Cooking Up Christmas. Katie GingerЧитать онлайн книгу.
umbrella in.’ His bright blue eyes popped against his dark hair and olive skin. ‘And as for that witch, well—’
Esme sobbed.
‘And Leo is a complete knob,’ said Lola. ‘I can’t believe after five years together this is how he treats you.’
‘What will you do now?’ Helena asked sympathetically. Esme simply shrugged. ‘Tomorrow you need to go out and register with agencies,’ she commanded. Helena was scarily matter-of-fact and dealt with everything with an almost military attitude. Esme watched the bubbles fizz in her glass. She had no idea what life beyond today would look like. She didn’t yet know if she’d make it to tomorrow. ‘You can stay with us as long as you need to,’ Helena added, glancing at Mark as they were housemates. But Esme didn’t fancy sleeping on their sofa for the foreseeable future. And Eric, Lola’s other half, worked from home so their spare room had been turned into an office. She let out a giant sigh.
‘I’ll have to move back home for a bit, won’t I? I can’t rent in London without a job and I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get another one. I haven’t got any savings and I can’t scrounge off you guys indefinitely.’ She leaned forward and rested her head on the table as a raindrop dripped from her soaking wet hair onto her nose.
‘It wouldn’t be scrounging, you’re our friend,’ replied Lola. ‘If Felicity Fenchurch walked in here right now, I’d punch her on the nose.’
Helena rubbed Esme’s back. ‘From what you’ve said, back home isn’t exactly—’
‘London?’ offered Esme. ‘No, it’s not. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘Could you freelance and commute in?’ asked Mark.
‘Too far and too expensive.’
‘What about some catering work? You know, weddings and stuff?’ suggested Helena.
Esme hesitated. ‘Yeah, maybe. But I’d still need a good reference and I don’t think I’m going to get one of those now.’
‘I know,’ said Lola. ‘You could write that cookery book you’re always talking about.’
Lola had been Esme’s best friend since school and knew her inside out. They came from the same town, went to the same university and had moved to London when they’d finished their studies, living together in a grotty two-bedroom flat above a kebab shop. She was also eternally optimistic, which was both helpful and, at times, annoying. ‘You need to see this as an opportunity, not a setback. Okay, so you move back home for a bit. Without having to pay stupidly high London rent, and without your time being taken up by Felicity, you could write your cookbook and get it published. This is your chance to focus on it.’
‘Do you really think so?’ asked Esme, who felt a tiny spark of hope in the darkness of the last few hours.
‘Of course you could,’ agreed Helena. ‘You’re the best food tech around. Not only that, you’re great at creating recipes too.’
Mark nodded. ‘You look at this mess. Felicity thought your recipes were so good she wanted to steal them. And when I think about all the dinner parties where you’ve cooked for us, OMG! That salmon thing you made when I split up with Andrew? Trust me, it made it all worthwhile.’
Esme smiled and nudged Mark with her shoulder. ‘What would I do without you guys?’
‘Die of thirst, probably. I’m going to get another round.’
‘Where will you stay tonight?’ asked Helena, taking Esme’s hand. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to go back to the flat.’
‘She’s staying with me and Eric, aren’t you?’ said Lola. ‘But you’re not borrowing my pants like you did at university.’
‘I had an excuse then,’ Esme replied. ‘I didn’t know how to do washing.’ But suddenly her face clouded in concern. ‘There is one thing.’
‘What?’ asked Mark, pausing on his way to get more drinks. ‘After everything you’ve been though today, I can’t believe there’s anything worse to deal with.’
‘Oh yes there is,’ replied Esme, resting her head on the table and speaking from under her arms. ‘I still have to tell my mother.’
‘Well, you’re on your own there, love,’ said Helena, smiling. ‘I’ve met your mum and she is batshit crazy.’
Sandchester
Joe Holloway made a Herculean effort to laugh at his friend Danny’s joke. It wasn’t that the joke wasn’t funny – Danny’s jokes were always funny – but laughing felt unnatural to Joe and had done for a long time.
He stared into his pint glass and swilled the liquid around, then drained it in one big gulp. Even though it was only a normal Wednesday night, the pub was full of his friends and the people he’d known all his life, laughing and chatting. He’d been back for a few years now and everyone in the small town had welcomed him with soothing noises, but it was the pity he couldn’t stand. It still came out in the nervous glances directed his way and the gentle, careful conversation.
Their usual pub hadn’t changed since he was a teenager, drinking underage. The only thing that was different was the music. The Britpop of the Nineties had been replaced by warbling women singing with fake husky voices, or middle-aged rock pop that made him want to grab the controls and turn it over. Danny’s hand hit his shoulder and squeezed. A squeeze that signified he was becoming morbid again. Introverted and, as Danny so kindly put it, a killjoy.
Joe glanced up from his stool and studied the scratched wooden bar before giving a weak smile. Danny nodded towards the two grinning ladies with a cheeky wink and Joe made an effort to smile at the taller woman. He recognised the signs. Her glances from under long eyelashes, eye contact that lingered a little too long. It was getting late, almost ten-thirty, and he should be thinking of heading off. He had work tomorrow, but that hadn’t stopped him before and wouldn’t now. That ‘one quick drink’ had ended up being two or three, then four or five, and now he couldn’t remember how many he’d had. The two women Danny was chatting up were smiling and laughing, caressing wine glasses in long slim fingers. The tall blonde glanced at Joe again, cocking her head to the side so her hair fanned out. She swept it all back over one shoulder. What was her name again? She’d told him when Danny invited them over but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. Did it start with an A? Annie? Amelia? Something like that. He frowned, trying to remember as she came closer and leaned against the bar. She wasn’t dressed in a short skirt or dress, or covered in make-up – the usual Saturday night get-ups. She wore jeans and a tight jumper. She was cute.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself much?’
Joe glanced up and studied her face. She was pretty. At least, she was pretty after the few too many he’d had. Almond-shaped eyes, nice figure. Danny nudged him again and gave him a knowing look. Joe shook his head and returned to his drink. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
He didn’t feel like saying anything else right now so tapped his finger in time with the music playing in the background. The trouble was women often took his lack of chit chat as him playing the strong and silent type. It wasn’t. He wasn’t brooding either. He was just so bloody depressed he often didn’t speak at all, for hours, days if he could help it. From the corner of his eye he saw Angela, or whatever her name was, shuffling uncomfortably.
‘Do you still work at the estate agent’s in town?’ she asked, running her fingers down the stem of her empty wine glass.
Joe nodded at the barman and nudged his glass forward. Fred refilled it. He scratched his stubbled cheek. ‘Um, yeah. Do you want a drink?’He didn’t really want to buy her one, but he had