Chapter 1
Molly
TWELVE YEARS LATER
‘Iblame Nancy Meyers.’
I glug my white wine and sigh before continuing.
‘She completely oversold the single parenting thing. Like, I thought I’d be juggling making pains au chocolat at the chic deli I own with tending to the glossy vegetable patch in my picturesque home in Santa Barbara.
You know, the one with the Spanish-tiled roof.
Or taking walks on the beach and arranging hydrangeas in my all-white New England home. ’
‘And writing an award-winning Broadway show on the side,’ Jess points out with a fierce chuckle. Jess is co-founder of Sorrel Farm with her wife and has the loudest, dirtiest laugh I’ve ever heard.
I point at her with more vigour than I probably would if I wasn’t three glasses of excellent Sancerre down. ‘Exactly. While somehow living in America, obviously. And while also being courted by a hot, younger doctor.’
‘That’s exactly what happened to my friend Honor,’ my friend and colleague Evelyn muses. ‘Don’t write off the fantasy.’
I snort. ‘Honor Chapman is a real-life celebrity who looks like a supermodel. Of course she got herself a hot younger doctor and a Nancy Meyers-style happy ever after. I, meanwhile, have flour and sugar and something else that’s either food or bodily fluids in my hair, and I’m living on the charity of your lovely husband in his cottage, and my fucking au pair is absconding.
’ I glance at my watch. ‘And I’ve drunk too much, given I have to be up in, ooh, six hours.
Ugh.’ I tip my head back to the velvet squishiness of the sofa. ‘I give up.’
There’s a silence that sounds like pity.
It tells me I’m being a drain, and that I need to pull myself together and stop ruining everyone else’s evening.
This is girls’ night, after all. It’s a too-rare treat and, despite the five-am alarm call and the imminent loss of childcare that are both hanging over me, I’m thrilled to be here.
The Oast House at Sorrel Farm is a massive, double-height space that’s been gloriously decked out for Christmas and smells deliciously of pine and eucalyptus, thanks to the plump garlands bedecking the banks of French doors and the massive central chandeliers (old, converted cartwheels, if you must know).
It’s the hub of the entire resort, and I’m lucky enough to work here every day as the resident pastry chef in the charming, open-fronted kitchen at one end of the giant room.
It’s a luxury to work somewhere as inspiring as this, and even more of a luxury to enjoy it as a guest, sipping (or maybe mainlining) wine on plump sofas in front of the roaring open fire.
But the icing on the cake is the company I’m keeping tonight. These women are the best. Beautiful, inside and out, as warm as they are accomplished, they’re a rare breed. They may have started as colleagues, but they’re my dear friends now.
And did I mention all of them are sickeningly in love?
Jess and Zoe have been married for donkey’s years and had the vision to expand Jess’ parents working farm into a luxury resort, all the while turning the farming practices themselves over organic, and then to biodynamics, under the experienced watch of Evelyn’s husband, Angus.
Evelyn, Jess’ childhood friend, escaped down here when her famous chef husband came out as gay.
It must have been a horrific time for her, but Angus swept in to pick up the pieces, and they’re deliriously loved-up.
As is Sadie, our gorgeous blonde PR manager who’s just back from maternity leave, our in-house photographer Clara, and our events manager, Nora, who joined Sorrel Farm a few months ago.
They’ve all got the most amazing life partners, but Angus will always be my favourite.
I dated his brother, Max, for years when I was in my twenties, and Angus, who was quite a bit older than us, always treated me like a little sister.
Even now, over a decade after Max and I broke up, Angus looks out for me.
When my husband Felix walked out on me and our kids at the start of this year, for instance, it was Angus who got me the job of pastry chef here at the farm and insisted we move into his delightful cottage on a rent so low as to be laughable.
He’s a keeper. And Evelyn knows it.
I sigh now, hoisting my head off the sofa with difficulty. ‘Sorry, guys. I’m a pain in the ass. Ignore me.’
‘You are not a pain.’ Sadie mock-glares at me.
Motherhood seems to have mellowed her, but she’s definitely not someone I’d want to get on the wrong side of.
She’s badass, unless you’re her husband Ned, our Finance Director.
