Snow Angels, Secrets and Christmas Cake Read online

  Snow Angels, Secrets and Christmas Cake

  Sue Watson

  Bookouture

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  1. It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas!

  2. Balls, Bailiffs and Jesus

  3. Christmas Roses and Champagne Truffles

  4. The Real Housewives of Chantray Lane

  5. Designer Shoes and Profanely Priced Face Creams

  6. Gabe, the Gaggia and Ghosts of Christmas Past

  7. The Tea, the Tarot and a Film Star Lost in Suburbia

  8. A Christmas Snow Storm

  9. The Phone Call From Hell

  10. Festive Frisson on Winter White Velvet

  11. All is Calm, All is Bright

  12. Glittery Cookies and Christmas Clouds

  13. It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

  14. Yummy Mummies in Knock-off Gucci

  15. Lusty Firemen and Frosty Macarons

  16. Sauvignon Blanc and a Seafaring Threesome

  17. It’s Going to be a Cold, Cold Christmas

  18. Desperate Housewives and Cheshire’s Chattering Classes

  19. Fairy Lights and Frosty Windows

  20. William, Kate and a Right Royal Christmas

  21. Christmas Cupcakes and Sumatra Wahana

  22. Random Acts of Christmas Madness

  23. Sex in the Kitchen and Love on the Rocks

  24. A Breakfast Meeting and a Red Hot Date

  25. Life-size Reindeer and Christmas Carnage

  26. Low Flying Louboutins and Sex in the Snow

  27. Fake Breasts and Drizzled Nipples

  28. Makeover Madness and a Winter Wonderland

  29. The Beating Heart of The White Angel Bakery

  30. Melting Snow and a Sudden Goodbye

  31. Sex, Secrets and a Sister’s Lies

  32. Swiss Peaks, Edible Pearls and Ravishing Queens

  33. Snowy Cupcakes and Shimmering Cookies

  34. The Delicious Sound of Reindeer Hooves

  35. Psychic Talents and Fallen Angels

  36. An Unexpected Guest at The Christmas Table

  A Note from Sue

  Also by Sue Watson

  Love, Lies and Lemon Cake

  Published by Bookouture, an imprint of StoryFire Ltd.

  23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN, United Kingdom

  www.bookouture.com

  Copyright © Sue Watson 2014

  Sue Watson has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-909490-75-8

  Acknowledgments

  To all my family and friends for their love, support and laughter throughout the year - and for all the Christmases they’ve made special just by being there. Thank you!

  Thank you to the wonderful team at Bookouture, Oliver Rhodes, Kim Nash, Emily Ruston, Jade Craddock and everyone who has been involved in turning this into a glittery bauble of a book.

  But the story doesn’t end there – I have been writing now for several years and have met so many people through books, but I want to say a special thank you to my book blogging friends.

  In their own time, for no payment these people have read and reviewed my books, taking the trouble to write reviews on their blogs and websites. My book blogging friends Tweet and Facebook, write and shout about my books and are always there supporting me, cheering me on and embracing the world of books and authors. There are many, many book bloggers out there and I wanted to thank them all and give each one a mention.

  Like Santa I made a list and checked it twice – but there may be one or two bloggers who have reviewed my books and haven’t got a mention. If that’s the case, I’m so sorry - please shout at me on Twitter and sulk on Facebook to let me know, and I will make sure to give a mention in the acknowledgements of my next book.

  So to my wonderful book blogger friends Thank you!

  Here they are – in no particular order – they are equally wonderful.

