off down the stairs to finish her shift, her Doc Marten boots thumping on the stairs like a kettledrum.
Kirstie stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror in her sister’s kitchen-diner. Emma was right. She did look tired – and older – and Emma wasn’t the first to have mentioned it that week either. But exhaustion was just an inconvenient side effect of putting every last ounce of effort into making Kirstie’s Kitchen the best it could be.
However, she refused to dwell on her obligatory sabbatical. What she had to concentrate on now was coming up with a believable excuse for not joining in with the tradition she had managed to avoid for the previous two years running – decorating the very last Harrison Christmas tree in The Dancing Duck.
She felt a dose of flu coming on.
Kirstie woke up the next morning to a sound she couldn’t quite place. Had someone left the radio on? If so, who? It took her a few moments to calm her raging heartbeat and realize that it was birdsong and her feathered friends were well into their second chorus. Splinters of ivory light sliced through the gap in the rosebud-adorned curtains her sister had hand-stitched when she decided to redecorate the guest bedroom at the same time as creating a nursery for Ethan.
Kirstie knew what a heartbreaking task that had been for Olivia, painting over the wallpaper she had chosen as a teenager – with the help, no, more like hindrance, of their mother – and adding a funky border depicting a traffic jam of trains, planes, and lorries.
As she pushed herself out of bed, regret surged through her veins that she hadn’t made the trip down to Cranbury to lend a hand with a paintbrush. She should have been there to support her sister in the last month of her pregnancy, to reminisce about the time their father had turned up with the most hideous brown and orange lampshade that he’d acquired at one of the ubiquitous auctions he frequented and the look of genuine surprise on his face when it had been summarily rejected.
She would bet her favourite Bijoux Baubles earrings on the fact that the same lampshade would still be lurking around somewhere in the loft. Her parents had stoically refused to part with any of their treasure, and neither she nor Olivia had been able to face the task of sorting through everything since their deaths.
She set the kettle to boil to make a cafetière of coffee and recalled what Olivia had said to her on the phone. Her sister expected her to have a rummage through that same treasure and decide if there was anything she wanted to keep – otherwise it was destined for Miles Morgan’s skip. A skip! As though it was all useless rubbish. Okay, her parents had been self-confessed hoarders, and yes, some of the things they collected – well, most of the things – could be classified as junk.
Yet, every item had been carefully selected and their preference for ‘previously loved items’ was an integral part of their characters, of their history, and therefore also part of Kirstie’s and Olivia’s lives. She couldn’t allow it all to be chucked away so carelessly by a stranger. But conversely, she couldn’t contemplate dredging up the courage to go through the cornucopia of cast-offs she knew loitered in every available closet and cabinet, every bookcase, shelf, and cupboard in the property her parents had lived happily in for over thirty years. No, she just couldn’t do it. And certainly not without Olivia by her side.
A familiar spasm of guilt shot into Kirstie’s chest. As she had not been there for Olivia during her decorating spree, it seemed only fair that she should step up to the challenge this time. She had to do this for her sister, and she had to do it before Olivia returned from Ireland.
She treated herself to a long, hot shower and some of Olivia’s Molton Brown shower cream. She washed her hair and left it to dry naturally into its signature corkscrew curls that she insisted were never tamed, even for her TV show. It might be the current trend to have locks that flowed like liquid silk, but no matter how hard she tried, or how much product she smeared onto her tresses, her hair had a mind of its own and refused to be controlled.
Kirstie refilled her mug from the cafetière and drifted over to look out of the kitchen window at the Old Barn across the cobbled car park, wondering what to do with the rest of the day. The weak December sunshine bathed the whole bucolic scene with a golden glow. In the distance, beyond the patchwork of fields that encircled the village, a light breeze tickled the canopy of oak trees to the rear of the Anderson farm. The farm’s surrounding outbuildings had been sold off and converted into homes, except for one, the largest, which Angus Anderson used as his business premises.
She smiled ruefully – she had Angus to blame for encouraging and prolonging her parents’ obsession with collecting useless bric-a-brac – for he was not only the local farmer but also the local auctioneer. Whenever he stumbled across a painting or a mirror or even an old-fashioned bicycle that he thought his old friend Don Harrison would like, he would tip him off so he could bid for it at the auction. That was why the Dancing Duck looked more like an auction room that Angus’s barn did!
A kernel of an idea curled into Kirstie’s mind, but she immediately discarded it as much too painful an option. But perhaps it was a solution. Maybe she should approach Angus to ask him to help out his best friend’s daughters by removing the paraphernalia of his friends’ lives and holding a huge auction in their honour. Perhaps she could look into donating a percentage of the monies to a charity that supported hoarders to declutter their lives. She knew Angus would agree readily, but could she do it? The answer was, at the moment, a resounding no.
She didn’t want to think about it, so she decided to go down to the bar and help out with the morning cleaning routine, then she would ask Leon if there was anything she could do for him in the kitchen. She would do what she always did whenever she was faced with difficult emotional issues – throw herself into a whirlwind of activity to chase away the demons. It was one of the reasons she lived such a frenetic life in the capital.
Kirstie was looking forward to spending time with Leon, chatting about the world of food. She loved the volatile French chef who had come to their rescue on the back of a Harley Davidson in those dark, dreadful months after her parents’ deaths. However, the Dancing Duck had Josh to thank for the serendipitous arrival of the potential Michelin-starred maestro. Josh had met Leon Blanchard in a seedy back street restaurant whilst backpacking around Thailand and they had hit it off straight away over copious samplings of Singha beer.
Leon had told Josh all about graduating from Le Cordon Bleu cookery school in Paris and his decision to broaden his culinary horizons by taking a tour of Southeast Asia before settling down to a real job. Unfortunately, the chef had only got as far as Pattaya when he had been robbed at knife-point and was biding his time until his Embassy had sorted out his replacement passport and he could return home.
Ever the food obsessive, he had turned a negative into a positive and offered to work in a local café to learn about Thai cuisine. He had loved it so had stayed on. However, when he met Josh he had confessed that the novelty was beginning to wear off and he planned on working in the UK. Josh suggested he contact Olivia and Harry and the rest, as they say, was history. The food at the Dancing Duck’s brasserie was the best that French cuisine had to offer for miles around and trade flourished – just not enough to keep the rest of the business afloat.
Kirstie knew Leon would find a job without any difficulty when the pub was sold, but there was one thing stopping him from jumping from the deck of a sinking ship before absolutely necessary and that was a certain quirky, jewellery-obsessed barmaid by the name of Emma Finch.
When Kirstie thought of Emma her spirits lifted. She slotted her feet into a pair of Olivia’s sparkly flip-flops, resisting a sudden urge to snap a picture for Instagram – why would anyone be interested? She selected a pair of bronze earrings Emma had donated to her sister so she could show them off to the patrons of the Dancing Duck, and rushed down the stairs. It was only when she reached the bar that it hit her with a force she wasn’t expecting, whipping away the joyous mood and the anticipation of spending a blissful morning talking culinary gossip with Leon.
Piled high in the middle of the floor were six huge cardboard