Maybe This Christmas?: A wonderful, festive heartfelt read from Jill Steeples

By Jill Steeples

Curl up with the perfect cosy, comforting Christmas romance.

When Beth Brown loses her job and her boyfriend in the space of twenty-four hours, she thinks life can’t get any worse. That’s until she finds herself in the depths of the English countryside working for chef, Rocco di Castri. Not only does she have to deal with his legendary moods, but she’s also expected to get his chaotic schedule and workload in check, all while she’s nursing a broken heart.

It’s not long before Rocco’s idyllic home starts to work its magic and soon she sees a softer side to her boss too. And as the festive season approaches, Beth dares to look forward to everything the perfect country Christmas has to offer – and perhaps some romance of her own. Until news of an unexpected proposal threatens to put pay to all Beth’s plans. Will Beth get her happily-ever-after? Maybe, this Christmas...

A festive gem from Jill Steeples, perfect for fans of Cathy Bramley, Heidi Swain and Julie Houston.

'I knew I was in safe hands from the very first page. Jill has such a fluid, easy way with words that I was drawn straight into the story. Maybe This Christmas is packed full of festive fun and romance. I wouldn’t mind finding Rocco in my Christmas stocking!' Sarah Bennett

Please note this title was previously published as Christmas at Whitefriars.

What readers say about Jill Steeples:

‘I thoroughly enjoyed this book from the very first page to the very last. A really great winter read, warm and cosy throughout. A very easy to rate 5 stars.’

‘A brilliant story with all the right ingredients. Love laughter tears and smiles.’

‘A feel-good story full of laughs, romance and caring with a few surprises along the way. This book is just what you need when the sun is shining on a chilly spring day.’

‘Jill Steeples writing has a nice fast pace and a great easy flow. I love the feelgood factor of her stories. They always manage to put a big smile on my face.’

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Aug 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781802807349

Jill Steeples

Jill Steeples is the author of many successful women’s fiction titles all set in the close communities of picturesque English villages. She lives in Bedfordshire.

Book preview

1

‘Oh… my… god!’ My sister Lucy was nothing if not excitable.

‘Roc-co… di… Cas-tri!’ She drew out each syllable, savouring them on her tongue, lingering over the contours of his name.

‘That. Is. Sim-ply. A-maz-ing!’ She swooned audibly, as, with the phone balanced precariously in the crook of my neck, I struggled with the door keys.

Barging my way into the flat, I smiled, picturing her jigging up and down on the spot.

‘You do know who he is, don’t you?’ she added.

I rolled my eyes heaven-ward as I picked up the post from the doormat, before dumping it along with my handbag on the kitchen table. Pulling out a chair, I parked my backside on the table, kicked off my heels and allowed my aching stockinged feet to dangle in the air.

‘Of course I know who he is,’ I sighed, tugging off my hold-ups, discarding them on the floor and rubbing at my throbbing toes. Sometimes I felt my sister thought I was completely clueless, but you’d need to have spent the last six months marooned on a desert island not to have heard of Rocco.

Brooding – check.

Tempestuous – check.

Foul-mouthed – check.

Reckless – check.

Feted – check.

Heart-meltingly good-looking. Check.

Well, only if you liked that full-on, contemptuous, bad-boy thing, which I most certainly didn’t.

He was the man of the moment, or so it seemed, judging by the number of column inches he was amassing in the tabloids. A regular all-round celebrity hotshot, according to the papers.

I was not interested.

And then there was the small matter of those three Michelin stars which lent a certain gravitas to his reputation as the enfant terrible of the London culinary scene.

Definitely not interested.

Funnily enough though, only yesterday I’d been reading about him. I’d picked up one of those glossy Sunday supplements. You know the type. The sort of article that makes you want to give up and slit your throat at the humdrum banality of your own life. A double-page spread showing how that other breed, the talented, good-looking lot, like to spend their fleetingly rare moments of free time.

With Rocco that meant, apparently, fishing, clay-pigeon shooting and hanging out in the pubs surrounding his country estate, always accompanied by his black Labrador, Millie, and sometimes by his best friend, legendary rock guitarist, Zak Stranger.

I was so not interested.

There was his on-off relationship with supermodel Pandora to consider, too. She of the improbable figure and the face of an angel. A bad-tempered angel, admittedly, but an angel, nonetheless. She had a fiery nature to match Rocco’s, and their spats were often played out in full view of the clientele of his West End restaurant and regularly hit the headlines. From what I’d heard, it seemed that life in the vicinity of Rocco was anything but dull, but I wasn’t sure that I was ready for such excitement.

‘So when do you start, Beth?’ Lucy asked, her enthusiasm zinging down the phone.

