Chapter Two Alex
I can hear the faint sound of Christmas music coming from the kitchen.
I don’t understand how it doesn’t drive more people insane.
My home, up until now, has been a refuge.
A safe space. The one place where I haven’t had to worry about plastering on a fake smile – or grimace if you listen to the way Roland describes it – whenever people gush endlessly about Christmas and the festive season, like it’s any different from any other day of the year.
Roland’s hideous tie, I could handle. But this?
Through the walls I listen as Noelle attempts to hit a particularly high note. She fails miserably, but that doesn’t discourage her, and she continues to belt out the lyrics to the song crackling from her phone speaker.
What is it about Christmas that makes even reasonable people unbearable?
Roland with his tie.
Noelle with her apron and apparently never-ending medley of Christmas songs.
And Luca and this nonsense about hosting a Christmas meal with my Board of Directors.
It’s my own fault really.
Tensions have been high between me and my Board for a few months now and I had, perhaps foolishly, assumed they would just continue to simmer under the surface as they always do.
They’ve not liked the direction I’ve been taking the company in over the last year.
Never mind that we’ve seen record profits over the last quarter, the consensus seems to be that we could always be making more money.
Corners could be cut. Production could take place overseas. Salaries could be lower.
Their pockets could be a little fatter.
I’ve largely ignored their complaints, but I can’t ignore the growing sense of mutiny that ripples under the surface of every meeting we’ve had recently. If I’m not careful, I might just find myself in trouble.
Luca, my friend since our university days and the only member of the Board I can actually tolerate, was the one to suggest tonight.
This Christmas meal.
Just the thought of it makes me roll my eyes, but Luca insisted it would be a necessary step in mending the fractured relationship.
‘They don’t like you,’ Luca said bluntly over drinks one evening. ‘And they don’t think you’re taking the company in the right direction, so they’re already disinclined to agree with anything you suggest.’
‘I hardly think one meal is going to change that.’
‘No,’ Luca conceded, ‘but it’s a gesture of peace. A way for you to show that you’re not as much of a prick as they think you are.’
They’re not the first to make such an assessment about me, and they most definitely won’t be the last. Being liked isn’t something I usually expend a lot of effort caring about, but I’ve worked too hard to lose everything now.
If suffering through a Christmas meal with my Board is what I need to do to keep the company I founded running smoothly, then so be it.
Though to say I’m anxious about tonight would be an understatement.
I don’t like people in my space. Never have and I doubt I ever will.
I was the fourth child in a family of seven unruly kids, and personal space was always something I lacked. Now that I’ve finally got it, I’m reluctant to let it go.
It’s just one evening, I tell myself as I try to refocus on the email I’ve reread about fifty times already. One evening, then they’ll be gone and I can go back to pretending Christmas doesn’t exist.
Though the forces that be aren’t making that easy.
‘On the second day of Christmas, my baby gave to me…’ Noelle’s still off-key voice floats through the walls as clearly as if she were standing right beside me.
How is it possible for someone to be so bad at something, yet still clearly derive so much pleasure from it?
It feels odd having her in the house right now.
We’ve stuck to a fairly rigid schedule over the last two years and having her walk into the kitchen earlier caught me off guard.
I usually try to keep out of her way while she’s here, leaving Roland to show her around and assist her if necessary, but hiring Noelle has undoubtedly been one of the best decisions of my life.
When I’d first started toying with the idea of hiring a personal chef, the goal was to find someone to streamline some of the more tedious and time-consuming aspects of my life.
Without needing to spend hours in the kitchen each day, I could dedicate that time to sourcing new investors or creating new products.
I’d have settled for someone who knew how to throw together a half-decent Bolognese sauce, but Noelle has been a revelation.
I don’t think I even knew that food could taste this good, but Noelle makes it look easy.
Effortless, even. She comes in once a week, commandeers my kitchen with all the precision and prowess of a seasoned pro, and makes a week’s worth of meals that only need heating up or light preparation before they’re ready for me to devour.
And these aren’t your typical plastic containers filled with rice, plain chicken and frozen vegetables.
She makes simple dishes somehow worthy of a Michelin star like it’s easy.
I don’t think she’s ever made a dish I haven’t enjoyed, and I find myself looking forward to Monday evenings when I can raid my kitchen and discover the meals she’s left for me.
Her dishes nearly always come accompanied with a hurriedly scrawled Post-it note with a quick explanation of the dish and why she loves it:
Mr H
It’s flu season and this is my tried and tested way for staving off the cold. It’s a family recipe.
(If you still get sick, I take no responsibility ;))
Noelle
Mr H
Happy Jamaican Independence Day! This is the national dish ‘ackee and saltfish’ – try it for breakfast tomorrow.
Enjoy!
Noelle
Mr H
Roland mentioned that your business trip to Italy was cancelled at the last-minute. Not a substitute for the real thing, but here’s some homemade gnocchi with pancetta and sage butter.
It’s one of my fave dishes!
