“I don’t have time to go out to dinner, and I’m always too tired to go dancing,” she explained. “Besides, a pair of designer pumps costs a week’s salary.”
“Well, tonight you’re having cocktails at Claridge’s.” He handed her the pumps. “Please hurry. We have to be at Daniel Galvin’s in an hour.”
Louisa tried on shoes until her ankles burned and she could barely walk. Finally Noah was satisfied and gave the tower of boxes to the salesgirl.
“Kate just sent me an urgent text.” He pulled out his phone. “I need better reception. Stay here and I’ll be right back.”
Louisa leaned against the cushions and closed her eyes.
“One more thing.” He turned around.
“Yes?” Her eyes flickered open.
“I just wanted you to know, you look lovely in moccasins.” He grinned. “I’m only doing my job.”
* * *
Louisa peered over the marble balustrade and saw the Food Hall with its gleaming glass cases and festive decorations. The scent of mulled wine and gingerbread drifted up the escalator and people milled around as if they were at a symphony opening.
The delicacies she had read about! Scottish salmon and suckling pig and thick slices of ham. There was a chocolate shop with chocolate teddy bears and a chocolate Santa Claus with a white frosting beard. A patisserie baked éclairs like you found in Paris and an Indian counter sold curries that made your eyes water.
She couldn’t leave Harrods without visiting the place she had been dreaming of since she became a pastry chef. It would be like waiting months for a reservation at Eleven Madison Park and leaving before dessert.
It would only take several minutes to walk around the Food Hall. She wouldn’t see everything, of course. But she could sample sticky puddings and bittersweet-chocolate tarts.
The shoeboxes were stacked on the counter and she told the saleswoman she’d be right back. The escalator deposited her at the entrance and she was so excited, she wanted to hug every vendor in his striped apron and colorful cap.
The ceilings were painted with gorgeous frescoes and the floors were black-and-white marble and iron grillwork covered the walls. But it was the food displays that took her breath away. All the Google images didn’t prepare her for pyramids of cheeses and buckets crammed with lobsters and fruit stalls stocked with kumquats.
She sampled a ricotta cheese that was as creamy as the finest ice cream. The chamomile flower tea made her feel like she was in an English garden, and the Turkish coffee was the strongest coffee she’d ever tasted. And the pastries! There were trays of custards and vanilla slices and raspberry cheesecakes.
She noticed a familiar packaging and stopped. It was the French butter she had discovered in Normandy. Ever since she returned to New York she had tried to replicate it. But American butters were plain and thick, like processed cheese on white bread.
“Can I help you?” a man asked.
“Is that really Echire butter?” she wondered. “I ate it one summer in Normandy. I never had French butter before, it was the best thing I ever tasted.”
“It’s because of the amount of butter fat,” he explained. “And French butter is made from partly soured cream to give it a tangy flavor.”
What if she bought a package and kept it in the suite’s minibar? The croquembouche she was baking for Christmas Dinner at Claridge’s would be superb. But the line at the cash register snaked halfway down the Food Hall. If she weren’t in the shoe department when Noah returned, he’d be furious.
“Would you like to buy some?” the man asked.
“Perhaps another time.” She hesitated. “I’m in a hurry.”
“We run out quickly during the holidays.” He shrugged. “It’s a popular ingredient for Bûche de Noëls.”
Noah had every minute scheduled; she might not return to Harrods for days. And she still had time—her makeup appointment wasn’t for an hour.
“I’d like two pounds of butter please,” she announced, ignoring the nervous flutter in her stomach.
Louisa clutched her package as if she’d won some incredible prize. But the wait at the cash register was even longer than she thought and it took ages to pay. When she returned to the shoe department it was an hour later and the stack of shoeboxes was gone.
“Have you seen my boxes?” she asked the salesgirl anxiously. “I left them right here.”
“The gentleman came back to collect them,” the woman said.
