Chapter Reveal - Snowflakes and Cinnamon Swirls at the Winter Wonderland

Chapter 1

As I descended the stairs to the Wynthorpe Hall kitchen, the vacuum cleaner bumping along behind me, I couldn’t help but think about how eerily quiet the place seemed. As a rule, lunchtime was a bit of a free-for-all as the family, which included us staff, made a beeline for a place around the table to feast on whatever delicious fare the hall cook, Dorothy, had spent the morning preparing. I reasoned that the unusual silence would likely have something to do with Anna, something she had arranged, and I decided to play along with whatever my well-meaning friend had dreamt up. Though I was, for once, itching to get back to town. 

I had barely opened the door an inch before a rousing chorus of ‘Here Comes the Bride’ erupted. The vacuum was whisked from my grasp and the sounds of popping corks and party poppers filled the air. 

‘You twits,’ I laughed, as Anna pulled me into a 

suffocating hug. ‘Tonight is just my engagement party, not my wedding day!’ 

‘We know that, Hayley,’ she said, squeezing me tighter, ‘this is just a little taster of what we’ll have lined up for you here at the hall when the big day finally dawns.’ 

Anna had certainly pulled out all the stops. I knew there would be no one better to take on the roles of wedding planner and chief bridesmaid. 

‘And when can we expect to see the handsome groom- to-be?’ asked Angus, handing me a champagne-filled crystal flute. ‘I take it the Scorching Scaffolder will be coming to pick you up?’

Angus Connelly, the eccentric gent who was married to Catherine, the hall owner, had certainly found a fitting nickname for my ancé. 

Gavin Garford, aka The Scorching Sca older, had been practically everyone’s crush when I was at high school, and the subsequent years – combined with his job erecting and dismantling scaffolding – had played their part in turning a teenage tearaway into a fine specimen of manhood. 

Gavin and his workmates had been called to Wynthorpe Hall earlier in the year to construct a scaffold tower that we all hoped would keep Angus safe while he worked at a height. Gavin had wasted no time in asking me out, and the whirlwind romance that led up to his autumn proposal certainly lived up to the steamy fantasies I’d had about him as a teenager. 

‘I’m afraid not,’ I sighed, gently clinking my glass against 

Anna’s. ‘He’s working at the other side of Peterborough today and won’t be back until late this afternoon.’ 

‘Wouldn’t his boss let him take the day off?’ Jamie frowned. ‘There must be loads still to check over at the pub.’ Clearly Jamie – Angus and Catherine’s youngest son, and heir to the hall – wasn’t particularly impressed by my beau’s absence.
‘We’re both well aware of that,’ I responded with a cheeky 

grin, ‘but some of us don’t have a grand family hall to live in. We have to work all the hours god sends to save up ridiculous deposits just to buy poky ats in town.’ 

‘Still no news on the affordable housing front?’ asked Mick, the hall handyman, who also lived on-site. 

‘Not a word,’ I sighed. ‘At this rate we’ll be drawing our pensions before the council even approve the plans.’ 

‘You know you’re always welcome here,’ said Catherine, kindly. ‘We would be more than happy to accommodate you and Gavin if it meant you could secure your own home sooner.’ 

Catherine had been offering me a room ever since my final year at school when I’d found myself pregnant and was abandoned by my parents when they couldn’t stand the shame. At the time, my nan had been working as a cleaner at the hall, and her untimely death, along with my miscarriage, had ensured my education had never been properly finished. I had gone home soon after Nan’s funeral, but I gratefully took over her job. I loved working with the antiques, paintings and curios and had become something of a self-taught expert in historical conservation. 

‘Thank you, Catherine,’ I smiled at my kind-hearted employer, ‘I do know and, as always, I appreciate your gen- erous o er—’ 

‘But you’re not going to accept it,’ Jamie cut in. 

‘And be constantly on-hand to pick up your pants, Jamie Connelly?’ I batted back as Anna giggled and Dorothy tutted. ‘I don’t think so.’ 

Washing the family’s clothes had never been part of my job description, but teasing Jamie about his slack habits with the laundry bin was far easier than explaining why I needed to be at home; Mum and I may have had our di erences in the past, but I couldn’t leave her defenceless against Dad and his belligerent temper. I knew the time for me to move on would come at some point, but not just yet. 

‘And besides,’ I cunningly added, ‘we’ll be into November next week. You’ll no doubt be too busy planning for Christmas and packed to the rafters with more family and friends than you’ll know what to do with, won’t you?’ 

Moving the conversation on to Christmas was a mas- terstroke on my part. The mere mention of it had Angus bobbing up and down in his seat. I focused my attention on devouring Dorothy’s delicious sandwiches to soak up the zz, barely listening to the ideas Angus was rattling o , until the words ‘Winter Wonderland’ were spoken and I looked up to see Catherine’s face fall. 

