The 12 Days of Christmas

by Poppy Alexander

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

'A real festive treat' JULES WAKE

'Heart-melting and mouthwatering, this Christmas treat is as sweet and delicious as a marron glacé' VERONICA HENRY

'A festive romance that reminds us of the importance of living in the moment' HELEN ROLFE

'Deliciously romantic' WOMAN'S OWN

'Such a warm, delightful Christmas tale' CATHERINE MILLER

'All the joy of Christmas in one delicious, utterly mouth-watering package' JULIE CAPLIN

'Romantic and uplifting' WOMAN & HOME

'Charming, full of festive fun and romance' MY WEEKLY

'Utterly brilliant' CLAIRE WADE

The most magical time of the year...

For the first time in ten years, Freya is back in the little village of Middlemass for Christmas. The streets might be twinkling with fairy lights, but after the recent loss of her mother, she's never felt less festive.

Forced to sleep under the same roof as her handsome neighbour Finn, Freya realises she's going to need a distraction - fast! So she sets herself a challenge: to cook the '12 Days of Christmas'. Her delicious food soon brings the villagers together, and as each day passes, old friendships are renewed, memories stirred and there's even the flickering of romance...

She was only meant to stay for the holidays, but could Middlemass - and Finn - steal her heart forever?

***

Praise for Poppy Alexander:

'Friendship, community and a little bit of romance - what's not to love?' Mandy Baggot

'Books, bats and romance...a perfect escape. I loved spending time with the characters of Middlemas.' Liz Fenwick

'My first Poppy Alexander book but definitely not my last. What a lovely, engaging, perceptive story The Littlest Library is' Sue Moorcroft

'Five of the biggest stars for The Littlest Library. I thoroughly enjoyed spending some time with Jess and her phone box full of books.' Catherine Miller

'I loved everything about this book. It is filled with so much warmth, gentle humour and some very heart touching moments' Sue Fortin

'A great festive read.' NetGalley Reviewer

'This book was literally one of my favourite reads this year!' NetGalley Reviewer

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 320

Sample

A Partridge in a Pear Tree

It was Christmas Eve and the High Street was teaming with last-minute Christmas shoppers, bundled up in winter coats and scarves, brightly coloured bobble hats and gloves, all pink-cheeked and happy. And warm. Freya shuddered and wrapped her denim jacket a little closer around herself. Looking up, she spotted a girl she knew from school. Ducking her head, she pulled her thin hoodie further over her all-too-recognisable burnished gold hair and slid silently by.

Sunset was still an hour away but already the streets had taken on their night-time identity, the shop fronts – like theatre sets – glowing into the intensifying gloom and enticing Christmas shoppers with open wallets. Freya wasn’t there for the usual shops, though. Instead, out of habit, she was prowling around the food stalls in the market, the fruit and vegetables piled high, the butcher’s wares on stainless steel trays, the row of game birds hanging from hooks above. At each stall Freya appraised, assessed, asked questions, allowing her imagination free rein in a desperate attempt to crowd out the thoughts she couldn’t bear to think. This was familiarity to her. Comfort. The selecting and packing away of the parcelled and paper-bagged goods into the rucksack slung on her shoulder.

On the cobbled triangle at the base of the hill, where the High Street split into two, a Salvation Army band in their black uniforms with polished silver buttons, played carols, filling the cinnamon-scented air with glorious, triumphant sound. Behind them, the lights of the deli, with its little café area, shone invitingly into the rain-slicked street and – almost before she had had the thought – Freya slipped behind a man going inside and followed him in.

The little shop was crowded and heavy with a fug of wet dog and humanity. There was a snaking line of shoppers in front of the main till, each carrying their carefully selected choices – brightly wrapped panettone, stacks of nutty Florentines in their cellophane and ribbon parcels, special bottles of single-source virgin olive oil in green glass flagons with cork stoppers. As always, Freya was diverted and soothed by the sight and thought of food – what she would eat, how she would cook it – but her food shopping was done for the day. What she sought, urgently now, was warmth. And coffee, to keep her sleep-deprived brain going just a little longer – long enough to make a plan. She joined a loosely organised queue in front of the till by the café section, inhaling the aroma of excellent Italian coffee as the coffee machine belched its steam. She blew into her cupped hands. They were mottled blue and red with cold, her fingers stiff and numb.

