Christmas in London Page 14

  * * *

  Kate hurried across the playing fields and climbed the steps of the residence hall. She looked up and saw Ian standing at the door.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “You hijacked the debate and embarrassed me in front of everyone. How will I show my face again?”

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he insisted.

  “Then I don’t know what the theatrics were for.” She fiddled with her key. “You should go. I’m sure there are a group of adoring girls waiting at the Student Union.”

  “I meant every word,” he assured her. “If you give me another chance, I will never look at another girl.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she scoffed. “That’s like expecting an ostrich to fly.”

  “I might look, but it will never go further than that,” he urged. “Please, Kate. You’re everything I dreamed about, I promise I’ll never hurt you.”

  Kate looked up and wished his eyes weren’t so blue and he didn’t have chiseled cheekbones.

  “One chance,” she whispered.

  He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. She kissed him back and her whole body quivered.

  She finally pulled away and entered the residence hall. Trevor’s light was on and she wondered if he had seen them. A pit formed in her stomach and she knew Trevor would be furious.

  * * *

  Kate sipped her brandy and paced around the Map Room. It was almost midnight and she should go upstairs to her suite. But she still had e-mails to answer and notes to approve.

  Would she have given Ian a chance if she knew Trevor was in love with her? Had Trevor been in love with her then, or did that come later? It was so long ago, she could hardly remember.

  Her phone buzzed and she picked it up.

  “I’m calling to see if you’re still awake.” Trevor’s voice came over the line.

  “I told you I had work to do,” Kate chuckled. “I’m not in London on holiday.”

  “I had a wonderful time tonight.” His voice softened. “I can’t wait to see you again.”

  She squeezed the phone and remembered his mouth on her lips. She took a deep breath and murmured, “Neither can I.”

  Chapter Eleven

  LOUISA GLANCED AT THE ROOM service tray of porridge with brown sugar. There was a raisin scone with clotted cream and grapefruit in a porcelain cup.

  Christmas was in three days and Claridge’s felt like the set of a holiday movie. A horse-drawn carriage idled at the entrance and carolers sang in the lobby. They served plum pudding in the French Salon and Brandy Alexanders in Claridge’s bar. She even received a wrapped ornament with her breakfast tray and a note thanking her for spending Christmas at Claridge’s.

  Noah had sent a text saying filming was canceled because of bad weather. It made sense; she couldn’t risk getting sick. But she had been looking forward to visiting Westminster Abbey. The boys’ choir was going to sing and she could see the church where the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge were married.

  She ate a bite of scone and wondered if the snow was the real reason Noah gave her the day off. They would have driven to the abbey in a taxi and she would have hardly been outside at all. Maybe he was embarrassed by the kiss and didn’t want to see her.

  She wished again she hadn’t kissed him; it was like adding nuts to a chocolate chip cookie. Any additions got in the way of enjoying the gooey chocolate and fresh-baked cookie.

  Maybe she’d buy him a packet of English toffees from Harrods with a note saying she had been a little tipsy and hadn’t meant to kiss him. But that would be worse, like girls in high school who ignored the boys they liked. She was so confused; she didn’t know what she wanted.

  It didn’t matter anyway. When they returned to New York, they would both be so busy. They’d meet for coffee once a month and eventually lose touch. The past week would become a sweet memory like old Christmas cards she kept in a drawer.

  She couldn’t think about Noah now. First she had to write Chloe’s card and then she had to prepare for Digby’s master class. The only good thing about Noah canceling their plans was that she had all morning to study the recipe for sticky marmalade roll. It seemed simple, but holiday rolls were tricky. If she left it in the oven too long, it would be as tasteless as second-day bread at the supermarket checkout.

  There was a knock at the door and she opened it. Noah stood in the hallway, clutching a sheath of papers.

  “It smells wonderful in here.” He entered the suite. “Kate said I could order room service for breakfast. But there’s something too personal about a butler showing up when I’m wearing boxers.”