‘Oh, I’m not sure I’m even going to take it yet,’ I explained. ‘The agency has only just rung. I said I’d let them know tomorrow.’

A whoosh of disbelief whistled down the line.

‘Are you mad? What’s there to think about? We’re talking about Rocco di Castri here. The man’s a bloody genius. Just imagine what fun it’ll be working alongside him and meeting up with all his famous chums.’

I shook my head. Quite frankly, that whole celebrity thing left me cold.

‘And all that fantastic food you’ll get to try out. Yum, yum!’ Lucy’s voice raised an octave higher with every word she spoke.

Food, though? Now if anything could spark my interest then it might be that.

‘Hmmm,’ I managed, unconvinced. ‘The thing is,’ I said, thinking aloud, ‘I thought I might take a break.’ Once I’d said it, it sounded like the best idea ever. ‘That was the whole point of me temping in the first place. So I could pick and choose my jobs.’ I was warming to my subject. ‘That last contract was great, but it’s left me feeling completely wrung out. Twelve-hour days, organising the schedule of a single-minded, globetrotting CEO, it’s exhausting!’

Really, it felt like I hadn’t had any time to myself in ages.

‘Everything has to be done immediately, if not sooner, and most of the people I end up working for have no concept that I might have a social life of my own. I can’t imagine Rocco di Castri will be any different.’ I paused for a moment. ‘And besides, I have Martin to think about.’

Lucy made a strangulated screeching sound at the other end of the phone.

‘No, no, no. Listen to me. You simply have to take this job. Who knows where it’ll lead? And Martin – pherr!’ She made a dismissive snorting sound. ‘He won’t mind, you know that, you’ve got no worries there.’

I supposed that was true. But there was more to it than that. For a while now, I’d had a niggling feeling about the direction my life was taking. All work and no play was making for a very boring existence. And although Martin was as supportive as ever, I sensed that something was amiss. Maybe some time alone together was just what we needed.

Hearing his key in the door, I jumped off the table.

‘Look, Lucy, I’m going to have to go. Martin’s home. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’

‘Take care, Beth. Love you. And don’t forget to call the agency!’

Switching my phone off with a smile, I placed it on the table, before turning to greet Martin.

‘Hello, stranger!’

‘Hello,’ he said looking surprised, his eyes searching my face. ‘I wasn’t expecting you home so early.’ He walked past me and into the kitchen.

‘I know,’ I said, following him. ‘I thought I’d surprise you. As of 5 p.m. today, I finished working for the Investment Bank and am now officially unemployed.’ I stretched my arms high above my head. ‘And boy, does it feel wonderful!’

‘What, nothing fixed up for tomorrow?’

‘No,’ I said, deciding not to mention the offer of the job with a certain Mr di Castri. What was the point when I had no intention of taking it? ‘I thought I might take some time off.’

‘Really?’ said Martin, sounding decidedly underwhelmed. ‘Well, in that case, I think we should go out. There’s been something I’ve been meaning to speak to you about for a while now. I’ll book a table at Martini’s, and we can talk.’

Sitting at our usual place, in the corner of the Italian trattoria, felt as comfortably familiar as sitting on the sofa at home, wrapped up in a duvet. We’d been coming here for years. High days and low days, it was somewhere we always returned to. The smells of garlic, onions and tomatoes wafting from the kitchen were tantalising and sipping at a refreshing glass of Orvieto, with Tony hovering in the background in his customary attentive manner, I felt content and relaxed for the first time in a long while.

Watching Martin across the table, nursing an orange juice, I noticed how tired he was looking. Wondering why I hadn’t noticed earlier, I reached across for his hands.

‘Why don’t you have a proper drink, a beer maybe, or some wine?’

He’d been unusually quiet all evening, toying with his pasta, observing me thoughtfully. Was he ill? Stressed? Broke? That might be it. The thought of me not bringing any money home must have tipped him over the edge.

He shook his head.

‘Beth.’ My name on his lips sounded as if he was saying it for the first time. He took my hands in his, looking me intently in the eyes. ‘This isn’t easy,’ he faltered, ‘but you and me…’

Well, to be honest, that’s when the alarm bells began to ring. I’m nothing if not intuitive and I had an inkling this was turning into one of those low days.

‘The thing is,’ he went on, ‘I think we’ve both known for a while now that it’s not working between us.’

I was aware, vaguely, of my mouth drooping open in an unflattering manner, my wine glass wavering in front of my face. No, no, we hadn’t, I wanted to say.

‘We’ve been bumbling along,’ he continued, ‘good mates and all that, but neither of us is happy, not really. We both deserve more. Don’t we?’