‘Absolutely not,’ she said sternly.
‘But—’
‘No, Angus,’ she said again. ‘We’re going to be stretched to our limit as it is, what with the addition of the Christmas tree competition and the party on top of the usual sleigh rides.’ 

‘What Christmas tree competition?’ I asked, pushing my plate away. 

‘Have you not been listening at all?’ tutted Anna with a smile. ‘We’re hosting the tree-decorating competition this year because the church has so many December weddings booked that they haven’t got room for all the trees amongst the pews.’ 

‘It’s going to be spectacular,’ Angus joined in. Clearly, he could already picture it. ‘There were almost thirty trees last year, all decorated by a di erent community group. The one from the hardware store was a triumph, covered in mini tools and DIY materials. I thought it was the best by far.’ 

‘What with that and the party to raise funds for the char- ity,’ Catherine was quick to remind her husband, ‘I hardly think we’ll have the time or the manpower to establish this Winter Wonderland you’ve dreamt up.’ 

‘But as you just reminded us, Mum, we do already have the sleigh,’ said Jamie, catching his father’s eye, ‘and none of what Dad has in mind would encroach on the hall. Just a couple of extra tweaks outside and we could be in business.’ 

‘We could have a snow machine,’ said Angus, wistfully. 

‘Are you joining ranks with your father, Jamie?’ asked Anna. 

She sounded as surprised as the rest of us were no doubt feeling. 

‘Well,’ Jamie swallowed, ‘the charity is going to be closed 

throughout December so we could use the space in the courtyard, and we’ll have an extra pair of hands on-site to help out by then. A very practical pair of hands.’ 

Anna and Catherine raised their eyebrows in perfect syn- chronicity and I thought it was just as well that the charity, which supported bereaved children and young adults, was going to be closed if such extravagant festive plans were afoot. 

‘I’m not siding with him exactly,’ Jamie mumbled. ‘I just don’t think it would be all that tricky to set up, that’s all.’ 

That was as good as a green light to Angus, and I could already tell that a manic few weeks lay ahead. I might have drawn the focus away from my refusal of Catherine’s o er but, in the process, I’d opened up one heck of a can of tinsel- toting worms. 

‘So, who does this extra pair of hands belong to then?’ asked Molly, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway, her wild pre-Raphaelite hair framing her pretty face. 

Molly, with her white witch tendencies, had a spooky knack for popping up out of nowhere. She always looked to me as if she oated on a cushion of air, not setting her feet on solid ground like the rest of us mere mortals. 

‘Is it someone who is going to be passing through or some- one who is staying for good?’ 

‘Since when did anyone get away with passing through?’ laughed Mick, as he pointed rst at himself, then me, Dorothy and nally, Anna. 

We had all arrived at the hall on the understanding that we wouldn’t stay long, but that wasn’t how things worked here. Once Catherine, Angus, the dogs and the hall had found their way into our hearts, we were hooked – for good. ‘That’s true,’ Molly laughed, claiming the seat next to me and giving me an incense-scented hug. ‘I just wanted to pop in to wish you good luck for tonight, Hayley, in case I don’t 

get a chance later.’
‘Thanks, Molly,’ I smiled, squeezing her back.
I appreciated the fact that she had left the cosy con nes of 

her cottage in the woods, but I really didn’t need luck. It had been Molly herself who had read my tarot cards in the spring and had told me love would feature dramatically in my life before the end of the year. I admit I had been dismissive at the time, but then Gavin had turned up in his too-tight vest and set my heart pounding. Sure, he had a reputation, but who didn’t? As far as I could tell, he was the person Molly had predicted, and his timing couldn’t have been more perfect. 

‘So, who’s coming to stay?’ Molly asked again. 

‘A pal of mine,’ explained Jamie. ‘Someone I’ve known for ages and worked with out in Africa. He’s visited here before, too, but that was years ago. He’s agreed to take on the outdoor activities we o er at the centre, as well as adding a few more of his own design.’ 

‘I thought you were in charge of all that, Mick?’ 

‘I have been,’ he said, ‘but I’m not getting any younger and this chap has other skills Jamie can put to good use.’ 

‘You aren’t being put out to grass are you?’ I teased. 

‘No,’ he said, ‘of course not. I just want to get back into the garden. The students from the horticultural college coming out every week have made a massive di erence, and Catherine and I think now’s the time to think about a proper renovation.’ He sounded needled that I had suggested he was on the wind-down to retirement, so I winked to show I was only teasing.
‘You don’t change, do you, missy?’ He tutted, shaking his 

head. ‘I hope with a wedding to plan you’ll soon be more interested in your own goings-on than everyone else’s.’ 