The little clutch of café tables in the corner was filled to capacity with chattering, laughing shoppers advertising their shopping triumphs with the brightly coloured bags and parcels crowding the floor. There were no seats. She might have to settle for a takeaway, which would be disappointing; she needed a chance to sit, think and gather her resources, to work out – in a world that had just shifted on its axis, a world where she could no longer ask her mother – what she should do next.

She was staring unseeing at a wide back in a donkey jacket, when the man moved away and she found herself at the front of the queue.

‘Fred?’ came a deep voice. ‘Fred! Wow, I can’t believe it’s you!’

Freya reluctantly raised her head to meet the gaze of a swarthy, handsome man with laughing green eyes, thick, wavy black hair and pronounced five o’clock shadow.

‘Well, whaddaya know,’ he said, sounding delighted. ‘It’s Fred Wilson herself, after all these years …’

‘Finn,’ she said, smiling thinly. ‘How are you? And I am – as you know - “Freya”, not “Fred”.

‘Whatever you say, Fred,’ he agreed amiably. ‘Tea and cake then, is it? Carrot cake’s your favourite, right?’

Had carrot cake ever been her favourite? Possibly. A hundred years ago. ‘Can I get a double espresso?’ she enquired, robotically.

‘At this time of day? You’ll be awake ’til the middle of next week.’

‘Actually, make that a triple,’ said Freya, with a flash of defiance. ‘No cake. Thank you.’

‘Quick, grab a table,’ he said, nodding towards a just-about-to-be-vacated table in the window. ‘I’ll bring it over.’

The window gave her a panoramic view of the market, and Freya, in her extreme fatigue, was quickly hypnotised by the ebb and flow of shoppers trudging past outside. Time drifted.

Beckoning a member of staff to take over from him, Finn gazed thoughtfully at Freya’s hunched back as he made her coffee. Her deep blue eyes were dull, he observed, with fatigue at the very least, plus there was a watchful reserve that he didn’t recognise from the Freya he knew of old.

A minute later, sliding the tray onto the table, he shuffled into the seat next to her, close enough for their thighs to be touching, making her shrink away, clamping her legs together tightly.

‘I got you some cake anyhow,’ he said, plonking a plate in front of her. On it was a large slice of carrot cake, studded with fat raisins and oozing with cream-cheese icing. ‘You look like you need it.’

‘I’m not really a cake eater nowadays,’ she admitted.

He gave her a long, appraising look, noting the sharp collarbones, the bony wrists poking out beyond her cuffs, the child-sized hands wrapping gratefully around the little coffee cup.

‘You’ve shrunk,’ he said.

‘I’m just not fat. Not anymore,’ she replied, not meeting his eye. Despite being surrounded by food for every waking minute of her life over the previous ten years, she had become fitter to cope with the physical challenges and lean too, although that was more because she was usually too exhausted to eat at the end of a draining night’s service.

‘You were never fat,’ Finn protested. ‘You were just little, jolly, happy Fred.’ He looked at her again, wistfully. ‘You were perfect.’

She took a sip of her coffee, cradling the cup for warmth and looking out of the window, avoiding his gaze.

‘So, what brings you back?’ he went on. ‘After all these years?’

‘I’m … I don’t know,’ she mumbled, hanging her head, shaking it, looking away.

‘OK,’ he said carefully, recognising the omission and drawing back. He pulled the carrot cake towards him and broke off a piece, chewing it thoughtfully. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

Freya allowed herself to say nothing further. He would think her odd – rude – but that didn’t matter too much. What mattered more was avoiding complete breakdown, emotion slamming into her like a tsunami, leaving annihilation in its wake, right here in this shop, in her home town of Portneath, surrounded by the ghostly memories of her childhood and the all too alive people who inhabited those memories. Like Finn.

