable mirage and then, when we glance away, suddenly rushes up and takes us by surprise. Thrown into utter panic and urged on to an insane level of consumerism by a barrage of advertising, we shop as if we were about to pull up the siege drawbridge for a month.

And of course there’s a sudden rash of books and articles promising to show you how to create a stress-free and perfect Christmas, an immaculate concept with the decorations themed to the latest colour scheme, the swags hanging neatly from the staircase and mantelpiece and, above all, a festively dressed table groaning under the weight of a beautifully crisped turkey with all the trimmings, to be followed by Christmas pudding, Christmas cake and all the rest of it. Only by absorbing such seasonal advice, the authors seem to be implying, can you be sure of a happy Christmas … except for the person running his or herself ragged attempting to produce all this perfection, of course.

And this supposedly ‘traditional Christmas’ with all the extravagant trimmings is not what most of us grew up with. The decorations of my Lancashire childhood were a bright chaos of paper chains, garlands and clusters of balloons, the crackers were cheap and cheerful and the table decoration a couple of pine cones and some holly enthusiastically daubed with silver glitter. The turkey, a monster, would have gone into the oven around midnight on Christmas Eve and have been slowly roasting ever since, though the pork sausages that had followed the stuffing into the cavity would be removed and cooked for breakfast. The dinner itself was quite leisurely: we ate when it was ready and no one thought to add extra work by putting chestnuts into the Brussels sprouts, or anything fancy of that nature. Any slight deficiencies in the cooking, such as slightly overdone sprouts, say, were overlooked: what did it matter? Covered in my mother’s thick, tasty gravy made from the juices in the roasting tin, it was all delicious anyway!

You can see Holly, the heroine of one of my novels, The Twelve Days of Christmas, preparing and cooking for just such a Christmas feast and she has it all well in hand by the day itself. And when I got married, for the first few years I too produced the kind of Christmas I’d been brought up to expect, with roast turkey, cake, pudding, trifle and mincepies … but always in a laid-back manner. I mean, if the legs drop off the turkey as you take it out of the oven, it’s a pretty good sign it’s cooked, isn’t it? And if you don’t have a set time for Christmas dinner, then it’s ready when it’s ready. And remember, there will be no Christmas police checking that the crackers match the tablecloth and decorations, that there are chestnuts in your stuffing and you’ve bought a hideously expensive but trendy kind of Christmas pudding, or even popping back later to ensure you’re all watching the latest Dickens TV adaptation: God Bless Tiny Tim … again.

But as the years passed, I began to change the Christmas traditions to suit myself, mixing old and new and forging our own way of doing things. For instance, none of us were mad about turkey, but we all loved roast duck – so now we have a Christmas quacker, with delicious potatoes roasted in the fat and petits pois. This is followed by profiteroles with chocolate sauce. We do have Christmas pudding – but on Boxing Day, when we are not quite so stuffed full and can appreciate it more.

I make my Christmas cake in November, to the same rich fruit cake recipe (which you can find at the back of my novel Wedding Tiers) I use for most celebration cakes, though using dark rum instead of sherry. Then I marzipan and ice it, before adding a polar bear cunningly poised on a snowy hummock, ready to leap onto a jolly and unsuspecting Father Christmas, who is waving at an oversized reindeer. Behind this little group are three bristly green bonsai pine trees and a giant robin. A fringed red, green and silver paper band is wrapped around it, secured with a dab of icing.

Nearer Christmas I’ll bake a ham and a few mincepies – but a lot more of the yummy mincemeat flapjacks I devised a few years ago, when pondering what to do with the inevitable bit of mincemeat left at the bottom of the jar.

There’s a large trifle to create, too, in the cut-glass bowl with a gold rim that was my grandmothers. I can take three days over this, one layer at a time. But there’s no rush, is there? It will be ready for after dinner on Christmas Eve, covered in fresh cream and with a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands melting into rainbow swirls.

Then, just for fun, I’ll make a batch of fondant sugar mice with string tails and dozens of spicy, crisp gingerbread stars to hang on the tree.