“The man wearing a navy sweater?” Louisa gulped. “Do you know where he is?”
“He was here, but then he left,” the woman answered.
“Did he say anything?” Louisa urged and a prickle ran down her spine.
“He didn’t look very happy,” the woman remembered. “Is something wrong?”
“Just a silly misunderstanding.” Louisa flushed and hurried down the escalator. She raced across the marble floor and through the revolving doors. But Noah wasn’t in front of the window or underneath the Harrods sign. She didn’t see him at the taxi stand or the bus stop across the street.
Her phone hadn’t been switched to international calling and she couldn’t remember the name of the makeup artist. Jet lag engulfed her and tears pricked her eyes. She had made a mess of her first afternoon in London.
But Noah would understand when he tasted her croquembouche. After all, she was replacing Bianca at the most important culinary event of the year. He would want her dessert to be delicious.
The sun filtered through the clouds and she suddenly felt brighter. She was in London at Christmas; of course she wanted to do some sightseeing. And Christmas Dinner at Claridge’s wasn’t for six days.
She strolled down Brampton Road and noticed tour buses stopping in front of iron gates. She looked more closely and realized she was in front of Buckingham Palace.
What if she entered the grounds and had a quick look around? She already missed the makeup appointment and there was plenty of time to take a bath before cocktails. She couldn’t pass Buckingham Palace and keep walking!
She called the front desk of Claridge’s and left a message for Noah telling him she would be back soon. Then she bought a ticket at the kiosk. The woman handed her a guidebook and she followed the signs to a marble corridor. The State Rooms had ornate mirrors and dazzling chandeliers and silver candelabras. Paintings in gilt frames lined the walls and the ceilings were so high she had to crane her neck to see the gold-flecked frescoes.
She saw the Throne Room where the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge took their wedding photos, and the White Drawing Room where the royal family gathered before official engagements. There was a whole exhibit of Queen Elizabeth’s fashions including her wedding dress designed by Sir Norman Hartnell and the lace gown she wore to her coronation.
And the Royal Mews! She could have spent hours in the stables with their sleek horses and black-and-red carriages. She fully expected Cinderella to descend from a horse-drawn carriage and meet her Prince Charming.
A clock chimed five o’clock and she gasped. How did it get so late? She only planned on taking a quick tour. She raced down the palace drive and strode the few blocks to Claridge’s.
“Good evening, Miss Graham,” the valet greeted her. “I hope you had a pleasant afternoon.”
“London is wonderful, but there’s so much to see.” Louisa sighed. “The whole day flew by.”
A fire flickered in the lobby’s fireplace and bellboys carried packages wrapped in silver paper. Guests in chic evening wear mingled around the Christmas tree and there was the heady scent of pine needles and expensive perfume.
She took the elevator to the fifth floor and fiddled with her key. The door of the suite opened and Noah stood in the living room.
“What are you doing in my suite?” she demanded.
“What am I doing here?” he seethed. “I waited in the shoe department for thirty minutes and then searched every floor of Harrods. I spent an hour humoring one of the most important makeup artists in London. I’ve been sitting here so long, I memorized the books on the bookshelf.”
“I’m sorry I’m late. But you could have waited in the lobby,” she said, wondering if she’d left out any bras or underwear.
“And have you sneak by like some international spy?” he spluttered. “You’re not late. Late is missing your subway stop and arriving ten minutes after a meeting started. Late is hitting the Snooze button on your alarm and calling your boss to apologize. Late is not disappearing from the shoe department of Harrods and arriving at your suite three hours later.”
“I couldn’t call, my phone didn’t work.” She sank onto the sofa. “I was only going to take a quick look around the Food Hall, but then I discovered they had Echire butter. I couldn’t leave without buying a package.”
“You stopped to buy butter?” He wrinkled his brow.
“It’s from France and it’s the best butter in the world,” she insisted. “It’s because of the rich soil they feed the cows. I’m going to use it in my croquembouche.”