Instead, to distract herself, she replayed in her head the brief but fierce row between her and head chef, Andre, the one when she told him, just yesterday morning, that she needed to go home right now. The timing was terrible, of course, with the restaurant booked up solidly over Christmas and the new year. It had been that way for months and even the PAs of their most powerful and influential clientele were being turned away disappointed when they called for a table. No one in the tight-knit brigade de cuisine ever asked for time off over Christmas. For ten long years Freya had missed out on spending Christmas Day with her mum. Every single one. It had seemed an acceptable sacrifice at the time. The boss would, if he liked you, let you off a shift, or perhaps two shifts, over the Christmas week – not long enough to get home – but woe betide anyone who actually asked. And then, yesterday, Freya had asked. Worse still, she had been less than completely truthful about the reason, muttering something about family responsibilities, unable to share aloud the awful reality.

His wrath had been biblical. She had left the kitchen with the instruction never to return ringing in her ears. And being sacked by Andre was the equivalent of being sacked by the industry. None of the other restaurants in Paris with three Michelin stars would give her the time of day now. It was over.

‘Going home?’ Finn said, tugging her back into the present in a rush.

She nodded.

‘Want a lift?’

It was getting on for five o’clock on Christmas Eve and she hadn’t booked a taxi.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, please.’

Finn’s car couldn’t have been the same old banger he was driving ten years ago but the muddle of boxes, papers and parking tickets on the floor and seats was familiar enough. He chivalrously swept the contents of the passenger seat onto the floor for her.

The freezing rain was falling heavily now. He whacked the heating up full and waited, engine ticking over, for the windscreen to clear.

Soon they were out of the little seaside town and on the dark, winding country road leading to Middlemass, her mother’s village.

‘So,’ said Finn, ‘home for Christmas, eh?’

She nodded, twisting the string attached to her door key obsessively through her fingers. She had kept it with her throughout her decade in France, finding it occasionally in the top of her chest of drawers when she was looking for something else – a lip balm, or a comb. Each time she would take it out and look at it, feel the weight of it, knowing she could go home – just for a visit, and always a brief one – but hardly ever doing so, for reasons she did not fully understand herself.

The house was in darkness as they turned in to the drive and parked with a scrunch of gravel.

‘Nobody in,’ said Finn, reaching into the back and swinging her rucksack onto his shoulder.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, coming around to his side and trying to take it from him. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

‘I’ll see you in,’ he said, brooking no argument.

She drew the key out of her pocket now, opened the door and reached around the corner for the light switch, flicking it on in a gesture of habit.

Nothing.

‘Blown fuse?’ he said. ‘Where’s the fuse box?’

‘Under the stairs,’ said Freya, reluctantly.

Efficiently, Finn was there, reaching into the spider infested void with his phone torch on in his outstretched hand.

‘No blown fuses,’ he said. ‘Look.’

‘Misunderstanding over the bill probably,’ said Freya, trying to sound insouciant. They had pushed a wedge of post to one side as they’d opened the door. There had been a general impression of window envelopes with red text on them.

‘Where’s your mum, then?’

‘She’s – she’s away.’ Again, there was the impossibility of saying the words. Telling the truth.

‘OK,’ he said as he walked confidently through the dark hall to the kitchen. ‘Brrr. Aga’s off. Fallen out with the gas people too then?’

‘Probably.’

By the time she caught up with him Finn was running his torch beam around the room, highlighting swags of cobweb trailing from the ceiling, dead flies scattered on the windowsills and on the kitchen table too, desiccated, like dark confetti. He blew on a kitchen shelf and dust rose in a choking cloud.

‘Jesus wept,’ he muttered under his breath.

Freya stood in the centre of the room, breathing in a musty, pervasive stench of entrenched damp and desolation. The smell of home, of warm bread, cotton sheets being ironed, of furniture polish and flowers, was gone. There was no sound, just the wind in the trees outside and the plink, plink of the kitchen tap.

