‘Everyone knows you’re talented, Caprice, but it might serve you better not to remind us of that all the time. Being humble is a quality to be admired,’ Alice-Miranda said.

  ‘But that’s the problem. When I’m humble no one notices me. I have to remind them how good I am, or they might forget,’ Caprice replied.

  Alice-Miranda could see that she was being honest – which in itself was possibly part of the quandary.

  ‘Have you ever thought of talking to someone about the way you feel – especially towards your mother?’ Alice-Miranda said.

  ‘What? Now you think I’m crazy and I need to see a psychiatrist or something,’ Caprice replied.

  Alice-Miranda took a deep breath. ‘No, Caprice, I’m not for one second suggesting that. But I know that talking to someone can help.’

  ‘You?’ Caprice said, rolling her eyes. ‘Little Miss Perfect?’

  ‘I’m far from perfect, Caprice, and yes, sometimes there are things that I don’t want to share with the girls so it’s easier to speak to an adult – a professional. After my horse-riding accident, I struggled. Even though I got straight back onto Bony and I knew it wasn’t his fault, I was secretly terrified. Miss Grimm made an appointment for me to talk to someone and it really helped,’ Alice-Miranda explained.

  ‘You were scared?’ Caprice said.

  Alice-Miranda nodded. ‘I’m just like everyone else. I get scared and worried and nervous about things. Perhaps I’m better at hiding it at times but I promise you – it’s true. In fact, the older I get, the less sure I am of everything. I can’t believe how brash and confident I was when I was little. These days, I can’t imagine I’d be quite so bold.’

  Caprice blinked her long wet lashes. ‘Would you have invited me to come if I wasn’t going to Tuscany?’

  Alice-Miranda shook her head. ‘No. That wouldn’t have been fair to Millie – at least not unless the two of you had made a truce.’

  Caprice pulled a tissue from the box and blew her nose. She blinked her long lashes and screwed up her face. ‘I don’t want everyone to hate me. I want to have friends.’

  ‘Daddy says that what other people think of you is really none of your business,’ Alice-Miranda said.

  Caprice frowned. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘I promise you it does. It means you can’t control what other people think about you – but you can control how you act and how you react to others.’

  ‘Oh, I get it.’ Caprice nodded. ‘My mother says that too. You know lots of people love her show, but there are these awful trolls who say she’s fat and she has wrinkles and she shouldn’t eat so many of the things she bakes. And she says that the best way to deal with them is to ignore it. I’d sue if they were talking about me.’

  Alice-Miranda’s eyebrows jumped up. ‘That’s horrible. But I think your mother is right not to engage with them – it would probably only get worse.’

  ‘Your uncle must get things like that as well,’ Caprice said. ‘He’s one of the most famous movie stars in the whole world. I bet lots of people have opinions about him.’

  ‘He’s never said much,’ Alice-Miranda replied. ‘I suppose one of the downsides of being famous is unwanted attention.’

  ‘But I want to be famous,’ Caprice said. ‘Ever since I can remember, that’s all I’ve wanted. To sing and perform in front of millions of people and make the whole world fall in love with me.’

  ‘That’s just the point, Caprice – you can’t make everyone love you, but we can all try to be more lovable,’ Alice-Miranda said. ‘I’m sure that you’ll be a star – you’re too talented not to be.’

  Caprice bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I want to have friends and I want to learn how to be a good friend.’

  ‘It’s not me you should apologise to, Caprice – I’m sure that Millie would appreciate the gesture,’ Alice-Miranda said.

  Caprice shrugged. ‘All right. I’ll think about it.’

  And with that, the girl flounced out of the room and down the hall, leaving Alice-Miranda completely confused.

  Hoxton Manor was set to sparkle. The Christmas decorations began at the bottom of the mile-long drive, with a pair of giant wreaths attached to oversized iron gates, and continued with fairy lights winding through the avenue of beech trees up to the house. There, an enormous fir tree stood centre stage in the middle of the circular carriageway, dripping in shiny red and gold baubles. Inside the house was even more impressive. Sebastian Smote and his team of decorators had spent days perfecting this year’s theme in anticipation of Elliot Turner’s favourite celebration of the year – his annual Christmas party. The guest list was always interesting. Elliot was one of those people who could talk to anyone and frequently did – hence the diverse crowd that enjoyed his hospitality.