“In half an hour you’re supposed to be at the Fumoir and you’re wearing slacks and moccasins,” he fumed. “I don’t care if it was the butter Marie Antoinette ate with her last omelet, you could have bought it another time.”
“I’ve stood in the pouring rain at the Chelsea market to buy peaches and took the train to Brooklyn to get the perfect baking chocolate.” Her eyes flashed. “I’m a chef. There is nothing more important than my ingredients.”
“If you remember, I borrowed two trays of cinnamon rolls and ended up giving Bianca an allergic reaction. Then I promised Kate you would be the perfect replacement and she paid your airfare and accommodation. Now there is a camera crew waiting to film you at a cocktail reception.” He jumped up. “I don’t care if your croquembouche is made of Styrofoam. If you’re not downstairs in half an hour, I’m out of a job.”
Noah paced around the room and suddenly Louisa felt guilty. What had she been thinking? Just because clothes and makeup weren’t important to her didn’t mean she could ignore them.
“Where are the boxes from Harrods with all the dresses and shoes?” She glanced around the suite.
“The valet delivered them to your bedroom.” He waved his hand.
“I made a mistake, but I promise I won’t let you down,” she said. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll make you and Kate proud.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
A smile crossed her face and she was so happy to be in London. “Don’t come in until I’m ready. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
* * *
Louisa spritzed her wrists with perfume and rubbed her lips with lipstick. She touched her hair and wondered why she felt anxious. Then she pictured the disappointment in Noah’s eyes. She hated to let him down; it wasn’t like her at all.
Was that why she felt the same nervous excitement as when she got ready for her senior prom? She couldn’t think about it now. If she took any longer to get ready, Noah would never forgive her. She sifted through the boxes for a chiffon wrap and opened the door.
“What do you think?” she asked, entering the living room.
Noah stood next to the fireplace clutching a shot glass. He placed it on the sideboard and rubbed his forehead.
“You don’t like it,” she said anxiously. “I shouldn’t have chosen the red dress. It’s too bright for a cocktail party and the fabric is practically see through. I’ll go change, it won’t take long.”
“The dress is perfect.” Noah stopped her. “You said you don’t have any makeup and the hairdresser ruined your hair. You look like…”
“Like what?” she prompted, and for some reason felt unsteady.
“You look like a movie star,” he finished.
“You’re exaggerating,” she laughed, relief flooding her chest. “I never said I didn’t have any makeup. Most women carry mascara and lipstick in their purse. And a curling iron does wonders with hair.” She paused. “Do you think Kate will be happy?”
Noah started as if he forgot the time. “Only if we are downstairs in three minutes,” he began. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I convinced you to drop everything and fly to London. Then I didn’t care that you were tired and scheduled every minute of your day.”
Louisa smiled and suddenly felt better.
“Apology accepted,” she conceded. “With your itinerary, we’re going to be stuck together like sprinkles on a birthday cake. It would be nice if we got along.”
“We can work out a truce later.” He grinned. “There’s a two-man camera crew and some of the most important chefs in the world downstairs. We don’t want to keep them waiting.”
* * *
Noah opened lacquered double doors and Louisa gasped. Entering the Fumoir was like walking into a 1920s speakeasy. Purple velvet love seats were arranged around beveled glass coffee tables and photographs of Marlene Dietrich and Clark Gable lined the walls. An art deco mirror stood behind the bar and patterned rugs covered oak floors.
Everything about the room was stunning: the pearl cigar cases and horseshoe-shaped bar lined with bottles of Armagnac. Crystal vases shimmered under the low light and flickering candles gave the tables a warm glow.
A small group gathered near the fireplace and Louisa recognized Pierre Gagnaire and Andreas Caminada. Her stomach turned and she wanted to race upstairs.
Could she really chat with chefs who were on the cutting edge of the culinary scene? She knew nothing about reduction sauces or plate equilibrium. She didn’t work in a kitchen filled with gleaming cookware like a restaurant kitchen on a movie set.