I laughed at that. 

‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ I told him. ‘And on the topic of other people’s business, does this pal of yours bring some tragic baggage with him, Jamie?’ It was an unwritten rule – more of an assumption now – that everyone who turned up at the hall had some heartbreak they needed to heal from. We all had a sob story to tell. 

‘More to the point: when is he coming and where is he going to be staying? I’ll need to get cracking if I have rooms to prepare.’ 

‘He’ll be with us by the end of next month,’ Jamie explained, ‘and he’s moving into the gatekeeper’s cottage, so if you could give it an airing, that would be great.’ 

I noticed he hadn’t responded about his friend’s baggage, but I didn’t quiz him further. I was sure it would all come out at some point. It always did, whether we wanted it to or not. 

‘I’ll set a re going rst thing tomorrow,’ I told him, ‘and I’ll open the windows to get the air moving, that way the weather won’t have a chance to take hold and make it feel damp.’ 

‘And in the meantime, Hayley,’ said Anna, pushing back her chair, ‘we need to get you to town so you can prepare for your engagement party tonight. Are you ready?’ 

‘As I’ll ever be,’ I smiled, taking a deep breath as I prepared to meet my fate. 

The blurb

After calling off her engagement, Hayley, the Wynthorpe Hall housekeeper, wants nothing more than to return to her no-strings fun-loving self, avoiding any chance of future heartbreak. Little does she know, Wynbridge’s latest arrival is about to throw her plan entirely off course . . .

Moving into Wynthorpe Hall to escape the town’s gossip, Hayley finds herself immersed in the eccentric Connelly family’s festive activities as they plan to host their first ever Winter Wonderland. But Hayley isn’t the only new resident at the hall. Gabe, a friend of the Connelly’s son Jamie, has also taken up residence, moving into Gatekeeper’s Cottage, and he quickly makes an impression on Wynbridge’s reformed good-girl…

About the author

Heidi Swain is the Sunday Times bestselling author of five novels: The Cherry Tree Cafe, Summer at Skylark Farm, Mince Pies and Mistletoe at the Christmas Market, Coming Home to Cuckoo Cottage and most recently, Sleigh Rides and Silver Bells at the Christmas Fair. She lives in Norfolk with her husband and two teenage children.

Heidi Swain on Twitter: @Heidi_Swain Website: http://heidiswain.co.uk Goodreads - Amazon UK - Amazon US

Chapter Reveal -The Honey Trap by Karli Perrin

Prologue

In the beginning, I used to feel guilty when I seduced a married man.

I used to feel dirty when I kissed them.

I used to feel ashamed when their wives divorced them.

But now I feel nothing.

I am not to blame.

I am merely the catalyst.

I am the loaded gun.

I am the honey trap.

Chapter One

I focus on his wedding ring right before I close my eyes. His eager lips meet mine and I can almost taste his excitement. My mind goes into distraction mode as his tongue darts in and out of my mouth.

Tonight is what we call a half trap. This is where our clients are satisfied by photographs of their boyfriends or husbands kissing another woman. We wear a wire at all times so they also receive a recording of their partners planning to go home with us. Most women believe that planning to cheat is just as bad as actually cheating but some women need more. Some women refuse to believe that their man would actually go through with it. In other words, some women are stupid.

A full trap is where we take the men back to our place. Only, it's not our place. It's actually an apartment which the Honey Trap Agency (HTA) rents. Waiting inside are their scorned girlfriends or wives and sometimes the occasional lawyer. We also have an agency bodyguard on standby just in case things get heated but usually the men are too busy begging for forgiveness.

Our safety is a priority. If it's a full trap then we always insist on ordering a cab. Our driver, who is actually another bodyguard, will be parked up around the corner. They take our call then wait for five minutes before picking us up, which is always from a public place. On the rare occasion that a man insists on driving or calling their own cab, we end the trap and only charge our client for a half trap. We make a lot of money but nowhere near enough to put ourselves in any real danger.

I finally pull away when his hands begin to work their way down my back. I open my eyes and watch him for a moment, looking for any signs of indecision or guilt but they don't come. This guy's willing to go all the way. He smirks. "Wanna come back to my place, darlin'?"

I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to take me home to talk about the weather but I ask anyway for the recording. "What have you got in mind?"

He leans closer. "Have you ever had a multiple orgasm?"

I stop myself from rolling my eyes. "No," I reply, feigning innocence. Guys love the whole virginal act.

"Then I'll be your first."

Only in his dreams. If his wife doesn't leave him after tonight then they deserve each other. I grin seductively. "Let me go and freshen up first. I'll be back in a minute." I wink at him before walking away, swaying my hips as I go.