She squeezes my hand. ‘You’ve had a shitty time, and you deserve a lucky break.
I happen to think you’re incredibly resilient.
God, I can hardly manage one baby. I don’t know how you deal with two kids and no husband on top of the hours you do.
I’d be funnelling wine every single night. ’
‘Wine helps,’ I agree. ‘But I’ve caught a lucky break.
I have this job, and our cottage is so gorgeous.
And I have you. Not sure there’s a better place to work in the UK.
I’m happy to be here. I’m just a bit tired, and I’m worried about the childcare situation.
When Sylvie goes next week, I’m fucked.’
Evelyn sighs. ‘I wish we still had a live-in housekeeper. If we did, I’d lend her to you for a few weeks.’
‘I have no idea how you manage without twenty-four-seven help, Evie,’ Jess says, sloshing wine into Evelyn’s glass. ‘What happens when you have a late-night drink? Do you, God forbid, have to put the glass into the dishwasher by yourself? Or do you just leave it for Marta to find in the morning?’
We all laugh. Evelyn has a bit of a reputation for being high-maintenance. She’s the glossiest person I’ve ever met and is currently wearing a long, richly patterned dress that showcases her gorgeous chestnut hair and probably costs more than I make in a month.
‘Fuck off,’ Evelyn retorts good-naturedly. ‘I have a husband to load the dishwasher when Marta’s not around, don’t you know.’
Cue more shouts of laughter. There’s no doubt who wears the trousers in Angus and Evelyn’s marriage.
‘Why did she move out?’ Zoe asks in her quiet, softly accented voice.
Zoe is French and a gifted, intuitive chef whose cookbooks have taken Sorrel Farm’s profile to the next level.
I’ve been lucky enough to collaborate with her on the desserts section of her upcoming book.
She’s as serene as her wife is boisterous, and one of the most stunning people I’ve ever seen in real life.
Tonight, her braids are wound into a knot on top of her head, adding to her statuesque beauty.
Evelyn smirks. ‘It was fine having a live-in housekeeper when I had a husband who never wanted to lay a finger on me, because—oh, that’s right—he was gay, but now, let’s just say Angus and I value our privacy at home when the kids are asleep.’
‘Oh my God,’ I groan. ‘Too much information.’
‘That is a visual I did not need,’ Jess agrees. ‘Angus bending Evie over the kitchen island. No wonder they’re having works done on the house. Island reinforcement, probably.’
‘Stop. Please.’ Clara holds out a hand as if to protect herself.
‘Oh, come on. I bet you and Alex are just as bad,’ Nora says, reaching for the wine bottle.
Clara left her husband a couple of years ago for her high school sweetheart.
Alex Molloy is a national treasure, a celebrity personal trainer who’s one of the finest male specimens I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing in the flesh.
He’s a lovely guy, a fantastic stepfather to Clara’s twins, and so unbelievably attractive that I can barely string a sentence together whenever I bump into him at the farm.
‘Back at you,’ Clara tells Nora. ‘You tamed the stallion when you took on Theo Montague.’
Nora smiles like the cat who got the cream, and with good reason, because Theo is smoking hot and utterly besotted with her.
I cut in. ‘While I appreciate I’m being a moody horror, you all congratulating each other on your amazing kitchen-island sex lives is spectacularly unhelpful.’
‘You may have an amazing sex life soon,’ Evelyn says, wiggling her eyebrows at me mischievously.
‘No.’ I sit bolt upright in a panic. ‘Don’t even—’
She ignores me completely and turns to the group. ‘Our little blonde bombshell here has a date with Paul Lancaster next week.’
There’s a collective gasp around the table, and I slump back against the sofa. Too late. Bloody hell.
‘Thanks a lot,’ I mutter.
‘Paul Lancaster as in the Steve McQueen lookalike, who’s always on his laptop in the Oast House?’ Clara asks.
Sadie purses her lips. ‘Would you call him that? I’d say more, like, Josh Lucas circa Sweet Home Alabama.’
There’s a short and reverent silence as we all pause to appreciate that particular visual gift.
‘Either way, he is gorgeous,’ Evelyn says, ‘and he’s been following Molly around for months. She’s been oblivious, obviously.’
