A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall
JANE LINFOOT

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2019

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Jane Linfoot asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008356316

Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008356309

Version: 2019-10-04

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1. Be Jolly

Chapter 2. Merry and (not so) Bright

Chapter 3. Fa la la la la (or maybe not)

Chapter 4. Hello cold days

Chapter 5. Make it a December to remember

Chapter 6. If in doubt, add glitter

Chapter 7. Let the fun beGIN …

Chapter 8. Surprise surprise

Chapter 9. Happy landings

Chapter 10. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Chapter 11. Mwah!

Chapter 12. Wrap up!

Chapter 13. Define good …

Chapter 14. Everybody’s having fun …

Chapter 15. Deep and crisp and even …

Chapter 16. The more the merrier …

Chapter 17. Angels with dirty faces

Chapter 18. Looks like rain, dear

Chapter 19. Have a banging Christmas …

Chapter 20. Worth melting for …

Chapter 21. This way to the North Pole

Chapter 22. No ski boots …

Chapter 23. Marshmallows this way …

Chapter 24. Antlers, angel wings, snowberries and pretty things

Chapter 25. On a cold and frosty morning

Chapter 26. Dashing all the way …

Chapter 27. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire … with bells on

Chapter 28. Fifty words for snow

Chapter 29. And a partridge in a pear tree …

Chapter 30. Cocoa served here

Chapter 31. This way to the North Pole

Chapter 32. The strongest blizzards start with a single snowflake …

Chapter 33. With love …

Chapter 34. Sledges at dawn …

Chapter 35. Tinsel, sprouts, turkey, snow!

Chapter 36. Jingle bells and cockle shells

Chapter 37. PS …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Jane Linfoot

About the Publisher

For Yoyo, my wonderful Old English Sheepdog, beside me all day, every day, fifteen lovely years together.

The strongest blizzards start with a single snowflake …

Wednesday

11th December

1.
Be Jolly

‘Could there be a better present for the woman who has everything?’

I’m smiling across at Merwyn in the front seat and, as I take in the words Cockle Shell Castle carved into the monumental gateposts, I’m so excited I’m finding it hard to breathe. Then I ease my car through the gateway and onto the winding approach, and as we round a bend and the pale walls and castellated towers come into view, washed in moonlight, I can’t help letting out a gasp. I’ve held my anticipation in check for six whole hours since we left London, but now we’re here there’s a butterfly storm in my tummy. In the pictures the castle looked wonderful, but in the flesh, above the twinkle of the dashboard fairy lights, it’s more magical still. As I pull the car up by some big square planters and gaze up at the building, it’s one of those rare moments in life when it feels like I’m actually living in a fairy tale.

‘Christmas in a Cornish castle by the sea has to be the perfect gift. It’s as if those small-paned windows are drawing us in. We’re just so lucky to be here.’

After so long in his doggy travelling harness, Merwyn’s side eye tells me he’s less enthusiastic than me. He may look like a messy brown floor mop more often than he looks like a dog, but in his Yappy Christmas neck tie he’s beyond cute, and he’s been surprisingly good company on the way. He never grumbled once about me playing non stop Christmas tunes and singing along to I Wish it could be Christmas Every Day, which would be my tag line if I had one. George, my ex, would never have put up with non stop Pirate FM either; sometimes it’s good to make comparisons with the past and come out ahead.

‘Come on, time to stretch your legs, we have to go round the back for the key.’ I drag on my coat and pull my woolly bobble hat further down, clip on Merwyn’s lead, and let him scramble out over me as I open the car door. Then I grab the wodge of instructions and follow his bounds.

As we pass a studded front door that’s big enough for a giant, I feel as if I should be pinching myself to be sure I’m not dreaming. Then an icy blast of air slices up under my fake fur jacket, whips straight through my chunky fair isle jumper, and saves me the trouble – anything this freezing has to be real.

And just in case anyone’s wondering who this woman who has everything is, it definitely isn’t me. Hell no! It’s my best friend, Fliss’s, older, more successful, and seriously driven sister, Liberty Johnstone-Cody. Libby is one of those amazing multi-tasking entrepreneur super-mums who started a decade ago with a new-born, a toddler and an idea for a baby carrier, and went on to take over the world.

Just to get things straight from the start, where Libby is fabulous at amassing and seizing the day, I’m more of an accidental dropper. I got as far as a steady boyfriend, but I managed to lose him. One time I was going to buy a very small flat, but then I didn’t. This time last year I had an awful disaster it’s very difficult not to think about. Let’s just say, right now I’m trying really hard to do better.

I do have a job I used to love, as a visual merchandiser at Daniels, which is a family run department store tucked just behind Regent Street in London. My mum calls it window dressing but I actually style and build displays. But along with everything else, that’s gone a bit pear-shaped lately, since Fliss, my best friend who works in the same team, went on two lots of maternity leave in quick succession. The first was very much planned, the second was a disaster because it happened too fast. But that’s what life’s like for Fliss and me; we have calamities but we have so many of the damned things, mostly we grit our teeth and try to ride those catastrophe waves. Whereas lucky old Libby wouldn’t recognise a setback if it slapped her in the face, because, quite simply, she doesn’t allow negativity into her life.

Libby actually grabbed this two week rental in a Cornish castle for Christmas within six seconds of it appearing on Facebook Marketplace. She bought it herself, because that’s what she’s like, and got her husband Nathan to pay for it afterwards. But it’s only slightly less romantic because of that. Sometimes we women have to do things for ourselves, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Realistically, Nathan’s a high flying banker who struggles to find time to go home to see his kids, he’s not going to have space in his day to mess around on Facebook. And buying your own present might mean you forfeit those two seconds of amazement when it arrives. But the plus side is you get exactly what you want and you’re never disappointed. Best of all, you’re in control. And for Libby control is a must.

That’s the other thing about being a hot shot business mother of four, nurturer of kids and a burgeoning business, running through life at a million miles an hour with all her hands full, while juggling fruit at the same time. These days it’s not enough to be one, she has to show the world she’s doing it too – if the social media posts aren’t there, whatever she’s doing may as well never have happened.

So Libby pulling off a fortnight over Christmas in a castle will be entirely wasted if she doesn’t get the word out – she has to get those Instagram photos loaded. And not only that, every single one has to look more amazing than anything anyone else is posting. No pressure there then. Which is basically where I come in – I’m here to style the arse off Libby’s Christmas, and to make her uploads look prettier than everyone else’s.

A few years ago, Fliss would have been the obvious choice for this job. But she’s up to her ears in sleepless nights and stroppy toddlers, and – she won’t mind me sharing this – multi tasking just isn’t a thing that’s working for her. She’s barely made it out of her pyjamas in three years. Which is why Libby turned to me.

When she marched into Daniels a month ago like a pocket-rocket begging me to help style her castle Christmas, waving her arms and tossing around words like ‘sumptuous’ and ‘luxurious’, I was off to Human Resources to beg for time off faster than you could say ‘ramparts’.

Just to give you a picture, Fliss and Libby are both teensy, neat, and various shades of blonde, depending on the week. With my gangly frame I feel like the big friendly giant when I’m next to them. And it’s worse still since I had a car accident this time last year and cut my face really badly. Since then I’ve had to grow my cute dark haired pixie cut into one of those straight-ended wavy bobs that’s hell to maintain and isn’t quite working, and then top the whole lot off with whatever hat works for the weather. It’s not that I’m making light of the accident, because how could I when the man who was driving the car died in it, but the only way of coping I’ve found has been to throw myself into work. So for me the offer of working over Christmas felt like a life saver.

With twenty-four days still left to take before March, HR could hardly refuse me the time off. Libby promised me a wodge of cash too, but, I have to be honest, I’d have come without. Not being rude to my mum and dad, because I was so grateful for the way they came to the rescue last year. But I couldn’t face another Christmas in Yorkshire with them and the grans all worrying about me. And with Libby giving me the chance to help add all the trimmings to her Cornish house party I’m counting on her making so many demands there won’t be any time at all for me to think about how awful December was last year.

But the great thing is, if we’re talking professional expertise, Christmas is my speciality area. In retail we’re planning for next Christmas while the current one’s still going on. Behind the scenes in Daniels it’s Christmas most days of the year.

Libby, being the wheeler dealer she is, insisted on having a few extra days added onto the let at the start, which to be fair probably wasn’t that difficult to do. We all know December’s a slack time for holiday rentals, people are too busy with parties and preparations to go away. So I’ve come on a couple of days ahead of the rest of the party to be here for any deliveries.

As Merwyn and I make our way around the side of the castle, the moon is shining like a spotlight through the bare criss-crossed branches of the trees, and the crenellations at the top of the tower walls are pale against a black sky spattered with stars.

I’m actually looking for someone … I glance at the paper … called Bill. Not that I’m ageist, but aren’t most castle caretakers as old and decrepit as the buildings themselves? I’m mentally preparing myself to fall over someone stooped, white haired and wrinkly at any moment. Or maybe I’ve been watching too many Disney films.

After a full day of driving I know Merwyn’s enjoying the walk, and I know castles ramble, but I hadn’t expected it to be quite so far between the front door and the back. The terraced house I grew up in had its front door on the side, and its back door round the corner only a few feet away. My dad used to joke that if he chose his spot carefully he could answer both doors at the same time. Although if this place boasts that it sleeps twenty-five in ten glorious bedrooms, they have to fit in somewhere.