  ‘I love those gold reindeer,’ Elliot called to a smiling young woman who had just spent the past hour trying to decide which direction the pair should face.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied with a nod.

  ‘Though I do hope you’ll all be finished soon,’ Elliot said loudly, immediately gaining the attention of the team of six.

  A man with an impressive ginger coif, dressed in a purple suit and paisley pink waistcoat, rushed towards him. ‘I can assure you, Mr Turner, we’ll be out of your hair before the end of the day. We’ve got a huge wedding at Penberthy House to set up tomorrow and this lot are already exhausted.’ He looked at Elliot and bit his lip. ‘Well . . . what do you think?’ Sebastian twitched nervously, fiddling with his gold pocket watch while awaiting the man’s answer.

  ‘It’s . . .’ Elliot tapped his foot and fanned his fingers under his chin. ‘It’s magnificent, Sebastian – I think this might be my favourite yet.’

  Sebastian Smote clapped his hands and grinned widely. ‘You say that every year, sir. But I do tend to agree, this does feel very special. And don’t worry – the party will be fabulous as always.’ The man turned and shimmied away, shouting to one of his decorators that the stars hanging from the banister rail weren’t level. ‘Get me a spirit level, someone – a spirit level – pronto!’ he shouted.

  Elliot grinned and felt a pang of hunger, realising that he’d quite forgotten to eat lunch. He’d head downstairs and make himself a sandwich. The labyrinth of rooms in the basement had several years ago been transformed into a kitchen complex any hotel, let alone private home, would be proud to have. He entered the main space to find his personal chef, Paloma, leaning against the giant marble-topped island bench, pen in hand, scribbling something into her notebook.

  ‘How goes it?’ Elliot asked. The woman looked up and gave him a dimpled smile. Her long dark hair was tied up in a ponytail and she was wearing her uniform of white chef’s pants and a pinafore top. The only thing missing was her hat.

  ‘Hello, Mr Turner,’ the woman replied, then grimaced.

  Her response didn’t go unnoticed.

  ‘Are you all right, P?’ he asked, a note of concern in his voice.

  She nodded. ‘Probably something I ate,’ she replied.

  ‘I jolly well hope not,’ the man said, pulling a face. ‘How’s the menu coming along?’

  ‘Fabulously,’ she said. ‘I’m about to send the last of the orders through now.’ He noticed her phone sitting on the bench beside the notebook.

  ‘May I take a peek?’ he asked.

  Paloma shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You told me when I started here five years ago that you liked surprises – and I’m not going to spoil this one – it’s the biggest of the year and your favourite.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Is it really five years since you came to drive me mad?’

  ‘Five years and thirteen days,’ she replied. ‘Don’t you remember I started a couple of weeks before the party? It was the worst. Sebastian Smote had no idea what he was doing and neither did I. Why I ever stayed is a complete mystery. Though I suppose you’re not that bad a boss – at least not all the time.’ She smiled, then grimaced again. ‘And, thankfully, Sebastian and I have both come a long way since then.’

  ‘True,’ Elliot grinned his megawatt smile, his eyes creasing at the edges.

  The man might have been nudging sixty-five, but he was still extremely handsome with a thick shock of salt and pepper hair and tanned complexion. Elliot looked after himself, working out with a personal trainer three times a week and playing regular games of golf. The man’s choice in clothing was always elegant no matter the occasion and, today, dressed in a pair of beige pants with a dark green shirt and brown brogues, he was a picture of casual chic. Paloma often wondered why he hadn’t remarried. He was a catch, that’s for sure – though not her type (apart from the fact that he was old enough to be her father).

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked.

  ‘I can get it,’ Elliot said, walking to the bank of commercial refrigerators. ‘I was just going to make a sandwich.’