As soon as I step inside the restroom, I reach into my purse and take out my mini bottle of mouthwash. I always use too much but I like how it burns the taste of them away. After successfully numbing my entire mouth, I remove my wire and place it inside my purse just as the door opens. One of the agency photographers walks in and checks that we're alone before stopping in front of me. "Are you okay?"

I nod. "Did you get it?"

"Of course I got it." She takes out her camera and scrolls through several photographs. The first few are close-ups of his face so he can be clearly identified. The rest are shots of us kissing. 

I call my boss as we both exit out of the back. "It's done."

Title - The Honey Trap

Genre - Contemporary Romance

Release date - 13th September 2017

Pre-order links - Amazon UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B074LQG95B

Amazon US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074LQG95B 

Synopsis - 

After catching her childhood sweetheart cheating on her, Sophia Hamilton is hell-bent on stopping other women from getting played like she was.

And so the played becomes the player.

Fast forward two years and Sophia is now one of San Francisco’s most successful honey trappers. Getting paid to expose cheating men has become the norm but just when she thinks she has seen it all, she is offered a unique proposition which threatens to turn her entire world upside down.

Mason Hunter is a hotel tycoon, millionaire and cheater. Or is he? 

Sophia has six weeks to find out.

She quickly discovers that Mason isn't the only one keeping secrets and she becomes caught up in a tangled web of lust, lies and misplaced loyalties.

Lines are crossed. Rules are broken. The real Mason Hunter is about to be exposed. 

The hunt is on.

Author bio -

Karli Perrin is a twenty something, English Language and Linguistics graduate from Manchester, England. She has always been a big lover of books and was inspired to write her debut novel in 2013. She is a huge believer of fate and is a sucker for a happy ending. Her ultimate goal in life is to live in a house made entirely out of books with her fiancé and two children.
...Hogwarts is plan B.

#BookoutureXMas - Baking Cakes and Making Memories by Sue Watson + Exctract

Christmas is my favourite time of year and for the past two years I’ve had the pleasure of writing a Christmas novel – which means I squeeze even more Christmas into my life! This year’s book is inspired by several things in my life, but most of all by Christmas baking because it’s at this time of year we all let our imagination run away with us and create all kinds of magic in the kitchen. 

Just like Amy, the heroine in Bella’s Christmas Bake Off, I learned to bake with my mum and always ‘helped’ by licking the sweet cake batter from the spatula. Even now my mum still makes our Christmas cake and just cutting into that snowy white icing and releasing the fruity, brandy fragrance takes me back to my childhood.

Mum would always bake chocolate brownies with cranberries in at Christmas – and now my daughter bakes them too, always ‘helping’ by licking that spatula! When she was tiny she used to call them ‘Rudolph the Red Nose Brownies,’ because the cranberries reminded her of Rudolph’s red nose and that’s what they are now known as in our family.

As parents we often pass recipes down through the generations and now when I bake with my own daughter at Christmas I know she will one day bake some of those same cakes, biscuits and gingerbread houses with her own children.  And when she does she will remember, just as I do the fun she had as a child, baking with Mum at Christmas and how she ‘helped’ by licking that sweet cake batter from the spatula.

The recipe for Rudolph the Red Nose Brownies is in my Christmas book, Bella’s Christmas Bake off so everyone can enjoy baking them – and making a fresh batch of memories.

Chapter One

Naughty Custard and Severely Whipped Cream

I was icing the Christmas cake when he told me.

‘Amy...I have to talk to you,’ he said.

I lifted the palette knife to create a snowy effect on the soft, mallow frosting and stood back, then turned to him.

‘What?’ I was gazing at my beautiful frosty white cake. ‘Silent Night’ played on the iPod, and it was just three weeks before Christmas. I glanced up at Neil standing next to me, and the look in his eyes scared me so much I put down the palette knife.

‘What is it? Are you ill...has something happened?’

He nodded, slowly, his eyes still cold, like they belonged to someone else.

‘I was going to leave it until after Christmas to tell you, but I’ve...I can’t go on like this. Amy, I’m sorry but it feels like a charade to go through the whole Christmas thing and...I’ve met someone.’ He was standing in front of me now, making eye contact, ensuring the message was clear and there was no room for misunderstanding. My mind went blank. The pink tie I’d bought for him was loosened at his neck. He’d just come home from work.There were pork chops in the oven.

‘Is this a joke?’ There were no words for this. I’d sometimes imagined a scene where we parted, but it was usually the other way round and me telling him I was going. I wasn’t ready for this, now –ever.

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t live a lie any longer, Amy,’ he said, his speech obviously well prepared, learned by heart. I could see by his set jaw and steady gaze he was damn well going to say every word without interruption from me.

