Page 17 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

“I need to get off the news desk. I’ve been there three years, and they’ve still got me doing puff pieces; chasing down opinions from the person on the street about new airport runway proposals and shopping malls.

I just”—he set his jaw—“I crave my own column. I know I could do it well, if they gave me the chance. Marcus Tenbury is leaving and it’s the perfect time to prove to my editor that mine is a voice that will sell papers, and yet here I am writing about Christmas markets.

No offense, you have a very nice market. ”

She smiled. “None taken. Do you mean Marcus Tenbury, the restaurant critic?”

“Yeah, he’s got a column at the Daily News . But the old coot is finally retiring to live out the rest of his days rollicking around his estate, shooting at birds and complaining about his gout.”

“It sounds like his retirement falls right in with your five-year plan.”

“If only.”

“Well, somebody’s got to fill his boots, it might as well be you. You certainly seem like you want it badly enough,” she offered.

He gave a self-deprecating chuckle, “Desperate for it, more like. I’ve been knocking on the door for so long it’s a wonder my knuckles aren’t dented.”

“What is it that draws you to food writing?”

He looked thoughtful and then answered. “Food writing is a real skill; you have to be able to bring the experience to the reader, make them understand the flavors through your words alone. The word of a food critic holds its own kind of power. Look at Grace Dent and Jay Rayner. Restaurants are in awe of them, readers love them; they’re respected writers.

Marcus Tenbury was all pomp and no passion.

The ordinary person doesn’t care about beluga caviar, they want to read about food that’s accessible to them, and that’s where I would come in, if I ever got the chance.

I could bring my own unique brand to food writing. ”

“You have a brand already?” she teased, an eyebrow raised.

He grinned at her, his cheeks coloring. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“And?” she pressed.

“Street food and sass?” he said slowly, as though testing the words out.

She nodded in agreement. “Street food and sass. I like it.”

“Thanks,” he said, looking like a pleased puppy who’s just correctly obeyed a command.

“Do you have a background in food?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. But I like food, and I can tell the difference between what’s good and what’s bog-standard fare.

At the end of the day, it’s as much about how I sell myself as it is about the product.

You’ve worked in advertising; you know the score.

It’s not only the product’s USP that sells it, but also how you make the consumer think they will feel if they buy it. ”

“Riiiight. So, you’re going make your readers feel, what?”

“Compelled to read my column.” His grin was cocky, and she laughed. “I just need to convince my editor that I’m the man for the job.”

“And how’s that going for you?”

He pulled a face. “Not so good, as it happens.”

“Are they not moved by your brand?”

He gave her a side smile. “I know you think I’m full of it.”

“No!” She laughed. “Well, maybe a little bit, but that’s okay, there’s nothing wrong with having ambition. What does your editor say?”

Warren’s brows knitted together. “She keeps saying I’m not there yet. She likes the style of my writing, but she doesn’t know if it’ll translate to food writing.”

“Okay, so what would you say is your style of writing?”

“Funny? Perceptive? If I keep saying things as if they’re questions, I might hit on the right answer?”

She smiled. He was cute beneath the bravado.

“If you’ll allow me to don my advertising hat for a moment, funny and perceptive is a great start, but it isn’t enough of a hook.

Nigel Slater and Tessa Kiros bring nostalgia and deep comfort to their food writing; they’re storytellers.

Nigella Lawson is too, but with added seduction.

Jamie Oliver is all exuberance; he makes you feel like you can do anything that he can.

Anthony Bourdain took no prisoners; he was as witty and intelligent as he was scathing.

So, where do you sit? Homely, witty, sexy, brutal?

Something different altogether? You need to find your hook; that’s what’s going to make your editor think you can sell papers. ”

His eyes were round. “Wow! You’re good.”

“Thank you. It’s a pity you weren’t in the boardroom when they were deciding who to make redundant,” she said wryly.

“I never would have made you redundant,” he said, smiling at her. There was that puppy dog energy again. “You know your food writers.”

She shrugged. “My family are big foodies.”

“Second breakfast aficionados.” He gave a knowing nod.

