Snow Angels, Secrets and Christmas Cake

P
ublished 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.

T
o 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

A
nd 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.

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

‘
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 18
^th
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.

Looking at her now, all stress and self-importance, it was hard to imagine her having a laugh and letting her hair down. As her sister, I knew Tamsin had the capacity for ‘fun,’ it was just executing it that was a problem for her.

‘Tam, do you really think it’s worth all the stress? There are better things to spend money on, surely?’

‘Oh I know it’s meaningless and my head tells me there are children dying of hunger when I’m spending all that money on a few decorations,’ she said, taking a large glug of sherry. ‘So I buy more baubles, write a cheque to Oxfam and have another fuckin drink.’ She was now full-on Northern accent, all the clipped tones and long vowels disappeared in a puff of sherry.

‘Ok love, just write that cheque, get through December and worry about global hunger in January – you’ve got canapés to think about,’ I laughed.

‘Yeah, well you can laugh, but imagine if my party didn’t go ahead?’ she said aghast.

‘Oh stop, that’s too horrific to contemplate,’ I joked, but she nodded like I meant it.

‘I’m not like you, Sam. I can’t throw a few mince pies in the oven, put me feet up and call it Christmas.’

‘Thanks!’

‘Oh you know what I mean. You just let Christmas happen, you were never one for big Christmas events and parties ...even before.’

I nodded, and it hung there a few seconds until Tamsin moved on – as she often did when faced with something less than perfect. So she put on her posh voice again, despite the alcohol, and increased it by ten decibels.

‘This year I want glittery, celeb-drenched glamour... my soiree will be the swirling centre of Cheshire’s social scene,’ she half-joked.

‘And you’re hoping to achieve that in three weeks with a box of expensive baubles and two inebriated old queens?’ I said, but she just gazed ahead. Perhaps she was suddenly too overcome with her Christmas plans to respond? Her phone tinkled and she checked her messages; ‘Great, Simon’s working late again...today of all days. He knew it was Christmas family photograph day.’

I rolled my eyes and made a sarcastic comment as she read out his latest lame excuse for not being there for her.

‘There’s always something to do late at the office, isn’t there?’ I said sarcastically.

‘Yes – as you know, Simon is very conscientious and never clocks off,’ she shot me a look.

I could have made more remarks, but left it, the mood she was in it was probably best not to pursue that one.

Tamsin poured herself another sherry. ‘Oh dear, I was hoping Simon would be home to get the dog into his onesie. That dog will do anything for Simon, last year he let him suspend him from the roof by his back legs for our charity performance of Peter Pan.’