As we make our way further, the moon is washing the lawns with pale grey light, and the shrubbery is casting long shadows around the edges – I don’t think I’ve ever seen moon shadows before. And over the sound of Merwyn’s snuffles and the buffeting of the wind I’m catching a few notes of music. It’s funny how little you need to hear before you can pick out a tune. It takes about a second to know it’s that song where they repeat ‘Happy Christmas’ in Spanish over and over again, and end with the words ‘bottom of your h-e-a-r-t’.

My ex, George, had it down as the most maddening Christmas song ever, and after five years with him I found myself thinking the same. As you do. It’s certainly not the kind of song I’d expect anyone like Bill to listen to. He’d be way more likely to go for Frank Sinatra. Or Eartha Kitt singing Santa Baby. I only hope this Bill hasn’t gone out after we’ve come so far. As we get closer to the end of the wall we’re following the music gets louder and there are prickles of annoyance stinging the back of my neck.

And then we turn the corner, and as I take in the wide courtyard, its beautifully laid stone flags flooded with the kind of soft yet brilliant light that comes from expensive designer spots, my jaw sags. There are carved stone benches around the edge, hewn oak posts and pergolas, and in the centre of it all there’s the biggest hot tub I’ve ever seen. And lounging in the corner behind the steam clouds, muscular arms outstretched along the tub sides, there’s a guy. And even through the soft focus of the mist I can tell there isn’t going to be an ancient wrinkle anywhere in sight.

Phwoar. On second glances make that P-H-W-O-A-R.

Thank Christmas those completely uncharacteristic thoughts didn’t get as far as my mouth. It’s just, even though I work in high end retail, I don’t bump into beautiful, sexy, dark-eyed tousled-hair, stubble and cheekbones every day. More to the point, now it is laid this bare in front of me, my alarm bells couldn’t be clanging any louder. It’s great to look at raw power and beauty for a few seconds, in the way you’d enjoy watching a tiger from behind a barrier wall, a moat or two and a thick sheet of safety glass. But you totally wouldn’t want to meet it head on in the wild.

He’s shaking back his hair, rubbing the water out of his eyes, then his brows knit into a puzzled frown. ‘Hi, can I help you?’

My mouth’s still hanging open. ‘I seriously doubt it, unless you can tell me where Bill is.’

As his frown softens his flinty eyes soften too. ‘It must be your lucky day … I’m Bill …’

Then as his low laugh hits my ears and his eyes lock with mine my heart stops because this isn’t just a random hot guy swishing about in the waves – this is one I know.

Oh crap.

I swallow hard and slam my mouth closed just in time to stop my lurching stomach from escaping to turn cartwheels across the stone pavers. The hair might be longer, the face more worn, and initially I was thrown because I’ve never seen him naked before. But of all the guys I could do with never meeting again … in the world … ever … this is the one. If I’m honest it’s a long story I hadn’t ever expected to confront again …

Chamonix, January 2013. My one and only time skiing with George, sharing a ski lodge with his friends and friends of friends. Or more accurately, me spending shedloads I could not afford, then doing everything not to ski. Riding the lifts, trying the hot chocolate in every cafe, but mostly tucked up by the log fire reading, while the rest of them did the kind of moves out on the slopes that made me question why they weren’t all in the Olympic squad.

George and I were a few months into living together, he was just starting to break out with the kind of dick head behaviour he’d kept hidden up until then. And all of it given a worse twist when I took an early flight, knocked on the chalet door and it was opened by this hunk in socks called Will … the guy in the hot tub here … eeeeeek … who … well … you know those moments when your insides totally leave your body because you fancy someone so much?

We had this delicious time making the fire together before the rest of the party arrived. However cosy and picturesque you think checked wool sofas, sheepskin covered floors and pine clad walls with a view of distant snow covered mountains could be, times it by a hundred and then you’ll get the idea of how blissful it was.

But I was with George, and I hate people who cheat. So obviously I had to hide what was simply a very bad case of totally misplaced attraction. But my body had other ideas. The whole ten days I kept catching myself arching my back, maxing out my ‘open and available’ body language when I didn’t mean anything of the kind. Truly, those super-thin Merino wool base layers did nothing to hide my horribly big boobs, I was practically pushing my nipples into this poor guy Will’s face non-stop.

And then there was the laughing. That was the other unfortunate thing – we got jokes no one else did and cracked each other up the whole time. I put the whole thing down to that glass of free fizz I had on the plane that got me off on the wrong foot.

But now, looking at him in the hot tub all these years later, this guy Will has moved on from the past so far he’s actually changed his name to Bill. It wasn’t as if we knew each other well, we were simply accidental chalet mates for a really short time. Considering I look so very different – and so much worse – with my new hairstyle and what it’s hiding, the fact there was so much drinking he’ll most probably have the same alcoholic amnesia I do, and seeing that I didn’t even figure on his radar in the first place – I’m guessing he’ll have no idea who I am at all today.

All I have to do is stop my heart from clattering louder than skis being banged together and we’ll be back to how we were – me accidentally letting out a misplaced gasp at some tanned pecs through the steam. And then we’ll move on.

I clear my throat, desperately try to reconnect with my dignity so I can take this back to a more businesslike place. ‘So let me introduce myself properly, Bill, I’m …’

The crinkles at the corners of Bill’s eyes in the tub are unnervingly familiar as he raises his hand and cuts me off. ‘Hold it there, you don’t need to tell me, there can only ever be one Ivy Starforth.’ His lips twist. ‘You do remember me, right? I’m Will Markham, we met in Chamonix …’

I take a moment to let my stomach hit the floor and bounce back into place again. Then I try to minimise the damage. ‘Yes, but you’re the one who’s being confusing here – I once knew a dry, much more dressed, banker called Will. And now I’m faced with a very damp Bill outside a castle – what’s that about?’

‘People called me that when I moved to Cornwall.’ He gives a sniff. ‘And is your husband with you too?’

I’m struggling to keep up here. ‘Excuse me?’ If he hadn’t called me by my actual name I’d think he’d got the wrong person.

He’s frowning. ‘You do have one?’

It’s a relief we’re so far away from reality. However much he once tied my libido up in knots all those years ago, we’re talking financiers here. This one’s so superior he assumes he knows my marital status better than I do. I hope Merwyn’s taking this in so I can check back with him later, because I’m struggling to believe it’s happening.

‘Last time I checked, I didn’t have a husband – not as far as I know.’

‘When was that?’

‘Five seconds ago.’

One eyebrow shoots up. ‘Well, how good is that? Huge congratulations, Ivy Starforth, on not being married.’

I’m momentarily putting aside how surreal this is. He seemed so convinced about my husband. As for me, I’m not proud of that afternoon we spent alone at the chalet. In fact I’ve managed to lock it away in the filing cabinet in my memory bank that’s got a huge notice on telling me never to open it again. It’s not that anything awful happened, because it didn’t. At least not in real life, anyway. It might have in my head occasionally afterwards – maybe a few thousand times – simply because ever after that holiday, whenever the going got tough it was useful to use him as my go-to, cardboard cut-out, idealised fantasy man. But that’s the whole point about out-of-reach dreams – they’re what you use to get you through, you have them safe in the knowledge that they aren’t real and never will be. You certainly never expect to be embarrassed by barrelling into them head on in out of the way Cornwall, for goodness sake.

But there we were in Chamonix. George got some last minute session work and had to rebook his flight. Will had turned up early too while everyone else was working all the way to the end of Friday. Which left him and I chatting as we waited for the others to arrive. That’s all we did. But somehow he was so laid back and all over nice, not to mention the hot part, it left me wishing like hell that this could be the guy I was with rather than the one who was currently winging his way through the air on the FlyBe jet for the winter holiday of a lifetime he’d persuaded me we couldn’t miss out on. Which, as was usual with George, I ended up not enjoying very much in the end.

Getting trapped in a few hours of domestic fantasy never happened to me before or since. I’ve always blamed it on the holiday thrill and too much mulled wine. We certainly haven’t clicked again here. Quite the opposite. My immediate subliminal reaction was to pick up on how up himself Will was, and that was when he was practically submerged. Which just goes to show how unreliable first impressions from seven years ago can be. And how a few timber plank walls and the warmth from burning logs can totally blur your judgement. And leave you feeling guilty for the treachery for years after, because, truly, I’m not that kind of person usually. I rarely fancy anyone. I also pride myself on being loyal and faithful and steadfast and honest, which is why I was so appalled and ashamed of myself for that afternoon.

Bill’s closing his eyes even more now and his voice has softened. ‘It’s amazing to see you again, Ivy, why did you wait so long to get back in touch?’

I manage to get over the liquid brown warmth of his gaze enough to get the words out. ‘I’m not here on a social call, Will – I mean Bill – or whoever you are.’ Hopefully that’s shown him how little I’ve thought about him since 2013. Truly, Fliss doesn’t even know about him, and I tell her all my secrets. If he or anyone else ever found out the truth I’d die of shame. ‘This is a total coincidence, one of those “small world” moments …’ I’m dying at how trite I’m sounding ‘… I’m here for this year’s Christmas rental.’

His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Shit. Right. Really? Surely you can’t be, you’re a day early!’

