A Christmas Wish (16 page)

The cleaners in their blue nylon tabards and with their hair scraped up into untidy knots were hard at it, buffing the brass fixtures with yellow dusters and mopping the pale, waxed wooden floor. The sun had started its creep through the large window that displayed the Plum Patisserie logo, working its way up like the revelation of a dancers fan until the whole room was awash with light. Tiny white bud-roses had been placed in slender, finger-sized vases on every table. The glass display unit, which they had re-created to mimic those found in the Parisian coffee houses of the eighteen hundreds, gleamed. The tiered, glass cake stands and fancy china plates with hand-painted flowers and swirls, delicately kissing their fluted edges, sat shining, awaiting the scones packed with jam and cream, soft iced buns, frosted sponges and flaky pastry masterpieces, stuffed with marzipan and dotted with an almond, which those with a sweet tooth would devour with a cup of hand blended French roast coffee.

She particularly loved this time of the morning, before the customers arrived, before the problems arose, before tiredness crept over her aging joints.

‘Good morning all!’ Pru offered with a singsong note, many of these girls spoke little English, but could glean enough from her tone to reciprocate with a nod and a smile.

‘This looks lovely, thank you.’

The girls smiled and nodded in return.

Making her way down the twist of staircase, she placed her foot on the last step, the wood creaked unexpectedly beneath her weight and she gasped, placing one hand at her breast and the other against the wall, trying to steady her heart rate. She exhaled and leant on the wall, using her index finger and thumb to wipe away the tiny dots of perspiration that had gathered on her top lip. She placed her flattened palm against her chest, trying to calm her flustered pulse.

‘Come on you silly moo.’

It still had the power to do that to her, the flash of a memory, an image, a sound. It could transport her back to a time she would rather forget.

She waited a second and dug deep to find a smile before taking one final step and pushing on the wide double fire door with its brass edged porthole glass window. Immediately, she was engulfed by the smell of fresh bread, baking in the oven. She never tired of the warm scent; it cocooned her in a blanket of well-being and was evocative of full tummies, log fires, cosy rooms and all that was homely.

‘Good morning, Guy.’

‘Is it? I’m not so sure!’ He slammed his clipboard with its checklist on the stainless steel counter top.

This was entirely expected; Guy lived his life with his fingers, tense against his flustered, plucked brow and a sigh hovering in his throat. Whippet thin and groomed to within an inch of his perma-tan, Guy lived off caffeine and on his nerves.

‘What’s up?’ Pru refrained from adding, now. Guy was undoubtedly a worrier, a panicker and a drama queen, but all that was forgiven when she considered his insistence on the inflexible standards both in and out of the kitchen. His attention to detail and design ideas kept them at the forefront of global cake design. He was the jewel in her crown, an analogy that he particularly loved.

‘I specifically ordered extra lemons for our dessert du jour, lemon posset with almond crusted shortbread, and they have sent me my standard order. These people drive me crazy! Are they trying to ruin my day? How can I deliver what I promise with this?’ He poked at a large net of sorry-looking yellow fruit and turned down his mouth as though he had been presented with road kill rather than inadequate waxed citrus.

‘I expect they haven’t set out to ruin your day intentionally, they probably just forgot or got muddled, you know how it is when an order deviates from the norm, it often gets confused somewhere along the line. We could always send someone up to the supermarket to grab you some more lemons?’

Guy placed his hands on his hips, ‘well, I suppose we will have to.’

Pru as ever, noted the slight flicker of disappointment that crossed his face when a solution was easily and quickly found.

‘Also, Guy, can we get someone to fix the bottom stair that comes down from the café. It’s got a creak.’ She gave a small cough.

‘Oh, Pru! You and your creaks! I could have a man here every day, fixing one creak or another. This building is over two hundred years old, it’s going to creak!’ He raised his hands up to the sky with flattened palms.

‘And as I’ve said before, I don’t mind if a man or a woman for that matter, has to come every day or indeed, every hour of every day and I don’t care it what it costs. I can’t have the stairs making that noise. Any of them, at any time, I can’t. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ He shrugged, before muttering something inaudible in his native French.

‘How’s the window display coming along?’ Pru knew she could easily distract him and if she were being honest was keen to change the subject. In between the double-fronted café and the front door that lead to their apartments, sat a tall bow window, emblazoned with the Plum Patisserie logo, the window was all that was left of the Victorian pharmacy that had been knocked through and subsumed into their current corner premises. The space behind it was a little over five foot in depth and with no particular purpose other than decoration; it was the ideal space in which Guy could showcase the latest Plum creations. The little gallery had become one of the most photographed spots in Mayfair. This pleased Pru no end, whether for a magazine or as one of a tourists haul of snaps, the fact that her logo and cakes of such breath-taking magnitude were being ogled, meant great advertising.

