Christmas at Hope Cottage: A Magical Feel-Good Romance Novel(21)

‘Evie, your aunts. Let them make a recipe for you.’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

She frowned, her ire rising. ‘Because – because it’s all rubbish anyway.’

‘So then, what could it hurt?’

‘That’s beside the point.’

He took a sip of his coffee. ‘I doubt that, Pajarita.’

‘Why do you say that?’

He shrugged. ‘Because if you really thought that it wouldn’t matter, would it?’



* * *



After Jack had sent the heart-shaped dog biscuits, Emma wondered if he would come past, but he didn’t. She tried not to be disappointed by that. Tried not to inject more meaning into the small gift than she should, reminding herself that they had both moved on. But it was hard. Hard not to think of him. A few times she saw him out of the window, jogging in the street with his dog, Gus, and almost found herself going out to call to him.

It was during Emma’s third week at Hope Cottage that she got the email she was dreading from her editor at the Mail & Ledger. She passed her mobile to Evie, who was sitting at the table, plaiting dough for a recipe for strengthening a family bond ahead of the Christmas season.

On the vintage radio station, The Old Whistle, a medley of Christmas tunes from the likes of Bing Crosby and Ella Fitzgerald had been playing all afternoon. Emma had been humming along, realising as she did that sounds had begun to make sense again, music didn’t feel like an assault and she didn’t need to lip-read any more, which was a relief.

Though everything else was still a mess. Just that morning as she’d tried combing her hair, the bristles of her hairbrush had without warning shed their benign guise, becoming sharp needles that pricked painfully at her scalp, and she’d yelped with fright and pain as she flung the brush from her. Her hair was now shoved into a very messy, knotty bun, which she’d done with one hand. Attractive, it was not.

Her mobile was open to her latest email.

‘Can you read it to me?’ she asked Evie. ‘I’m still seeing double.’

Evie nodded, dusting the flour off her fingers onto her apron and popping on her glasses. Emma took a seat next to Pennywort, eyed the plate of ginger snaps and bit into one, only to sigh; it was like eating warm sand, completely tasteless.



* * *



Dear Emma,



* * *



Thank you for letting us know about your situation. We were devastated to hear of your accident, and sincerely wish you a speedy recovery. Unfortunately, as the situation described is not quite temporary, we may need to make alternative arrangements with your weekly column, ‘The Historical Cook’. Our staff writer, Jane Bunting, has been using some of your past material, reworked into themes such as the recent holiday food one, but I fear that it is not a long-term solution. As it is one of our most popular columns, we cannot simply put it on hold, as you can imagine. Please advise whether we should look at contacting a freelancer to fill your place – is there anyone you would recommend? Obviously, we would like to keep the same standard our readers have come to enjoy.



* * *



Best wishes,



* * *



Sue Fedler



* * *



Food Editor, the Mail & Ledger





* * *



‘One of their most popular columns? Because of you – all your hard work!’ huffed Evie, putting the phone down with a thud.

Emma felt ill. A replacement? It hadn’t even been a month and they were already looking for someone else? After four years?

‘I can’t believe they’d write this,’ said Evie.

‘I can.’

What did she expect? It wasn’t like she was permanently employed by the newspaper; she was a freelancer. She had a popular column that many food historians would love to write – she couldn’t expect them to keep running her old copy for ever, repurposed into ‘new’ content. Still, after four years of loyal, faithful service that had helped to boost advertising and lift a rather flabby food section, she might have expected slightly more loyalty than this – at least a guarantee that as soon as she was well again they would welcome her back.

‘I suppose legally they don’t owe me anything, I’m self-employed – not permanent staff.’

Evie shrugged. ‘Still, loyalty should count for something?’

She could recommend someone to fill her column, but it was a tricky situation as she didn’t know how long her recovery was likely to be. It could be a few months, a year, perhaps even more – would it be fair on either of them if she came back after a prolonged period wanting her column back? She couldn’t really blame the newspaper for wanting to make a plan; they were running a business after all. The doctors couldn’t guarantee when she might get better, or if she even would.

There were other concerns too. She needed the money; even though the column wasn’t her main source of income, it was key, particularly, in building her brand as a food writer and building a network of freelance clients. She had some savings that would cover the rent for a few months, but, still, letting go of the column would just make it that much harder to return to her old life, which she desperately wished to do.