  “You’re welcome to my breakfast.” She waved at the bowl of porridge. “It’s delicious but I can’t eat another bite. I was just writing my recipe card for Chloe, thank you for making sure the concierge sends them overnight. Ellie called and said Chloe already got the first one, it was very kind of you.”

  “Christmas is all about children,” he answered and smiled. “You’re doing something wonderful.”

  “It’s not much but I like to help Ellie and Chloe when I can. Ellie has been so good to me.” Louisa flipped through the magazine on the coffee table. “We’re going to bake Melting Snowman Biscuits, it’s such a fun recipe. The snowman has jellybeans for eyes and chocolate drops for a nose and arms made of pretzel sticks. Then you put the marshmallow snowman on top of a gingerbread cookie and melt the whole thing in the oven.”

  “Now you’ve made me even hungrier,” he said, sprinkling brown sugar on her porridge. “I brought your schedule for Christmas Eve.” He gave her the papers. “I’ve allowed plenty of time for hair and makeup. Bianca spends ages in the makeup chair before a show. You can’t have a shiny forehead or a stray hair when three cameras will be trained on you baking your croquembouche.”

  “You could have e-mailed it to me.” Louisa placed the papers on the coffee table.

  “I don’t trust e-mails. One click and ten hours of work disappears.” He noticed the open recipe book. “Did Digby give you a signed copy of his cookbook?”

  “He gives one to every member of the master class,” she explained. “Last night was so exciting. He said my apple crumble was the best in the class. It was quite difficult: if you bake it too long, the gingerbread crumbs become burnt toast.” She paused. “He wants me to appear on his television special. It doesn’t shoot until next spring and I’d have to fly back to London. But it’s wonderful that he asked, there are five other chefs in the class.”

  “What do these other chefs look like?” Noah wondered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are they middle-aged women with lacquered hair and more powder on their cheeks than you’d use in a mortuary?”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Louisa responded.

  “It must be a small kitchen and you all work together,” he prodded. “It’s like my high school chemistry lab partner. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t ignore the ring around his collar or that he wore the same shirt two days in a row.”

  “Three of the chefs are men. Edith is in her early sixties and Hannah owns a restaurant in Bath. It’s very exclusive, it just earned a Michelin star.”

  “How old is Hannah?” he asked.

  “She’s in her fifties,” she admitted. “She was in the tech industry and it’s her second career.”

  “I see.” Noah ate another bite of porridge.

  “I know what you’re implying and you’re wrong.” She flushed. “Digby’s praise has nothing to do with the fact that I’m the only female under thirty. Why can’t you believe he just appreciates my baking?”

  “He signed your cookbook with a heart.” Noah pointed to the page.

  “Now you’re being childish,” she declared. “People text heart emojis all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “The first time you met Digby at the reception at the Fumoir, you were wearing a red cocktail dress. At the meeting to go over the menu, you had on that striking Alexander McQueen s
weater and slacks. You curled your hair yourself and were wearing a new lipstick.”

  “You bought all the clothes at Harrods,” she reminded him. “You insisted I dress well when I’m representing Baking with Bianca.”

  “What were you wearing to his class last night?” he wondered.

  “I wore a pink wool dress and leather pumps.”

  “You wore a wool dress to bake?” Noah asked, horrified.

  “I put on an apron,” she corrected. “It’s the softest merino wool and fits me like a second skin.”

  “When I saw you at the bakery, you had on a knee-length apron and worn moccasins. Your hair kept falling in your eyes and you didn’t wear any makeup.”

  “If you have a point you should hurry up and make it,” she snapped. “This afternoon is Digby’s second master class. I still have a lot of recipes to study and then I have to take a bath and get ready.”

  Noah stood up and walked to the bedroom. The closet was open and he rifled through the sweaters.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” She scooped up a bra and pair of cotton panties.

  “You can wear these.” He handed her sweatpants and an oversized Dartmouth sweatshirt.

  “These are my gym clothes,” she said. “The sweatshirt belonged to my first boyfriend after high school. He dumped me for a female lacrosse player but let me keep his sweatshirt.”