In early December I’ll have made the annual expedition to the frozen attic in search of the boxes containing the tree and baubles, not to mention the large porcelain-faced figure of the Angel Gabriel, who seems to like to hide himself away, so that a second expedition usually has to be mounted to find him.

And when it comes to decorations – well, forget themes, for I’m the least likely person to wake up one day thinking, “Mmm, I think I’ll have an upside-down black tree this year and a black and blood red theme throughout the house. Wonder where I can buy matching holly swags and door wreaths?”

No, out will come the cheap gold tinsel tree that my toddler son fell in love with so many years ago, to be heavily loaded with every treasured old glass ornament from the box – birds with fibreglass tails, violins, trumpets, bears, dogs, icicles, Santas and snowflakes. And then, the crowning glory, I’ll top it with a papier-mâché Santa that my mother’s sister bought when she was four, which makes it over ninety years old now. The red robe has turned the colour of Brown Windsor soup and at some point he’s been misguidedly embellished with a white cotton wool beard and a smattering of scarlet glitter glue, but he’ll still benignly preside over all.

It looks quite magical when it’s done and the house, garlanded and redolent of Christmas spices, seems by Christmas Eve to have acquired a heady sense of mystery and expectation, even if it doesn’t remotely resemble anything in the magazines.

So … I suppose you could say that I am a traditionalist; only most of the traditions are of my own devising and make for an easy and stress-free Christmas.

And every year, just as I’m starting to wonder if those are snowflakes or seraphic feathers lazily swirling down from the sky, the Angel Gabriel finally turns up.

## [1]. Previously published in the Express S magazine. ONE MAN’S TREASURE

In Annie Moss, James thought he’d found the perfect tenant for the cottage he’d inherited from his great-uncle. She was in her mid-thirties, quiet and widowed, with no children to trample mud onto the newly-fitted carpets. Then he remembered that she was a gardener, so might well do that herself!

But as if she could read his mind, Annie smiled at him and said, “I’ll look after the cottage really well and leave my muddy gardening boots in the porch, I promise.”

Their eyes met … and held. His were a forget-me-not blue, reminding her of the fresh promise of an April sky, while her brown ones made him think of the dark velvety softness of pansies …

Annie also liked the way he hadn’t made the usual joke about rolling stones gathering no moss, though it was true she’d moved about a lot since her husband died. But here … well, there was something about the place that made her want to put down roots, spread out her branches and – just possibly – burst into a late flowering.

“So, you already have some work lined up in the area?” he asked.

She nodded. “At the garden centre, though I’ll be happy to sort out the garden here for free, if you’d like me to? It’s a bit of a mess – I couldn’t help noticing all those holes …”

She paused and he grinned.

“I was treasure hunting! My Great Uncle always said he didn’t trust banks, so he’d hidden his valuables away at the cottage, instead …”

“Didn’t you find anything?”

“Only a small amount of cash under his mattress and a tin box with a few half-sovereigns in it on a ledge up the chimney. Somehow I thought he’d have a bit more put by, so I did a quick sweep of the garden with a borrowed metal detector, though there was nothing there except old horseshoe nails.”

“Well, if I hit treasure trove I’ll let you know,” she promised. “I have a metal detector, too – you wouldn’t believe how useful they can be to a gardener. I once found a whole Morris Minor buried just under a lawn, it was no wonder if was patchy!”

*

As summer slid into autumn, Annie transformed the neglected cottage garden, digging flowerbeds and planting a rambling rose by the porch.

Then she turned her attention to the small area at the back, where two gnarled old apple trees stood amid a waist-high tangle of weeds. And there she came across a dog’s grave, shedding a few tears over the poignant inscription:

Old Charlie

RIP

Faithful friend.

*

“Oh yes, Charlie was a Jack Russell and Uncle Ray adored him,” James explained when he dropped in, as he now frequently did on his way home from work.

“I notice you didn’t dig any holes down that end?”

“No, because I was sure Uncle Ray wouldn’t want Charlie disturbed.”