He’s just got that air that suggests no one ever contradicts him so I force myself to stand my ground. ‘It was Mrs Johnstone-Cody who made the booking. Just so you know, she never makes mistakes, we are due today.’ Just saying. After three hundred and fifty-odd miles, I’d rather not come back tomorrow. Beautiful people stuff up too sometimes, and he has to be the one who’s wrong here.

A perplexed look crosses his face, then it’s gone. ‘Well, whatever day it is, it’s great to see you, Ivy.’ That’s the thing with super-attractive people like this – they mess up – then they move on seamlessly like nothing happened. His hand comes towards me, and I stare at it in horror for a second, then step close enough to brush the end of one dripping finger.

‘Now you’re here, how about coming in for a dip?’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Castles, hot tubs, delicious guys coming out with the most ridiculous suggestions? It’s like I dropped into an episode of Made in Chelsea. ‘Absolutely not. Thanks all the same.’ I’m up for fun, but even I draw the line at jumping into a bath with someone I’d once have had difficulty keeping my hands off. Especially when he’s still hot as …

‘Your loss, it’s wonderfully warm, the bubbles are just starting to come through.’ As he dips down and re-emerges his muscular shoulders are tanned and gleaming under the lights, and his gaze is soft yet intense. And from the one slightly closed eye, I know he’s laughing at me.

I’m from the north, my mum and dad had tiny horizons, I didn’t hit the bright lights of London until I was in my twenties, so I’m used to cracking people up with my lack of social polish and the way I say ‘bugger’ not ‘bogger’. Come to think of it, me being a hilarious northerner was probably why there was all that laughing in Chamonix. If posh people taking the piss is what I’ve come to expect, it doesn’t mean I like it. If Bill’s like the rest of George’s extended social circle he’ll be one of those entitled guys who were weaned on champagne and assume the rest of the world was too. The kind who don’t even know what a back door is, let alone how to use one. Those cheekbones are the giveaway. That accent. I know it’s wrong to judge, worse still to write people off without knowing them properly, but after the way George walked out on me, any guy with tuned-up vowels can’t be trusted.

‘I’ll take your word for that.’ It takes me a second to change the subject. ‘So what’s with the music?’

‘Feliz Navidad? It’s so much less obvious than your usual Christmas tunes.’ Even though he’s pulling a face, he still looks like perfection on a stick. ‘On repeat in an attempt to get in the festive mood.’

That’s one way of looking at it. George saw continuous repetition as lazy, and a total lack of musical creativity. But there you go, it wouldn’t work if we all liked the same. George was entitled once, but by the time he hit thirty he’d fallen on hard times, which was where I came in handy. As a temporary interim. A stepping stone. A door mat to use on his way to better places. If I needed a lesson that normal people need to stay away from rich people, George was it. The minute he got his break he left me for someone more suited to his new, moneyed life. And things went seriously downhill after George. So far down they ended in the accident.

Nowadays I put all my energy into riding a better wave, and believe me, that doesn’t include guys. Especially ones who talk like they’ve swallowed a plum and luxuriate in bubble baths in Cornish castles when they know damned well they should be leaping out of the water and sorting their guests out.

But before you think I’ve written off the whole south of England, I haven’t at all. Meeting Fliss and being welcomed into her very southern family gently opened my closed northern eyes in the best possible way and I’ll always be grateful for that. Fliss wasn’t only my bestie and my party partner and next-room neighbour at uni. She was also my social translator. She held my hand as I discovered the scary world of student London and later hauled me up into my job at Daniels.

And thinking of nicer things, one mention of the ‘f’ for ‘festive’ word, and I’m glancing up, appraising the pergola. Okay, I put my hands up, I can’t help it, it’s my job. However slick and polished the outdoor space is already, in my head I’m already up the stepladders, festooning it with fairy lights. Pink and turquoise strands hanging from the wooden poles, moving in the breeze. They would work amazingly.

‘You haven’t got around to the decorations out here yet?’ I’m stating the obvious, expecting him to say it’s his last job, and maybe to share what he’s planning.

‘Decorations?’

I’m taking in his blank stare when two things hit me.

First, even though Merwyn is standing next to me, staring at Bill even harder than I am, I’m not actually holding his lead any more. How did that happen? And second, since I moved in and braved the crackling static of that finger touch, my (early Christmas present to myself) Russell and Bromley Chelsea boots (off eBay) have been kicking up against a towel. Except now I’m looking more closely it’s not just a towel. Dropped across the top, there’s also a pair of cotton boxers.

‘Ok-a-a-a-a-y.’ My voice has gone all screechy and as the words naked hot entitled hot man of my personal dreams in a hot tub zip through my brain I’m suddenly sweating inside my fair isle. As I look at the boxers, then look at Bill, Merwyn is following my gaze. And over the tub edge I can see Bill doing the same. There are times when the only way forward is to ignore the roaring of blood pounding through your ears and simply come out and say it like it is. So I take a deep breath and press ‘go’. ‘You’re not actually wearing any clothes in there are you, Bill?’

Bill’s grin is unrepentant. No surprise there then. ‘Good call, Ivy, I am totally in the buff here, thanks for getting that one out into the open.’ On the down side, him coming clean is even more disarming than plain old arrogant. ‘In my defence, I have to say, whatever Mrs Johnstone-Cody understood, I wasn’t expecting guests until tomorrow.’

I sniff. ‘I’ll take your word for that too.’ It’s good that he’s switched back to super-pleased with himself.

‘Great.’ Nice recovery there from Bill, we both know it isn’t at all. ‘So if you’d throw me the towel and my – ahem – shorts, we can fast-forward to your welcome tour.’

It’s a relief we finally got as far as him mentioning showing me round. ‘Lovely, I’ll do that now.’

Merwyn’s giving me one of his ‘I don’t believe a word and neither should you’ looks, but I’m not going to tell him off for cheek because Merwyn and I need to present a united front here. I’m in enough shit with my misplaced, completely inappropriate and bloody alarming flutters without starting an argument with the dog.

As I dip down towards the towel I’m mentally assessing the size and how much mannequin coverage it would offer if it were on a display in a Daniels department store window. Transposed to a Cornish courtyard, and the body I’ve been undressing in my head for years, the answer is, nowhere near enough. And then there are the – ahem – shorts. I’ve had plenty of practice after years of picking up George’s underwear. But as my hand reaches out towards the shorts the pale blue checks look as expensive as Bill does, and the thought they actually belong to him makes me freeze for long enough to mouth a silent O-M-G in my head.

And how I’ll come to regret that OMG. One moment of hesitation on my way down, and Merwyn picks up on it. He sees the minute space in time as a challenge, and goes for it. One dart, he’s grabbed the shorts, a swift turn and he’s off across the courtyard. Two more delighted leaps, then he’s shaking the life out of the boxers, haring off into the shadows with the towel and dog lead trailing behind him.

I run as far as the courtyard corner and see him disappearing into the shrubbery, but it’s no use going further because he thinks it’s a game. The more I chase the faster Merwyn will go.

‘Well, I did not see that one coming.’ As Bill shakes his head, there’s no clue if he’s being ironic or straight. From my experience it takes more than a pair of lost boxers to throw these hard-boiled guys off kilter even if the boxers are disappearing at a hundred miles an hour into the night.

‘If you’d had a decent sized bath sheet it would have been too heavy for him to do that.’ Just saying. So he knows for the future. But I can’t blame this on anyone other than me. Merwyn’s my dog, I have to take full responsibility here. Well, he’s not actually mine, but there’s no time to go into that now. ‘Give him a minute, he’ll be back.’ Or at least that’s what I’m banking on. What Merwyn hates most is being ignored, hopefully he’ll reappear any second to see why I’m not joining in the fun.

Bill’s got one eyebrow raised. ‘Time flies when you’re in a hot tub, you could come in for a dip while we’re waiting?’ This is exactly what I meant by hard boiled – totally unflappable, ignoring the concerns of the entire rest of the world, getting straight back to his own hedonistic priorities.

‘For the second and last time, I’m NOT coming in. Thanks all the same.’

‘Message received, loud and clear. In which case I’ll use the time to suggest you settle into a room in this part of the house tonight, then I’ll show you around the rest in the morning.’

‘Fine.’ There’s no point in arguing. He’s also called it a house not a castle, but I’ll let that go for now. It’s one more sign he’s used to a place the size of Downton Abbey.

‘There’s food if you’re hungry, wine if you want to unwind, or if you want to get completely wiped out there are vats of gin.’

Seriously, as if the signs weren’t all there already, you can’t trust anyone who offers you that lot. ‘For a handyman you’re really going the extra mile.’

He’s looking at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Let’s hope you still feel that way in the New Year when you’re writing your review.’

‘Actually, I’ve got supper in the car.’ It may take a couple of days to stop my insides feeling like hot syrup sponge every time he looks at me. Hopefully by the time everyone else arrives at the weekend, I’ll have had so much practice I’ll be entirely impervious to his charms.

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

When was I ever this confused about someone being serious or joking around? ‘You do have a microwave?’ My mouth’s watering at the thought of my mac and cheese ready meal, I’m so pleased I bought the big size.

‘That wouldn’t be very authentic.’ The uncertain frown is back, making furrows on Bill’s forehead.

I can’t stay silent about this. ‘Said the man in the twenty-first century hot tub.’

‘Don’t worry, Ivy-star, I’m sure the Aga will do the same job.’