  “Put your hair in a ponytail and don’t use any makeup,” he continued. “You can wear lip gloss. Kate would get angry if your lips got chapped.”

  “I’m not going to show up for Digby Bunting’s master class as if I’m going to a spin class at the YMCA.” She shuddered.

  “Tell him there was a leak in the ceiling of your suite and your entire wardrobe was ruined,” he suggested. “You wore the only things you could salvage. If Digby only cares about your baking, he won’t care if you show up in flannel pajamas.”

  “I don’t own pajamas.” She noticed a chiffon nightie on the closet floor. “I wear a nightie to bed.”

  “You’re certainly not wearing that.” He eyed the sheer fabric. “I didn’t think you’re the kind of woman who sleeps in chiffon.”

  “It’s none of your business what I sleep in.” She snatched it up. “I’ll do it, if it means you will believe me. Digby Bunting is a complete professional and only cares about the consistency of my raspberry blancmange.”

  “I hope you prove me wrong.” Noah walked back to the living room. “I have to check on the ingredients for your croquembouche, I’ll see you later.”

  Louisa waited until Noah left and then sat on the sofa. Neither of them had mentioned the kiss. But Noah sent dozens of e-mails a day; why had he dropped off the schedule in person? And why was he so sensitive about Digby? He acted like a little boy fighting over a tricycle on the playground.

  She finished the card to Chloe and sealed the envelope. Then she placed the bowl of porridge on the tray and opened the cookbook. She would worry about Noah later. First she had to prove that Digby Bunting didn’t care if she showed up in a felt robe and slippers, that he only cared about her marmalade roll.

  * * *

  Louisa rang the doorbell of Digby’s flat and wished she hadn’t listened to Noah. Wearing a sweatshirt and no makeup was a terrible idea. The building’s doorman asked if she was making a delivery and pointed to the service entrance. And the woman in the elevator clutched her Harrods shopping bag as if Louisa might run away with it.

  She heard footsteps and Digby answered the door. He wore a blue blazer and twill slacks and looked like he was attending a film premiere.

  “Louisa?” he asked. “Are you all right? I hope you’re not coming down with the flu.”

  “I’m perfectly fine. There was a leak in my closet.” She crossed her fingers behind her back. “I hope you don’t mind me dressing like this. These are the only clothes I could find.”

  “Of course not.” He walked toward the kitchen. “Follow me, everyone is here.”

  Why hadn’t Digby kissed her on the cheek like he did last night? He had been so polite, offering her a glass of wine and showing her his new cookbook. She was being silly. She was late and he had a million things to do.

  She entered the kitchen and admired the ivory plaster walls and speckled marble floor. Low-hanging lights illuminated granite counters and there was a stainless-steel fridge and double oven.

  The other chefs nibbled macadamia nuts and clinked wineglasses and it was like some glamorous cocktail party. She was suddenly so angry with Noah she couldn’t breathe. She’d prove she was right and then she’d never talk to him again.

  “I’ve been studying the recipe for sticky marmalade rolls.” She turned to Digby. “I even stopped at Harrods and bought a jar of Oxford marmalade. I’m ready to demonstrate it to the class.”

  “Demonstrate it?” Digby looked at her absently.

  “Last night you said we’d teach the lesson together,” she reminded him. “You were so excited by my apple crumble, you couldn’t wait to taste my marmalade roll.”

  “Did I say that? I hope you don’t mind, but I should probably have another student assist me.” He rubbed his chin. “Why don’t you join Graham?” He waved at a man with horn-rimmed glasses. “He’s making rice pudding.”

  “You want me to make rice pudding?” Louisa was puzzled.

  Rice pudding was the simplest recipe in the world. You stirred milk and butter and sugar and added nutmeg. She’d learned it during her first month at culinary school and it didn’t take any skill at all.

  “All the ingredients you need are on the counter.” He pointed at the butter and sugar and vanilla bean. “I’ll check on it later.”