He tilted his head to one side, and I was able to examine his face, so achingly familiar. The intelligent eyes, the smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose, his hair escaping in random strands around his ears and yet tonight, it was like seeing him for the first time. My heart skipped a beat.

‘Not happy?’ My voice creaked. ‘I hadn’t realised.’

‘No?’ He tilted his head the other way, his gaze dropping to the table. ‘You don’t love me, Beth, I know that much. Not…’

‘I adore you, Martin.’

He smiled, shaking his head. ‘I know you do. But that’s not enough. It never has been.’

‘But—’

‘No, please, Beth,’ he said, holding his hand up to stop me, ‘let’s not pretend. Not any more. I’ve always known it. For years, I’d hoped you’d grow to love me, like I loved you, but I realise now I can’t make that happen.’

Loved me? Past tense? When did that happen? I wasn’t going to cry. Not sitting there in the middle of my favourite restaurant. Not in front of Tony, who by now appeared to have got an inkling that something untoward was going on, and was hovering all the more. I bit on my lip, screwing up my mouth to stop the tell-tale tears from falling.

I opened my mouth, but nothing happened. It seemed I’d lost the faculty of speech. Instead, I practised my mentally challenged guppy expression. At that moment I think I probably perfected it. Dear Martin. Dependable, kind, loving Martin, the one who worshipped the ground I walked on, who’d pledged, admittedly not that recently, now I came to think about it, that to marry me and have a family with me would make him the happiest man on earth. The one who was sitting across the table from me, telling me he was dumping me. When had it all gone so wrong?

‘I’ll leave first thing in the morning,’ he said, examining his fingers. ‘It’s for the best.’ My eyebrows shot heavenwards. ‘Don’t look like that, Beth, please. We can still be friends.’

Stifling an ungainly snort, I wondered when Martin had turned into an all walking, all talking book of clichés.

A heavy silence descended over us.

‘Would you like some pudding?’ he asked a moment later, looking around for Tony.

Funnily enough, my appetite for Zabaglione or Panacotta had all but vanished.

‘No. Thank you,’ I replied, quietly, picking up my handbag. ‘Shall we go, then?’

2

Back at home, I climbed straight into bed, expecting a fitful night wrestling with the bedcovers, sleep taunting me, as I listened to Martin making his way stealthily through the flat like a cat-burglar. Instead, within minutes I was sparko, the traumas of the evening working as a most effective sedative.

The next morning, I awoke to an unnerving stillness and a headache the size of the national debt. I peered out from the bedroom door knowing, instinctively, that Martin had gone. This had been no spur of the moment decision, but instead a long thought out, well-planned operation executed with military precision.

I clutched my chest. Was it possible to have a heart attack at twenty-eight? I took a deep breath and, managing to convince myself the pains in my chest were more likely due to a panic attack than anything more serious, I wandered dazed around the flat.

His absent CDs had left a gaping hole in the rack in the living room, the kitchen was drained of colour following the departure of his Le Creuset casserole set, and all that remained in the hallway, where his dozen pairs of baseball boots had littered the floor for months, annoying me intensely, was a smattering of mud flecks.

But it was the blank space on the wall above the television where he’d removed the photo that really got to me. Tears leapt to my eyes at the sight of that bald patch of matt vinyl and I began to sob, at first quietly like a heroine from a period drama, and then with more gusto, befitting a more contemporary heroine, a screaming, wailing one from EastEnders. The missing picture had been taken five years earlier, shortly after we met, on our first holiday together in the Maldives. Him grinning broadly, standing in the sea, the water lapping his knees, me cupped in his arms, looking lovingly up into his eyes.

I sighed longingly for that lost moment. It had been reckless to go off to the other side of the world with someone I barely knew, but it hadn’t felt like that at the time. We’d both been overwhelmed by our feelings – well, lust, I guess, and that delicious anticipation of knowing that we were in at the beginning of something big. Not a fling or a passing dalliance, but something life-changing.

‘I love you!’ Martin told me that day, the sweltering heat and exotic sands only adding to the heady romantic atmosphere.

‘I think you’re great too,’ I’d said, not quite matching the moment.

But I did grow to like him a lot in my own sweet little way, the only way I knew how.

‘I sometimes think you’re just keeping your options open, waiting in case something better may turn up,’ he told me some months later.

Ouch! It wasn’t true, although I knew my inability to match Martin’s depth of emotion was a stumbling block. But not for one moment did I imagine he would up and leave. Not in a million years. The one thing that was a constant in my life, an absolute certainty, was that Martin loved me and would always be there for me.