Ivy-star is Fliss’s nickname for me which came from the first boss we had at Daniels who used to bark, ‘Ivy Starforth, what a STAR!’ every time I had a good idea. I’m flinching that Bill’s remembered George calling me it enough to pull it out here seven years on. I’m still standing mentally scratching my rather bemused head, desperately trying to pull my wobbly bits together when I hear the sound of paws galloping on gravel.

‘Merwyn!’ I brace myself to swoop him into a ‘welcome back’ body slam. Somehow as I’m squatting trying to dodge the licks we end up on the floor, but at least I’ve got him by the collar now. As I scramble back to standing I can’t help feeling proud to be proved right. ‘See, I told you he’d be back.’

‘Covered in mud, without my shorts or my towel, I might add.’ Bill’s shaking his head. ‘Do you know how much Calvin Kleins cost? I can’t afford to let dogs bury them.’

‘Down to the last penny as it happens. I also know Calvin Klein doesn’t do boxers in that particular check. Never has, as far as I can remember.’ There are advantages to knowing your way around the entire men’s underwear department inside out. Strictly business of course. As for Merwyn, his cute brown furry face is caked in dirt clumps all the way from his nose to his ears. His paws and legs too. He has to have been digging. I’ve never actually seen him this filthy, but I’m not going to play it up. So for once he’ll have to go without a telling off. ‘Someone’s going to need a bath.’

Bill gives a grunt. ‘Let’s hope he’s less water averse than you.’

It’s been a very long day. I’m still reeling at the shock of finding Bill/Will here and there’s a limit to how much a woman can take. To be honest, I wasn’t completely certain Merwyn was going to come back. But now he has, all I want to do is clean him up then collapse into a comfy chair. Preferably at the opposite end of the castle to anyone called Bill. As blasts from the past go, this is the equivalent of that Icelandic volcano that erupted and brought worldwide air travel to a standstill due to the dust in the atmosphere. The aftershocks from this could go on for weeks.

‘Isn’t it time we were going inside?’ I’m screwing my eyes closed, slipping off my jacket and thrusting it in Bill’s direction, because someone has to move this on here. It might as well be me. ‘Just get out of that tub and wrap up anything that matters in my coat. Tell me when you’re covered, and I’ll follow you in.’

I swear I did not foresee the view of rippling butt cheeks that offer was going to result in. Or how disturbing I’d find it to see my furry navy blue cuffs bumping off his calves as he ran. Or think about the water marks on the lining. But sometimes you have to take short cuts and live with the consequences.

We’re just coming up to a broad planked, disarmingly normal-size back door when Bill reaches up to a little niche in the stone, and the music stops. But instead of the expected silence of the middle-of-nowhere in the countryside, there’s a peculiar sound – a kind of weird repeating rumble, like the wind in a storm, only louder.

‘Oh my, what the hell is that noise?’

Bill gives me a hard stare that’s very uncomfortable. ‘That’s the waves crashing up the beach, it’s what you get if you stay in a castle by the sea.’ And then he laughs, which is somehow even worse. ‘Welcome to Cornwall, Ivy Starforth, I hope you won’t be grumbling about it because that’s one noise we can’t turn off.’

And when I hear that low rumbling laugh, and see the light dancing in those dark brown eyes, I have the strangest feeling we might all be in big trouble here.

Even Libby.

Thursday

12th December

2.
Merry
and (not so) Bright

The last thing I do after I’ve bathed Merwyn and before my phone battery dies is to text Fliss:

Arrived safely, currently tucked up in castle listening to sound of sea, more soon xx

It’s short, but it feels like the best cover-all until it’s light enough to check out both the details and the bigger picture. Seeing as we share all our worst moments she’ll be desperate to hear about every last caretaker horror too, although I’ll be missing out the full implications of where he fits in. But I’ll save all that until I’ve got a better idea of what’s here. Then I go up to my teensy room by an even tinier kitchen staircase and when I crawl into bed l barely notice that it’s less fortress, more seventies pine lodge. Actually I do, because that’s what I’m like, but by that time I’ve given up giving a damn, and anyway this is only a temporary bed in the caretaker’s flat. I admit that I fall asleep wondering about how Will slash Bill came to be here. When I wake up ten comfy hours later I’m actually thinking even if I am offered a princess and pea four poster mattress stack later, I’d be mad to give up on the memory foam.

By the time Merwyn and I have done a morning circuit of the castle grounds, the kettle’s boiled on the Aga, and soon after I’ve filled up my insulated reusable coffee mug. A couple of cranberry and macadamia nut breakfast bars later, I’ve come round enough to perch on a stool at the kitchen bar without falling off. I’m just checking my phone when Bill walks in.

‘Morning, Ivy, how are you today?’ He’s taller and all-over bigger than I remember, with his shoulders bursting out of his Barbour jacket and his denims tight across his thighs. ‘You do know you’re wearing your hat inside?’

I’ve had ten hours to bolster my defences, so when I’m faced with the overall hunk effect this morning I’m ready to take refuge in flustered grumbles. But my heart sinks that this is where he’s landed.

The hat … Well … that … I’ve been wearing seasonal variations ever since I cut my face, even at work. My hair’s grown to a rather ragged side parted bob, but I still need a hat to keep my swept over fringe in place and hide the long jagged red scar that curves from the middle of my forehead and down to the start of my right ear underneath my hair. I try not to dwell on it or tell people about how it happened. But as I close my eyes for a fraction of a second to blink away the pictures whirring through my brain, my head starts to spin so fast I have to cling onto the work surface to steady myself. A year on, I’ve pretty much got the flashbacks under control. But when they happen, like they are now, there’s nothing I can do but go with it.

Suddenly I’m in the car again, careering backwards through the darkness as we leave the road and start to roll. By hanging onto the granite of the island unit really hard and locking my neck I might be able to stop the images flashing through my brain before the bit where it feels like we’re being spun in a washing machine … before the part where the tree branch crashes through the windscreen … before the glass explodes and comes raining down like a storm of tiny diamonds. Before the bit where I’m reaching out in the blackness, finding the warmth of Michael’s shoulder rammed against the steering wheel. Asking him if he’s okay. Racking my brain as to how to get someone I’ve only known for an evening to stop sleeping and talk to me. How I can’t move, all I can do is count the tracks, because even after the car has been tumbled over and over the early hours radio is somehow still playing. And I keep on asking him to wake up, but he never replies. Because what I don’t know yet is that he’s never going to talk or wake up again. Because his neck’s broken and he’s already dead.

‘Ivy, are you okay?’ Bill’s voice cuts through the darkness in my head. ‘I was asking about your hat. You do know you’ve forgotten to take it off?’

I ignore the bit about the hat, drag myself back to the kitchen, and go with the rest. ‘Message failed to send.’ I remember now, that’s what I was about to say. ‘It’s not the best start to the morning, but I’m sure I’ll get over it.’

As for the accident, one lift back from an early Christmas party wasn’t ever meant to go so wrong. A whole year on, I still can’t rationalise that I walked away and Michael died. The only way I can attempt to live is by not thinking about it every waking minute. And the best way I’ve found to do that is by working non-stop and trying my best to do things for other people, not myself. If I put all my effort into making Christmas for Fliss and Libby and their families wonderful, for a few days it’ll let me blank out the terrible bleakness of the mistakes I made that night.

Bill blows out his cheeks. ‘Messages failing is a Cornish thing. Don’t worry, by the time you go home, you’ll be used to it.’

‘You’re saying there’s no signal?’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing, although it’s less of a surprise that he’s shrugging off someone else’s problem. It’s a good thing I skipped the niceties, there’s no time to lose on this. It’s also a relief to have wrenched myself out of my own personal abyss of blackness and get back to the mundanities of other people’s everyday concerns.

‘It’s more that the signal comes and goes, you have to move to find the hot spots. The top of the south tower’s usually your best bet.’ Again, he’s a lot less concerned than he should be.

I let out a snort but I’m not letting him off the hook because I’m feeling really indignant on everyone else’s behalf. ‘I can see why you had peak-time availability. How do you cope living here?’

He pulls one of those perfect-on-a-stick faces. ‘I find the views and the size of the kitchen more than make up for the lack of communication technology.’

Which reminds me, I’ve been so tied up with the unimportant distractions, I missed out saying how wonderful it was to peep out of my bedroom window when I woke up and see the lawns behind the castle running straight out onto a long sandy beach with the sun glinting off the pale blue water beyond. Through the wide kitchen doors there’s a similar vista, out onto the wide sweep of the bay, and a distant cluster of buildings which must be where I saw the lights from my room last night.

I take the long way round the kitchen island to avoid passing him, and end up where I’ve got a better view through the kitchen doors. ‘Is that the nearest town along there, then?’

As Bill’s lips twitch into a smile, for some ridiculous reason I’m reminded of that fragrance ad where the guy walks through and the women all fall down and have orgasms. Which isn’t the best thought to end on when he’s opening his mouth to say something.

‘St Aidan village is just around the bay, and to answer every Londoner’s first questions, it’s fifteen minutes’ walk along the beach, and it has all the bars, fish and chips and surf shops most people need, complete with a double dose of picturesque.’

I ignore the jibe about ‘most people’ and grin down at Merwyn who’s leaning against the legs of my stool. ‘There you go, that’s a date for later this afternoon.’ Merwyn’s got my back here.