Noelle
I’ve kept every single one of them, and I’m not entirely sure why. There’s a strange energy between us. Her Post-it notes are polite enough, but I can see the way she stiffens slightly, the strain in her smile, on the rare occasions we’re face to face.
Noelle doesn’t like me and it’s my fault entirely. I tend to have this kind of effect on people. It’s probably why Luca is the only friend I’ve managed to hold onto for more than a few years. Unless we’re counting Roland, and I’m fairly certain he only sticks around for the pay cheque.
One of these days, I’ll do something about it. Maybe once I’ve retired and don’t have to worry about backstabbing Board members and pleasing investors all day long.
‘Doesn’t it feel like Christmas?’
Right. And this Christmas meal too.
I try and tune out the rest of Noelle’s singing, but it’s like my ears have attuned to her voice with irritating clarity.
I knew I should’ve gone into the office today, but the closer we get to December 25th, the more unbearable my workplace has become.
It seems like every other day another department is having their annual Christmas party, and the office halls are filled with my workers wearing hideous Christmas-themed clothing, or swapping gifts with one another.
I just know the current weather we’re experiencing would only encourage their nonsense, and there’s only so much madness I can be expected to endure.
I let out a deep sigh and close my laptop.
It’s time to face the music. I make my way back to the kitchen and find Noelle humming along to the Christmas music blaring from her speakers as she deftly chops some vegetables.
Her hands are moving at lightning speed, with skill that must have taken years to develop.
I’ve always been appreciative of people who dedicate the time to truly honing their craft, and Noelle is no exception.
I feel a wave of admiration for her, but it quickly disappears as I hone in on her attire once again.
She’s still wearing the apron.
Bright red with flashing lights, a dancing Santa Claus and sparkling, galloping reindeers along the edge.
It’s an abomination.
It should be illegal.
Noelle glances up as I enter and gives me a smirk that tells me my current train of thought is pasted plainly across my face.
‘Mr Hoxton.’ She gives me a polite nod, the corners of her lips twitching slightly, before she turns her attention back to the chopping board in front of her.
She’s not looking at me, but I nod back anyway.
Even with the garish apron, Noelle is the kind of woman you don’t want to take your eyes off.
The kind of woman you can’t take your eyes off.
Her hair falls just beyond her waist in thin, wispy braids, and her soft brown eyes catch the warm light in the room and almost sparkle as she works.
I stand there for a moment and watch Noelle in her element.
I don’t often get to witness it, but it’s something to marvel at every time.
Noelle moves with a gracefulness that’s almost hypnotic.
She’s completely absorbed in what she’s doing, a concentrated expression twisting her plump brown lips as she slices some carrots into long, thin strips.
It’s almost a shame to interrupt, but I feel like I need to say something.
I clear my throat. ‘Ms Jones?’
She sets her knife down before cocking her head to the side in silent question.
After two years, I’m not entirely sure why we’re not on a first-name basis yet.
Roland started calling me Alex during his first month, and I don’t think there’s anyone else I refer to by surname only.
I’m suppose I’m taking my cues from her.
She’s never once deviated from the polite ‘Mr Hoxton’ she uttered during our first disastrous meeting.
It’s a moment I replay in my head every so often and it always makes me cringe and one I’ve been meaning to apologise.
But after two years I still haven’t quite figured out a way to say, ‘Sorry, you caught me at a bad time. One of our major investors had just pulled out and I was fighting bad press about the launch of one of our latest products,’ that doesn’t come across as a pathetic excuse for my poor attitude that day – or the countless days that have since followed it.
It always feels like there’s something going wrong.
Failed deals, underperforming products, client fatigue, bitter Board members, unhappy investors and the endless cycle of trying to keep afloat in an increasingly cut-throat market.
Take tonight, for example, and this ridiculous Christmas farce.
Any hope of a good mood went out the window as soon as Luca suggested the idea.
‘Did you need something?’ Noelle asks, snapping me out of the increasingly dour train of thought I’d been slipping into.
She’s staring at me and her body language is perfectly clear.
Her brows are raised, her shoulders are stiff and her jaw is tight.
This may be my home, but the kitchen belongs to her, and I’m nothing but an intruder right now.
I shake my head, not even sure what I wanted to say in the first place. ‘Just coming to get some water.’
‘Right.’ She shrugs and immediately gets back to work as if I’m not even there.
I grab a cool bottle from the fridge just as Noelle goes to inspect whatever is the cause of the delicious smell wafting from the oven.
Against my better judgment, I make one last attempt at conversation. ‘What’s on the menu tonight?’
Noelle glances over at me with a guarded look in her eye, and then she gives me a teasing smile, as if she’s been expecting this question all along. ‘Something Christmassy.’
The words feel like a slap to the face. Not overtly hostile or even unfriendly, but enough to signal that my presence isn’t wanted here at all.
I already knew that, of course, but it still stings just the same.
With nothing else to say, and Noelle showing no interest in elaborating, I nod and leave without another word.