My heart tumbles into my boots at the thought of the two of them together. But I force a smile. ‘I’d love to help.’
Poppy looks delighted. ‘It’s all going to work out perfectly.’
I nod with a little less conviction.
I guess I’ll have to teach myself how to bake – and fast!
A week later, having crammed as many online baking tutorials as possible into my brain, I’m heading out on the road that leads to the Log Fire Cabin.
As I skirt Guildford, I’m aware of everything gearing up for the festive season. Jolly lights and decorations adorn every house, and one even has a huge blow-up Santa perched on their roof, about to climb down the chimney. It’s just a shame my own excitement over Christmas has taken such a complete nosedive.
My Grand Live TV Humiliation has had some of the heat taken out of it due to the fact that, contrary to my fears, not many people have recognised me as that saddo off the telly who was rejected by her boyfriend. This is great. In about a decade or so, I might even have forgotten all about it myself.
I’ve been trying really hard to put Jackson out of my mind, with mixed success. Every time I start remembering the good times we had, I force myself to replay the shock I felt hearing that woman’s seductive voice answering Jackson’s phone. I thought about hoping it was his sister but that didn’t work for two reasons. One, she didn’t sound how a sister would sound. And two, Jackson doesn’t have a sister.
Part of me still misses him like crazy. But I think it’s more the idea of him that’s left a hole in my life, rather than the actual physical person. Because I’ve since realised that we weren’t hugely compatible. He hardly ever laughed at the things I thought were funny. Or my jokes. In fact, I’ve started to wonder if he ever actually listened to me at all.
One thing in particular will ensure the process of getting over him isn’t too dragged out: with a bit of luck, I will never have to see Jackson or the inside of a TV studio ever again!
Poppy has asked me to meet her at the pop-up ice rink, which has been set up a little further along the lakeside track from her boyfriend’s Log Fire Cabin.
Apparently there’s a rather swish boutique hotel, owned by a woman called Sylvia, right next to the ice rink site. It was Sylvia’s idea to bring skating to the local community this Christmas – and it’s Sylvia who’s ordered the hundreds of mince pies Poppy and I will be baking in the run-up to Christmas Day.
When I turn off the main road onto the lakeside track, which has recently been laid with tarmac, all I can see are trees on either side, sparkling with frost in the winter sun, and glimpses of the lake to my left. The Log Fire Cabin has been so cleverly merged with its surroundings that I give a gasp of surprise when I suddenly see it.
It’s a stylish modern wooden construction on two levels that blends in beautifully with the surrounding trees and countryside. It looks big enough to house quite a few guests, but according to Poppy, her boyfriend Jed has booked some rooms in the hotel, as a sort of overflow. As well as making hundreds of mince pies and Christmas gingerbread men, we’ll be cooking every night for ten people.
That’s ten portions of dessert!
Every time I think about that, I get an uneasy, fluttery stomach.
Driving past the cabin, I see the hotel and the ice rink up ahead and, a minute later, I’m entering the big makeshift car park in a field that serves visitors to the rink.
As I park, I glance around, trying to spot Poppy.
A week has passed since I rescued her with a bag of my own flour. And now, it feels as if she’s rescuing me.
The past seven days haven’t been great, and that’s an understatement.
Flo came in one night last week, full of agony over whether to tell me the latest news about Jackson. I wheedled it out of her, although I could tell it was going to crucify me to hear it. Sure enough, what I suspected was true. Jackson had started seeing someone else.
She plopped down beside me on the sofa and gave me a hug and the rest of her bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, which I considered true friendship indeed. Flo’s parents were whisking her and Fergus off to New York for the festive season to celebrate their engagement, and I knew I’d miss my best friend.
‘I think you had a lucky escape,’ Flo murmured, and I nodded, determined not to cry, and tried to look on the bright side.
I was undoubtedly better off without a guy who could move on to his next girlfriend with such indecent haste …
I find Poppy and we stand for a while, leaning on the barrier, watching the skaters making their way around the rink. Some of them carve their way across the ice with confidence while others wobble, grim concentration etched on their faces. The rest are progressing at a snail’s pace, clinging to the sides.
I’d definitely be a clinger-to-the-sides – but since I’m here to work, thankfully I won’t have to set even one solitary skate on that treacherous surface. It’s nice to just relax and observe—
‘Let’s have a go,’ says Poppy suddenly.
I turn, startled. ‘What? No.’
‘Come on. It’s fun.’
‘But … we’ve got baking to do, haven’t we?’
Thousands of mince pies!
‘Well, yes, but you’ve just arrived, Roxy. I’m not going to throw you in at the deep end straight away.’ Poppy grins. ‘I set aside a few hours to show you around and get you settled in.’ Her smile slips slightly. ‘And to be honest, I could do with some fun.’
My face must be a picture of panic. But Poppy’s already striding over to the place where you hire the skates, so I suppose I have to follow.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she reassures me as we each imprison our feet in a pair of battered-looking metal monstrosities.
I smile, the way you have to if the boss tells you to do something.
Before I know it, Poppy is leading me onto the ice by the hand and telling me to hold onto the side and push off on my right foot. This is easier said than done. Even remaining in an upright position is terrifying enough as skaters swish past us, showing off. (Or so it seems from my position of shaky vulnerability.)
When I finally manage to move a skate, it feels about as safe and secure as stepping onto a tightrope stretching across the Grand Canyon. I wobble furiously, grasping onto Poppy’s hand, then I try to move the other skate and find myself, seconds later, crashing to the ice on my bottom.
That pain is like no other. But Poppy is grinning down at me. ‘Everyone falls at first. It’s how you learn. In a week, you’ll be flying around the ice like Torvill and Dean. Honestly.’
She shows me how to get up by rolling onto my knees first. Then she holds out her hand and I’m on my feet again – except they don’t feel like my feet at all. I feel as if I’m strapped into weapons of torture.
‘Poppy? Can I have a word?’ A large blonde woman bundled up in a fake fur is beckoning her over. ‘I’ve done some projections. We need to talk mince pies!’
Poppy smiles. ‘No problem, Sylvia. I’ll see you in the café?’
The woman called Sylvia gives her a thumbs-up and Poppy looks apologetically at me. ‘Will you be okay? This should just take a minute then we can continue the lesson. We’ll be over there.’ She points to a pretty, white summerhouse-type construction.