Page 6 of Home This Christmas

FIVE

I was eighteen years old when I kissed goodbye to my first love, Nathan Woods, breaking both of our hearts in the process, but with a determined ambition to head down South.

Despite my parents worrying and preferring that I chose something up North, my heart was set on London. After leaving school, I had bussed to a college in a town several miles away and gained the qualifications to take me to university.

Nathan was born into a farming family and was helping with the day-to-day running of the dairy farm. He had no desire to head to the city, so we had no choice but to go our separate ways. At three years older than me, maybe he was ready to settle down.

‘You will keep in touch, won’t you?’ Nathan had pleaded, his voice choking with emotion when we said our goodbyes at the train station. ‘I want to hear all about London.’ He forced a smile as he wished me well. I had offered him his ring back, but he shook his head and told me to keep it.

‘Maybe you will think of me when you wear it,’ he had said, trying to put on a brave face.

The train rumbled into the platform, me seconds away from stepping onto it and heading for my new life.

‘Course I will keep in touch,’ I reassured him.

That was when it felt real. I was moving away from Brindleford and saying goodbye to my first love.

I did wonder if I was making the right choice, but the thought was fleeting.

If I had stayed, I would have settled into a life that I knew I would grow tired of, however much it hurt to say goodbye to Nathan.

London had been a revelation, with its bustling streets and non-stop life, and thankfully, I loved it at once.

I quickly settled into a flat share with three interesting people, one of them on the same course as me, the other two studying medicine and law respectively.

It made for some interesting conversations when we would occasionally rustle up a meal and dine together.

I took part-time jobs waitressing and day by day, Nathan occupied less and less of my thoughts.

I eventually graduated with a first-class media degree, and combined with my love of food, I managed to secure a job on a local rag.

I wrote all about restaurants offering early-bird deals as they were called and gave my honest opinion of the food on offer.

In time, my old village became nothing more than a distant memory, even though I duly returned home for the first two Christmases, successfully managing to avoid Nathan, and risking opening old wounds.

I managed to do so by spending most of the time holed up in the family home, watching movies, playing board games, and bypassing the local pub.

In my first year at university, Mum and Dad came to London for Christmas shopping and the ‘bright lights’. She would tell me what Nathan had been up to and how she would often run into him, until I gently told her that maybe it was best not to know if I was to make a success of my life here.

They enjoyed their trip so much, it became an annual thing – until my dad passed away and Mum took to travelling alone. When she moved to Leeds to be close to her sister, there was no reason for me to head back to my childhood village.

Do I really want to revisit my past? I ask myself as I fold the letter and place it in my handbag. Would it be selfish of me if I don’t go and judge the competition?

Having done a run-through of Britain’s Best Cook, my mind slightly distracted by the letter, it isn’t long before it’s time to head home.

‘Fancy a drink?’ Sienna pipes up behind me as I grab my coat.

‘I’m a bit done in.’ I still feel a little tired after my recent bout of illness.

‘No problem, rest up,’ she says kindly.

One of the camera guys nearby agrees to go with her instead – that’s how things are at the TV studio.

A whole bunch of people who socialise here and there, but none of them are what you might really call close friends.

I can’t imagine calling any of them in the middle of the night, if I had a crisis, with the exception of Sienna.

Heading home on the tube, I pull the letter out of my bag and re-read it once more. I can’t help but think of the life I left behind – especially my first love.

A group of slightly worse-for-wear Christmas revellers who are wearing Santa hats and sparkly tops board the train at the next stop, singing loudly.

A man in a suit shakes his head – but what can you expect at this time of year, even though Christmas is still several weeks away?

As they cling on to the overhead bar one of the women loses her grip and goes sliding along the carriage and stops at my feet.

‘Oh fuck!’ she mutters, her party hat askew, and her handbag two feet in front of her.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, helping her to her feet and retrieving her bag and handing it to her.