‘He’s very sweet,’ Zoe says. ‘And attentive. He pops up a lot when Molly’s on duty in the kitchens.’
I glare at her. ‘You’re supposed to be the discreet one.’
She smiles her beatific smile at me. ‘He’s a good man, Molly. Let him take you out and spoil you. It might be just what you need, ma chérie.’
‘Paul Lancaster is a definite catch,’ Nora agrees. ‘He’s incredibly charming, and when I organised that networking event for him last month, the women were flocking. Are you not interested?’
‘I am interested.’ I pause. ‘As in, I’m looking forward to it. I think. I’m just a bit nervous. And it feels… I don’t know, unlikely, maybe, that someone might want to date me.’
Jess gasps. ‘Are you kidding me? You’re drop-dead gorgeous. And if you wear your hair down for him, you’re very likely to give the poor guy a heart attack. I’m not surprised he’s been stalking you.’
‘He hasn’t been stalking me,’ I scoff. ‘He’s just been—sweet.’ And attentive. And kind. And he is very, very good-looking in a tanned, golden kind of way, which history has proven to be the exact way to my heart. And my underwear.
He’s a Sorrel Farm member who seeks me out whenever he’s working out of the Oast House, though it’s taken a while for me to thaw out enough to agree to a date with him. After what Felix did to me, I will not be letting a man into my heart—or my knickers—anytime soon.
‘I agree with Jess,’ Nora says. ‘Saoirse and I have huge girl-crushes on you. We’ve discussed it endlessly. She still asks me how you are.’
I laugh. Nora organised the wedding here for Theo’s brother Miles and his adorable now-wife Saoirse, and I created their wedding cake. ‘I’m pretty sure Saoirse is far too taken by her delicious husband to be thinking of me at all. But you’re very sweet.’
‘The Montague men really are delicious, aren’t they?’ Nora asks no one in particular, and I smile despite myself.
‘So where’s Paul taking you?’ Clara asks, and a flutter of nerves hits my stomach.
‘I don’t know. He’s left it up to me. What should I say? Dinner feels very formal. I don’t want to be trapped at a table with him for two hours. What if I have no conversation beyond the gingerbread village and the rising cost of school uniforms?’
I’m spearheading the construction of a vast and intricate German-style gingerbread village for the farm’s festive display. It seemed like a great idea at the time and now is proving to be an epic labour of love, hence all the sugary shit in my hair this evening.
There are concerned expressions around the table.
‘Maybe dinner’s too much pressure for you,’ Evelyn says, leaning forward to pat my hand.
‘Pressure?’ I’m alarmed. ‘You mean if he buys me dinner, he’ll expect me to have sex with him?’
Oh my God. Oh my God. Yes, he’s handsome, but I have no intention of having sex with an actual, real-life man, no matter what a pretence I make about being upset over the others’ sex lives.
‘God, no,’ Sadie says. ‘Chill out, Molly. Evelyn just means that dinner could be quite intense if you don’t know the guy. As you said, you don’t want to feel like you have to make conversation all night. Why not just suggest going to the Christmas market together?’
‘That’s a great idea,’ I say. The farm has a Christmas market which started a couple of weeks ago and runs the whole way through until Christmas. ‘We can stroll around, listen to some carols, have a couple of glasses of mulled wine. Good. Good.’
‘There you go,’ Jess says cheerfully. ‘All sorted, babes.’
‘I don’t have to kiss him on the first date, do I? Oh, God. I am so out of practice.’ And so fucked.
Sadie wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. ‘Only if you want to.’
‘Oh, God,’ I say again.
‘Wear your hair down for him,’ Evelyn suggests. ‘It’ll knock him out.’
‘You don’t know what my hair looks like down,’ I counter.
‘Exactly. We all want to see it.’
‘We’ll be lurking in the bushes at the market, watching you,’ Nora says. ‘I’m far too obsessed with wondering what your hair looks like loose.’
‘Thanks, ladies,’ I say, ‘but it stays up. Nobody sees my hair down unless I’m sleeping with them.’ Which, of course, means nobody sees my hair down, full stop.