‘You’ve been so busy with work, you’ve got your friends and your life and I feel like there’s no room for me...’ he started.

‘Oh no, Neil. You sleeping with someone else is not my fault, so don’t even try to pull that one,’ I snapped, moving swiftly from shock to anger, aware I was spitting in his face– not pretty...or festive.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not blaming you, but I just...I want to be with her. She loves me, she cares what happens to me, asks me about my day...I’m sorry, Amy...’ He stood there, ashen-faced.

‘So after twenty years you’re just walking out on your marriage because some other woman asks if you’ve had a nice day?’ I was becoming irrational, but who could blame me? ‘Perhaps I should have made more like an American waitress and said ‘have a nice day,’ when I ‘served’ you your evening meal.’

The panic was rising in my chest, I couldn’t deal with people leaving, the thought of being on my own scared me. Things hadn’t been great for a long time between us, but he didn’t have to go and throw it all away– not now, just weeks before Christmas. I glanced through the living room door at the Christmas tree, the lights twinkling, gifts from relatives and friends already underneath.This was a time for being together, for rekindling love and family, not abandoning it.

‘I don’t understand?’ I asked, trying to calm down and not to bare my teeth like a wild animal. I didn’t know how I felt about Neil, but I wasn’t ready for this and I didn’t want him storming off into the night and leaving me alone. I needed to keep everything on an even keel, especially myself.  ‘I know we’ve had our problems Neil, but all marriages have problems, we just have to work at them.’

 ‘That’s what I thought too, but...she’s special.’

‘Special? More “special” than the woman you married, who you’ve been with for over twenty years,’ I snapped, losing any chance of staying calm at this.

‘No...of course you’re special too, but we both want different things, Amy.’

‘Yeah, you want someone else.’

‘It’s not like that...I care about her.’

So this really was it? After several years of our relationship hanging by a thread, one of us had finally decided to do something to end it, but now it was finally here I felt sick. I was about to throw up, but swallowed hard to prevent it. Whatever I might think about him, I didn’t want my husband’s last moments with me to be infused with the sight and smell of me vomiting noisily in the kitchen.

‘Who is she?’ I heard myself croak.

‘Someone at work, she works in the Legal department...you don’t know her.’

 ‘Well I do now, don’t I?’I started. ‘Because it looks like this woman who I “don’t know”has been playing quite a big part in my life without me even realising ...’

He just stood there with his head down like I was reprimanding him. He reminded me of one of the teenagers I taught at school who’d been found smoking or downloading porn on their iPhone.

 ‘Neil, the kids will be home from Uni in three weeks...and I made a cake...’ I gestured towards the snow-topped, perfectly iced confection like it would make a difference to his planned departure. Three minutes ago this beautiful fruit cake had, along with the Christmas Tree, been the centre and beginning of my pre-Christmas world. We both stared at the cake as though it held the answers and if we stared for long enough all the bad things would go away. But they didn’t, and when I looked back, the eyes staring out of my husband’s face were a stranger’s eyes.

‘When are you going?’ I asked, trying to bring myself round.

He shrugged, ‘Tomorrow...?’

I suddenly couldn’t bear another minute of this and as another wave of anger engulfed me, I called his bluff. ‘How about now? Go now,’ I said.

‘You think I should go now?’ He looked almost relieved, which hurt and angered me even more.

‘You can’t wait to leave, can you?’ I spat incredulously.

‘No, no... I don’t want to upset you...neither does Jayne; she’s so upset and feels terrible about everything.’

That did it.

‘Oh poor, poor Jayne is upset? Why didn’t you say? You must go to her, how selfish I am thinking only of me when she’s the one who’s devastated...I feel awful for keeping you.’

He made an awkward move towards me and I picked up the palette knife in a threatening manner like I’d seen crazy people do in crime dramas on TV. In that moment, with the panic rising in my chest, I felt just as mad as those wild murdering types, slashing around with a cleaver. It was just as well my weapon of choice was only a round-edged, blunt decorating tool and not a big, sharp chef’s knife,especially when I started waving it at himaggressively.

 He edged back along the kitchen wall like the wimp he was, flinching as I punctuated my harmless but dramatic palette waving with swearing and ridiculous threats.I couldn’t stop and the more he cowered, the more I flailed my ‘weapon’ around while starting on a detailed personality assassination. As therapeutic as this was,I had to stop because I was reaching volcanic levels and could feel a panic attack coming on. I stood back, put down the knife and leaned against the kitchen unit to get my breath back. Just as I put my head in my hands and he thought I wasn’t looking, the little coward made a bid for freedom. He weaselled his way out of the kitchen and ran upstairs to pack his pyjamas and toothbrush, without even asking if I was okay.