‘I’m okay.’ She grins as her mate joins her. ‘And cheers for that!’ she says, gripping her bag for dear life. Her eyes focus on me as recognition dawns. ‘Wait a minute, it’s you! It is you, isn’t it, you are off the telly,’ she announces, and I feel several pairs of eyes turn to look at me.

I have my hat pulled over my head, hiding my trademark long curly hair, which normally means people don’t recognise me, but it seems an inebriated woman can.

‘Um, yes, I guess it’s me.’ I smile.

‘Ah, well thanks for helping me,’ she replies, slurring her words slightly. ‘Wait till I tell my mum, although I don’t think she likes you that much, ’cos my dad fancies you.’ She giggles.

I can’t help but feel flattered.

‘Anyway. I don’t think you would deliberately try and ruin the reputation of a restaurant,’ she says drunkenly. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken – and I would never do that,’ I say, feeling slightly stung by her remark.

At the next stop, the young woman and her group of friends depart the train and I watch her link arms with one of them as they make their way to the exit.

I stare straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with anyone and wonder why she said that about me. Was that just her opinion, or is that what the public really think?

Feeling a little hurt by her remark, I wonder if it is because I called out a dishonest restaurant owner for flogging cheap, bought-in food items and fleecing unsuspecting diners. I give an honest critique of the food I review, but it is always fair.

The review I gave a long time ago has resurfaced from time to time to haunt me.

Maybe I was trying to make a name for myself at the time, although I felt justified in exposing the so-called quality establishment that was massively overcharging its customers and buying in sauces and desserts, that they passed off as home-made.

Surely that could not have been a bad thing, me calling them out?

The restaurateur in question, taking zero responsibility for his actions, gave interviews to the tabloids the following year, saying he was almost bankrupt and how I had been instrumental in ruining him.

I almost gave up the whole food reviewing at that point, until my dad reminded me that the guy was ripping people off and would probably have failed in the long run anyway.

Plus, the public seemed to be on my side too.

The unscrupulous restaurant owner faded into the distance before he came up with the sob story for the press, obviously out to make some money.

I dearly wish Dad was around to talk to. He always managed to find the right words to say.

When I finally arrive home, I kick off my shoes and make myself a coffee, which I take to a comfy armchair near the window.

I sip my drink and glance out over the illuminated city, feeling a little conflicted. Would the people from my childhood village think I have become a little above myself if I refuse their invitation? I wonder, pondering Sienna’s comment. And why would it bother me so much if they did?

Once more, my mind drifts to the village.

I think of the giant oak tree beside a footpath close to the church and how I fell to the ground after climbing it with a group of children and grazed the whole of my left thigh.

My father scolded me and told me I could have broken my leg, or worse.

It was the only time in my life I ever recall my father raising his voice to me, and I burst into tears.

What exactly will I be doing here that would stop me from going to Brindleford?

Sure, there will be an evening out with the studio crowd, and Coleen has invited me to spend Christmas Day at her place, with her husband and in-laws, but otherwise I don’t have any real plans, aside from work.

Truthfully, I kind of feel like holing myself up here this year on the twenty-fifth, binging on Christmas food and too much television.

It has been an exhausting year, and I am looking forward to doing nothing for a few days.

Last year was so different. Me and Mum had spent the day with Ade and his family and had a wonderful time. I naively thought that we might spend the day together this year as we are both alone, but she clearly had other ideas. I hope she enjoys her Christmas, that will be very different this year.

My mind flits to the gingerbread competition that takes place at the same time every year, exactly one week before Christmas, at the village hall.

I suppose it would be a bit of a coup for the village to have a celebrity in attendance, and I can’t deny that I am a little curious about who remains and whether any younger people have bought houses in the village.

I also wonder how much it has changed over the years.

Is the kindly vicar still there, who helped me up when I fell from the tree?

And Marilyn who taught Sunday school at the church?

I guess there is only one way to find out, so before I head to bed, I fire up my laptop and reply to the invitation. It is time to revisit my past.