Chapter One Noelle #2
He’s never had a problem with my fee. Has never tried to arbitrarily haggle it down a few hundred pounds like some of the other clients I’ve amassed over the last two years.
And he always throws a good tip my way – though this, I suspect, is less from genuine satisfaction with my work or delight with me as human being, given that we never speak, and more just a habit he’s picked up over the years for all his auxiliary staff.
Either way, I can’t complain. As much as Hoxton irritates me, I’ll take his well-paying, moody ass over the clients who smile in my face when I’m in their homes but are always late paying my invoices.
‘Money isn’t everything,’ I concede, ‘but if you want me to come on your hen party trip to Cancun next year, I need to take this job.’
Eve giggles with familiar wedding-related excitement.
From the corner of my eye, I watch as she holds her hand in front of her and admires the rock Nathan proposed to her with six months ago.
It’s so big, the glare from it is almost blinding.
‘You’re right. Get the bag, girl. We’ve got first-class flights to pay for! ’
My laughter mixes in with hers. In typical Eve fashion, she and Nathan are going all out for their wedding and, as the maid of honour, I’ve got to be there every step of the way.
Not that I’m complaining. I’m exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds older than Eve, and I take my ‘big sister’ role seriously.
If there’s anything I can do to put a smile on her face, I’ll do it.
And besides, you’ll never catch me complaining about a trip to Cancun, of all places.
It does, however, mean that I’ve had to pack out my business calendar with bookings recently in order to pay for all the festivities.
Celebratory drinks. Multiple dress fittings.
A bridal shower and a seven-day hen party in Cancun that I’ve been tasked with planning…
It all adds up and I’m determined not to dip into my ‘start my own restaurant’ savings to make it happen.
That’s why accepting Hoxton’s last-minute request for tonight was a no-brainer.
Half a day of work, doing what I love to do, and my first-class return flight to Cancun will be almost entirely paid for.
I don’t often give Hoxton praise, but today I find myself grateful to him.
Just a teeny bit.
‘Oh shit,’ Eve breathes.
I briefly glance away from the road and at my phone screen, but Eve isn’t looking at me. Something off camera has caught her attention and she’s got a serene, almost childlike smile on her face. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s snowing.’ She tilts her camera towards her window and I get a brief glimpse of bright white snow falling from the sky. ‘I hope it settles. We haven’t had proper snow for Christmas in years.’
‘No snow over here,’ I say. It’s definitely cold enough, but the sky is still a clear, icy blue.
‘It’ll come,’ Eve says with an assured nod. ‘I think I heard something on the news about a storm today.’
‘As long as it’s not too heavy. I still have to drive up to Nan’s tomorrow.’ I turn down yet another familiar street, and all the houses here are also decked out in Christmas cheer.
Except one.
Alexander Hoxton’s home sits right at the far end of his swanky cul-de-sac without so much as a single fairy light wrapped around the black metal gates that cordon off his home from the rest of the world.
‘What were we saying about Christmas spirit?’ I mutter as the gates open after automatically recognising my licence plate, and I let my car crawl into his sprawling driveway.
Roland, Hoxton’s assistant, is already striding out of the front door as I park up. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as efficient as Roland. It makes working for Hoxton that much easier, knowing I can go through Roland for most things and avoid his prickly boss.
‘Gotta go,’ I say to Eve, giving her a quick wave before I cut the call and fix a friendly and genuine smile onto my face. I like Roland. He’s exceptionally good at his job and we seem to have developed an unspoken understanding when it comes to Hoxton.
‘Noelle!’ he says cheerfully. He’s dressed smartly in his usual work attire, but there’s an extra addition to it today – a festive tie.
There’s a cheerful Rudolph drawing painted across the front of it and, every few seconds, his red nose lights up and flashes.
Roland catches my gaze lingering on the tie, and his smile curves into something a little more reminiscent of a smirk.
‘I’m glad someone appreciates my attempt at injecting some festive cheer into this place. ’
Translation? Hoxton’s not a fan of the tie.
Surprise, surprise.