‘I don’t know what’s going on, Freya,’ Finn said firmly. ‘But you’re not staying here.’

‘It’s fine,’ she replied through clenched teeth, trying not to cry. Not in front of Finn. ‘I just need to light a fire, find some candles … I’ll call the gas and electricity companies in the morning.’

‘It’s Christmas Day in the morning,’ he said, taking her elbow and leading her to the front door. He still had her rucksack and clearly wasn’t giving it up. ‘You’re coming home with me.’

Back in the car, Freya allowed her head to fall wearily against the passenger window. The heating was still on full and the warmth made Freya feel that the next time her head hit a pillow she would sleep for a million years. All the adrenaline of the last twenty-four hours was spent, and even the coffee she’d drunk wasn’t enough to counteract her exhaustion. New battles were to come but perhaps tonight – just tonight – she could rest.

‘Right,’ Finn said, when he had got Freya up the narrow stairs into the apartment above his little shop. He dumped her rucksack on the hall floor and walked her straight to the bathroom.

‘Hot bath,’ he instructed, opening the old-fashioned taps on a deep, roll-top bath. The steaming water, thundering onto a generous swig of Badedas, turned the water a startling, algae green.

‘Wow,’ he said, checking out the livid colour and peering at the bottle with awe. ‘I never knew it did that.’

‘Not yours, then?’ queried Freya.

‘What, bubble bath? Me? No, funnily enough – it’s a girlfriend’s,’ he explained. ‘Ex-girlfriend, I should say. Not that it’s …’ He trailed off. ‘Towels,’ he declared, changing the subject with obvious relief, and pulling a couple of rough, ancient towels which used to be white, from the airing cupboard and handing them over.

‘Hang on,’ he added, disappearing into his bedroom, then quickly returning with a pair of fleecy grey joggers, a navy-blue sweatshirt with ‘Exeter Saracens’ printed faintly on the front and some thick, woollen socks.

‘Now, tea? Or something stronger?’

Freya raised a lopsided smile at last. ‘Stronger?’ she hazarded.

A minute later, the door opened a crack and a hand carrying a large glass of red wine, snaked its way through the gap, plonking the wine expertly, blindly, onto the little stool next to the bath.

Finn moved with the economy of habit around the room, flicking on cosily glowing wall lights and straightening feather cushions. The main living space of the flat was a large rectangular room with a high ceiling, fancy plasterwork and a pair of elegant, sash windows looking straight up Portneath High Street towards the little, ruined castle on the hill. The deli, with its flat above, was in an island of buildings at the foot of the town where the High Street split into two, the last row of buildings before the docks and the sea. It was a fantastic location commercially, perfect for the town’s inhabitants and superbly placed to attract the attention of the many summer day trippers too.

He drew thickly lined, aubergine velvet curtains to shut out the cold and knelt to light the fire.

This room had been one big dark, cluttered stockroom when Finn had taken over the lease and it had been backbreaking work clearing it, revealing the elaborate Georgian cornicing and the wide, oak floorboards. It was now a haven of calm, and he needed it to be. He worked long hours with relentless energy but when he climbed the stairs – often late at night – the little apartment was a refuge, a work free zone.

There was an ancient, low-slung chestnut leather sofa, deep-seated and piled with feather cushions in jewel-coloured, knitted covers positioned opposite the fire; behind it, occupying the space at the other end of the room, was a long, trestle dining table and a mismatched collection of wooden dining chairs, standing out against the matt, plaster walls which were painted below the picture rail in a dark, complex green – almost black by candlelight. The only adornment on the scrubbed pine tabletop was a row of candles stuck in old wine bottles, so encrusted with stalactites of wax they were welded into place.

Among Finn’s close-knit, loyal circle of friends, the apartment was the venue for many a rowdy Saturday night supper, with eating, drinking and shooting the breeze sometimes going on long into Sunday morning.