As for Bill’s kitchen, it might be short of a microwave, but it’s got two four slice Dualit toasters, a massive Aga, an island unit and a long table as well as some chunky distressed leather sofas. Not forgetting a high slanty ceiling and lashings of characterful beams. Bill’s right – if I were a handyman and this was where I lived, even if my second home was Downton Abbey, I would not be giving my notice. At the same time, if I imagined his house – if I’m honest, I have done every now and again – it wasn’t ever like this. There’s just something very impersonal about what’s here. As I scan the walls and shelves for clues about his life there’s nothing to land on other than the fact he must like toast.

‘So if you’re ready, I could show you around now?’ Now he’s less hidden behind steam clouds I can see his stubble shadow is bordering on a beard, and his brown hair is just as wavy and crumpled as it was last night. When his gaze locks with mine, I’m suddenly so hot I’m wishing I’d saved my polar bear white fluffy polo neck for later.

‘Great idea, I thought you’d never ask.’ I ease myself down to follow him, and as I gather up Merwyn, his lead and our coats and pull down my hat I glance at my phone and see it’s already past ten. ‘It’s lovely to find loaded people in the country really do start work half way through the morning.’

Bill shakes his head then strides out through the hallway and towards the back door. ‘Speak for yourself, some of us have been up since five bottling and dispatching gin.’

‘Yeah right, and I’m a Cornish man.’ Apart from the bullshit, I have to put him right here. ‘Sorry to challenge your view of stereotypes, but not everyone in London is totally obsessed with designer gin.’ When our Daniels’ stylist team voted four years running to have our winter party at an après ski venue, gin palaces weren’t even in the running. We can all personally vouch for the awfulness of a gluwein hangover, but we still go back again and again simply because the memory of drinking it is so warm and cosy.

Bill’s swinging a bunch of keys in his hand and as we go through the hot tub courtyard and around the side of the castle he’s talking over his shoulder. ‘Most people prefer to go in through the front entrance for maximum effect, I take it you won’t mind conforming to that stereotype?’

I’d sort out an equally snarky response. But by the time I catch him up the gigantic front door is already swinging open.

‘Come in, and welcome.’ Lucky for both of us, he’s slipped into ‘castle guide’ mode. ‘Guests usually leave the main door unlocked, and use the key code on the inner door of the porch.’

As he holds the doors open for me I do a big jump to get past him as fast as I can and move through into a huge hallway with a bumpy stone floor and a staircase so huge and chunky that it appears to be hewn from entire trees. For a fleeting moment I’m surprised the giant Christmas tree isn’t here yet, but then we are a day earlier than he expected so I move on to other thoughts. Like how I can’t begin to imagine the size of the chandeliers with a space this enormous. But when I look up to check them out, instead of a cascade of glistening crystal there’s a cluster of large bare hanging light bulbs with glowing yellow filaments, and a tangle of wires looping around above them.

‘I see the light fittings are on-trend rather than traditional.’ Despite half choking with the shock of it being so different from the image in my head I’m trying to see them through Libby’s eyes – and failing. It’s all so much rougher than I was expecting – somehow I hadn’t expected the inside walls to be the same stone as the outside ones.

Bill nods. ‘The electricians went for low impact, low energy solutions throughout.’

At least the shock of what’s here – or what isn’t – is taking my mind off the shadows of his jawline and the women in the perfume ad. Whatever it was I reacted to in Chamonix, he hasn’t lost it, more’s the pity. It doesn’t feel like the right moment to ask where the sumptuous wallpaper is. Even plaster on the walls would have been good. I’m desperately crossing my fingers for a more ‘cosy’ feel in the next room.

‘Come through and see the chill out areas …’

As I look at the back of Bill’s Barbour there’s a niggle of doubt at how wrong that sounds so I’m trying desperately to think back to the pictures Libby sent me. For now I can’t remember any more than the gorgeous outside shots, then close ups of things like cushions and pillow tassels, candlesticks and corners of picture frames. Then Bill steps out of the way and reveals acres more stone flags and rocky walls, and a space like a gallery with some angular leather sofas, a couple of coffee tables, a square alcove off and, if welded steel is your thing, a rather beautiful side console unit. And it’s so pared back, there’s still no clues at all about the guy himself.

He leads the way and I follow him through to more gallery space. Then he turns and says, ‘Okay, that’s your lot, if we go on up to the first floor, I’ll show you the bedrooms.’

Looking around the bedrooms with a ‘perfume ad of the year’ model and the body I’ve personally hijacked to inhabit my secret dreams all these years was the bit I was expecting to feel really wobbly about. Frankly, I was hoping to put it off for longer, but there’s a more immediate worry. ‘But what about the rest of the reception rooms?’

He smiles. ‘People are always fooled, the usable space inside castles isn’t that big. At least it means we can crank up the heating and beat the draughts.’

That glimmer of good news about the inside temperatures hasn’t stopped my heart plummeting. ‘What?’

‘Cockle Shell Castle was built as a folly. It’s impressive from the outside but it’s not meant for housing battalions.’

Or large house parties from London, even? ‘Just show me what there is.’ As for where the hell the library and the dining room are, I can only hope they’re upstairs too.

When he opens the doors to four first floor bedrooms, it’s less of a shock to find the same emptiness as down below – simple beds, shower rooms and not much else. Calling it stylish would be going too far, but somehow I’m past making comments. By the time we’re coming down from a higher floor the same as the first, but with lower ceilings, I’m getting my brain into gear. The number of bedrooms is right if I add in the ones on my staircase, but the rest couldn’t be more wrong. Libby was hoping for a house stuffed with two weeks’ worth of opulent photo opportunities. More importantly, so was I. With what there is here, even adding in a present mountain, once I’ve done the stone wall and window photos we’ll be just about done.

Worse, now Bill’s staring at me. ‘You’re very quiet?’ It’s a question not a statement.

To be honest I’m shocked he’s noticed. ‘It’s not very festive for a Christmas let.’ I try again. ‘It’s very basic and bare.’

‘Right.’

‘I mean, you are aware how much she’s paying for this?’ It was a well-leaked secret, so everybody else does. I know Libby thought it was a steal, but to ordinary mortals like Fliss and me it was an eye-wateringly massive amount. When Fliss stretched for her mortgage she didn’t factor in two babies, and I’m equally broke. Signing an extended lease in an area a lot further upmarket than my means was all about pleasing George. And more fool me for doing that.

Bill’s coming over super-arrogant now which is a sure sign he’s on the defensive. ‘Obviously I know the price, I took the booking.’

I’m going to have to spell it out. ‘Well, minimalism used to be great, but in London we came out the other side of the “empty” tunnel and maximalism rules now. For this kind of money we expected spaces rammed with gorgeous stuff.’

‘Really.’ This time it’s a statement, not a question. ‘Well, wherever you are on your style cycle, what we offer is accommodation for stag celebrations, and they’re usually delighted with what’s here – no neighbours to annoy, plenty of space to party, very little to break. And then there’s the gin too. Wherever you stand on gin, the stags never turn it down. The castle suits them down to the ground. Which to be fair is where most of them end up.’

I ignore that he’s banging on about gin again, and brace myself to break the news. ‘We booked for a Christmas house party in palatial surroundings, decorated to the hilt with festive bling.’ Whatever he says, I know that because I’ve seen the place settings in pictures.

He lets out a breath. ‘Christmas crackers. Someone called Nathan messaged, there was no specific request for decorations at the time of booking.’

It can’t go without comment. ‘So you just thought you’d take the frankly humungous amount of money and run?’

‘Not entirely.’ From the way he’s shuffling from foot to foot, I’ve hit a nerve.

One thing’s still puzzling me. ‘I mean, where the hell’s the wallpaper?’ It was definitely on the pictures Libby put up on our secret Pinterest page, I’ve been flicking through them non stop since they arrived. Of course! How could I be so dense? I get out my phone to check them, then groan as I realise my mistake. ‘Where’s this signal hot spot you were talking about? And I need the internet password, please?’

‘You don’t get it do you, Ivy?’

I ignore the way my tummy flips as he turns to me, because I’m boiling inside on Libby’s behalf. ‘Get what?’

If Bill wasn’t so unconcerned, I’d swear that was an exasperated head shake. ‘The whole castle is an internet-free zone, that’s one of its biggest selling points.’

Holy crap. ‘There’s no wifi ANYWHERE?’

‘Guests love the freedom an enforced break gives them. With walls this thick wifi wouldn’t be practical anyway.’

I’m trying to get my head around this. ‘There must have been a mix up, there can’t be any other Cockle Shell Castles, can there?’

Bill’s eyes are flinty. ‘I thought you said Mrs Johnstone-Cody didn’t make errors?’

‘But if she had …?’

He sighs. ‘There’s a rather bijou Cockle Shell Hideaway up the coast from Port Isaac. Decorated to the nines and then some. But they’re such different places, you’d never confuse them.’

Not so you’d think. But I’m imagining Libby doing her two second check before she booked and leaping on the first gorgeous pictures she came across. If the words Cockle Shell and Cornwall were enough to confuse Google Images, what hope did Libby have? She’d be dizzy with the coup she was pulling off, and probably doing ten other jobs at the same time too. Maybe if she’d been multi-tasking less she’d have jumped to less wrong conclusions.

‘Well, we’re here now. This is the one Mrs Nathan Johnstone-Cody booked.’ The hot tub’s swanky. And the outside’s spectacular, even if the inside isn’t, so I might as well think positive thoughts. Christmas dinner out on the front lawn might work. At least that way even if the turkey was cold we’d still get some awesome shots against the castle facade. Which reminds me …

‘We haven’t seen the kitchen yet?’ I round on Bill expectantly, and Merwyn does too. For a small dog he’s got a remarkably large vocabulary. Admittedly it’s mostly food based.