Only now he wasn’t. I slumped onto the sofa feeling sorry for myself and zapped on the telly to find a bevy of lithe lovelies and bronzed hunks strutting around on a repeat showing of Love Island. As if I wasn’t feeling bad enough about myself. A bikini-clad girl was yelling accusations at a gorgeous guy who was protesting his innocence.

Ordinarily, I’d have been enthralled, but I had my own problems to consider now. I had no boyfriend, no job and I’d been abandoned by my parents who, weeks earlier, had told me they were quitting their jobs to take up their gap-year travelling the world. Where were they when I needed them? Probably on a beach in Thailand somewhere, acting like a couple of lovesick teenagers.

I was sobbing noisily into my tissue when the doorbell rang, and I heard my sister’s cheerful voice calling through the letterbox.

‘It’s only me, sweetie. Come on, let me in.’

Thank goodness for Lucy, I thought, sniffing my way to the door, tissues falling to the floor in my wake.

‘Good grief, look at the state of you,’ she said, throwing her arms around me.

Snatching a glance in the mirror over her shoulder, I could see what she meant. My eyes were red and puffy, and last night’s make-up was smeared in an unsightly mess over my cheeks.

‘He’s left me,’ I blurted, the tears falling again.

‘I know,’ she said, as if I’d just told her I’d had cereal for breakfast. ‘He phoned me first thing this morning. Said you’d probably be in need of a friendly ear.’

Huh, how dare he be so considerate at a moment like this? He was meant to act like a cruel, heartless bastard. Sadly, though, that had never been his style.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I said, collapsing in a heap back onto the sofa after the exertion of opening the door. ‘I thought he loved me.’

‘He did. I think he probably still does. But you have to admit it wasn’t the great love affair of the century. You were just treading water. I think you have to admire him, really, for what he’s done. Making the decision. Somebody had to do it and it wasn’t going to be you.’ She helped herself to a chocolate from an opened box on my coffee table.

How could she eat at a time like this? She has a heartless streak, my sister.

‘But it could have gone somewhere one day,’ I said, wondering if I’d blown away any chance of a future featuring a husband and family.

‘Get real, Beth. You had five years together and not once did I hear you say how much you loved him. I’m not being unkind, but I sometimes think you were with him just because he made life so easy for you. Loved you, looked out for you, put the bins out for you. To be honest, I think Martin’s done you and him a massive favour.’

So much for sisterly support.

‘But no one will ever love me like he did!’ My shoulders shook as the tears ran down my cheeks.

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Lucy, throwing me a fresh pack of tissues from her handbag. ‘I’ll make us both a cup of coffee and then I really must go. I’ve told work I needed an emergency dental appointment, so I can’t be that long.’

As Lucy busied herself in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards noisily, rattling mugs and spoons, I looked across at the telly where the poor girl from Love Island was sobbing her heart out. She was having a tough time of it too when the object of her affections was clearly a two-timing love-rat. Maybe things could have been worse for me after all, I told myself.

The landline rang, just as Lucy came back into the room with the mugs.

‘It might be Martin,’ I said, jumping up to reach it.

‘You’re in no fit state to talk to anyone,’ she said, handing me the mugs and grabbing the handset in return. ‘Let me speak to whoever it is.’

When I quickly made out from Lucy’s best telephone voice that it wasn’t Martin, I zoned out. My attention drifted back to the television and the poor heartbroken girl, knowing exactly how she felt. I was only vaguely aware of Lucy’s conversation in the background.

‘Sarah? Oh, hello. Yes, of course.’

I did wonder who might be calling my flat to speak to my sister at 9.30 on a Thursday morning, but then I wasn’t really up to any mental gymnastics.

‘Uh huh. Yes, that’s right. Today? Of course. Three o’clock, then? Don’t worry, I’ll be there. Many thanks.’

‘Who was that?’ I mumbled when she hung up, my gaze still fixed on the television screen.

At least she had the decency to look a little sheepish.

‘The agency. About that job with Rocco di Castri.’

Oh, god, I’d forgotten all about them.

‘Well, they just assumed they were talking to you.’ She smiled sweetly, shrugging her shoulders. ‘You need to be at his restaurant, Rocco’s, for 3 p.m. this afternoon. Sharp. Whatever you do, don’t be late. Apparently, he can’t abide that in his staff.’

‘What?’ I said, pulling my dressing gown tight around me and folding my arms crossly. ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve said I’ll take the job?’

She nodded, sipping at her coffee.

‘Well, it’s not as if you’ve got anything better to do. Besides, you’ll be paying the rent on this place on your own now, so you’ll need the dosh.’

I sobbed at her heartlessness.

‘It’ll be an adventure,’ she said, without any hint of sympathy.

An adventure? What was she going on about?