Christmas at Carrington’s. Alexandra BrownЧитать онлайн книгу.
what’s on over Christmas. I was perusing the wine aisle in Tesco when she texted me to get her a copy.
‘Thanks Georgie.’ She grins and takes the magazine. ‘It’ll be like our very own giant snow globe. We could even go ice-skating. Mandy, who works at the town hall, came in the other day for a chocolate orange cupcake with banoffee coffee and said they’re building a rink in the market square in the centre of town. Apparently there’s going to be real reindeers and stalls selling hot chocolate with huge dollops of squirty cream dusted with cinnamon and mini-marshmallows, and, well, she didn’t actually go into that much detail, but you know what I mean … they’re bound to, aren’t they? And roasted chestnuts and all those handcrafted Christmassy gifts that have no use what-so-ever, but we still love them anyway.’ She pauses to catch her breath, her natural blonde corkscrew curls bouncing around her shoulders. ‘In fact, I’m going to see about getting a stall. I could sell mugs of steaming mulled wine and sticky sausage sandwiches, and what about slabs of fruity Christmas cake stacked high with velvety melt-in-the-mouth marzipan icing? Mm-mmm. Yes, everyone loves cake!’
Sam owns Cupcakes At Carrington’s, the café concession on the fifth floor of Carrington’s department store, and is a real foodie. She’s also privy to all kinds of tantalising gossip gleaned from her loyal customers, office workers from the firms around the market square in the centre of town, staff from the hotels down along the seafront, and just about everyone who lives or works within a ten-mile radius. When Felicity Ashbeck-Smyth, one of Carrington’s regular customers and owner of Mulberry-On-Sea’s very own temple of holistic enlightenment, was caught with a cannabis plant in her yoga studio, Sam was the first to know. And Sam’s café really is the best place in Mulberry if you fancy a legendary afternoon tea. Cupcakes and scones piled high with strawberry jam and clotted cream mingled with the cutest little artisan bread rolls crammed with locally sourced ham and delicious homemade chutney. You just can’t beat it after a hard day’s shopping at Carrington’s, the store with more, as our strapline says.
‘Never mind the squirty cream. I want to hear your news.’ I steer her towards the sofa before flopping down on a beanbag nearby.
‘Ohmigod. I can’t believe I’ve been here for a whole five minutes and still not told you, I’m practically bursting. I found out last night, but wanted to say face to face. Georgie, you will die when I tell you.’ Sam leans over to clutch my arm.
‘Come on then.’ I nod, encouragingly.
‘OK, after three, because you know I’ve fantasised about this moment for so long that I’m not even sure I can actually say the words out loud, just in case I’m dreaming.
‘For crying out loud. Will you please tell me?’ I laugh, now absolutely desperate to hear her news.
‘Right, deep breath. One two three … I’m pregnant!’ she screams, clapping her hands together up under her chin. Pure bliss radiates around her like an aura as I take in the news.
‘Oh Sam, that’s fantastic, I’m so happy for you. Come here.’ After hauling myself out of the beanbag, I reach across to give her an enormous hug. Sam has wanted to be part of a big family for as long as I’ve known her, and that must be fifteen years, at least. We used to go to the same boarding school, before I got kicked out after Dad gambled away everything we had. He sold secrets from the trade floor of the bank where he worked and ended up in prison for five and a half years, but that’s a whole other story.
Sam and I shared a bedroom, and she’d lie awake at night wondering about her mum, Christy, an interior designer who ran off to LA with a famous rock star client when Sam was only five years old. She was devastated, and even though Sam hasn’t mentioned her for years now, I think she still struggles to understand why Christy left, but then who can blame her? Christy literally did a moonlight flit. There at bedtime and gone by breakfast.
‘Congratulations! And to Nathan too, I bet he’s delighted,’ I say, making a mental note to bomb up to Childrenswear on the fourth floor, first thing tomorrow morning when I get into work. Poppy, the sales assistant up there, said they had a delivery last week of the cutest little bunny romper suits she’d ever seen. They even have big floppy ears on the hood and a detachable fluffy rabbit tail for the bottom. I’ll get the pink and blue, to cover both eventualities. But what if Sam goes gender-neutral like Belinda? She’s another regular customer and her son and daughter are always dressed in identical green or yellow smock shirts with baggy knee-length shorts – a stand against commercial gender stereotyping, apparently. Hmmm, maybe I should get the lemon romper suit too, just in case.
‘Georgie, you know Nathan cried. Big tumbling man tears, he’s so happy,’ Sam says.
‘Of course he is, he adores you, and now you’re going to be a proper gorgeous little family. It’s the best news ever. Can I tell Dad?’ I ask, knowing how fond she is of him. Sam’s wonderful dad, Alfie Palmer, the charismatic and incredibly wealthy owner of Palmer Estates, one of the biggest estate agencies in the country, died earlier this year, leaving his millions to Sam; it meant no expense was spared on their extremely emotional wedding on a picturesque hillside overlooking Lake Como. But it wasn’t the same as Alfie actually being there, so my dad stepped in to do the honours and I felt so proud of him. Nathan’s parents live in Italy, so it was the perfect location for them to marry in before travelling around Europe for the summer, followed by a magical second honeymoon in New York and Hawaii last month.
‘Of course you can. Although it’s probably best to wait a bit. It’s very early days.’
‘So when is the baby due?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. In about eight months’ time?’ she laughs, making big wide eyes and waving her hands in the air.
‘Aw, so he or she could be a honeymoon baby then.’ I quickly count the weeks off in my head.
‘Sure could be. And ohmigod, Georgie, you’ve just given me a brainwave.’
‘I have?’ I ask cautiously. You never know with Sam and her madcap ideas sometimes.
‘Of course, if it’s a girl we can call her Honey … sooo romantic.’ I let out a little sigh of relief, pleased that Manhattan or Honolulu aren’t in the running as suitable baby monikers. ‘Or, no wait. Hold on!’ Sam clutches my arm as she thinks for a second before announcing, ‘Honey Moon Taylor! How perfect is that?’ she beams, stretching her hand up and wide in a semi-circle above her head, as if visualising the words emblazoned in flashing lights across a billboard. My mind boggles. Sam is a real queen of hearts, a matchmaker, a true romantic, but I’ve never seen her like this before, so animated with baby love. And we’ve never really talked about having babies before, I’m not that interested, to be honest, unlike her.
‘Very,’ I say, secretly wondering if Nathan would go for it. He’s a maritime lawyer, loaded and solid; he strikes me as a more traditional-name-type guy. ‘I’m absolutely made up for you both and this calls for a proper celebration. Dinner and fizz somewhere posh. Orange juice for you obvs.’ I laugh.
‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me feel.’ Sam beams. ‘No more Jägerbombs for me,’ she shrugs. ‘We could try out that new restaurant down by the marina, the swanky one that’s opened up to cater for the visiting glamouratti arriving on their yachts.’
‘Good idea, but in the meantime these will have to do.’ I pull open a box of mince pies and offer them to her. Sam takes three. I give her a look.
‘Whaat?’
‘I didn’t say a word,’ I smile as she crams one of the pies into her mouth.
‘One for me and one for the baby,’ she explains, in between bites.
‘And that one?’ I point to the pie still clutched in her left hand.
‘Could be twins.’ Sam winks and collapses back into the sofa. ‘Nathan’s dad is a twin and you know what they say about twins running in families. God, I’d actually love to have twins. Double sweetness.’
Laughing