“I had thought of dividing up some of the clumps of primroses and planting them on the grave,” she suggested. “It would look lovely in spring.”

“Go ahead, I’m sure Uncle Ray would have loved the idea,” he agreed, then smiled so warmly at her that her heart, which had entered some kind of ice age after the loss of her husband, began a rapid thaw.

*

But next time he came, he seemed different, colder. “So, you planted the primroses on Charlie’s grave yesterday?” he said.

“Oh yes – but how did you know?” she asked, looking disconcerted – and also, he thought, slightly guilty.

“One of my friends saw you digging under the apple trees – and then he heard you shout ‘Eureka!’” he added pointedly.

She laughed. “He must have thought I’d gone mad, but finding it was just such a relief!”

“Finding what?” he demanded.

“My wedding ring: it must have slipped off while I was transplanting the primroses, so I took my metal detector out and found it.”

He suddenly started laughing, too. “You know, I thought you’d been treasure hunting, even though I was sure Uncle Ray wouldn’t have buried anything near Charlie.”

“No, of course he wouldn’t have – and even if he had, I would have told you.”

“Yes, I really should have known you better by now, Annie,” he agreed, then glanced at her left hand. “But you’re not wearing your ring?”

She shook her head. “No – losing it seemed like a sign that perhaps it was time to stop wearing it … to move on with my life.”

“Oh? Then perhaps you’d like to come down to the pub with me? I suppose I can’t keep you to myself forever.”

“Are you … asking me out?” she said uncertainly. She knew his wife had left him for another man a couple of years before.

“Yes, though I’m a bit out of practise with the dating game.”

“Me too – but you definitely owe me a drink for suspecting I’d been stealing your property!”

*

Being gold, Annie’s wedding ring had come out of the earth as freshly gleaming as it went in, which was more than could be said for the rusty old tobacco tin she’d found just underneath it.

Inside, sealed in a plastic bag, had been a small, worn dog collar and a note which she could remember by heart:

If you’re reading this, James, then you’ve disturbed old Charlie and you’re not the man I thought you! I did my best for him, spending a fortune on the vet and his headstone, but blood is thicker than water, so I hope you found the sovereigns up the chimney in the parlour.

Your Great Uncle Ray.

She’d debated whether to show it to James, then decided it would be better if he never knew about it, so sealed it back up again and reburied it under the primroses.

And after all, their evening out had gone very well. Perhaps James had lost one treasure but he might – just might – have found himself another!

## [2]. Previously published in the RNA anthology. TIPPING THE SCALES

She came up in the fishing nets, her cold, clammy skin like translucent pearl, naked apart from long, silvery hair that clung like wet seaweed right down to the iridescent scales of her tail.

The crew conferred as she sat on the deck, watching them with aquamarine eyes while crunching the best of their hard-won catch between sharp, pointed white teeth. One of them, faster than the others and scenting a profit, caught her as she was about to slither back over the side.

She bit him, too, for his trouble. But she seemed happy enough in the hold; the men wary as they packed the fish with ice and sailed for port, fast.

A tall young man awaited them on the jetty, black curly hair blowing in the wind, eyes the turquoise of a Caribbean Sea. When they brought her up on deck, swathed in a mackintosh, he smiled, dazzlingly.

She remembered her grandmother’s stories. “Are you my prince?” she asked, the first words she’d spoken. “My destiny?”

“That’s right, darling,” he agreed, handing the skipper a bundle of coloured paper.

He drove her through the early morning light to the fairground by the beach and pulled up outside some wooden doors.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said, carrying her into a large room that smelt of stale seawater, algae and despair. When he switched on the light, great glass tanks cast watery shadows onto the walls and strange shapes moved within each one – except the last.

“There’s something fishy going on,” she said, puzzled.

“Not on, in,” he replied, heaving her over the side with a splash.

“Don’t leave me here,” she mouthed, bubbling, but his smile now reminded her of a barracuda.