‘I love it,’ I say with a wink before grabbing my bag from the passenger seat and following him into the house. ‘You should add it to your regular wardrobe.’
Roland huffs out a quiet laugh. ‘And be on the hook for causing an aneurysm? I don’t think so.’
The inside of Hoxton’s house should be impressive.
It’s a sprawling mansion with acres on either side of it, providing an apparently much-needed distance from his neighbours.
It could probably fit my tiny flat inside it several times over, but I’ve been here so many times that the awe factor is lost on me. Today, however, it just feels bleak.
It’s all sharp angles and hard edges with dark, oaky walls and not a trace of Christmas cheer. It was like this last year too, so I hadn’t been expecting much of an improvement today but…
‘Did I misread the email?’ I ask, still following Roland through the winding halls.
Roland guides me every time I come here.
I’m pretty sure Hoxton makes him do it; not out of concern that I’ll get lost but to keep his privacy intact, as if he’s afraid I might go snooping and uncover some sordid secret or other.
‘Is he still hosting a Christmas meal tonight?’
I wouldn’t be surprised if I did misread it.
Once thing I’ve learned since working for him is that Alexander Hoxton and Christmas are two things that don’t go together.
Lack of Christmas décor aside, on my first Christmas working for Hoxton, I’d expected him to request a flurry of seasonally appropriate meals for me to prepare to tide him over for the holiday season, just like my other clients had.
I was prepared to make festive sausage rolls, turkey-stuffed sandwiches, honey-roasted vegetables and desserts soaked in cinnamon, but Hoxton rejected every single idea in one brief email.
FROM: hoxton@
TO: noelle.jones@
SUBJECT: RE: Christmas recipe ideas!
No to all below suggestions. No need for ‘Christmas’ theme. Your standard meals will be fine.
Roland hums in acknowledgment. ‘That’s right.
It was a last-minute decision and, truth be told, it came out of nowhere.
Terrible timing, if I’m being honest,’ Roland murmurs, cutting his eyes ever so slightly.
‘It’s not like I’m about to head off on a twenty-hour flight to Australia to spend Christmas with my boyfriend’s family for the first time, or anything like that. ’
I glance sideways and raise a brow. Roland immediately offers me a sheepish grin.
‘Sorry, like I said. This came out of nowhere and I’m already ridiculously stressed.’ He pulls at the sleeve of his blazer. ‘He could’ve at least given us more than forty-eight hours’ notice.’
I nod in sympathetic solidarity. Roland is usually so calm and composed but, now that I’m really looking at him, I suppose he does look a little frazzled.
‘I hope my shopping list didn’t give you too much grief,’ I say.
Roland waves an airy hand. ‘You were the least of my problems, trust me on that. Getting the rest of the Board to agree to attend on such short notice…’ Roland trails off and exhales a deep, long-suffering sigh.
I don’t typically make it my business to poke into the affairs of my clients, but there’s something behind Roland’s sigh that has my curiosity piqued. ‘They don’t get along?’
Roland hesitates. ‘For the most part,’ he says carefully before pursing his lips into a thin line. ‘But that’s neither here nor there. Let’s focus on the now. On this dinner.’
I frown as we walk past the dining room. Like the rest of the house, there’s not so much as a single candle on the large wooden table in the centre of the room. ‘It’s really not very Christmassy in here though, is it? Is he sending someone to come in and decorate?’
He’s cutting it very fine if he is.
Roland pulls a face. ‘I did suggest it, but he insisted that you’d be more than enough.’
A twisted jolt of pride shoots through me. I think that’s the closest I’ve ever got to receiving genuine praise from Hoxton, even if it was second-hand.
‘Still,’ I continue. ‘It’s not just about the food, you know? It’s in the atmosphere. Where are the party hats and the Christmas crackers?’ I poke my head into the living room as we pass it. ‘Does he even have a tree?’
Roland barks out a laugh, presumably at the thought of Hoxton wearing a party hat, and then quickly tries to muffle it. ‘I offered to run out and get him one this morning, and he acted like I’d threatened to set the whole place on fire.’