‘I could have died,’ I yelled at him as I heard his tentative steps on the stair carpet before he put his head round the door like a rabbit in the headlights.

‘I’m going to go now, because I think you need to calm down and me being here might just make things worse,’ he said, like he was dealing with a petulant child.

Too late. I had a brown paper bag over my mouth (which I always kept at hand in the event of a panic attack) whilst continuing to ladle a thick layer of snowy frosting on the cake on auto-pilot like a woman possessed. In my state of shock all I heard was him mutter something about calling me ‘tomorrow’, and as he walked out of the front door I cracked, picked up the cake and blindly chased him down the hall. Halfway down the drive he turned back and I saw the fear in his eyes as he spotted my frosty confection coming straight for his head accompanied by my season’s greetings;  ‘Happy bloody Christmas’, I screechedalong with other non-festive expletives I would rather not repeat. He ducked of course, but as the cake frisbeed past him and across the street the whole thing was witnessed by Alfie Mathews, the son of my neighbour, who also happened to be a pupil of mine. There was frosty icing everywhere, a large cake sliding down the garden wall, me standing in the doorwayscreaming like the madwoman in the attic ...and one of my pupils filming the whole spectacle on his mobile.

It was all very surreal and I was so distressed and disorientated I couldn’t face tackling the film-maker sojust staggered back indoors.

Once inside I slammed the door, sat down on a chair, and marvelled at how in less than thirty minutes my life had melted like snow in hot hands. Everything I thought I had, everything I’d thought I was,had gone in a whirlwind...along with the now smashed Christmas cake.

Eventually, I stirred and picked up the TV remote without moving from my seat in the kitchen, and turned on the TV.

‘Ooh you have to have squidgy ones,’ the voice purred from the screen on the wall. Neil had put it up there a couple of years ago because I liked to watch cookery shows in the kitchen, particularly Bella Bradley’s shows, and the ‘squidgy ones’ to which she was now referring were chocolate brownies, which as always looked perfect – but then she had no need to throw them at anyone did she? I stared at the screen numbly. It seemed as though as my life was collapsing, while Bella’s was going from strength to strength. Each year she and her lovely home seemed to be glossier, more expensive, her Christmas cakes more ornate, her tree taller. Bella’s eyes glittered from her fairy lit kitchen, colour matched in red and green with a hint of classy sparkle. The long dark hair, luscious red lips and happy marriage made her look at least ten years younger than she was and despite loving her show I couldn’t help but sometimes feel a twinge of resentment. I wished my life had been as glamorous and successful as Bella’s and felt the envy and regret even more keenly after what had just happened. I found vague comfort in watching Bella add mixed spice to a bowl, stirring vigorously, causing the reindeers on her tight red ski jumper to frolic across her full bosom. I wondered for the millionth time what it would be like to have Bella’s Christmas, her marriage – her life.

What made the contrast in our very different lives so painful was that Bella Bradley used to be my best friend. We’d once shared everything, from secrets to perfume to clothes, we’d been best friends from our first day at school and watching her now on screen I found it hard to reconcile this well-groomed, accomplished woman with the crazy, funny friend I used to love. When we were kids Bella was the one who took risks while I stood on the sidelines watching in awe, and sometimes horror, while she got herself into the most horrific scrapes. Throughout her school days she had been involved in smoking, playing truant, swearing and writing obscene words on the gym wall – yet still she seemed to charm her way out of it all. I didn’t have her charisma or her daring; I suppose that’s why Bella’s a TV star and I’m a maths teacher, I thought, absently watching her whisk up a batch of chocolate brownies with the kind of noises one would associate with an orgasm.

‘Ooh that’s very, very naughty,’ she was saying, her eyes looking into the camera, a tight close-up of just her tongue licking chocolate-covered fingers I assumed were her own. Mind you, from the sounds she was making one had to wonder if her delicious husband was somewhere off camera reaching into her red-lipsticked mouth. Who knew what was going on behind that soon to be batch of warm bad boys?

Just thinking about Bella’s husband reminded me of my own, or sudden lack of - making my stomach churn. I tried to shake the thought of Neil having sex with another woman from my head while pacing around the house, wondering what to do, asking myself so many questions. Had I known, or at least suspectedhe was having an affair? Had I become lazy and complacent, not necessarily wanting Neil around, but not brave enough to make any changes? There were times when I’d doubted if Neil and I would make ‘forever’, but they were just blips weren’t they? Didn’t everyone go through times when they wondered if they’d married the right person? You just got on with it, which is why I was so surprised to find myself suddenly single. I wandered into the living room and stared at the Christmas tree I’d put up the previous week. It had been decorated with hope and anticipation for the season ahead. I’d hung each bauble imagining the four of us sitting round a glistening turkey on Christmas day lit by the glow of that tree. But looking at it now, days later, I felt nothing–just sad and disappointed.