“Sink or swim – my aquarium needs you. You put on a good performance for the punters and you’ll get all the fish you can eat. Watch this.”

He drained one side of the tank opposite until a large grey seal sat in little more than a puddle … then with a sudden shimmer it changed shape to a slender young man with dark, sad eyes.

“I’ll leave you to get to know each other – at a distance,” he said, laughing cruelly, and left them in the aqueous half-light.

*

They sat on their fibreglass rocks, their eyes meeting through thick glass. “He’s the Owner,” explained the sealman. “He does that every hour when the aquarium is open and humans pay money to come and watch.”

“How did he catch you?”

“Greed – I took the bait.”

“I thought he was my prince until he put me in stale water,” she said bitterly. “I’m fed up to the gills.”

“He feeds us dead fish, too, and never cleans out the tanks. But you have to do what he says, or he will hurt you.” The sealman shuddered, his eyes going dark with remembered pain.

There was a hammering. “What’s he doing?” she asked.

“Changing the signs outside, at a guess. You’ll be the star attraction now.”

*

“I want a mirror and a comb,” she said sulkily when the Owner came back in.

“You’ve got them – they’re in that plastic clam shell over there. Now, you keep sitting on that rock and swish your tail occasionally …”

She slapped the water with it, drenching him from head to foot.

“You do that again, and there’ll be no fish for you today,” he said, giving her an evil look. “And after the aquarium’s shut, I’ll teach you some manners!”

When he’d gone to change she looked around her and sighed. “How far from the sea are we?”

“Not far – when the front door is open you can smell the tang on the breeze. If there wasn’t mesh over my tank I’d have been out of here in a flash and running down the beach – I’m sickening for the fresh, salty sea.”

“I couldn’t run,” she said sadly. “If I got out, how could I slither so far? My scales need oiling already.”

“I’d carry you, I wouldn’t leave you here. But it’s no use – the most we can hope for is that one day he will put us in a tank together.”

There was a sliding of bolts and a flood of light from the front of the aquarium. “Hush, here come the visitors,” he warned. “But if you put on a good show, perhaps he won’t be angry with you later.” His tank filled with water and, with a flick of his flippers, he began to circle.

She watched as the crowd gathered, his tank was emptied again, and the sealman reappeared.

“How does he do that?” a girl asked.

“It’s just a hologram projected in there, it’s not real,” her boyfriend told her.

“He looks real,” she said doubtfully. “And what about her?”

He shrugged. “It’s a woman wearing a mermaid tail, that’s all. It’s not even well made – look, you can see the join.”

The mermaid bared her teeth at them in a sharp smile and they stepped back nervously. She took up the mirror and began to untangle her silvery hair, humming.

The unearthly hum grew louder … and louder … until it became a strangely beautiful song that held the visitors fixed, enthralled, to the spot.

Her voice rose higher: the glass walls of the aquarium began to tremble, the water rippled and the fish fled to their farther corners.

The sealman knew the power of that song.

“What’s that racket?” the Owner demanded. He clapped his hands to his head. “My eardrums! Stop it – stop singing now.”

But it was too late: everything rang and shimmered and swayed and trembled – and cracked. Great cascades of water poured out of every tank, swirling a flotsam of visitors, fish and the Owner towards the door.

The sealman, stepping gracefully over the shards, carried her out of the back door and towards the distant sea. The morning sun reflected off their nacreous skin and flashing scales. The crowds fell back, the beach-road traffic stopped, the donkeys ran away and the kites tangled.

From behind came a sudden shout of, “Stop them!”

This was beyond optimistic: for a seal, he ran fast. The waves were to his waist before anyone even reached the edge of the sea. Then there was a splash as they dove – cool, smooth bodies entwined, twisting and turning into the depths.

He gave her a passing, unwary fish, salt fresh.

“You are my prince,” she said and, as a mark of her favour, bit the offering in half and gave him the head, to seal their union.