  Dr Ananda @ This Chick Reads

  Kat @ Best Books To Read

  Dawn @ Crooks on Books

  Sara @ Chick Lit Central

  Melissa @ Chick Lit Central

  Paris @ Paris Baker’s Book Nook

  Jo @ Comet Babes Books

  Lauri @ Rottitude.com

  Compelling Reads

  Suzanne @ Lavender Library

  Shaz @ Shaz’s Book Blog

  Jody @ A Happy Spoonful

  Chick Lit Uncovered

  Chick Lit Club

  Karan @ Hello Precious Bliss

  Sheli @ Sheli Reads

  Margaret @ Bleach House Library

  Marlene @ Book Mama Blog

  Sara @ Harlequin Junkie

  Novelkicks

  Fiona @ Fiona’s Book reviews

  Alba @ Lost in Chick Lit

  Elizabeth @ Mungleville

  Novelicious

  Kim @ Kim the Bookworm

  Chloe @ Chicklit Chloe

  Marina @ Chick Library Cat

  Chantelle @ Mama Mummy Mum

  Amanda Moran @ One More page

  Liz and Lisa @ Chicklit is not Dead

  Tanya Phillips

  Ella Pumpkin

  Dizzy C’s Little Book Blog

  Lou Graham’s Blog

  And finally a thank you to you, the reader for buying this book. And to those readers who get in touch to say hello, thank you for supporting me, inspiring me, and making me smile. And most of all for making this writer’s daily working life a little less lonely - and a lot more fun.

  For Lesley and Cocoa McLoughlin, two special girls who put the sparkle in Christmas!

  1

  It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas!

  Sam

  ‘I want a white Christmas... I’m thinking ski chalet chic and showbiz sparkle...’

  I nodded in agreement. That’s all you could do with my sister. She was standing in her hallway by a twenty foot Norwegian Pine, dressed from head to toe in Yves Saint Laurent accessorised with a Chanel-lipsticked smile.

  ‘It’s exactly like the one in Trafalgar Square,’ she said in her posh voice.

  ‘Only hers is bigger than the one in Trafalgar Square,’ Gabe, her landscaper, piped up beside me. I smiled, he apparently found her as amusing as I did.

  ‘Darling... let me ask you something,’ she said, ignoring him, looking at me over her Chanel bifocals. ‘Do you think it would be too much to put the dog in a onesie?’

  I looked at her; ‘Seriously Tamsin? Yes.’

  ‘But it’s a hand-made designer polar bear onesie... it’s Italian!’

  ‘Italian? Oh why didn’t you say? No, I can’t see the problem putting a big brown dog in a white costume for Christmas, especially if it’s handmade and Italian.’

  She nodded, oblivious to my sarcasm – or choosing to ignore it – and began squirting room perfume everywhere – it smelt of fake Christmas.

  ‘The season in a bottle,’ she smiled coyly.

  ‘The season in my face,’ I said, wafting the air. ‘God, Tamsin, it’s lethal that stuff.’


  ‘It just says... Christmas to me,’ she closed her eyes and breathed deeply through elegant nostrils ... the epitome of designer style even my sister’s nose was elegant. ‘It takes you back doesn’t it?’ She looked at me and for a moment I saw a fleeting, unfathomable sadness in her eyes. Now wasn’t the time to ask if she was okay, not with two interior designers, a landscaper, the cleaner and Tamsin’s kids in attendance for her family Christmas card photo shoot.

  ‘So I assume putting the dog in a polar bear costume is to do with your white Christmas theme?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’ she replied, already moving on to another item on her to-do list.

  I shrugged. What could I say?

  She rolled her eyes, ‘Oh it probably offends your Green Peace, hippy dippy values to include my pet in the festive fun.’

  ‘I’m not sure the dog would see it as “festive fun”, but why ask me anyway? You’ll do what you want to do.' A determined woman, I knew Tamsin was quite prepared to rugby tackle the huge dog into his polar bear costume for the sake of her white wonderland theme whether he wanted it or not.

  My sister always embraced Christmas. And this year she was even more stressed and obsessive than ever, not least today as she was ‘dressing the house’ for the family Christmas card photo shoot. She called it her ‘little pre-Christmas tease’, and this year it was all about transforming her 18th century converted rectory into an Aspen ski lodge.

  ‘I don’t know why you can’t buy a box of mixed cards from Marks and Spencer and send them out like everyone else does,’ I sighed.

  ‘That’s exactly why,’ she hissed, ‘because everyone else does.’