We come to a halt outside the kitchen door – my office for the evening – and Roland fixes me with an apologetic grimace. ‘Listen, Noelle. The holidays aren’t always a great time when it comes to Alex.’
As far as I can tell, there’s never a good time when it comes to Hoxton, but I keep those thoughts to myself.
Roland and I have a decent-enough relationship, but it’s obvious he feels a kind of protectiveness over Hoxton.
He’s been his assistant for close to a decade now and while Roland has no problem rolling his eyes or laughing with me at some of Hoxton’s more irritating habits, I have no doubt where his loyalties truly lie.
‘Just do what you do best and then head home and enjoy the holidays. Don’t let him get you down.’
‘That was always the plan,’ I say with an easy grin. Get in. Make some money. Get out. Simple.
Roland surveys me for a few long seconds. I get the distinct impression that there’s something else on the tip of his tongue, but then he shakes his head and throws open the kitchen door.
If there’s one thing I truly love about Hoxton’s otherwise sterile home, it’s his kitchen.
It’s the only room in the whole place that feels like it has any character to it.
There’s a large skylight that bathes the room in natural light, and the walls are covered in rustic bricking that makes the entire room feel warm and cosy, despite the soft layer of fluffy white snow blanketing the skylight right now.
The centrepiece, though, is the cream Aga oven that sits against one of the walls, emanating a constant, gentle warmth that I felt in my very bones as soon as I stepped over the threshold of the house.
There’s a spacious wooden farm table in the middle of the kitchen and, to my dismay, Hoxton is currently sitting at it, tapping away on his laptop.
He’s dressed as he usually is on the rare occasions I do see him, in a crisp white shirt, tailored trousers, and a pair of comfortable-looking slippers.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hoxton wear anything that couldn’t be described as business-ready, like he’s always anticipating jumping into a meeting.
Eve once joked that he probably wears a three-piece suit to bed.
He looks up as I enter the room, his dark eyes appraising me with cool detachment. His hair is styled to perfection and his jawline, tight as his gaze roves over me, could cut steel. ‘Ms Jones,’ he says, his voice deep and wholly disinterested.
That’s the only acknowledgment I get from him. He doesn’t wait for me to return the greeting before his attention is back on his screen and he’s furiously tapping away.
‘Mr Hoxton,’ I say anyway, my voice just as cool as his.
Roland clears his throat. ‘Noelle, all the ingredients you ordered are packed away. I’m leaving in an hour but let me know if you need anything else before then and I’ll run out and get it for you.’
It takes me five minutes to scan the cupboards and fridge to make sure everything I ordered for the night is there. Once I’m satisfied, I give Roland a nod and he disappears to finish the rest of his tasks before he needs to leave for the evening.
And then it’s just me and Hoxton.
Alone in the kitchen.
He doesn’t say a word, so I don’t either. I’ve long since learned that Hoxton isn’t one for small talk, and I’m not desperate to make it with him either. I hum quietly to myself as I reach into my bag and pull out the apron I’ve chosen specially for tonight.
A friend bought it for me last Christmas as part of a Secret Santa gift swap and I’ve been waiting all year to bring it out again. It’s one of those ridiculously cheesy Christmas aprons, with a dancing Santa Claus and reindeer littering the edges.
It’s bright.
Very bright.
Definitely not my usual workwear, but it’s Christmas. Can you blame me?
Hoxton apparently can.
I’m not sure when he stopped staring at his laptop but when I look up, he’s glaring at me.
His jaw ticks.
I raise a brow. Say something if you’re bad.
Another tick.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.
Another tick.
Is this what Roland meant when he said he didn’t want to be blamed for causing an aneurysm? Because, right now, Hoxton looks like he’s halfway there.
‘Can I help you?’ I ask innocently, breaking the charged silence that’s fallen over us.
In true Hoxton fashion, he doesn’t say a word. Just pushes himself up from the table, collects his laptop, and then strides right out of the kitchen.
Despite everything, I can’t help but laugh.
Good riddance.