## [3]. Previously published by My Weekly. MELTING MOMENTS

I found the new artisan chocolate maker’s little shop while taking a short cut back to the car after my second Fatbusters meeting. In fact, the leader’s parting rallying cry of ‘sumo to svelte quicker than you ever thought possible!’ was still ringing in my ears when I came face to face with my worst nightmare.

Yet to be truthful, it was more my fiancée David’s worst nightmare than mine, because I’d been quite happy with my curvy and generous size fourteen figure right up to the moment when he presented me with three month’s membership of Fatbusters as a Christmas present and suggested that as soon as I’d reached size eight we could set a date for our wedding.

Size eight? I wasn’t even sure my bones were size eight, let alone the rest of me! But since he seemed convinced that I’d told him I wanted to lose a few pounds in order to look truly gorgeous on my big day, I had to go along with it.

But the trouble was, that even the very idea of dieting made me feel twice as hungry as usual and all I could think of while being weighed today (I’d only lost a two measly pounds after practically starving myself for a week!) was that I deserved some chocolate.

Now, irresistibly drawn by the rich aroma wafting across the street, my nose was pressed against the bow window of Nick’s Chocolate Heaven, as I gazed longingly at the mouth-watering array laid out on old-fashioned cut-glass stands.

They looked beautiful – and hideously expensive. But that was good, because it meant that I couldn’t possibly have any … Unless, suggested a little devil in my mind, I just bought one single, delicious, self-indulgent treat for being so good all week. That couldn’t hurt, could it?

Before I knew it I was in the shop and scanning even more luscious temptations until I made my choice: a chocolate shaped like a rose and filled with coffee and cream truffle, all glossy, dark brown and tempting … rather like the proprietor’s eyes, I discovered, when I finally looked up.

“Just the one?” he asked, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“Yes, just the one,” I said firmly. Apart from those liquid and warm brown eyes his thin, bony face wasn’t really handsome and his black hair was ruffled and needed a good cut.

“Certainly,” he agreed, smiling in a way that beguilingly crinkled the corners of his eyes and I hastily revised the not-very-handsome first impression. That smile was a heart-breaker … and I just hoped the chocolate didn’t turn out to be a diet-breaker, too.

He put the rose-shaped truffle carefully in a little cellophane packet and closed it with a gold twist-tie. “I hope you enjoy it,” he said, with another amazing smile, “and do come again soon.”

“I’m sure I will,” I assured him, then hurried off holding up my little bag and feeling the way I did as a child when I won a goldfish at the fair, wondering if the poor little thing would even make it back to the car, let alone home. And of course I could bump into a fellow Fatbuster at any minute or, even worse, someone who knew my fiancé, David!

As I unlocked the car and got in I felt hugely guilty – but strangely, that didn’t stop me from immediately eating my delicious treat and then hiding the cellophane bag in the glove box. Guilty pleasures always seem to be the best, don’t they?

My spirits rose slightly and anyway, one small chocolate couldn’t hurt. (Okay, quite big chocolate, actually.) In fact, a little reward like that after every class could be just enough to keep me on course to my size eight wedding dress, even if that still seemed an unattainable dream – David’s dream.

*

By my fourth visit to Nick’s shop we were on friendly terms. I told him all about the catering business I’d set up with my best friend, Annie and he described how he’d got into chocolate making.

He didn’t question why I only bought one chocolate at a time, but he started keeping samples of new varieties for me to try … which it would have been rude to have refused, since he said he trusted my opinion.

“I think you have a natural palate for chocolate! You should come on my chocolate making course – I’m starting with a one day session next month, but then I might do evening workshops after that.”

“Oh, I’d love to!” I enthused, then suddenly remembered why that really wouldn’t be a good idea. It would just ruin all that hard work because I was managing to lose the pounds, even if progress seemed painfully slow. “But perhaps I’d better not,” I added and then hurried out of the shop.

Back at the car I suddenly found the tears were slowly sliding down my face as I savoured my lovely mohito-cream-centred chocolate, which was the yummiest so far. I was already down one dress size and David kept telling me how much better I looked already – so why did I feel so unhappy all the time? Even Annie remarked that I wasn’t the fun Katy she used to know and if I turned into a stick-thin bride, then she would look like the biggest bridesmaid in the world in contrast.