  She marched past me into her designer kitchen where I followed to unload the mini mince pies I’d made. She stood against the counter top, clad in diamonds, perfectly groomed, smelling very French and fretting about her ‘Christmas colours and concepts’.

  ‘I know you think I’m silly, and it may have escaped your attention but Horatio’s a chocolate Labrador,’ she sighed.

  ‘I noticed.’

  She gazed ahead like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. ‘He won’t look good against a white backdrop. I just wish when we’d told the kids they could have a pet I’d fought harder for a white Persian cat instead.’

  ‘Mmm it’s tricky, but if he isn’t going to match your interior there’s nothing else for it. You’re going to have to send him to the kennels for the whole of December,’ I said with a straight face. ‘I mean something like that could ruin the season for everyone.’

  ‘Mmmm, that’s not a bad idea,’ she acknowledged absently.

  ‘I was joking,’ I sighed, but she was miles away, no doubt lost in St Moritz glitz.

  Tamsin’s Christmases were perfect, down to where exactly the turkey was raised (we’re talking a postcode) for the dinner, to the exact hue of each eye-wateringly expensive bauble on the tree.

  Even when the kids were little there were no dancing Santas or multi-coloured fairy lights, just a tailored tree that children weren’t allowed to decorate or touch. This was accompanied by perfectly placed Christmas floral arrangements, wreaths on most doors and swags in the accent colour of the season. My sister’s relentless pursuit of the best Christmas began almost a year in advance and themes and shades were tenaciously nailed down six months before.

  Fortunately I was merely ‘backstage staff’ in Tamsin’s life and able to dip in and out of the Angel-Smith family’s festive activities. Our family name was Angel, Tamsin’s husband’s was Smith so they’d hyphenated their surnames. I wish I could say this was Tamsin’s stand against paternalistic social power, and a rejection of outdated social constructs - but it wasn’t - it was just desperate social climbing because she thought it sounded posh.

  So luckily I was merely an onlooker, but I felt for my niece and nephew who, at nineteen and twenty-one, came home from their respective universities to be manhandled into animal onesies and ‘Christmassed up’. My brother-in-law Simon, Tamsin’s husband of twenty years, was never around and when he did turn up was always late and never really engaged with what was going on.

  ‘No one seems to be taking this seriously,’ Tamsin snapped, in between barking orders at children, the dog and Mrs J, the cleaner – who’d wandered in around 1992 and never left. I wasn’t quite sure how Mrs J found time to do the cleaning, what with reading tea leaves and Tarot cards and giving an often uncomfortable running commentary on what was going on in the house. This was invariably followed by her unique brand of advice and a Q and A debriefing with everyone in the village. Tamsin was horrified when complete strangers approached her in the street and discussed in detail the most intimate aspects of her life. When the vicar had asked Tamsin if she was still getting ‘hot flashes’ and a low libido it looked like Mrs J was finally for the high jump.

  ‘That’s it. She’s done it this time, discussing my perimenopause with the vicar – in depth if you please. I feel like I’m starring in my own reality show,’ she’d complained. But despite her brittle exterior and the vicar’s apparent intimate knowledge of her hormones, Tamsin didn’t have the heart to let her go. ‘That woman’s a pain in the bum but she’s the salt of the earth,’ she’d say with a fond smile.

  Right now Mrs J was standing, hands on hips, surveying the scene before her.

  ‘Oh Mrs J, there you are. Now, would you be kind enough to wipe the dog’s paws, he’s about to be photographed, it’s bad enough he’s brown he doesn’t have to be dirty too.’

  ‘Dog racist,’ proclaimed Hermione, my beautiful niece. She’d wandered into the kitchen and was now on autopilot peering into the fridge. ‘Anything to eat?’

  ‘No,’ Tamsin snapped, ‘not until the photograph’s been taken.’

  Hermione rolled her eyes and tried to slope off but Tamsin was on her. ‘So please spend the next few minutes doing something useful... like getting the dog into his onesie.’

  Hermione scowled and picked up the dog outfit between finger and thumb making a half-hearted attempt to catch poor Horatio who was now hiding under the coffee table.

