Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
EVIE
Noah’s text popped up on my screen just after I’d got back from my ice-skating session.
There was something completely exhilarating about skating in the snow, although I’d forgone my little red skirt in favour of something a bit warmer.
I had something special saved for our trip to the Rockefeller ice rink scheduled for tomorrow.
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t mentioned this to me yesterday.
I hurried to change as there wasn’t much time, and dashed down the corridor to the lift. An air of quiet calm ruled the dining room in the mornings, as if preparing and fortifying the guests for a busy day ahead.
‘Morning, Elfie,’ said Raoul. ‘Usual table?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said and headed for the table in the alcove.
‘Morning, Evie,’ said Mrs Evans, lifting Monty’s paw and waving at me.
Morning, Mrs Evans. Morning, Monty,’ I said and sat down opposite her.
‘Your young man joining us?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, glancing at my watch. ‘I thought he’d be here.’ It was ten past nine. Not like Noah to be late. Then I looked up and saw him weaving through the tables towards us, carrying a box with as much care and delight as if it were the World Cup trophy in the box.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said and placed the box on the table.
‘Morning, Noah, dear. Have you been training this morning? You look…’ Mrs Evans’s eyelashes fluttered, ‘hot.’
He smiled at her. ‘And you’re looking very elegant this morning. How’s Monty? Did he have a good night?’
‘He did. I didn’t,’ she said indignantly, patting her perfect white helmet.
‘He had the most terrible gas.’ Her voice boomed out through the dining room.
‘Honestly, I might as well have a husband. Although at least he doesn’t snore …
well, not too loudly. I bet you don’t snore, do you, Noah?
’ Her coy expression made me smile and I watched poor Noah to see how he would handle her.
‘A gentleman never tells, Mrs Evans. How was your poached egg this morning?’
Mrs Evans’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’m tempted to say unfertilised, alas, but that wouldn’t be proper, and I wouldn’t like to embarrass you two young things.’
I almost spat my tea out at that one. The woman had mischief in spades, it was probably written all the way through her like a stick of rock.
‘Are you going to tell us what’s in the box, Noah?’ she asked. ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself. Is it a selection of sex toys?’
Martin, who was more than used to Mrs Evans and her wickedly direct tongue, wasn’t on duty this morning, and the poor boy standing in for him turned bright red, his eyes bulging as if he weren’t sure whether to laugh or run away.
Noah, on the other hand, was more than man enough for Mrs Evans. ‘Funnily enough, it isn’t. Although it is something for Evie.’ He gave Mrs Evans a wink.
‘I knew I liked you,’ she said approvingly, taking out her hip flask and putting a quick dash into her coffee cup.
I craned my head towards the shoe box. ‘A present for me?’
‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to wait to find out. But you’ll both like the outcome.’
‘That’s cryptic,’ I complained, and my hand strayed towards the box, which Monty was sniffing enthusiastically.
Noah moved it out of reach. ‘Not until after breakfast. We have a date with Maxim, one of the chefs.’
‘In the kitchen?’
‘I believe that’s where chefs are generally found,’ he said, a smile dancing around his eyes.
‘Oh, don’t be tedious, Noah. I hate surprises and I’m sure Evie does, too.’
‘Not always,’ I said, remembering Noah turning up with the Christmas tree. That had been a nice surprise. I usually preferred to be the one doing the surprising, though. I liked to know what was going on, which gave me the choice of opting out of something I didn’t want to do.
‘Right, let’s go find Maxim,’ said Noah twenty minutes later, having eaten breakfast. He picked up the box.
‘Have a good day,’ chirruped Raoul as we left.
‘Another one to add to my guest list,’ I said. ‘And Martin.’
‘How long is the list?’ asked Noah.
‘Long enough – but I’m not going to be able to buy gifts for everyone.’ That was worrying me, because obviously there were people like Danny, Carol and Angel that I wanted to buy for, but I didn’t want anyone else to feel left out.
‘Don’t worry, I have an idea,’ said Noah.
We met Alicia in the lobby. Guests weren’t normally allowed anywhere near the kitchens, but she had worked her magic.
The kitchen was vast – or rather, it was a series of kitchens, each responsible for different things.
There was a strict hierarchical control at each post, with teams of white-clad staff moving quickly but with purpose.
It was obvious that everyone had a place and it all worked with mechanical precision.