‘We have seen the kitchen.’ Bill’s face creases into a two second laugh. And then when I don’t join in his smile fades to puzzlement again.

I know he’s wrong on this one. ‘We definitely haven’t.’

His face splits into a grin as he tries again. ‘Where do you think you ate breakfast?’

Oh my days. For all the reasons. ‘But that can’t be the kitchen, you said that was your kitchen. Where’s the proper kitchen?’

He’s staring at me now. ‘No, there’s definitely only the one kitchen. Stags don’t often eat in, but when they do, that’s definitely the only place they do it.’

‘You are joking me?’

He’s staring at me like I’m the one who’s being dense here. ‘Think about it, I’d hardly have all those chairs around the table just for me would I?’

‘B-b-b-but …’ I’m so shocked, I’m having trouble breathing. I know this isn’t completely my disaster. But I’m invested, I’m here. And way worse, I’m the one who’s going to have to break this to Fliss and Libby. And then try to sort it out as best I can so twenty people can have at least some kind of happy Christmas. And then something worse hits me and lets me find my voice.

‘So you’ll be in the house too? Cooking your porridge, lounging on the sofas, plunging in the hot tub with not nearly enough clothes on. It isn’t an exclusive let at all is it?’

He’s blowing out his cheeks. ‘It’s more of an Airbnb model than a proper let. I like to be here to make sure things don’t get out of hand. But mostly I’m here so when there are problems, I’m on the spot to sort them out.’

‘Problems …?’ The word hangs between us.

Bill shrugs. ‘An ancient building is like an old car – full of character and idiosyncrasies, it might run for years with no trouble. On the other hand, it might not. And I’m here for those times.’

Oh fuck. ‘So not only has Libby rented a castle that’s only slightly more comfortable than a multi-storey car park, now it’s a car park whose barrier is liable to stick!’ Suddenly the lack of squishy furniture and Christmas deccies seems like the least of our difficulties.

Bill’s looking impassive. ‘If you need gin to bring you round, you only have to say the word?’

I know I shouldn’t be losing it, and I don’t usually, but just this once, I can’t help it.

‘I’ll take fairy lights or pine trees or four posters or candles. Even Santa on his effing sleigh would be really useful. But for the last and FINAL time, I don’t want any of your SODDING GIN!’ It comes out really loud, and it echoes round the castle walls and bounces back up off the floor, then resonates off the ceiling. Then I collect myself. And when my voice starts again, I’m back to talking quietly. ‘Thanks all the same. Drinking myself under the table isn’t going to help anyone here. Merwyn and I are going to go for a walk. Unless there’s anything else you have to add, we’ll talk to you more about this when we get back.’

For once Merwyn is a little star. One twitch on his lead and he’s marching in step beside me out into the hall. I have no idea why I’m almost crying here. I take a moment to make sure my hat is pulled down past my eyebrows to avoid the horror of it blowing off, and I’m heaving open the front door when I hear Bill’s cough.

‘There is one last thing …’

Surely there can’t be. ‘And …?’

‘We don’t accept dogs.’

Of all the bombshells so far, for me personally this is the worst. I stop for long enough to roll my eyes at Merwyn and to mutter You absolute effing arsehole under my breath. Whatever I said about ‘Made in sodding Chelsea’ types, I wasn’t expecting this. It was obviously too much to expect he’d make allowances for knowing me. But if he wants a fight, I’m happy to give him one.

Then we stride on outside, the salty sting of the wind hits my cheeks and the humungous castle door slams behind us. And a few seconds later we’re out on the beach.

3.
Fa la la la la
(or maybe not)

‘Is everything okay?’

By the time we next see Bill, Merwyn and I have been blown all the way to St Aidan and all the way back again. Thanks to a well-timed snack rescue in St Aidan and the kind of planning you can only do when you’re half running, half falling along the sand, we’re now curled up back in the kitchen feeling more collected than before. So instead of yelling THERE’S NO FURNITURE OR COMFORT OR INTERNET OR DECCIES OR DOGS, HOW THE HELL CAN ANYTHING BE OKAY? I just sniff and stay completely silent.

It was a bracing walk, with the wind smashing into our faces, so I have to admit it’s way cosier watching the cobalt blue sea dissolving into wiggles of white foam rolling up the beach from the comfort of the sofa in my case, with a frothy hot chocolate. Or in Merwyn’s case, from his Christmas Tree rug with the pompom edge, on the polished wood plank floor.

Bill’s taken off his Barbour and is resting a denim-shirted shoulder on the wall as he studies us. ‘You seemed a little bit over-wrought before, that’s all.’

Over-WROUGHT????!!! So like a guy to imply it’s the woman who’s being unreasonable when he’s the one who’s responsible for every aspect of the panic. I make my voice airy, because there’s only going to be one winner here. ‘St Aidan was pretty, thanks for the recommendation.’

Not that Bill can take any of the credit, but there were the cutest white painted cottages with grey slate roofs stacked up the hillside, narrow cobbled alleyways winding up between the buildings, postage-stamp sized views of the jewel-like sea, and brightly coloured boats bobbing in the harbour.

‘It was very Christmassy too.’ We even saw a pony and trap, driven by Santa and an elf, its bells jingling as it sped off around the bay. Every shop window was festooned with decorations, and there was a wedding shop with snowy lace dresses, trails of frosted ivy and the kind of twinkly ice-chip fairy lights that take your breath away. Not that I’ll ever be needing a shop like that myself, but I couldn’t help but sigh at the prettiness.

But Bill must know that there are outdoor Christmas trees every few yards around the harbour and all the way up into the town too. Despite his ‘decoratively significant’ two week let, for some reason he hasn’t felt inclined to follow that festive lead.

He tilts his head on one side. ‘So, did you call in anywhere?’

‘We popped in the Hungry Shark, it’s dog friendly, and it has free wifi.’ I stare at him pointedly. ‘Just saying. It is possible to find both only a mile down the beach.’ I also discovered they do mince pie muffins to die for, and I had two, but given who he is and what he’s not done, not to mention his ‘don’t give a damn’ attitude, that’s one tip I won’t be passing on.

He nods. ‘The hot apple punch there is good, you should try that next time.’ His eyes go just a little bit darker as they narrow. ‘I can’t promise it tastes half as good as those vin chaud cocktails we drank in Chamonix, but I reckon they must have had magic mountain dust sprinkled in them.’

I don’t even have to think hard to bring back the heady mix of warm cinnamon, Cointreau and mandarin, but I’d never tell him that. I’d also rather not let him know that I’d be a lot more comfortable if he wasn’t dragging things up from so long ago. I mean, I thought women were the ones who nailed every detail of distant memories. It’s quite a shock when a guy pulls one out. ‘Probably all down to those rose tinted holiday ski goggles you were wearing.’

He lets out a low laugh. ‘As I remember, you were wearing those too.’

‘No, mine were definitely genuine, see it like it is, bog-standard Raybans.’ Jeez, I need to move this on. But I’m not going to tell him I had two of the punches he mentioned, or who knows where he’ll take that to.

I was trying to pluck up the courage to send Fliss the ‘Houston, we have a problem’ text. I’d planned to ping that off the minute I had signal, then follow up a few minutes later with a call. If there had been one bit of bad news I could have done it. But after everything I discovered earlier this morning, it felt like too much of a disaster avalanche to drop onto Fliss when she has so much on her plate at the moment. Not only has she got two babies to deal with, but her husband Rob has been causing her to worry recently too.

Fliss and Rob are one of my favourite ever couples, simply because they seem so much more right together than on their own. From their meeting in a cupboard playing sardines at a party, past an Eiffel Tower proposal, their huge and wonderful farm meadow wedding, through to Rob delivering Oscar on his own in the bathroom when the hospital had sent Fliss home – they’ve been there for each other in the most incredible way. For my money, two people consistently appreciating each other is a very rare thing, but these two have that in spades. Or at least they have done for the eight years they’ve been together. When everyone else ran out of dizzy love a few months in, until very recently they were still solidly head over heels. Rob’s so reliable, and laid back and supportive and always there, for a guy he seemed too good to be true. But nothing less than Fliss deserved.

Obviously George coming home ridiculously late, and being vague with his replies and turning up on Facebook at places I didn’t even know he’d been to happened so often I’d have been more surprised if they hadn’t. But Rob’s always been so consistent, if his heart misses a beat Fliss notices. It’s not that she’s clingy or possessive because she’s really not. It’s more that they’re so in tune she picks up on the smallest variation. And lately there have been a few instances. Singly I’d have sympathised and forgotten them. But there have been enough now to set my pre-alarm bells ringing. And even though there’s nothing so extreme to make it okay to bring it up with him, there are certainly enough to send her round the bend with silent worry. And kick herself for not getting rid of all that baby weight she put on, and not getting dressed for three years and forgetting about sex. And doing all the things it’s okay to do when someone really loves you enough they won’t give a damn.

So, I hold my hands up – I chickened out and I’ve come back to reassess. Before I launch the bad news dump on Fliss, I want to see if I can improve the situation.

‘So what were you saying about Merwyn earlier?’