  I’d made the mince pies (which Tamsin refused to call mince pies using an unpronounceable French name for them instead) and all I wanted to do was deliver them and leave. But as always I’d become embroiled in what my sister referred to as ‘creative chaos’.

  ‘Don’t leave the mince pies in the oven longer than a few minutes,’ I warned.

  ‘Can’t you stay and take care of them, sweetie?’

  ‘No I have to pick Jacob up from the childminder.’

  ‘Oh Sam, she won’t mind having him a few more minutes, he’s so delicious... let’s have a quick sherry,’ she said, grabbing the bottle. ‘We can talk about the Christmas confections you’re creating for my festive soiree.' I declined a drink as I was driving but she poured herself one anyway. ‘I don’t know what Heddon and Hall are up to in there,’ she said, referring to her interior designers, whose camp and unbridled enthusiasm for Christmas equalled my sister’s. ‘I’ve left them to it – I can’t bear to have one more conversation about swags, balls or fucking garlands.’ The posh voice made way for the broad Manchester accent – which it often did when we were alone and she’d had a couple of sherries.

  I smiled at her outburst.

  ‘Oh our Sam, why do I do it? Every year it’s the same. I decorate, organise the photograph, while I’m planning the Christmas drinks, the party...the bloody nibbles.'

  ‘Yeah,’ I added. ‘Nibbles? What the fuck are nibbles anyway? Just fancy crisps.’

  ‘Now now...that’s enough,’ she started. Drinks and nibbles were sacred to Tamsin, like communion bread and wine.

  ‘You can’t possibly enjoy Christmas, you’ve turned it into a career,’ I continued, ‘and all your “friends” are just competitive couples trying to outdo each other, from who has the best canapés to who has the biggest balls – and I mean that in every sense.’

  Tamsin pursed her lips disapprovingly. ‘Trust you to bring
balls into it. How’s Richard by the way?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ I said, ‘still handsome, still likes it and wants to put a ring on it.’

  ‘Well, you could do worse... I’d get a ring on it before he finds someone else he wants to put his ring on... that came out wrong, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not about Richard, it’s about me – you know that. I don't think anyone can ever take the place of Steve.’

  She nodded. ‘I know, but that’s not what Richard’s asking for. He’s not trying to take the place of anyone he just wants to be with you... and I don’t like to think of you alone.’

  ‘I’m not. I’ve got my beautiful son and my precious memories.’

  It was silent for a moment and Tamsin put down her glass. ‘I don’t want you to spend another Christmas feeling low and wondering what might have been, Sam,’ she said, looking at me with a sad expression on her face.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m determined to make the best of things and try and move forward. I feel more positive than I have for years and I really want to enjoy Christmas this year.

  ‘Yes love, you have to embrace Christmas for Jacob’s sake, I mean he’s six, he wants to get excited about Santa – he doesn’t want his Mummy sobbing all Christmas Eve.’

  I felt uncomfortable, and guilty. I still thought about him, but hadn’t actually cried over Steve for quite a while now. Perhaps time had finally begun to anaesthetise some of the pain?

  ‘I wonder what Christmas carnage the boys are creating in my living room?’ Tamsin said, sensing my unhappiness and changing the subject. She glanced towards the living room where Heddon and Hall, Tamsin’s interior designers, were embarking on her winter wonderland of impossible feats and ridiculous demands. This ‘photo shoot’ was the preamble to her annual ‘event of the season’, the Christmas party held three weeks later. Always perfectly managed, smoothly executed, lavished with as much preparation and money as Elton John’s Oscar’s after-party, it was, she insisted ‘thee event of the season’. My sister loved Christmas and had to squeeze every cinnamon and clove scented ounce from it – but the irony wasn’t lost on me. Tamsin spent so much time and money attempting to ‘capture the Christmas moment’ that what she actually captured was high-pitched anxiety and hair-on-end trauma. My sister wanted her kids to have everything she’d never had, and I got that, but somewhere along the way I felt it had lost its meaning and joy for all of them.