Alicia introduced us to Maxim, a tall rangy man with a very full, reddish moustache and a broad chest.
‘Good morning and welcome to The Plaza kitchens. Let me take you to the patisserie section.’ With an amazing turn of speed, he led us to another area weaving through the throng, despite his size, with a dancer’s grace.
In fact, the whole scene reminded me of a ballet, with people swirling in and around a giant stage with carefully choreographed moves.
He led us to a large stainless-steel table and Noah put down his box. Now I was really intrigued. As Maxim produced a couple of aprons, Noah opened the box.
‘Sophie sent these over for you,’ he said and pulled out two large glass jars which had been nestled in bright red tissue paper. There was also a typed recipe sheet.
‘Oh, my goodness! Mincemeat,’ I exclaimed with a hot rush of happiness. ‘What a sweetheart.’
‘I thought maybe you could make them as gifts to give out at your party, but the deal is we have to let Sophie have some.’
‘Was this your idea?’ I asked him quietly.
He shrugged, and I immediately thought of what he’d said about me shrugging. ‘That’s my tell!’ I laughed.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide. I like mince pies, too.’ There was a tinge of pink along his cheekbones. I circled the stainless-steel table and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Thanks, Noah.’
‘It’s nothing. Besides, it’ll make a great photo shoot. The wholesome couple cooking together.’ He winked at me. ‘It’ll do my rep the power of good. The hard man in touch with his baking side.’
I laughed. ‘What hard-man rep?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Yeah, I’m no Roy Kent.’
Maxim interrupted.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He waved at the table, which was set up with everything we’d need.
It reminded me a bit of the domestic science class at school.
‘Please send someone for me when you’re ready to put the mince pies in the oven.
Patrice here will be around if you need anything.
’ He indicated a small dark woman working at the next table who was piping meringue swans onto greaseproof paper with great precision.
‘Gosh, that looks very clever,’ I said, impressed by her nimble fingers and each perfect swish of the icing bag.
‘By the time you’ve done a hundred, you get quite proficient,’ she said, with a smile.
‘They’re for the Christmas Day buffet. So they have to be perfect.
We’ve been planning for it for weeks. It’s a really big deal in New York.
Tickets are over two hundred and fifty dollars a head and sold-out weeks ago.
It’s a real tight operation. Are you planning to come for lunch? ’
‘Yes,’ I said, remembering that it had been one of the first things Carol on the front desk suggested when I checked in.
Patrice turned back to her work, while I eyed the unfamiliar brand of flour and the pats of butter.
‘Okay, boss, where do we start?’ asked Noah. ‘I haven’t got a clue.’
I picked up the recipe that Sophie had kindly included and smiled at the words she’d typed beneath it. Good luck and have fun.
‘First we have to make the pastry,’ I said.
‘Why does that sound like a threat?’ asked Noah. ‘Doesn’t it come in packets in the supermarket?’
‘Not at Christmas!’ I told him with mock horror. ‘My mum always made the pastry.’ A vision of her in the kitchen, running her wrists under cold water to make sure her hands were cold popped into my head. ‘She always said, “The secret to good pastry is cold hands and a warm heart.”’
‘Why the warm heart?’ asked Noah.
I sighed, remembering asking a similar question as a child. ‘Because if you care when you cook it always tastes better … according to my mum. Funny, I’d forgotten that. I haven’t made mince pies in years.’
‘And cold hands?’
‘Ah, that’s easy,’ I said with a dismissive wave, ‘if your hands are warm, it releases the fat from the butter and makes the pastry less flaky.’ I was still thinking about Mum and the other things she’d said that had remained deeply buried.
She’d said the same about wrapping presents, making sure all the corners were tucked in neatly, even though we used newspaper or brown paper and last year’s ribbons.
She put a lot of thought into presents, and because we were broke, most of them were homemade or charity-shop finds.
Despite that, she was meticulous about wrapping each one as beautifully as she could.
Then they’d be finished off with a gift tag made from the previous year’s Christmas cards, which we’d cut up with an old pair of pinking shears that had belonged to my gran.
I gripped the table, suddenly stricken with guilt, hollow with regret that I’d abandoned Mum’s traditions and let them die with her.
‘Evie, are you okay?’
Trust Noah to notice.
‘Not really,’ I said, so quietly I wasn’t sure he’d heard over the noise of the busy kitchen.
He came round the table and put his arm across my shoulders. ‘Hey. Want to tell me about it?’