It was an ancient white tree, and even the sparkly white fairy now looked less like a sparkly young girl and more like Miss Haversham, the ageing bride whose groom had left her on her wedding day.

I couldn’t take it in, I looked at the sad fairy seeing myself reflected back - Neil had gone and my Christmas was over before it had begun. Then my eye caught the icy blue bauble we’d bought together on a trip to Paris one Christmas. Carefully plucking the bauble from the tree I held it, feeling the cool Christmas roundness in my palm. There was a raised hand-painted picture of a glittery, snow-covered Eiffel Tower, a lovely memory I hung every year and went straight back to the French Christmas market where we’d bought it. Holding the bauble, watching it sparkle,I was on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées,more than twenty years before, a cold wind was swinging the lights on the stall and heavy rain splashed our faces. Neil and I had been so young and in love back then we only saweach other in the twinkle of fairylights in the rain. It was bustling with noise, festive music played and the air was heady with Christmas as we held hands and chose our special souvenir of our first holiday together. I was eighteen. Looking into the bauble now, watching the glitter change from white to pink to blue as I twirled it I felt sad for what we’d lost. Then I remembered with a jolt how later on that evening we’d argued about something trivial and Neil stormed out of the hotel. He came back very late and quite drunk and I cried all night while he slept soundly next to me. We barely spoke to each other all the next day, despite it being Christmas Day, and my dreams of Christmas in Paris floated off down the Seine. Funny how I’d forgotten about that, perhaps Neil’s leaving had made me more cynical, more aware of what we were, and not what I’d wanted us to be? I should have known then we wouldn’t last; if a couple fall out in the city of love on Christmas Eve then cupid’s trying to tell them something. We were such different people, Neil and I, and in those early days I’d naively thought he would change, but he never did.

I thought of all the Christmas Eves since then that the kids and I had waited for him to come home.They always wanted to wait for Daddy, but he was usually ‘caught up at the office,’ and I was so busy making Christmas for them I didn’t have the time or the energy to worry where he was. I did everything without him, not just Christmas,  but days out, barbecues in the garden, even parents’ evenings - it was usually just me and the kids. I lived like a single mum, with Neil working away, late at the office or on a golf course somewhere (though there were times I queried his ‘night golf’ sessions, which went on way too late for my liking). Suddenly, it dawned on me, perhaps he wasn’t busy or golfing – perhaps he just didn’t want to come home to me? While I was imagining pitch black golf courses and heavy late night meetings he was ‘going home’ to Jayne from the legal department. As my thoughts drifted back over my marriage to Neil, I realised I had stripped the Christmas tree until it was bare and everything was packed away. All trace of Christmas gone.

I was now alone, I had no husband and all I could think was ‘How will I tell the kids?’ My only consolation was that the twins were now both away at their respective universities and though the break-up of their parents’ marriage would hurt, it wouldn’t impact on their lives as it might have when they were younger. Resentment rose in my chest and I was glad Neil wasn’t there with me because I had a whole block of kitchen knives and who knew what might have happened? Neil and I didn’t have an idyllic marriage, we didn’t ravish each other passionately every night of the week, life got in the way. Neil needed new friends, sparkly objects and flashing lights in his life – whereas I was happy with the status quo and a nice cup of tea.

I returned to the kitchen, my Christmas was over, but Bella was still on the TV creating a Christmas heaven in her home.

‘People laugh when I put bananas in my trifle,’ she was saying, making her eyes wide, her mouth forming a soft O. ‘But I implore you, if you do nothing else this Christmas –have a go with a big banana.’ This was breathed into the lens rather than actually spoken, and was pure cooking porn. ‘Whisky soaked, damp with alcohol, crushed nuts, a scattering of sour cranberries to cut through that icky-stickiness and snowy peaks of cool, white, severely whipped cream. Oooh,’ she was now dipping her finger in the cream, eyes closed, licking slowly, she was no doubt engaging more viewers than just the country’s amateur chefs. Every straight male and gay woman in the UK must have been transfixed by Bella’s culinary Christmas spectacle. I bit my lip, she was too much. Even Nigella would baulk at ‘severely whipped cream’ to describe a bloody trifle.

‘Bella’s Christmas Bake Off’ always started in early December and for years had prepared me and the rest of the country for the culinary season ahead. Bella basted beautiful, golden turkeys, cooked crispy roast potatoes, baked magnificent cakes and biscuits, causing power surges throughout the country as people turned on their ovens and baked. She would sprinkle lashings of glitter, special olive oils, the latest liqueurs and all in a sea of Christmas champagne bubbles.