“Don’t be daft,” I’d said, “I’m sure David will settle for a generous size twelve, because there’s no way I can get any slimmer than that.”

And if he really loved me, he would settle for that. I stuffed the empty cellophane bag in the glove compartment, dried my tears and set off home, making a mental note to tell Nick next time that his mohito-flavoured chocolates were destined to be a major seller!

*

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re looking thinner lately,” Nick said a couple of weeks later. “I hope you’re not ill?”

“No, not at all – in fact I’m glad it’s noticeable,” I said, then found myself pouring out to him the story of David’s Christmas gift, how hard I was finding losing weight and how miserable it was making me feel.

“He thought it was what I wanted – and I do want him to feel proud of me on our wedding day.” I felt my eyes fill with tears. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s got into me lately! I’m usually a happy, bubbly person.”

“Low blood sugar,” he said reassuringly.

“Oh, do you think so?”

“Definitely. Here, try this new dark chocolate mint julep cream.” He handed me a glass dish of butterfly-shaped chocolates. “And you looked the perfect weight to me the very first time I saw you – not all men like the walking skeletons, you know!”

“Thank you, Nick,” I said, surprised and pleased, “I only wish David felt the same way as you and-” I broke off, noticing the empty dish in my hands. “Oh dear, I seem to have eaten all of these!”

“I’ll take that as another winning flavour then, shall I?” he said, grinning.

*

“Annie,” I said, while we were preparing a Silver Wedding buffet, “you know I go to Fatbusters every week?”

She looked up from a tray of perfect mini-meringues and raised one eyebrow. “Yes, and you know what I think about David wanting you lose weight before you set the date for the wedding.”

“He didn’t mean it like that – but let’s not go there,” I said hastily, because I was beginning to get the uneasy feeling that she might be right. “The thing is, I’ve been cheating all the time!”

“What, with another man?” she demanded, looking startled.

“No, of course it’s not another man,” I said, going slightly pink. “It’s just that I’ve been stopping off at Nick’s Chocolate Heaven right after every Fatbusters class, though I only buy one single chocolate each time.”

“You little devil, you!”

“No, seriously Annie: do you think I would lose weight faster if I cut the chocolate out? Only I do look forward to it and I think it keeps me going.”

But my heart was sinking at the very thought and it suddenly occurred to me that I would miss my chat with Nick as much as the chocolate.

“Don’t be daft, how can one chocolate hurt?” she said cheerfully.

“Sometimes it’s more than one,” I confessed. “Nick saves some for me to try when he’s been experimenting with new flavours – the mohito cream one is to die for!”

She stopped piping cream onto the half meringues and stared at me. “Does he, indeed?”

“We’ve become friendly – he’s a really kind, nice person.”

“That’s more than you can say about David, giving you diet class vouchers for a Christmas present!”

“It wasn’t tactful, but his intentions were good,” I said defensively.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Katy,” she said. “I think you’re much better off in heaven from the sound of it – Nick’s Chocolate Heaven!”

*

It was inevitable that on the day I picked David up in my car while his was at the garage, the lid of the glove box should finally succumb to internal pressure and fly open, decanting an avalanche of little cellophane bags into his lap, each one betrayingly stamped in silver with ‘Nick’s Chocolate Heaven’.

I slowly turned the ignition key off again and in the resulting silence he said quietly, “If you really loved me and wanted us to get married, Katy, you wouldn’t cheat.”

“And if you truly loved me, you’d love me just the way I am!” I snapped back. “I mean, what if I said I only liked men with a full head of hair and I wouldn’t marry you unless you had a hair transplant where it’s started thinning?”

*

“And that was the end of the engagement,” I said ruefully to Nick, having gone straight to his shop after the argument. And then, since he burst out laughing, I finally saw the funny side and began to smile too.

“I’m sorry, Katy,” he said, “but you only told him exactly what I’d been thinking all these weeks.”