It seems like a good place to begin. When life puts brick walls in front of you, you can turn around. Or you can knock them down and march on forwards. That’s the kind of person I am. It’s not always easy, but that’s the outcome I’m trying for here. And Lord Arrogant would do well to note, my demolition hammer’s at the ready. I might have been soft and naive back in the day in Chamonix, but there’s been a lot of water under a lot of bridges since then.

I’m deliberately personalising this by calling Merwyn by name, so I give the dog in question a nudge with my toe and make sure he sees me get a doggy chocolate out of the pocket of my jeans. I stopped short of the emotional blackmail of dressing him up in his super-cute Santa suit which makes everyone melt, but when he sits up and blinks those soulful brown eyes of his and offers his paw, he’s equally irresistible.

But Bill’s not even looking our way. ‘Well behaved dogs are by prior arrangement only, Merwyn isn’t on the guest list.’

Damn. If I’d known this before I could have rung ahead or even tried to hide him, not that I’d have managed that. I might as well come clean. ‘He was always invited, but he was only available to come at the last minute.’

Bill’s blinking at us now. ‘Keep going.’

I’m trying doubly hard here, not to be distracted by the views, and not to lose my cool no matter how annoying he is. ‘He belongs to my neighbour, Tatiana, she’s a model, I’m his stand-in mum when she works abroad.’ I can see I’m not making any impression. ‘He’s a kind of a dog share.’

Bill’s frowning. ‘Still not getting it.’

‘Tatiana got a last minute job and flew off to Prague, there was no one else to look after him so he’s here with me.’ I’m throwing in all the details to make him understand. ‘Merwyn begged me … he was wearing his Santa outfit … I couldn’t refuse.’ That’s how I know how effective it is.

Bill’s raising his eyebrows. ‘So this wasn’t another of Mrs Johnstone-Cody’s oversights?’ He’s so condescending.

‘Merwyn’s all down to me.’ Merwyn’s eyes are still popping, his gaze welded on the chocolate drop, but I hadn’t counted on him drooling quite so much. I’m going to have to grovel fast before he dribbles all over the rather expensive-looking floor. ‘I’m sorry, I assumed dogs would be welcome, they are in all the best on-trend places now.’ Flattery’s not working so I try again. ‘It’s a big castle, he’s a little dog.’ I almost add so get over it, but I manage to bite it back. Instead I get a tissue out of my pocket and try to mop the slobber puddle off the floor without Bill seeing.

Before I know it Bill’s standing in front of us, handing over kitchen roll, studying me through narrowed eyes. It’s actually more like an in depth examination than a look.

‘So you lost the pixie haircut you had in Chamonix?’

Damn, I was hoping we’d get Merwyn the ‘all clear’ before we moved on anywhere else. What I want to talk about is Merwyn’s free pass to a castle Christmas, not sodding hairstyles.

Bill’s stare is so piercing it’s as if he’s turning me inside out. ‘It made you look like Audrey Hepburn in her elfin period. You wore your hat less then too.’ He blinks at me. ‘Come to think of it, you’ve had it on ever since you got here. Are you cold?’

However persistent he is, I’m not giving anything away. ‘I’m fine, it’s just with longer hair I get more bad hair days that need covering up.’ Even if he caught me off guard there I’m so pleased with that reply I throw in a bit more. ‘You know what it’s like, all this damp sea air and salt, it’s a nightmare for messy bobs.’

‘You’ve still got a look of Audrey, even in that woolly hat with the huge furry pompom.’

I let out a hollow ironic laugh. ‘That’s a bonkers comparison. How did you even ski if you’re that blind?’ I can’t say how nostalgic I am for my lovely cropped cut. Or how exasperated I get trying to make my longer hair behave. Now he’s mentioned it, I’m tugging the sweep of my bob fringe down under my hat making sure it’s covering the side of my face properly. ‘You’re right though, I only grew it about a year ago.’

The corners of his eyes crinkle. ‘Both ways really suit you. To my mind dark brown hair is very underrated.’ His face breaks into a grin as he reaches across and gives the strand below my ear a playful tug. ‘And longer is good because it’s easier to pull.’

‘Stop that!’ I lurch sideways.

‘What?’ His lips are twisting into a smile and his laugh is low. ‘It was one little tweak, there’s no need to jump all the way to St Aidan.’

That’s what he thinks. From the shivers radiating across my scalp and zithering down my spine, St Aidan is probably five miles too close. And just because he says something nice doesn’t make him any less arrogant. In fact in this case it only reinforces how great he is at telling lies. I mean, in all our years together George never mentioned Audrey once. Now I’ve got my shuddering under control I need to turn this back onto Bill.

‘You’ve changed a bit yourself.’

He grins and rubs his fingers through his tousled curls. ‘Waving goodbye to Will and his short-back and sides means a lot fewer trips to the barbers.’ His eyes narrow. ‘There’s plenty to pull too, help yourself, any time.’

I shake my head at Merwyn to hide that I’m even tempted and let out a snort. ‘That’s one thing I definitely won’t be doing.’ And hopefully that’s an end to it.

It’s not as if we ever met up with any of the holiday people again after we got back home. I decided afterwards that George must have blagged his way into that chalet in the same way he did with everything else in life. But if Bill’s intent on raking over the past, I might as well find out what happened to the super-attractive solicitor who spent the entire holiday throwing herself off her skis and into his path. ‘Weren’t you with a woman called …’

He rolls his eyes as I hesitate. ‘You’re thinking of Gemma. We weren’t actually an item, at the time I think I was probably trying my best to avoid her.’

‘Omigod, yes, Gemma c-c-c –’ For once I manage to stop before the worst comes out. If I’d given her her full ‘cow-face’ title Merwyn might be banished for ever. It’s important to say, we didn’t call her anything that rude lightly. Looking back, that was probably an offence to cows. But she pushed the other eleven of us to the limit by being the chalet-mate from hell – using all the hot water, always grabbing the best shower, hogging the steam room, stealing other people’s cake from the fridge, drinking all the wine, taking the last milk, making nasty comments about everyone else’s bums in ski pants, not to mention their thighs, party dresses, career progress and their sex toys.

I pick myself up enough to carry on. ‘Gemma was the super-pretty one.’ It’s probably only human to remember the worst bits. Her faking a broken ankle on the slopes so he had to take her to hospital. Doing the same pretending to fall downstairs. ‘Good job avoiding her, I’d say that was a narrow escape. She was hard work, hideous even.’

He pulls a face, then he goes on. ‘Well, she got me in the end, we did go out eventually.’

I’m smiling. ‘Haha, you nearly had me there.’ And then I see he isn’t laughing. ‘Shit, you really did get together, didn’t you?’ I’ve no idea why there is a stab of jealousy shooting through my chest big enough to wind me. I mean, he was bound to be with someone, and that was never going to be me. But even though Gemma was super-attractive with a high flying job, I’m still reeling, simply because she seemed so calculating and blatant for someone as warm as he was. But as my mum and gran always say, if a woman sets her sights on a man and is determined enough, she can usually get him in the end.

‘We actually got together shortly after Chamonix. Gemma wasn’t too keen on life down here, but luckily we’d kept our London place, she’s working back there for now.’

‘So you’re still in touch then?’ Why the hell did I ask that? It’s obvious they are.

He gives a hollow laugh. ‘I hear from her most days, yes.’

Can you kick yourself and die inside all at the same time, because that’s what I’m doing now. ‘I’m soooo sorry.’ It isn’t nearly enough. ‘Double sorry. Triple, even.’ And I’m also waving goodbye to every chance of clemency Merwyn had.

Bill’s still staring at me like I’m Exhibit A. ‘It must be my turn for a question now. So if you and George aren’t married you must be having the longest engagement ever? Or else you got married and divorced? I mean, he was your fiancé?’

I have to put him right on this. ‘There was never a wedding or even an engagement.’

‘Really?’ He’s screwing up his face like he doesn’t believe me, then he blinks and carries on. ‘My mistake then.’ From the way his brows are knitting he’s definitely confusing me with someone else. And people like him never admit they’re wrong, so there’s something very odd going on here. ‘So where’s George now?’

I should know the answer to this. ‘New York …’

‘And you’re flying out for New Year in Manhattan as soon as you’re finished here?’ Bill might not be giving much away himself, but he’s certainly big on filling in my backstory.

I shake my head and rack my brain. ‘… or it could be Los Angeles.’

Bill gives a sniff. ‘I take it from the confusion that it’s not a long distance relationship?’ From his smirk I’d say he has to be looking down on my lack of geographical knowledge too.

‘No, George and I are ancient history.’ At least this has taken the heat off my earlier blunder.

‘Great.’ For a second Bill’s beaming at me, then he pulls a face. ‘Except, it possibly isn’t so great for you.’

‘This is why it’s good to talk about the future, not the past.’ I’m hoping that’ll put a stop to him banging on about ski lodges and let me get back to my current, most pressing problem. ‘So is there any good reason dogs aren’t allowed in the castle?’ If I hadn’t put both my size sevens (on a good day, sometimes I have to admit to an eight) in it so wholeheartedly, I might have been able to fall back on the shared history I’d rather forget. As it is, I’m fighting this at a disadvantage.

Bill blinks as if he’s having to drag himself back to the moment. ‘It’s an insurance issue. It’s a very ancient structure, we can’t have dogs running wild.’