Bella’s style was calm, seductive, and gorgeous. Her very presence on screen made you feel everything was going to be okay and Christmas was on its way. She didn’t just stop at delicious food either – her tables were pure art and her Christmas decorations always the prettiest, sparkliest, most beautiful. Bella Bradley had an enviable lifestyle and she kept viewers transfixed all year round, but her Christmases were always special. Her planning and eye for detail was meticulous, from colour-matched baubles to snowy landscapes of Christmas cupcakes and mince pies – and soggy bottoms were never on her menu.

 So in an attempt to forget my own life and fill myself with something like Christmas cheer,I watched Bella now, as she poured the whipped cream on ‘naughty’ custard. Oh if it were only the custard in my life that was ‘naughty,’ I thought as sheadded edible pearls for decoration, fingering each one as she pushed them firmly into the cream. I sat in my little kitchen just waiting for the Christmas sparkle to land on me, the frisson of Christmas baking, the preparation, the anticipation that always came with the first ‘Bella’s Christmas Bake Off.’ But this year I just couldn’t get excited by her baking or her beautiful, twinkly home or her magnificent tree. She had everything – and I had nothing...which had always been the case, but now I didn’t even have a husband anymore.

Bella’s husband, Peter Bradley, or the Silver Fox, as Bella affectionately referred to him, was gorgeous. He was a foreign news correspondent who, when he wasn’t making ‘impromptu’ appearances in Bella’s busy kitchen during the show, could be seen on battlefronts across the globe. He’d wander into Bella’s kitchen all five o’clock shadow and war-weary as she iced her voluptuous buns or titivated her tarts. He always looked quite out of place in this domestic idyll after doing a piece to camera in a war-torn city, but he was obviously happy to support his wife’s career by just being there. Unlike my husband, he hadn’t left her alone at Christmas for another woman – he’d stayed by her side, happy to brush the flour from her décolletage and stick his finger in her buttercream.

‘The Silver Fox loves my plump, tasty breasts,’ she was now saying while tearing at tender white turkey flesh with a knowing look. Peter was there in all his war-torn glory, taking her proffered morsels with a twinkle in his pale blue eyes, a crinkly smile on his well worn features. He was so handsome, fit for his late forties, and no doubt, given his career, very strong, intelligent and brave. He was the perfect accessory to Bella, bringing just the right amount of rough masculine charm and good looks to her glossygirlishness. And as a delicious bonus, the Silver Fox wasn’t afraid to show his feminine side judging by the previous year’s Christmas special, when he’d flown in from Iraq to whisk cream in nothing but combats and a tight vest. I was transfixed - trust me, Christmas had come early!

Bella was now informing us that we had to rehearse for Christmas Eve. Rehearse? As if one Christmas stress-fest wasn’t enough? She was wearing silk pyjamas and a girly grinwhich, given my current state, seemed to me like she was bordering on smug.

‘So, imagine it’s Christmas Eve – the turkey has soaked in something fabulous, and so have I, and now I’ve put my jim jams on,’ she giggled, shaking her breasts for no apparent reason – she did that a lot.  I noted with envy how her chocolate brown eyes matched the chocolate brown silk of her pyjamas and considered my own nightwear, a pair of frail pyjamas, once pale pink now edging towards grey after too many washes. If I needed any proof that her life was completely different to mine – it was all there in those ancient pyjamas.

‘Me and the Silver Fox just love a pyjama party at Christmas,’ she twinkled, a little wink and a sip from the crystal flute.‘But then, don’t we all?’

‘Speak for yourself,’ I said, turning off the TV and finishing the last of a bottle of cava I’d found in the fridge. Oh yes, Bella Bradley had always been the lucky one, even when we were kids – but it didn’t stop me loving her – she was my best friend. Then, when we were eighteen I did something stupid which affected her life so profoundly she left the area where we lived and I hadn’t seen her since. I tried not to think how our friendship had been destroyed by what I’d done all those years ago. I still felt guilty about what had happened and longed for her forgiveness. Watching her on screen was the nearest I would ever get to her, and despite the odd twinge of envy I found it therapeutic to see her in a wonderful new life, knowing she was okay... even if I wasn’t.

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About the author

Sue Watson was a journalist on women’s magazines and national newspapers before leaving it all behind for a career in TV. As a producer with the BBC she worked on garden makeovers, kitchen takeovers and daytime sofas – all the time making copious notes so that one day she might escape to the country and turn it all into a book.

After much deliberation and copious consumption of cake, Sue eventually left her life in TV to write.  After a very successful debut novel, Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes, Sue signed with Bookouture and has gone on to write four fabulous books.

www.suewatsonbooks.com