Lynn Hulsman - Christmas at Thornton Hall

Is that who had seen to him last Christmas?

I flashed back to the cream-colored envelope that had once held the earrings I’d left overnight. The envelope that had my full mailing address on it. The one I’d been naïve enough to be charmed by. Ben wasn’t a neat freak! He was a son-of-a-bitch liar who walked around behind me cleaning up any proof that I’d set foot in his bachelor pad.

Tucked inside the large envelope I now held was a thinner, smaller envelope. I pressed it between my fingers and thumb. Whatever was inside crackled against the paper. My heart was clawing at my ribcage, skittering and wild. I knew I didn’t want to see what was in there, but my eyes couldn’t convince my hands to stop tearing paper. To my horror, I reached in and pulled out the world’s scratchiest lace thong, dotted with rhinestone studs. I held it up to find that one side of it was ripped, threads dangling.

That goddamn son of a—He’d lied about his flight! To my face! He’d gotten back a day early and holed up in his love cave with Amanda. Right here in London. Had that bitch been in his bed – the bed that I’d just crawled out of – the night before I was? Did he leave early this morning to meet her for a quickie before work?

Oh my God, did I just use her shampoo?

I had to get out of there…I was wearing nothing but silk underwear and a trench coat when I’d shown up last night (on Posy’s advice), so I tore into Ben’s bedroom and grabbed a pair of his gym pants, rolling them up at the waist, and his black Ralph Lauren cashmere turtleneck. I stepped into my high heels as I was running, leaving the door to the flat wide open in my wake. Dramatic maybe, but after what I’d been through with Stephen, there was no way I was going to be made a fool of again.

Out on the street, I pulled my coat tightly around myself and marched towards the tube station. The wind was bitterly cold, but the air was dry and its sting felt harsh on my face, like a slap. I welcomed it. It cut through my numbness.

I was a girl without a plan. Suddenly single, obviously there would be no wedding in my future. Without Ben to encourage and support me, would I be able to finish my studies and become a therapist? A small voice inside asked if I’d even want to. I felt as though I were filled with helium, hovering.

It was only 7:45 a.m. and the street was busy with commuters. Eyes brimming, I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, where many a worker bee slammed into me or swore at me under his breath.

As far as I could see, I only had one option. I dug in my bag for my phone and stabbed in the number for The Gastronome’s Trust.

“Pips, Juliet Hill here. I’ll take that job. Where do I need to be and when?” Although I didn’t really need to ask. There was only one client who I knew would play a card like a two-hour deadline – Jasper Roth.

“Oh, my dear, that is good news,” she trilled. “Fab, just fab. You report late tonight, I’ll text you the details. You’ll be working at Thornton Hall.”

Numb, I pointed my elderly Golf in the right direction and drove out of the city of London. I’d been to Thornton Hall enough times to know the way. Although, I have to say I was surprised that Jasper Roth, America’s wealthiest tycoon, was invited to his wife’s ancestral home this particular Christmas. It had been all over the Daily Mail and other rags that he and Lady Penelope were suffering trouble in paradise. Based on what I think nearly happened between him and me in the drawing room at the Hall last time I catered for the family, I figured she’d finally caught him cheating. But then that whole incident between him and me was kind of a gray area. And we were drinking that mellow port, the one that slid like silk down the throat and left you thirsty for more. And he was so sincere when he confessed that despite his success, what he really wanted was to feel a part of someone’s life.

Was he really about to kiss me, or was it just a weird moment of connection between us? Maybe I imagined the whole thing. That’s probably the real truth. Face it, I couldn’t be trusted to separate the good guys from the bad guys, could I? I’d been duped by both Stephen and Ben. Whatever. Fucking men. No wonder Mother had opted out.

Oh, God…Mother . I nearly swerved off the road, thinking of how my mom was going to react to my news of my break-up with Ben. I think she saw Ben as a guide toward sense and stability. It was no secret that she held out hope for my giving up “being a cook”, to go back and complete my studies, the plan Ben wholeheartedly supported.

It was hard to believe that, as of last night, I’d been ready to do exactly that. To start a life that Mother was excited about. Thinking about disappointing her made my head split. Or maybe that was the hangover. I concentrated harder on the road, lightheaded with hunger and the starkness of my new reality. If I had moved to New York and gone back to school, Ben in tow, Mother would have had to admit I wasn’t flighty. That I did have direction. Of course, flighty to her was switching from math camp to science camp my last year of high school. But marrying Ben would have given me gravitas. Or I hoped she’d see it that way. On the one hand, a successful lawyer, he’s a highly sensible choice, I thought, looking for a turn-off. On the other, although she approved of his profession, he is a man. And who knows if she could approve of any member of that gender.

Men didn’t exactly play a starring role in my childhood. My grandmother, a surgeon and lab scientist in Chicago, divorced my grandfather when my mother was little. When she visited us, she flew solo. And my father, by the way, is a sample cup. Mom made sure I knew all about the science of conception, and what a sperm donor was, from the time I could toddle.

“Juliet,” she told me time and again, “I wanted a child, not two children. Men, my dear, are children. Besides that, they cloud the brain. Take it from me, solidly establish who you are before you try blending with someone else. That way, you don’t get lost.”

Her personal philosophies were sensible, well thought-out, and written in stone. She expected me to benefit from her experience and buy in hook, line and sinker. Growing up with my mother, good enough had never been good enough. She’s not a barrel of laughs, Mother, but she gets the job done and she taught me to do the same. I got A’s in school, and sacrificed dating and boys to do it. That suited her fine. I followed her directions until graduation, all the while gazing wistfully at the artsy crowd who smoked clove cigarettes, and even at the stoner crowd who smoked pot. At least they looked relaxed. When it came time for college, I got accepted to Duke, Vanderbilt, Penn and Cornell. Mother was horrified to the point of dumbstruck when I chose Bard, a liberal arts college near Woodstock, New York. She knew I wanted to be close to my aunt, who I may as well tell you is Suze Wyatt, the life coach you’ve seen on The Eva! Show .

Everyone who ever lived has dreamt of being interviewed by Eva, the most famous and altruistic self-made woman on the planet. The woman who singlehandedly made book clubs cool, and started schools for girls in every remote corner of Africa. The woman who revolutionized daytime television. Everyone except for Mother. She hated Eva.

To this day, I cannot believe I had the strength to defy Mother and go to Bard. It was like a little compass in my head directed me away from the life I had lead up to that point. Had the college not given me a full ride, Mother would have blocked my going.

“What are you going to do, Juliet?” she had mocked. “Cruise through university taking basket-weaving? Next you’ll be telling me you’re studying to be a life coach! Why not skip college, seek an apprenticeship with Dr. Phil, and get your own TV show .” A thinly-veiled dig at Aunt Suze. She practically gagged when she mentioned television. She owned one solely for research purposes. An irrational thorn in her side, reality TV sent Mother into paroxysms of soapboxing. How many times had she ranted “Project Runway! Don’t the sheep realize that it’s not a competition, it’s a show about a competition? The producers get those kids drunk and they hide their scissors, all so we can watch them throw punches and scratch each others’ eyes out! And don’t get me started on the worst of the bunch, The Food Channel ” ?