  ‘There’s smoked salmon and cream cheese. I’ve got homemade mayo too,’ she replied, then gasped. ‘Ow, ow, oh gosh.’ The woman was doubled over in pain. Beads of perspiration peppered her brow and her skin had turned an awful shade of grey.

  ‘Paloma!’ he rushed to her side, then shouted for help.

  A woman in a black trouser suit hurried in from the hallway. ‘What’s the matter, sir?’

  ‘We need an ambulance – now!’ Elliot ordered. Delia Wickham pulled a phone from her pocket and dialled the emergency number.

  Elliot helped the chef to her feet and onto one of the stools. She was clutching her side and looked as if she might throw up.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what the matter is,’ Paloma said between gulps of air.

  ‘It’s okay – you’re going to be fine. The ambulance will be here soon,’ he said.

  She sat still taking shallow breaths. He grabbed a glass and poured some water from the tap encouraging her to take small sips.

  Elliot had found Paloma completely by accident when she was working in a restaurant in the south of France. He was staying in the village and had eaten at the same place several nights in a row, having found the food to be extraordinary. It hadn’t been hard to lure her to his employ – the poor woman was slaving away six nights a week for terrible wages. It was funny – while they often bantered when he wandered into the kitchen, he realised right now that he barely knew anything about her. She was a private soul. He wondered whether he should offer to call someone – he couldn’t help noticing a small tattoo on her wrist. Familia.

  The word smashed into his skull like a freight train and for a few seconds he was back there. Like a movie reel on fast forward until he squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the thoughts from his mind. This wasn’t like that. She would be fine. Paloma was not going to die on his watch.

  Suddenly she clutched her side and screamed blue murder, then slumped down, unconscious, her head hitting the bench.

  ‘Where’s that darned ambulance?’ Elliot called out. In the distance he could hear a siren.

  The next ten minutes were a blur. There was a flurry of activity from the medics, then Paloma was loaded onto a gurney.

  ‘I’ll go with her, sir,’ Delia said.

  He nodded. ‘Thank you. Please let me know as soon as you have any news.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said and disappeared, leaving Elliot Turner alone with his thoughts. He knew better than anyone that was a very bad place to be.

  It was early evening when Elliot received an update on Paloma’s condition. She’d been rushed into surgery with suspected appendicitis, which turned out to be far worse than first thought.

  ‘I’m afraid that Paloma will be out of action for a while, sir,’ Delia reported, having returned to the manor to pick up some things for the woman. ‘She was in the early stages of peritonitis – thank heavens you came down to the kitchen. The doctor said, had she waited too much longer, her condition might have proved fatal.’

  Elliot shook his head. ‘Good grief. Will she make a full recovery?’

  ‘Yes, she should be fine in a few weeks,’ Delia replied. ‘But we’ll have to think about finding someone else for the party.’

  In his anxious state, Elliot hadn’t even thought of that. Paloma would want the show to go on, but to get someone who could do her menu justice wasn’t going to be easy – not at this late stage.

  ‘Do you have anyone in mind, Delia?’ he asked.

  The woman rattled off a list of names of people she’d already contacted and discovered were unavailable.

  Elliot bit his lip. There was someone. He’d met her at an event a while back. Apart from being one of the best chefs in the country, she was completely mesmerising. The woman was renowned for her desserts – though he had attended a party where she’d been responsible for the entire menu, and it was superb.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Delia asked, jolting the man back to reality.

  ‘Yes. I have an idea, but I’ll need to get moving on things right away,’ he said.

  The woman looked at her watch. ‘I’m afraid that in all of the commotion earlier with Paloma, I’d quite forgotten that you’re doing that interview this evening – with Mr Goodman from the Financial Weekly.’

  Elliot sighed. He’d overlooked it too.

  ‘I could cancel,’ Delia said as the doorbell rang.

  It seemed she was too late.

  Elliot swallowed hard. He hated talking about himself and the only reason he’d agreed this time was because he occasionally played golf with Raymond Agnew, the newspaper’s editor. Ray promised that the guy he was sending was not your usual boring money market journo.