I lifted my face, my eyes brimming with tears.
‘Not really.’ And I didn’t. I didn’t want to own up to my cowardice to Noah.
Not admit out loud that I’d been running away from Christmas all these years, deliberately avoiding the pain and memories.
Mum had loved Christmas, every last minute of it.
She made it bright, fun and happy, even when she was desperately ill.
I felt ashamed that I’d not adopted her spirit but let my grief hang over me like a pall, deliberately eschewing any enjoyment and happiness.
It was not what she would have wanted for me.
I’d been going through the motions, focusing on the material elements of Christmas instead of the meaning.
I straightened up. Now was as good a time as any to start making some changes. Mum had loved making mince pies – and she’d insisted they were done properly with tiny holly leaves and berries decorating the top of each one. We had work to do.
At my direction Noah weighed the flour and the butter while I put the mixing bowls in one of the freezers to make sure they were ice-cold, which is exactly what my mum had done. His earnest expression made me smile and made me feel mischievous.
I stepped behind him, deliberately bringing my body flush with his and put my hands around him. He smelled so good, I couldn’t resist kissing the side of his neck.
‘Like this,’ I said, touching his hands and guiding them to the bowl.
‘Now what?’ he asked huskily.
‘Like this,’ I whispered against his neck, standing on tiptoes, taking his hands and dipping them into the flour.
‘Feels soft,’ he murmured, ‘like your skin.’ A flush streaked up my body. He wasn’t supposed to turn the tables.
‘You rub the butter between the flour and your fingers but gently.’
‘I know how to be gentle,’ he said, pressing back against me.
I giggled. It turned out, trying to show someone how to rub butter into flour from behind isn’t that easy. I sidestepped and moved in front of him.
‘Like this,’ I showed him, and it was my turn to pay the price as he caged my body against the counter, tugging my ponytail to one side to scatter kisses down my neck.
‘Behave,’ I muttered, looking around, but the kitchen staff were all focused on their work, not even glancing our way.
‘Why?’ asked Noah.
‘Because making pastry needs to be done with care.’
‘I thought that’s what I was doing,’ said Noah with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows.
‘Focus on the job,’ I told him.
He pouted and it was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen. ‘I seem to recall you started this.’
‘And now I’m stopping it.’ I laughed. ‘Otherwise we’ll never get this pastry made, and I’ve got a party to plan.’
Before long we had smooth balls of pastry in front of us.
‘They need to rest in the fridge for at least half an hour,’ I told him. ‘So, we’ve got time for a coffee.’
‘Do you want to try making some meringue swans?’ asked Patrice.
‘I’ll go and get coffee,’ said Noah, looking down at the table of swans with an expression of fear.
‘Coward,’ I said.
‘Absolutely. Be back in a while.’
By the time he came back with coffee, I’d almost perfected a meringue swan, although for accuracy’s sake, ugly duckling would be a better description. The wings were a bit short and stubby as was the neck, and the base was rounder and fatter than Patrice’s swans.
‘At least I’ll be able to spot mine,’ I joked.
Once we started assembling the mince pies, as usual Noah turned it into a competition, asking Patrice which she thought looked better, even though his holly berries were more like a pile of snowballs.
Patrice shook her head and refused to be drawn. Instead, she borrowed my pastry cutter and in half the time that either of us had managed, knocked up three mince pies and decorated them with perfectly placed holly leaves complete with three, in-proportion pastry berries.
She beamed at us, and Noah and I looked down at her mince pies, which looked a million times more elegant than ours. ‘That’s how it’s done,’ she said with a cocky smile, raising one of her dark brows in a perfect arch.
I glanced at Noah, but he was looking at me with a soft smile on his face. ‘That’s put us in our place.’
‘It has, but we can’t pass these off and pretend they’re ours. It’s not the right thing. People expect homemade gifts to be a bit wonky. Otherwise, everyone would just buy M&S and pass them off as their own.’
‘There is that. I do love the way you think.’ Noah chuckled and gave me an approving look that warmed me all the way through.
He caught my hand and pulled me towards him and kissed me on the mouth, completely unmindful of Patrice standing beside us.
The spontaneous, unselfconscious gesture along with his words, eased my roughed-up ego, which was still smarting from losing my job.
Inside I felt such a failure, but Noah managed to make me feel special and unique.
I could get used to this feeling and that was far too dangerous.