The firelight flared, illuminating his strong features, his brow furrowed thoughtfully as he mused on the re-emergence of Freya in his life. Always tiny in stature – something he had ribbed her about relentlessly – she had been so funny, feisty and brave then, he remembered; fiercely loyal, with a quicksilver wit, equally happy to laugh or to launch into battle for anyone she cared about. He had become fond of her – more than fond, if he was honest – thinking of her at first as a kind of cute, kid sister, four years younger, which was a lot when he was still in his teens himself; and then, later, it would be fair to say, his interest had been piqued in an entirely more disturbing way and while he was no monk, not then and not now, for some reason that made sense at the time, he had kept his distance. Biding his time.

He’d got used to her just always being there on those hectic summer nights, on the periphery of the loud, rambunctious gang of teens living it up as far as the sedate, town of Portneath would allow, getting into trouble, but none of it serious, all high spirits and no ill intentions. Freya – Fred – was never seen without her close friend and partner in crime, Hattie. He saw her often now, buying coffee from the café, exchanging smiles with him that acknowledged an acquaintance, nothing more. Freya, on the other hand, he had never seen, not once, in ten years. Over those long, long years with little news of her, he had often thought back to those days, regretting his failure to declare his interest, make a move …

He smiled as he crouched there, his hands held up to the fire to warm them, recalling vividly how he had once incited her wrath, with some affectionate teasing about her Halloween costume. There she was, dressed as a pumpkin, laughingly attempting to pummel him and Ciaran for their insolence as he held her effortlessly at arms’ length. Those had been carefree days. He gave a low chuckle at the memory, but then his expression darkened.

That was then. She was quiet, wary and watchful now. Clearly much had happened to her over the last ten years and he was guessing that at least some of it was bad; but she would tell him in her own time. He would wait.

This was no opportunity to make up for his own regrets, he told himself sternly. He sighed, as he patiently fed kindling onto the fire, coaxing the flames into brighter, dancing life. She had changed, and he had changed too. Gone was the daft, irresponsible young man who thought nothing of turning up for milking at five a.m. after staying up all night, drinking beer and swimming naked in the lake at the farm. Now, apart from the occasional Saturday night dinner with friends, sleep was sacrosanct, because his business was a taxing mistress, and it needed his full attention. Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t interested in having what his brother had, a wife, children, a dog … all the accoutrements of family life. That was a definite ambition for one day. But now, coaxing his business into growth, into profit, was a hundred times more taxing than lighting this fire. There was no time for romance. Not now.

Freya woke up to discover the bubbles were gone, her fingertips were white and wrinkled and the water was no longer the piping hot temperature she needed to warm her deep into her bones. Shivering, she dried herself and scrambled into the clothes Finn had left her. The sweatshirt and joggers swamped her, but they were warm and soft and the thick socks were cosier than slippers although she was nervous about slipping on the polished wooden floors as she sought out her host.

She found Finn in the sitting room, wine glass in hand, caressing the chin of a scruffy, black-and-white cat which had draped itself across his knee like a shaggy rug. The room was lit only by the fire and by the candles on the table now. It was warm and peaceful and Freya wanted nothing more than to curl up with her glass of wine in a corner of the sofa.

‘What do you call him?’ she asked, reaching out to stroke the disgruntled cat as it mooched past her, annoyed at being tipped off Finn’s lap as he stood to refill Freya’s glass.

‘I don’t call him anything,’ admitted Finn, laughing as the cat stalked over to Freya, tossing a filthy look over his shoulder. ‘He makes a point of not coming when I call, so I don’t bother any more. But his name’s Rafferty – Raff; I inherited him with the building.’

Freya sat down so the cat could climb onto her lap. She was taken aback to find she could feel his ribs through the thick, slightly matted, fur.

‘I don’t starve him, honestly,’ said Finn, hastily, putting the bottle down on the hearth after refilling his own glass. ‘He’s a bit decrepit, but he’s probably about a hundred years old in cat years, to be fair.’