  ‘Give me ten minutes, Delia,’ Elliot said. ‘Take our guest to the front sitting room and offer him some tea. I have something I need to do first.’

  The woman nodded. ‘Very well, sir. I’ll wait until Mr Goodman is gone before I return to the hospital.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Elliot said and hurried away to make a call.

  As the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’ filled the school dining hall, Ophelia Grimm made her way to the podium. To honour the occasion, she had worn a pretty red-and-white Fair Isle jumper teamed with a dark-green wool skirt. Her hair was pulled back into a soft bun with a red bow.

  Ophelia waited a moment in front of the microphone before clearing her throat and eyeballing Cornelius Trout, the school’s music master, who was sitting by the sound system.

  Several girls were now pointing and giggling.

  ‘Mr Trout,’ Miss Grimm whispered although given it was into the microphone the entire school could hear her.

  But Cornelius was completely oblivious, singing along, lost in his own world.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, will somebody please turn the music off? I have something to say,’ the woman barked.

  There was a chortle of laughter as Mr Trout very nearly fell off his chair and quickly switched off the sound system.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Trout,’ she muttered before pulling her shoulders back and smiling with all her teeth.

  ‘Good evening, girls, staff and guests. We’re delighted that you can be with us to celebrate Christmas and our annual Talent Show. Miss Reedy and Miss Wall tell me that we’re in for a treat – and I know we’re also in for a delicious feast, thanks to Mrs Smith and her team. Recently, Miss Reedy had a wonderful idea to host a Christmas writing competition which involved entrants creating a modern version of Clement Clarke Moore’s classic poem, ‘The Night Before Christmas’. I would now like to invite Francesca Compton-Halls to come and share her winning entry with us before dinner is served,’ Ophelia Grimm announced to a burst of applause.

  The woman’s husband, Aldous, and young daughter, Aggie, were sitting at the table directly in front of her. Everyone giggled when the clapping died down and Aggie called out, ‘I love you, Mummy.’

  ‘Mummy loves you too, darling,’ Ophelia replied to another volley of laughter. The girl couldn’t have been any cuter in her red and green tartan dress with matching bows in her hair, red Mary Jane shoes and white tights.

  ‘Why did I agree to do this again?’ Chessie mumbled as she took a deep breath and stood up.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Alice-Miranda mouthed, giving the girl a smile.

  Chessie scampered to the podium, a crisp white page in her hand.

  ‘Hello, everyone. Happy Christmas,’ Chessie said into the microphone, which let out a horrible squeak.

  ‘Stand back a little bit, dear,’ the junior housemistress, Mrs Howard, suggested.

  The girl cleared her throat.

  ’Twas the week before Christmas and all round the school,

  The teachers were grumpy, one or two, even cruel;

  Some said the cause was the horrible weather,

  That if the rain didn’t stop, we’d spend Christmas together . . .

  ‘That was amazing,’ Alice-Miranda said, getting to her feet while the audience clapped and cheered.

  ‘Bravo!’ Mrs Clinch called as Chessie reluctantly took a bow. By now the entire audience was standing. Chessie’s cheeks were alight, but she couldn’t stop smiling. It was something of a triumph, given how shy the girl had been when she first arrived. That probably had something to do with having been horribly bullied at her past school.

  Miss Grimm only hoped that the girl’s poem wasn’t prophetic as she listened to the sound of the rain belting on the roof. That was the last thing she needed – for everyone to be stuck at school for the holidays. Ophelia had booked a surprise trip to Lapland to meet Santa and his reindeer, ostensibly for Aggie but even more so for Aldous, whose love of Christmas outstripped anyone she knew.

  Chessie rejoined her table, where she was heartily congratulated by her friends as the food began to arrive. There were steaming platters laden with turkey, lamb and roast ham, plus baked potatoes, brussels sprouts and cauliflower cheese. Huge jugs of gravy and Yorkshire puddings were the last things to come out.