Carrington’s at Christmas: The Complete Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s, Ice Creams at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown

      6

      The glorious smell of cakey-sweet loveliness engulfs the air as soon as I push open the door to Sam’s café. Instantly I feel my body starting to relax. Every time I come in here it’s as though I’ve entered an oasis of calm, a stark contrast to the bustling atmosphere just a few floors below.

      The cosy lounge area has been swathed in decadent plum and rich emerald-green colours, offset with opulent rose-gold cushions scattered all over the huge squishy sofas. Sultry Burlesque-style music is playing and tea lights flicker all around. A projector is displaying a montage of iconic beautiful men across the ceiling.

      Collapsing into a sofa by the faux fire, I exhale a long breath and look around while I wait for Sam. She’s not behind the counter, so I’m guessing she must be busy in the kitchen. I feel myself relaxing – in through the nose, and exhale out through my mouth. In for six … out for six … or maybe it’s four. I speed up a bit. A pair of small cold hands appear from behind my head and cover my eyes.

      ‘What are you doing, Miss Hart?’ I instantly recognise the voice as Sam’s.

      ‘Trying to relax. Seeing as I’m early for a change.’

      ‘Relax?’ she gasps. ‘I thought you were channelling childbirth or something. Did you know that you were practically panting?’ She pauses, and then adds, ‘Hard?’

      ‘I was not. I was merely trying to invoke a sense of calm,’ I reply, trying not to laugh.

      ‘Well, next time you want to relax, pop up here for a camomile tea. Very soothing.’ Sam shakes her head. ‘Come on.’ She helps me out of the sofa. ‘Soo, what do you think of my Valentine theme?’ she says, letting go of me and running a hand over the back of the sofa.

      ‘I love it. And it’s different.’

      ‘Good. My idea of a decent Valentine’s Day is sex. S-E-X. And plenty of it. I want decadence. I want tease. And a bit of debauchery thrown in for good measure,’ she says, grinning naughtily as she loops her arm through mine. ‘Ooh, hang on.’ She stops still and beckons upwards with her eyes. ‘My favourite is coming up next. Tom Ford. Yes, yes I know he’s gay … but will you just look at him?’ We both stare up at the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘Utter perfection.’

      Sam steers me towards one of the train seat booths.

      ‘Ta dah!’ she says, gesturing towards a three-tiered cake stand crammed with all kinds of delicious gooey-looking cakes next to a big green spotty teapot.

      ‘Wow,’ I say, giving her a quick hug. ‘You didn’t have to do all this. A vanilla slice would have sufficed.’ She gives me a look.

      ‘Sorry. Millefeuiiiille,’ I attempt and end up sounding like an extra from a dodgy French film. ‘How do you even say it?’ I laugh.

      ‘That’ll do.’ She grins, picking up the cake stand and offering it to me. ‘So, what’s been going on with you?’ she asks, pouring me a cup of tea. ‘And who’s the man?’ She stops fiddling with the teapot and gives me an inquisitive look.

      ‘What do you mean, man?’ I feel my cheeks flush.

      ‘Oh come on. I know that look a mile off. It’s the same Ready Brek glow you used to get after the end-of-term disco when one of the boys from St Patrick’s had asked you to slow dance. And we must have only been about twelve at the time.’

      ‘Sam, you won’t believe the day I’ve had! The Heff appeared and dropped a bombshell and in the next breath he introduces a second bombshell, only this time it’s of the pure sex variety.’

      ‘Whoa. Hang on a minute. What do you mean bombshells, and pure sex? God, I can’t believe this has all been going on right below me. How exciting. So, come on, tell all. I want details,’ Sam squeals, and stirs her tea. Even faster now. Her natural blonde corkscrew curls are bobbing around furiously.

      ‘Well. The Heff announced it this afternoon, during Ciaran and Tina’s engagement toast.’

      ‘Engagement. Whaat? You’re telling me Ciaran got engaged? Ohmigod. FAINTS. A girl can’t handle so many details all in one go. And why didn’t he tell me?’ she huffs.

      ‘You mean you don’t know?’

      ‘No. He bunked off straight after his lunch break, said he had important business to attend to and would I mind? Of course I said it was fine, but he never said a word. Told you so, deffo up to something … and now we know. What’s the ring like? Did you see it? How could you deny me this for a whole afternoon? It’s bad enough he didn’t tell me himself.’ Sam’s puffing for air, she’s practically hyperventilating. Always the romantic.

      ‘Well, I just assumed he would have mentioned it. Anyway, I’m telling you now. And yes, the ring is huge. Mega.’

      ‘Oh I bet it is. I can’t imagine she would have settled for a Carrington’s chip.’ I pull a face. ‘No offence,’ Sam adds, holding her teacup in mid-air. ‘Every time she comes in here she manages to find a way to mention Ciaran’s inheritance.’ This makes me smile. I can just imagine Tina trying to impress Sam, whose dad is Alfie Palmer, owner of Palmer Estates, one of the biggest estate agents in the country. Sam told me Tina practically did a running bodyslam at Alfie when he turned up at the café one lunchtime. It took fifteen minutes for Sam to prise Tina away from him.

      ‘What does Ciaran see in her?’ I ask, running a finger across the top of my vanilla slice and popping it into my mouth, savouring the exquisite taste of the almond-flavoured icing. Heaven.

      ‘Oh I don’t know. I’ve tried probing him and he reckons they have a lot in common.’

      ‘Like what? I mean, he’s lovely, with the Irish accent and all that … apart from that finger-gun thing he does.’ We both laugh again.

      ‘Oh that’s just a front,’ Sam says. ‘Underneath it all he’s a kind, sweet guy.’

      ‘I know, I’m only joking. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s nice and … well … she isn’t.’ I shrug.

      ‘I know, but he says she’s old-fashioned and wants to be married as soon as possible. And you know how keen he is to be hitched; in fact at one point I thought he might fancy you – he seems to spend an awful lot of time hanging around on your floor,’ Sam says, draining her tea before pouring more.

      ‘Don’t be daft,’ I say, brushing the notion aside. ‘But it doesn’t make sense to me. Most men, or certainly the ones I meet, would run a mile at the mere glimmer of a bridezilla.’

      ‘I think he feels left out. His family are all married with kids, so I suppose he just wants to fit in. He said every time he goes home his parents get excited, thinking an announcement is coming or, better still, he’ll have a bride in tow. Remember, he comes from a tiny village on the southern coast of Ireland. Things are different there. More traditional. Men have wives and children, that’s how it is. Anyway, enough of all that, I’ll quiz him in the morning. Tell me more about the announcement. No tell me about the pure sex bombshell first. That sounds far more exciting.’

      ‘Well, he’s called Tom Rossi,’ I say, lingering on his name.

      ‘Mmm … dreamy sounding,’ Sam interrupts.

      ‘He’s dark, tall, and – well, I know it sounds like a cliché – but he is to die for, Sam. He’s very charming, in a proper gentlemanly Colin Firth way, but I’d say he’s probably part Italian or maybe Spanish even. Either way he’s got that raunchy Mediterranean thing going on too.’ I feel breathless and giddy just thinking about him.

      ‘Cor! He sounds lush. I can’t wait to get a peek of him. Maybe he’ll come up for a coffee and a nice messy