Chapter Three Noelle #2
‘Oh, I love your apron,’ the tall woman with grey hair coos as I set her glass down in front of her. ‘It’s delightful!’
The man seated next to her looks up from his phone just long enough to give me an appreciative nod. ‘Very festive.’
At the head of the table, Hoxton exhales deeply. I can feel his annoyance radiating off him in waves, but I refuse to let it ruin my mood. This is supposed to be a Christmas celebration, after all.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ I say to the woman, flashing her another smile before moving on to the next guest. ‘Can I interest anyone in some appetisers?’
The mood around the room immediately lifts at the mention of food, and I launch into my menu for the evening.
By the time I’m finished explaining the dishes and answering any questions they have about allergies and intolerances, everyone looks a little less like they’d rather be anywhere else but here.
Everyone except Hoxton.
I can only describe the look on his face as a potent mix of being incredibly bored and incredibly annoyed. I can’t tell who the current recipient of his ire is, though. Me? Or his Board?
Probably both, if I’m being honest.
I’ve never noticed this before – never had the opportunity, given our extremely limited face-to-face time – but Hoxton is terrible at masking his emotions.
Surely it has to be obvious to everyone in the room that the man is clinging onto a thread right now.
Maybe they’re just used to this kind of behaviour from Hoxton.
It’s easy enough to picture him sitting in the cold and sterile HoxTech offices, glaring down at anyone foolish enough to make eye contact with him, and any sympathy I felt for the man earlier evaporates in an instant.
At least everyone else is talking now. The glasses of bubbly pinched between their fingertips have apparently loosened their tongues enough that they now actually resemble a somewhat cordial group of co-workers.
‘Got any Christmas plans, Therese?’ Luca asks, shifting in his seat to turn to the woman with the sharp eyes.
Therese nods. The champagne has helped to temper the hard-edged glint in her eyes and she gives Luca a polite, if slightly strained, smile.
‘We’re heading to Courchevel in two days,’ she says, with the faintest hint of a French accent.
‘Should be fun, though I haven’t skied in years so I’m expecting to come back with a few bumps and bruises. ’
‘I bet it’s like riding a bike,’ Luca says. ‘Your body’s probably got it all down in muscle memory. But, you know what?’ He shifts slightly in his seat and nods in Hoxton’s direction, a wide grin on his face. ‘Alex is a great skier. You should ask him for some tips.’
Everyone turns to Hoxton, who looks very much like he would like to ram his glass down Luca’s throat. Luca remains happily oblivious.
‘Oh.’ Therese clears her throat. ‘I didn’t know.’
There’s a painfully awkward beat of silence.
‘Yes,’ Hoxton says, much too delayed.
Another awkward beat.
‘Though I prefer snowboarding,’ Hoxton continues, apparently realising that the ball is still in his court. ‘Have you—’ He clears his throat and shoots Luca a sideways glare. ‘Have you ever tried it?’
Therese’s eyes brighten a smidge. ‘I haven’t, but my husband – Henri, you remember?’
The look on Hoxton’s face tells me that he absolutely does not remember this Henri, but he gives her a sharp nod anyway.
‘Yes, well, Henri adores snowboarding. Really, I didn’t know you were such a fan. At the summer gala next year, I’ll have…’
Her voice trails off as I disappear into the corridor and start hurrying back to the kitchen to grab the appetisers.
When I return, balancing a large wooden cutting board with several loaves of perfectly sliced and crusty French bread dotted around the two mini cast-iron skillets of brie in my hands, the room is even livelier than before.
Therese has stopped interrogating Hoxton about his snowboarding skills and is now in the middle of an animated discussion with Luca, the tall, grey-haired woman and the man with his phone glued to him.
‘You think Christmas is expensive now,’ the older woman chortles.
‘Wait until you have grandchildren, Brian. It’s all “latest iPhone” this, “designer clothes” that.
And not a please or thank you in sight! Back in my day, I was happy to get a doll for Christmas, and now I’ve got my granddaughter sending me something called a Sephora Wishlist that I’ve got to make heads and tails of. ’
Brian laughs. ‘Thanks for the heads-up, Meryl. But my little ones are still young enough that a few cuddly toys will suffice. It’s my wife who insists on making it all a big deal.’