‘Don’t you know how old he is?’

Freya was faintly condemnatory, but Finn gently rejected her reproach.

‘Nobody knows. He’s just been living here for as long as anyone can remember. And we tolerate each other. Are you hungry?’ he added. ‘I can do us some beans on toast, if you like?’

‘Let me cook for you,’ she replied. ‘To say thank you for your hospitality.’

Finn looked taken aback. ‘Really? Nah, there’s no need. Plus, I’ve not got a lot in,’ he admitted.

Freya wasn’t listening. She grabbed her rucksack from where Finn had put it down in the corner and looked around. ‘Your kitchen?’ she asked, pointing enquiringly in the most likely direction.

She was acutely aware of his nearness as he leaned against the kitchen doorpost watching, with a bemused smile, as she carefully took out the paper packages she had bought in the market.

Rafferty had not deigned to join them, curling up on the hearthrug in front of the fire instead.

Underneath the food she had taken out of her rucksack was a roll of leather, tied with a thong. Reverently, she laid it on the counter and unravelled it, revealing a set of kitchen knives, razor-sharp and glinting evilly on the countertop.

‘Welcome home, Sweeney Todd,’ he joked. ‘I hope I’m going to last the night.’

Freya rewarded him with a ghost of a smile, but she wasn’t listening, not really, she was concentrating on the task ahead.

‘Smells amazing,’ he said, half an hour later as he peered into the sauté pan, to see four little oval pieces of meat, sizzling deliciously.

‘It’s ready,’ she said, ushering him out of the way, hating being watched while she plated up. Taking the hint, he apologetically put his hands on her hips to move her sideways so he could open a drawer, revealing knives and forks with horn handles. They reminded Freya of the cutlery from home, she remembered with a painful twist of recall.

‘The washing-up is all mine, by the way,’ he said.

Freya looked guiltily at his sink, now piled high with virtually every pan and implement he possessed. Not that that added up to much. If this were her kitchen, she would seriously be buying some more kit. He was clearly no cook.

Facing each other across the table, with the candles lit, Freya was suddenly shy as she sipped from her glass, acutely aware of her make-up-bare face, and hair lank with steam.

‘This looks amazing,’ Finn said, looking admiringly at his plate, as he tucked in. ‘Talk me through it.’

‘So, partridge breast,’ she said, pointing to her own plate to illustrate, ‘on a bed of root vegetable mash. And that’s caramelised pears, on the side.’

‘Ha, very good,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Partridge in a Pear Tree,’ he said, looking confused now. ‘You did that on purpose, right?’

Freya hadn’t. She had just thought the pears would complement the delicate, gamey meat and she certainly hadn’t been thinking about Christmas. In any case, if they were following the words of the carol properly then the first day of Christmas wasn’t until tomorrow, she thought, deciding it might be pedantic to point that out.

‘You’re a bona fide chef!’ he went on. ‘It looks like something from a really fancy restaurant, but why am I not surprised? That’s exactly where you’ve been, right?’

‘You’re a Facebook fan?’ she ventured. It was the only way he could possibly know about her work. Not that she posted often.

‘I wouldn’t say a “fan”,’ he said, ‘I mean, who’s into Facebook these days?’ He paused, checking her face for a reaction. ‘Oh, OK, busted,’ he admitted, with a self-deprecating grin. ‘Not that I was stalking you, or anything. Honest.’ He didn’t press for details and she was grateful for that.

Freya realised she was starving. Of course, she was. She had left Paris yesterday straight after she read the text. She was in too much of a hurry – and too distressed – to eat before she set off. There was no incentive to eat on the train, because, even in the French part of the trip, the standard of refreshments was so bad. And then, once she had finally arrived in Portneath, food was the furthest thing from her mind, even though the lovely staff at the hospice had pressed her in vain to eat something.

And so here she was at last with – if she said so herself – a perfectly balanced plate of food and a sinful, second glass of wine. Andre had always insisted that the team try everything on the wine list so they . . .