“You remembered that?” She smiled, delighted that he’d been paying so much attention at their first meeting.

“You made an impression on me.” He pinned her with a stare.

Good grief, he was handsome, he made her want to giggle—and she was not a woman who giggled. An idea popped into her head.

“Why don’t you use your time here to experiment with your hook?

There are plenty of restaurants in Pine Bluff.

You could turn in your scheduled piece about the Christmas market and then work on a separate food piece to send to your editor.

Give them a real flavor—pun intended—of your style, and make it impossible for them not to give you your own column. ”

He looked up and down the high street, sucking in his cheeks, and then he turned back to her with a toothy smile. “You’re right. This could be the perfect platform. I’ll bet there are some great little places hiding in the nooks and crannies; there always are, in backwaters like this.”

She felt herself frowning. “I wouldn’t describe Pine Bluff as a backwater.”

He laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. You just don’t come across that many towns, these days, that haven’t been bastardized by designer bullshit or tacky restaurant chains.” He side-eyed her. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

She shrugged it off. “Not at all. I guess everyone feels a little protective about where they grew up.” Blimey! What’s happening to me?

When Fred was a teenager, she couldn’t wait to get away from what she saw as this provincial little town. But being back here now, having grown out of such naive superciliousness, she found she felt quite affectionate toward the place.

Pine Bluff was a proud microcosm of multicultural Britain; a glorious mix of indigenous Scots and immigrants from around the world who had settled and built their lives in the town.

Most of the restaurants and cafés in Pine Bluff had been owned by the same families for years, like the Campbells, who were originally part of the Windrush generation and had been bringing Caribbean sunshine flavors to an often rainy high street ever since.

Or Mr. and Mrs. Doukas, who brought their family and their Greek cuisine to Pine Bluff after serving in the British Army during the Second World War.

Both restaurants were now largely run by their founders’ grandchildren and were as entrenched in the town as haggis and bagpipes.

“Not me,” said Warren, sniffing disdainfully. “I grew up in a place down south, with people as hard as nails. I was lucky to get my basic needs met. I feel no affinity for where I came from, and I doubt anybody there misses me either.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, cringing at the inadequacy of her words when faced with the gravity of his admission.

“Well, that depends on your point of view. Some families are best left behind.” He sniffed and rearranged his coat, adjusting his scarf.

“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t rake up painful memories.” She wondered what his background had been. Were his expensive clothes a barrier to disguise a past he was ashamed of?

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “My philosophy is that you can either choose to let a tough life haunt you and keep you down, or you use it to propel you forward. I choose forward.”

“That’s admirable.” She didn’t want to press him, but he’d clearly been through some hard times growing up.

“Not really.” He shrugged off the compliment. “You have to be born somewhere, but it’s simply an address like any other; it doesn’t mean you have to be attached to it, or to the people who brought you into it, for life.”

“No, I suppose not.” She realized that she felt very differently to Warren about her family and her childhood home. She may have tried to distance herself, but she’d never wanted to eradicate either from her life.

“Hey, there’s a stall over there that claims to serve Britain’s best hot chocolate,” said Warren, changing the subject completely.

“In my profession as a searcher of truths, I feel duty bound to get us one each, in order to confirm or debunk such a declaration.” He grinned at her, a playful expression in his eyes.

“Your commitment to the cause is admirable,” she said, smiling back.

Warren crooked his arm, and she threaded her arm through his as they headed toward the stall.

There was a queue at the Cocoa Me stall—an offshoot of the small handmade chocolate shop on the high street—and they took their place at the back of the line, mulling over the various flavors and options written on chalkboards running down either side of the hut window.

“I think it’s got to be the seventy percent with orange zest and cinnamon for me,” said Fred.

“Too dark for me,” said Warren, shaking his head. “I’m looking at the white chocolate praline and honeycomb.”

“That is going to be so sweet!”

“It will be, once I add whipped cream and marshmallows.” He winked at her. “Isn’t that your friend at the front of the queue?”

Fred peered around him and stood on her tiptoes in time to see Ryan hand a box over the counter to one of the hot chocolate makers. “Hey, Ryan!” she called out as he turned to go.