‘Oh, but think about the memories,’ Therese sighs, almost dreamily. ‘Most of my favourite childhood memories have something to do with Christmas, and it’s all because my mother took the time to make it special.’
‘Agreed,’ Luca says with a faraway kind of smile. ‘My mum used to put baby powder on the floor by the tree and make my dad walk up and down with his boots on so we’d think that it was Santa.’
I can’t help but grin as I approach the table and set the appetisers down in the middle.
I always love hearing about different families’ Christmas traditions and I’m itching to jump into the conversation and share the story of how my mother would stand outside the bedroom I shared with Eve, with a tape recorder playing the sound of reindeer stomping on the roof.
Or about the Christmas when my father went outside for a few minutes and then came rushing back in hollering, ‘Santa must’ve dropped this last night!’ before brandishing a bell-laden collar with the name ‘RUDOLPH’ printed across the front.
And don’t even get me started on the Christmases spent at Gran’s house, where all the children are tasked with bringing something unique to decorate the tree with, resulting in a seven-foot evergreen covered in some of the most bizarre, technically non-Christmassy ornaments you’ve ever seen.
But I don’t share any of that. I’m here to serve, not to eavesdrop on their conversation and share my own Christmas anecdotes. And besides, something else has caught my attention.
At the furthest end of the table, Hoxton is sat with a stony expression on his face. Beside him, the last member of the Board is speaking. This is the one Hoxton barely greeted on arrival and it seems like the tension between them hasn’t eased at all.
‘And have you given much thought to our discussion last week about outsourcing some of the support centre staff?’
Hoxton grits his teeth. ‘No.’
The man huffs. ‘I thought we agreed that it was an immediate concern, and that—’
‘You decided that it was an immediate concern, Wilbur,’ Hoxton says, his voice icy. ‘As I told you, the contract we have in place doesn’t expire for another two years. No sense in worrying about it now.’
‘But if they’re in breach of contract, we can terminate our arrangement with them and opt for a centre that doesn’t, shall we say, dent our end-of-year financials as much as this one currently does.’
‘Unfortunately, they’re not in breach of contract,’ Hoxton says in clipped tones. It should be obvious that he wants this conversation to end, but Wilbur ploughs on.
‘We may have to get a little creative, yes,’ Wilbur says with a gruff cough. ‘But, and at the end of the day here, Alexander, I’m just trying to think of our bottom line. We have shareholders to keep happy. Remember that.’
Damn. I know I call Hoxton a grinch, but he’s not the one trying to conjure up reasons to fire an entire support centre of staff just before Christmas.
I clear my throat, sparing Wilbur the full force of the fury that’s clearly about to come out of Hoxton’s mouth. ‘Ladies and gentleman… for your appetiser tonight, we have a sweet cranberry honey baked brie with French bread freshly made this morning from the fabulous Maison Badeaux.’
Therese claps her hands in delight, clearly having heard of the famous French bakery that currently has the city in a chokehold. An understandable chokehold, if you ask me. Maison Badeaux can do no wrong, and they’re my supplier of choice when it comes to baked goods these days.
I take a step back from the table. ‘Please enjoy.’
‘It smells divine,’ Meryl says, reaching forward to grab a slice of French bread to dip into the brie. ‘Mmm, and tastes even better.’
That’s all the invitation anyone needs. I’m beaming as I watch them all reach forward and help themselves to a bit of bread and brie, taking in the way their eyes roll back slightly with identical hums of pleasure slipping from their lips.
My gaze flickers across the room and lands on Hoxton. That’s when it hits me suddenly. I’ve never actually seen Hoxton eat one of my meals. I’ve spent the last two years assuming that he enjoys them but, for all I know, he could be palming everything off on Roland every night.
I can’t take my eyes off him as he slowly reaches forward and plucks a piece of bread off the board.
He seems to sense that I’m watching and looks up, his dark eyes meeting my curious gaze.
And he holds it there. Doesn’t so much as blink as he dips the bread into the brie and then brings it up to his lips.
He savours the taste in his mouth, his eyelids flickering in that tell-tale manner that lets on more than he’s willing to admit. I’m sure the grin on my face is more smug than anything else as I turn away from Hoxton and head for the kitchen again.
I think that was my third Hoxton compliment of the day.
It must be a Christmas miracle.