I briefly glance away from the road and at my phone screen, but Eve isn’t looking at me. Something off camera has caught her attention and she’s got a serene, almost childlike smile on her face. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s snowing.’ She tilts her camera towards her window and I get a brief glimpse of bright white snow falling from the sky. ‘I hope it settles. We haven’t had proper snow for Christmas in years.’
‘No snow over here,’ I say. It’s definitely cold enough, but the sky is still a clear, icy blue.
‘It’ll come,’ Eve says with an assured nod. ‘I think I heard something on the news about a storm today.’
‘As long as it’s not too heavy. I still have to drive up to Nan’s tomorrow.’ I turn down yet another familiar street, and all the houses here are also decked out in Christmas cheer.
Except one.
Alexander Hoxton’s home sits right at the far end of his swanky cul-de-sac without so much as a single fairy light wrapped around the black metal gates that cordon off his home from the rest of the world. ‘What were we saying about Christmas spirit?’ I mutter as the gates open after automatically recognising my licence plate, and I let my car crawl into his sprawling driveway.
Roland, Hoxton’s assistant, is already striding out of the front door as I park up. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as efficient as Roland. It makes working for Hoxton that much easier, knowing I can go through Roland for most things and avoid his prickly boss.
‘Gotta go,’ I say to Eve, giving her a quick wave before I cut the call and fix a friendly and genuine smile onto my face. I like Roland. He’s exceptionally good at his job and we seem to have developed an unspoken understanding when it comes to Hoxton.
‘Noelle!’ he says cheerfully. He’s dressed smartly in his usual work attire, but there’s an extra addition to it today – a festive tie. There’s a cheerful Rudolph drawing painted across the front of it and, every few seconds, his red nose lights up and flashes. Roland catches my gaze lingering on the tie, and his smile curves into something a little more reminiscent of a smirk. ‘I’m glad someone appreciates my attempt at injecting some festive cheer into this place.’
Translation? Hoxton’s not a fan of the tie.
Surprise, surprise.
‘I love it,’ I say with a wink before grabbing my bag from the passenger seat and following him into the house. ‘You should add it to your regular wardrobe.’
Roland huffs out a quiet laugh. ‘And be on the hook for causing an aneurysm? I don’t think so.’
The inside of Hoxton’s house should be impressive. It’s asprawling mansion with acres on either side of it, providing an apparently much-needed distance from his neighbours. It could probably fit my tiny flat inside it several times over, but I’ve been here so many times that the awe factor is lost on me. Today, however, it just feels bleak.
It’s all sharp angles and hard edges with dark, oaky walls and not a trace of Christmas cheer. It was like this last year too, so I hadn’t been expecting much of an improvement today but…
‘Did I misread the email?’ I ask, still following Roland through the winding halls. Roland guides me every time I come here. I’m pretty sure Hoxton makes him do it; not out of concern that I’ll get lost but to keep his privacy intact, as if he’s afraid I might go snooping and uncover some sordid secret or other. ‘Is he still hosting a Christmas meal tonight?’
I wouldn’t be surprised if I did misread it. Once thing I’ve learned since working for him is that Alexander Hoxton and Christmas are two things that don’t go together. Lack of Christmas décor aside, on my first Christmas working for Hoxton, I’d expected him to request a flurry of seasonally appropriate meals for me to prepare to tide him over for the holiday season, just like my other clients had. I was prepared to make festive sausage rolls, turkey-stuffed sandwiches, honey-roasted vegetables and desserts soaked in cinnamon, but Hoxton rejected every single idea in one brief email.
FROM:[email protected]
SUBJECT:RE: Christmas recipe ideas!
No to all below suggestions. No need for ‘Christmas’ theme. Your standard meals will be fine.
Roland hums in acknowledgment. ‘That’s right. It was a last-minute decision and, truth be told, it came out of nowhere. Terrible timing, if I’m being honest,’ Roland murmurs, cutting his eyes ever so slightly. ‘It’s not like I’m about to head off on a twenty-hour flight to Australia to spend Christmas with my boyfriend’s family for the first time, or anything like that.’
I glance sideways and raise a brow. Roland immediately offers me a sheepish grin.
‘Sorry, like I said. This came out of nowhere and I’m already ridiculously stressed.’ He pulls at the sleeve of his blazer. ‘He could’ve at least given us more than forty-eight hours’ notice.’
I nod in sympathetic solidarity. Roland is usually so calm and composed but, now that I’m really looking at him, I suppose he does look a little frazzled.
‘I hope my shopping list didn’t give you too much grief,’ I say.
Roland waves an airy hand. ‘You were the least of myproblems, trust me on that. Getting the rest of the Board to agree to attend on such short notice…’ Roland trails off and exhales a deep, long-suffering sigh.
I don’t typically make it my business to poke into the affairs of my clients, but there’s something behind Roland’s sigh that has my curiosity piqued. ‘They don’t get along?’
Roland hesitates. ‘For the most part,’ he says carefully before pursing his lips into a thin line. ‘But that’s neither here nor there. Let’s focus on the now. On this dinner.’