“What, that my fiancée should get a hair transplant?”

“No, that if your fiancée truly loved you, he’d love you just the way you were, which was perfect, as far as I was concerned.”

I blushed slightly. “So, you think I’m too thin now?”

“Nothing a chocolate diet wouldn’t cure.” He offered me his latest creation. “Passionfruit and raspberry fondants.”

“Sounds lovely,” I said, taking one. “And even lovelier is that I never have to go to Fatbusters again! I could book onto your chocolate course now, though, couldn’t I, Nick?”

He looked at me with a glint in those lovely, warm, chocolate-brown eyes: “Oh, I think we should have a couple of one-to-one sessions first, don’t you?” he suggested.

I nodded, my mouth full of fruity fondant: I’m obviously not built to resist sweet temptation!

## [4]. Previously published by My Weekly. HONEY AND SPICE

The litter of Cavalier puppies were so adorable that I couldn’t tear my gaze away until I heard the kennel owner returning. Then I looked up and was momentarily transfixed by a pair of liquid dark eyes and a warm smile in a thin, attractive face …

“This is Mr Forrest, come to choose a puppy too,” Mrs Rushmore said. “Have you made your mind up which you want, dear?”

“Yes, the one with the honey-coloured eyebrows,” I said. It had been love at first sight.

The new customer didn’t even spare me a glance as I left – he was down on his knees by then, totally entranced by the puppies.

*

When we met again while walking our dogs on Primrose Hill just before Christmas we recognised each other instantly. I’m sure the puppies did, too!

The late afternoon sky grew dark as we strolled and chatted, discovering that he’d named his puppy Spice, while I’d called mine Honey. By then it felt as if we’d known each other for ever, so I impulsively invited him back for coffee.

And that was that: a marriage made in heaven and sealed under the sparkling Christmas stars on Primrose Hill.

*

We all settled happily into my basement flat. I worked early in the mornings as a florist and Nathan played jazz in a nightclub in the evenings, the dogs were rarely left alone. Then, almost exactly a year later, we had The Argument.

“Do you have to fill the flat with lilies, when you know they make me sneeze?” Nathan snapped.

“And do you always have to make Honey and Spice yap when you come in late, waking me up?” I demanded.

The dogs, dismayed by our angry voices, came to each of us in turn, with mournful eyes and hopefully wagging tails – but then Nathan and Spice moved out and Honey and I didn’t know what to do with ourselves …

*

Honey pined so miserably that one day I couldn’t stand it any longer and we set out across Primrose Hill, taking the shortcut to where Nathan was staying. My heart was heavy and Honey, taking her cue from me, walked quietly at my side.

Then suddenly she yapped eagerly and I looked up to see a familiar figure striding towards me, with Spice racing forward, excitedly yapping. I watched the dogs meet and then Nathan was standing next to me, looking down with sad, dark eyes – and he was holding a bag almost as big as the one I was carrying!

“You were coming back?” I blurted eagerly, before I could stop myself.

“Not exactly – this is Spice’s stuff. She missed you both and it seemed selfish to keep her with me. And you?” He looked at my holdall, from the top of which peeked the fleecy end of a dog bed.

“Honey was pining too,” I confessed, “and it didn’t seem fair that just because we couldn’t live together, they couldn’t either.”

“Couldn’t we live together though, Cathy?” he said softly. “Can you even remember what we quarrelled about?”

“No – except the lilies, and I’d rather have you than a flat full of flowers!”

“And it wouldn’t hurt me not to play with the dogs when I get home late,” he said, then added, “Do you know, it’s almost exactly one year since we met here?”

“I was just thinking the same thing – and that we ought to go home and thaw out before we all freeze,” I agreed, and the Christmas stars in the sky seemed to shimmer suddenly, though that might have been the cold bringing tears to my eyes.

*

Nathan bought me a snow globe, containing the tiny figures of a man and woman with their dogs.

“As long as they stay inside their glass bubble of happiness, they’re safe,” he said, “just as we will be – you, me, Honey and Spice.”