He clapped his hands under his chin, instantly diverted from his lemon crisis, and lack of empathy when it came to stair repair, ‘Oh, Pru, oh my! It is beyond exquisite, its divine. No, its beyond divine, it’s epic, it’s… words fail me.’ Guy placed his middle three fingers over his pursed lips and blinked away tears that threatened.

‘That good huh?’

He slowly nodded, unable to fully articulate. ‘Mais oui and more!’ He was quite breathless.

Pru smiled, she was used to this, each of his creations was always similarly lauded and the funny thing was, it was always entirely justified.

‘I can’t wait to see it. Any luck with the new trainee?’

‘Don’t. Even. Go. There!’ He held up a palm in front of her face. ‘Every single person they have sent has been completely useless. I have the same conversation with the agency after every sorry interview. I tell them repeatedly, I don’t need bakers! Bakers are ten a penny, no offence intended, Pru,’

‘None taken.’ She was a baker and proud.

‘But I don’t need a baker, I need an artiste! Someone who has the eye, the touch and the imagination, someone who can turn sugar paste into pure fantasy, someone who can make the dreams of others into reality! Is it too much to ask?’ For the second time in as many minutes he looked close to tears.

Pru stared at him in silence, fishing for a suitable response and wondering if this was the job description he had given the agency, before giving up and abandoning the topic altogether. ‘I’m nipping out this morning. Bobby has a dress fitting in Spitalfields, but Milly is around if you need anything.’

‘Oh, a dress fitting? How exciting! I saw the lovely couple yesterday afternoon, strolling hand in hand like love’s young dream. Oh my goodness, so beautiful together! Can you imagine what les enfants will look like? They are a couple that heaven blessed for sure.’

‘I know, Bobby’s a lucky girl. She certainly doesn’t take after me; she takes after her mum, Astrid. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.’

It wasn’t a topic she normally discussed. Bobby’s mum had disappeared when she was three months old, leaving her in the care of her drug-addled boyfriend to pursue a life in India. Ironically, it probably saved her life. Astrid too was fond of the recreational drugs that formed the backdrop to Alfie’s life, but left before he progressed to heroin and the habit that would eventually kill him. She told Alfie she needed space and enlightenment, which he thought was a bloody shame, as what their little girl needed was a mummy who wasn’t over six thousand miles away needing space and enlightenment.

‘Oh Pru, she most certainly does take after you. You are beautiful inside and out. I can see you now,’ he raised he hand as if shielding his eyes, ‘you could model for denture cream or stair lifts!’

Pru threw a napkin at him and turned on her heel, smiling as she did so.

Available from 16
^th
December 2013

A special Christmas short story from Amanda Prowse: a wonderful, warm festive treat from a bestselling author.

Poppy is trying to make sure her children have the perfect Christmas. The fields are sparkling with snow, the turkey is roasting, and the tree is groaning with presents. But Poppy’s beloved husband is fighting in Afghanistan, and the kids are missing their Dad.

Can all their wishes come true without him? Or will they have the perfect Christmas after all?

‘A cracking page-turner’
The Bookseller

‘This story of a woman’s fight to rebuild her shattered life is captivating, heartbreaking and superbly written.’
Closer

‘An absolutely gripping read… the characterisation is done superbly.’
Iain Dale, LBC Radio

‘Great novel – let’s get it to number 1!’
Gok Wan

‘Poppy Day is a brilliant book, I couldn’t put it down.’
Carol Vorderman

‘A rattling good book to curl up on the sofa with, I thoroughly recommend Poppy Day by army wife Amanda Prowse. She has turned her own fear and anxiety into a page-turning novel of loss and courage.’
Lorraine Kelly, The Sun

‘A modern day love story.’
Daily Mail

‘A deeply emotional story of a woman who will stop at nothing to save the man she loves… A fast, unputdownable read, Amanda Prowse adeptly fuses a tale of love and courage with the stark realities of war, both on the field and at home.’
Red

‘This romantic story of courage and determination is simply captivating.’
Closer

‘Army wife turns fear into fiction.’
Sunday Mirror

‘Set to become a bestseller.’
RAF News

‘Heartbreaking, but uplifting.’
Carol Vorderman

AMANDA PROWSE was a management consultant for ten years before deciding to pursue her ambition to write. Her husband, Simeon, is a soldier, and they live in the West Country with their two teenage sons.

You can contact Amanda via twitter,
@mrsamandaprowse
or via her website,
www.amandaprowse.org