  * * *

  Louisa took the rice pudding out of the oven and admired the golden nutmeg and dusting of cinnamon. She inhaled the scent of vanilla and had never smelled anything so wonderful.

  She was being silly. Of course Digby had to give the other students a chance. And rice pudding was a popular dessert; it was even on the menu at Claridge’s.

  “The rice pudding is done.” She handed Digby a ceramic bowl. “I used a dollop of raspberry jam. It gives it a delicious flavor.”

  “The flavor is good, but it’s a little lumpy,” he announced.

  “Lumpy?” Louisa repeated in horror.

  “Next time use more cream,” Digby suggested before he moved on. “It creates a smoother texture.”

  * * *

  Louisa folded her apron and smoothed her hair. She wanted to say goodbye to Digby, but he had disappeared. She walked through the hallway and found him in the library. The room had leather sofas and an oak desk piled with hardback books.

  “Louisa! I’m sorry that I snuck away.” Digby looked up. “My publisher dropped off copies of my new cookbook. These all need to be signed and delivered to Harrods this evening.”

  “I thought about the offer you made yesterday, and I’d love to appear on your television special,” she began. “It will give me an excuse to return to London. It will be nice to see Hyde Park with blossoms on the trees instead of a layer of ice.”

  “I was going to tell you. I’m afraid I had a call from my producer,” he answered. “They’re changing the format of the show.”

  “They’re changing the format?” she repeated and felt a little unsteady.

  “They only want celebrity guests: Victoria Beckham baking Bavarian cream with caramel sauce and Gwyneth Paltrow making a mango sorbet.” He paused. “I’m terribly sorry. But you know television, it’s all about the ratings.”

  “I understand.” Louisa nodded and turned to the door. “Thank you for including me in the master class. I’m having a wonderful time.”

  “Louisa, wait,” Digby called.

  Louisa turned around. Digby was going to apologize. He didn’t really think her pudding was lumpy; he was just concerned about the other students. If he praised all her desserts, they might get jealous.

  “Do you mind taking a few cookbooks to Claridge’s?” he aske
d. “The concierge wanted to display some in the lobby and I’m too busy to leave my flat.”

  “Of course.” She grabbed a stack from the desk. She carried them to the door and nudged open the handle. “I’ll see you later.”

  * * *

  Louisa gazed out the window of her suite at the white expanse of Hyde Park. All of London seemed like it was wrapped in a cashmere blanket. The Parliament building was covered in snow and Big Ben was a white outline and she could see the blurred spires of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  She remembered when she met Digby at the reception at the Fumoir. He was so friendly. He wanted to know how to make s’mores and what type of apples she used in an apple pie.

  Meeting Digby was one of the reasons she came to London and when she was around him she felt like a serious chef. Had he really only complimented her apple crumble because she wore a pink dress and lipstick?

  The cookbook was open on the coffee table and she noticed the recipe for rice pudding. Suddenly she froze. She always used milk in rice pudding, but Digby only had cream in his kitchen. Of course it had been lumpy! Cream was thick and delicious but you needed to add more to give the rice pudding a silky texture.

  She had been so anxious, she forgot to taste the pudding herself. But she could hardly knock on Digby’s door and ask if she could make another batch. Suddenly she had an idea. She walked into the hall and pressed the button on the elevator.

  The elevator stopped on the first floor and she strode down the hallway. She opened a door and discovered the kitchen where she and Noah made cinnamon rolls. The cinnamon rolls had been a great success; the pastry chef at the Foyer was going to permanently add them to the afternoon tea menu.

  She checked the pantry and found nutmeg and sugar. The fridge held butter and milk and cream. She turned on the oven and a thrill ran down her spine. She was a pastry chef and she was going to make the best rice pudding in the world.

  * * *

  Louisa rinsed mixing bowls and checked her phone. She’d texted Noah twenty minutes ago and he hadn’t replied. She wanted to take the pudding to Digby, but first she had to be certain it was perfect.