But when would she get a chance to learn from chefs who earned Michelin stars and wrote glossy cookbooks? And besides, she and Noah agreed to get along. He wouldn’t be happy if she suddenly had a headache and went to her suite.
“There you are.” A woman turned around. “Noah was frantic. He thought you had been kidnapped or fallen asleep in the back of a cab.”
When Louisa had arrived at JFK there had only been a few minutes until the plane boarded and she barely met Kate. And the moment they touched down at Heathrow, Kate rushed off to solve a crisis. Now Louisa noticed how beautiful she was.
Kate was in her early thirties and had blond hair knotted in a chignon and green eyes coated with sparkly eye shadow. She wore a silver sheath that complemented her long legs and a hint of pale lipstick. But it was her smile that made her lovely. It was bright and sincere.
“Please don’t blame Noah,” Louisa urged. “It’s entirely my fault. This morning I was so jet-lagged, I could barely stand up. Then I got sidetracked in the Food Hall at Harrods and missed my makeup appointment. There’s so much to see, Christmas in London is thrilling.” She paused. “I promise it won’t happen again. From now on I’m sticking to the itinerary.”
“As long as you are here now.” Kate nodded. “I can understand. When I don’t sleep on the plane, I’m like a bear forced out of hibernation.”
“It is overwhelming.” Louisa glanced at waiters wearing black bow ties and white gloves. They carried trays of quail eggs and potted shrimp. “The Mayfair Suite and giant Christmas tree in the lobby and having cocktails with world-class chefs,” she said with a sigh. “What if I say the wrong thing and everybody laughs?”
“Use my trick,” Kate offered. “When I produced my first show, I had to speak at a board meeting in front of a roomful of executives. I stood next to my PowerPoint presentation with the Empire State Building behind me and forgot my notes.”
“What did you do?” Louisa asked.
“I imagined everyone sitting in their underwear.”
“That doesn’t work,” Louisa laughed. “It’s what they do in movies.”
“It cured me immediately,” Kate insisted. “It helps if you imagine something ridiculous: boxer shorts with Santa Clauses or penguins.”
“What could I possibly have to say to some of the most famous chefs in the world?” Louisa asked and noticed a man standing next to the fireplace. While the other chefs wore blazers and ties, he was dressed in a cashmere V-neck sweater and navy slacks. His blond hair fell over his forehead and he held a champagne flute.
“Is that really—” she began.
“Digby Bunting?” Kate followed her gaze. “I haven’t met him, but he’s quite notorious. They call him the British Cooking Casanova. At his last book signing they had to hire security to keep the women away.”
“I don’t care about that. His recipes are delicious.” Louisa shrugged. “I’m dying to ask him how he gets the right consistency in his Opera Cake. When I make it, the whipped mascarpone cream falls flat.”
“I’ll introduce you,” Kate suggested.
“Now?” Louisa panicked. What if she said something embarrassing? Like she adored his chocolate truffle layer cake and he said that wasn’t in the cookbook, she must be thinking of Alain Ducasse.
“You’re going to be cooking beside him,” Kate reminded her. “Don’t worry, he’s just like the rest of us. He probably had acne as a teenager.”
“Let me get a drink first.” Louisa accepted a martini from a passing waiter and glanced around the room.
She looked for Noah but he’d disappeared. There was no reason for him to stay; his job was to make sure she made it to the Fumoir. He was probably at Claridge’s bar sipping a Dubonnet or in his suite taking a nap. She was surprised that his absence left her suddenly deflated, like when she baked a perfect cheesecake only to discover the blueberries were sour and she didn’t have a topping.
Digby glanced in her direction and she flushed. She should be excited. She was standing in Claridge’s about to meet one of the most famous pastry chefs in the world.
“I’m ready.” She turned to Kate. “Let’s meet Digby Bunting.”