Lynn Hulsman - Christmas at Thornton Hall

Anyway, back to the present. Focus on Phillipa. I would never act like a diva with my agent so I let her ramble. “Keep your head down, do excellent work and don’t cause trouble,” is a roadmap I try to stick to. Well, for the most part, if you don’t mind turning a blind eye to the whole Paris debacle.

“Juliet!” Phillipa barked, snapping me out of my daydream again. “Did you catch that? I said eight a.m.”

“Of course, sorry,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Who requested me?” I asked, though I pretty much knew.

“So you’re interested? Are you changing your mind?”

I wavered for half a second. Of all the food-forward, over-the-top, gourmet meals I’d created, I’d never once done a traditional Christmas feast at an English hall. My wheels started to spin, planning menus and visualizing the tabletop in full cinematic Technicolor. The chance to design a dinner that would simultaneously hearken back to childhood roots so different from mine, while putting a surprising, modern spin on conventional favorites like sage and onion stuffing, roasted Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, a flaming Christmas pudding, drew me in – quite against my will. My cells started tingling, just thinking about the chance to put my signature all over a meal that jaded guests thought they knew inside out and backwards. I bit my lip.

“I’m sorry, Pips,” I said, honestly. “I want to, but I just can’t.” I was surprised to feel my eyes beginning to well.

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” she said crisply. “If I don’t hear from you, I hope you have a happy Christmas and check in with me in January.”

“I definitely, definitely will!” I said, pushing the “end” button on my iPhone with my left thumb. I looked at my naked ring finger. And when I do call, you’ll be stunned to hear that not only am I moving to New York, but I’m also engaged to be married.

So, I’m a chef, but not a chef like you’d think. I’m a chef who makes my living cooking not in any restaurant where a regular person – or a rich, powerful or famous person, actually – could book a table, but behind the legendary “green baize doors” of some of the most posh private residences in the world. I’ve made it to an apex in my career. All the meals I cook now are invitation-only.

I eventually escaped upward from testosterone-fuelled kitchens in France, and the early days of the London restaurant scene, but not before honing my culinary skills, growing a T-bone-thick hide, and a tongue like a sushi knife. Nothing else has ever come as naturally to me, and I have to say, so far, it’s given me a pretty good life. I’ve done more traveling than most people do in a lifetime, and I’ve stood in rooms with princes, war heroes and TV stars. And, indirectly, it led me to Ben. Handsome, funny, swaggering Ben in his well-cut suits.

In my wildest dreams I’d never thought I’d attract such a catch. He was the type of man who simultaneously made office interns swoon, while garnering nods of approval from mothers and grannies. Sexy, but respectable.

Rolling over onto Ben’s pillow, I put my phone down on the night table, on top of his Financial Times .

“Ben? Good morning!” I called out, propping myself up on an elbow and craning my neck to look around the corner into the bathroom. “Are you making coffee?” I really had to pee. We must have had a bottle of wine each last night. I’d talked a little about how giving up The Gastronome’s Trust – Phillipa’s agency – made me sad, but he just told me again, firmly, that going back to The States and finally getting serious about my life was the sensible thing to do. Deep down, I knew I didn’t have a leg to stand on in that department, after dropping out of college to chase a man to Paris – and look how that turned out.

So I let Ben have the last word, and wrap up the conversation. Anyway, he wasn’t much in the mood for talking, if you follow me.

I got up off the bed, and pulled the sheet around myself, just to be safe, even though I was pretty sure now that he had already left the flat.

Where would he have gone at this hour? He didn’t say anything about an early client. I walked to the bathroom using tiny geisha-like steps since the bottom of Ben’s sheet was winding itself tighter and tighter around my ankles, practically hobbling me. Stupid, maybe, since Ben saw me naked on a semi-regular basis. Then again I’ve never been a flaunter or the parade-around-naked type, whereas my best friend Posy would happily drink tea and read the morning papers without a stitch on, all the while chattering about the weather. The combination of growing up with servants and living at girls’ boarding schools had cured her of modesty.

Posy Wase-Bailey is my closest friend on earth and why I live in London now. You’ve no doubt seen her in the papers, attending this gala or that premiere. Owing to the fact that her dad is that charismatic airline owner – the one who took himself to outer space – she has spent her life in the limelight. It doesn’t hurt a bit that she’s a fearless trendsetter, often spotting the next “it” designer, and that she’s always good for a controversial quote. We’re like chalk and cheese in that way, but under the surface, where it matters, we’re soul sisters separated at birth. I cannot imagine what my life would be like had she not spotted me crying into my coffee that day in Paris. I might have fled home to the States, or worse yet, begged Stephen for one more chance.

Anyway, back to the present! Memo to self, must not dwell on the past.

Normally, by this hour of the morning, I would have mainlined caffeine. Being an addict is a job hazard. In every kitchen where I’ve ever worked, there’s been a top-shelf espresso machine and we staff pound coffees all day long. I had the briefest fantasy that Ben might bring me a cup, then sighed. I was the coffee bringer in this relationship.

I dropped my sheet and eased, undrugged, into the trickle of tepid water the English insist on calling a shower, beginning to suds my hair with the Jo Malone Lime, Basil and Mandarin shampoo sitting on the ledge, delighted to find that there was a matching bottle of conditioner. It smelled heavenly and his thoughtfulness warmed my heart. It more than made up for not bringing me a cappuccino. Normally, there was only a sad jug of Boots brand baby shampoo.

He never said so, but I could tell Ben wasn’t wild about my keeping toiletries here. He’s a neat freak, so I made it a point to carry out whatever I’d carried in, like my travel toothbrush and trial-sized toothpaste. I’d left my gold drop earrings on the sink once, and the next morning, after he left for work, I found them on the kitchen table in a creamy, business-sized envelope with my full mailing address on it. I smiled thinking about it. It’s habits like uber-organization that got him a place as a solicitor at Thompson Loyal, his logical stepping-stone to his goal – being a real New York lawyer. What a mature quality. It would make my mother drool. Posy on the other hand once said she thought Ben was a bit OCD.

Did he leave for work? I thought to myself, rinsing the last of the conditioner out of my hair. Ben’s usually like Pavlov’s dogs when he hears shower water running, sprinting in and stripping along the way. He loved shower sex. Me, not so much. “Where’s your sportsmanship?” he’d ask me, winking. “It’s a challenge when I’m slippery.” Usually, I was glad to give him what he wanted as, let’s face it, most females of the species would kill to be with Ben. I could see it in super-hot girls’ eyes when Ben and I were out for drinks or dinner. And I could practically hear them thinking, “He’s a solid 9 and, she’s, well…not.”