Christmas at Thornton Hall
Don’t miss this terrific debut from a witty new voice in romantic comedy!When Juliet Hill unwittingly discovers a most-definitely-not-hers-rhinestone-studded lace thong in her high-flying lawyer boyfriend’s apartment, this usually feisty chef is suddenly single and facing a very blue Christmas – with only a ready meal for one to keep her company!So when she’s personally requested to cater for the family at Thornton Hall three days before Christmas, it’s not long before Juliet’s standing at the (back) door of the Earl of Gloucester’s impossibly grand ancestral pile.The halls are decked, the guests are titled, those below the stairs are delightfully catty, and all-American Juliet sets to work cooking up a glorious British Christmas with all the trimmings.But other flames are burning besides those on the stove… Sparks fly with Edward, the gorgeous ex-soldier turned resident chef, and are those sidelong looks Juliet’s getting from her boss, the American tycoon Jasper Roth?As the snow starts to fall on the idyllic Cotswolds countryside, so does the veneer of genteel high society and there are more than a few ancient skeletons rattling out of the Hall’s numerous dark cupboards!CHRISTMAS AT THORNTON HALL is a country house rom com for the modern age, a must-read for fans of the scandals and drama of Downton Abbey and the charm and wit of Helen Fielding.
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Christmas at Thornton Hall
Lynn Marie Hulsman
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
Contents
I’m a writer. My mother’s death brought an epiphany. “Life is short,” said my inner voice. “Thanks, I.V.,” I replied. “I know what I have to do.” In short order, I got an agent, co-wrote two books, ghost-wrote another, published an article, and sold a novel.
Kentucky-born, tall tales and hyperbole are in my bones. I love story. My real jobs? Equity actor. Ad copy writer for casinos, (“Loose slots!”) Stand-up comic. Pharma editor. Cheese cube passer-outer (admitted low point). I’m an Ideation Agent (sounds fake, right?) and run an improv company in NYC. My favorite, favorite thing to do is write Romantic Comedy.
I live with my family in Hell’s Kitchen, and am seen around town auctioneering for charity, hosting gay men’s fashion shows, and calling bingo games.
You can follow me on Twitter @LynnMarieSays.
For my dear friend Kate Bushmann.
“Juliet, it’s Phillipa from The Gastronome’s Trust. Big stuff. I hope I’m not calling too early,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.
I held the phone with one hand and stroked the still-warm, empty space next to me in the bed with my other, drinking in the sensation of being a grown-up.
I seriously cannot believe I’m me, I thought, suppressing a manic giggle. I’m in my boyfriend’s Mayfair apartment – which he owns! – answering a phone call from my agent who’s about to offer me real money for my very much in demand culinary skills to put in my – wait for it! – savings account. A savings account which now has enough for me to go back to college and complete my sociology degree. Who would have thought it? Juliet Hill – back on track. Certified Grown-up. Even my mother would have to agree. My mind was racing, even though my body hadn’t quite caught up, yet.
I’m on the brink of a new beginning, I’m moving back to New York to complete the studies I’d dropped all those years ago. And I’m moving back with my successful boyfriend…successful and athletic, I thought, wincing as I stretched out my aching limbs. After recent work trips to the States, then New Zealand, Ben seemed determined to make up for lost time: he was like the cat that swallowed the canary. Absence had certainly made his body grow fonder, and his heart, too, I hoped. So maybe, if I’m honest with myself, my world hadn’t been properly rocked last night… but then he’d practically just stepped off a plane, for heaven’s sake, I couldn’t expect nirvana. We’d have plenty of time this holiday season to get back on the same page in the old sex department.
Where is he, anyway? I peeled one eye open to check the clock on his night table. 6:55 a.m. My agent, Phillipa, certainly was getting the worm, as it were.
“Juliet,” she said sharply. “Are you listening to me? I asked if I’ve awakened you.”
“No, Pips, it’s fine,” I lied breezily, forcing myself to sound alert, “I’ve been up for ages.” Phillipa Burton, owner of London’s top agency dedicated to placing chefs in private households, expects everyone’s full-on attention. I’ve always thought of her as one of those British school-mistressy types. She scares me a little, but I pretend she doesn’t. I’m a favorite because I’ve always behaved like a soldier in her army.
“Darling,” she said crisply, “I’ve just had a specific request come in for you to work over the Christmas holiday. I explained that you blacked those dates out with us, but the client insisted I ask, and here’s the kicker…You’d need to be there tonight.” She paused. “The housekeeper rang and said if I could send Juliet Hill, they’d pay a fee for the late notice, and a holiday bonus. The call came at six, and I’m sorry to say the offer’s only good until eight o’clock this morning.”
I let her talk, knowing I’d be turning the job down. I’d tell her about my plan to move back to New York with my soon-to-be fiancé and having to leave the business altogether once the holidays ended. No need to stir up emotions and spoil the joy right now. While she tried to sell me on the job, I let my mind wander to thoughts of caroling around the piano with Ben’s cousins and uncles, mugs of warm mulled wine on the sofa, and smiling faces peeking over a crispy roast goose flanked by massive tureens of root vegetables. This Christmas was going to be special – a real family celebration. Impeccable Ben, in his well-cut suit, standing possessively with his arm around my shoulders, welcoming me into the fold, and for once in my life, I’d be wearing the right thing. Nothing too slutty, or cheap. And certainly no stains on my starched, white blouse. His family would murmur among themselves about what a perfect match I was for their Ben.