I think we both know that’s bollocks. ‘So you’re happy for the place to be wrecked by party revellers, but a tiny dog, who wouldn’t harm a fly, let alone a battlement, is banned?’ My voice has gone high with disapproval. It’s Bill’s turn to look vaguely embarrassed, and I’m not going to waste that show of weakness.

‘A castleful of shit-faced stags or a small dog? I know who I’d rather let to.’ I’m about to pull out my trump card. ‘Merwyn doesn’t drink either. He’s completely teetotal.’

Bill’s wincing. ‘Shit-faced. That reminds me, there’s the poop issue too.’

Damn that I’m the one who brought this up. But we’re covered here. ‘Merwyn and I come armed with value-range sandwich bags, we scoop before the poop hits the ground. Every time. And we have baby wipes for squelchy days.’

Bill holds up his hand. ‘Stop! That’s way too much information if you’re not a dog person.’ And in a nutshell, that’s the issue.

At least we know. Arrogant and a dog detester. How did I get him so wrong? As if he wasn’t bad enough already, he just went down another lift shaft in my estimation. Merwyn’s at his most adorable, waving his paw in the air, quivering with choccie-anticipation. But Bill’s oblivious, so I’ll have to try another route.

I have one last weapon so I clear my throat. ‘Dogs aside, you’ve done a top-price Christmas let to someone expecting the full works. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if Libby turns up and finds the castle is bare. You need my help here, so you might need to ease up on the anti-animal thing.’

Bill’s squinting at me. ‘Sorry?’

It never fails to surprise me when someone thinks that people who can afford to pay too much for things won’t want value for money. From what I’ve seen working at Daniels the people with the biggest bank accounts are always the pickiest. What’s more, they can also afford the redress when things go tits up. I’m just surprised that Bill, being one of ‘them’, doesn’t know the score here.

I’m going to have to tell it to him like it is. ‘I have to warn you, Mrs Johnstone-Cody’s nothing like your no-fucks-given easy-to-please stags. When she sees the lack of space, luxury, privacy, decorations and authentic four-posters, she’s not going to be a happy bunny.’ I pause to let that sink in. ‘That’s definitely an optimistic view. Libby’s larger than life, and she doesn’t take prisoners. Realistically her explosion could blow the roof off – off the castle and whatever business you’re running here.’

I have to admit most of what I know about Libby is what I’ve heard second hand from Fliss. She’s a couple of years older than us so when we went to stay with Fliss’s mum when we were at uni Libby was already off living her super-expansive and very charmed life. But the stories from Fliss about Libby’s latest exploits have kept me shocked and impressed in equal measure for years.

Bill groans. ‘If you’re more than five feet tall, ancient four posters are a pain in the butt. And however hard Mrs JC stamps her feet, I can’t make the castle any bigger – it’s the size that it is, end of story.’ The way he’s rolling out the excuses with that sarcastic tone, he has no idea of the shit storm that’s about to hit him.

‘But there are things you could do?’ If I’m pushing him, it’s only for the sake of Merwyn’s Christmas.

He’s straight back at me. ‘If Mrs JC seriously wants to lug in all her own wood and keep the very temperamental fires going, good luck to her with that one, I’m happy to make myself invisible.’ His expression hardens. ‘But if I’m banned from my own kitchen, she can forget borrowing my internet.’

My mouth’s dropped open. ‘But you said there wasn’t any?’

‘There isn’t. Not in the public areas.’

Oh my. If I’m going to have to crawl on the floor here to beg, I’m going to have to do it. I NEVER use my womanly wiles to get what I want, I’d NEVER NEVER NEVER flirt with a guy like Will. I mean Bill. Except in my head, obviously. Or when I accidentally got all breathy and chesty in those Merino wool incidents, but I swear they weren’t planned. But for something this important, this one time, I’m desperately channelling my inner Audrey.

‘I need to upload pictures to Instagram as they happen, or no one will see the Johnstone-Cody Christmas. It’s my responsibility to deliver fabulous photos and I’m getting paid for it. Without internet I might as well not be here, I’m totally stuffed. I know it’s a first world problem, but I need this job.’

I can see him soften a little. Then he says. ‘There’s ten meg in my room.’

‘Excuse me?’ I have no idea what he’s talking about.

‘Ten megabytes per second – that’s how fast the internet works. And there’s signal in there too.’

‘WHAT?!!!’ When he invited me to share the hot tub it was a flat out NO! If he invited me into his bedroom to use the internet, however undressed he was, I’d have to shut my eyes tight and dive straight in even though I’d despise myself for it. But I draw the line at pleading stares. ‘So, can I borrow it or not?’ I’m aware my glare’s coming out a bit fiercely. ‘Occasionally? By arrangement? When you’re not in there?’ I’m going for broke here. ‘I am saving your life here with my insider information, don’t forget.’

He’s shaking his head. ‘Sure. Fine. But don’t tell anyone else.’

I’m with him on that. ‘Especially not the kids, or they’ll be in there twenty-four seven.’

It was a throw away thought, but I’m delighted I said it, if only to enjoy the horror spreading across his face. ‘There are KIDS?’

‘Only nine of them.’

His voice rises to a shriek. ‘But we let to adults, nothing about this castle is child-friendly.’

I shrug and try to look less shocked than I feel. ‘Another bit of small print you should have checked before you grabbed the cash. It’s too late now, they’re coming, you’ll have to upgrade accordingly.’ If he’s a dog hater and a child hater, I can’t imagine how this will ever work out. No wonder the place is so bare and lacking in any traces of emotional warmth. Whatever I picked up on all those years ago, I got him totally wrong. The man obviously has no empathy at all.

But at the same time I’ve made two unexpected leaps forward. There’s actually no need for Bill to hide anywhere, because how many of Libby’s friends will have their own dedicated wood delivery person? I’m wondering how Bill would feel about smartening up a bit so we could pass him off as a butler in a few of the photos.

Now I’m sensing I’ve got the upper hand, I’m throwing it all out there. ‘So what about the deccies, then?’

This time his groan’s louder still. ‘I’m a straight guy, I struggle garnishing a cocktail. Ask me to tinsel up a castle, I haven’t got the foggiest where to begin.’ Which proves he knows one twinkly word, so he’s not quite as clueless as he’s claiming.

‘There are always attics rammed with cast-offs in the houses by the sea in Enid Blyton books.’ The more I think about it, the more it goes with the territory. And if we’re stuck with an arrogant arse like Bill, who’s so far failing miserably with this let, we might as well make the most of whatever trappings we can get our hands on. ‘Don’t you have a loft we could plunder?’

‘You know the top floor’s full of bedrooms.’ That’s it. Then he takes a deep breath and wrinkles his nose. ‘There is some of the old tat we pulled out of the castle – that’s over in the coach house, but I swear none of it’s usable.’

I sit up straighter. ‘You’ll be surprised what you can make use of when the going gets tough. And Christmas trees would make a huge difference too. It’s my job to make things look pretty, if you’d stop channelling your inner Scrooge, I’m sure we could sort this. Believe me, anything that stops Libby having a meltdown will be more than worth the effort. She and the kids are arriving late Sunday. If we work our socks off from now until then, we can turn this around.’

Bill rolls his eyes, then does another shudder at the mention of the children. ‘When you put it like that, what are you waiting for?’

Time for me to drop my very own bombshell. ‘I can only stay if Merwyn does.’

‘Why did I ever start this?’ Bill’s growling through gritted teeth. ‘You’ll have to keep him out of the distillery. The kids too.’

‘Obviously. Merwyn hates distilleries anyway.’ I’m not going to admit that yet again I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. What distillery?

Bill looks as if he’s close to having smoke coming out of his nostrils and his ears. ‘Fine.’ It’s obviously nothing of the kind, but this is his bed, he made it, he has to lie in it, or however the saying goes. ‘I’m not happy, but you’ve got me over a barrel here – Merwyn can stay.’

And finally, a result! ‘Did you hear that Merwyn, you got your invitation to Christmas at the castle!’ I let him snaffle his chocolate drop, and he’s so ecstatic that he leaps up on the sofa, jumps straight onto my knee and smothers me in sloppy doggy kisses.

Bill’s face is crumpling in distaste. ‘Two conditions – no dogs on the sofas and definitely no dogs on the beds.’

It’s not that we aren’t going to be respectful. But Merwyn and I both know, Bill’s in no position to make rules here. And the faster he realises that, the better we’ll all get on.

As for me, there was a train wreck roaring towards me at a hundred miles an hour and somehow I’ve managed to avert it. It’s not that I care about this for myself, it’s more that I want to make things perfect for Fliss and Libby and everyone else who’s coming down. It’s going to be a huge challenge to keep this on track. It’s going to be hideous doing this with Bill around. But right now, with three days ahead of me, an empty castle, and carte blanche to fill it with Christmas, I couldn’t feel any more focussed on the job in hand.

I whistle Merwyn, then beam across at Bill. ‘So where’s this coach house then?’

4.
Hello cold days

Merwyn and I are following Bill around the front of the castle, and when my phone rings it’s such a surprise, I almost drop it. When I see who’s calling, I wish I had.

‘Libby! Lovely to chat, how can I …?’ I notice Bill slow to a halt ahead of me.

Libby cuts me off in mid sentence. ‘There are packages on their way as we speak!!’ Forget EE, her booming voice is loud enough to have carried all the way from London on the wind. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all morning, have you had your phone switched off?’

‘Great news on the parcels, the signal’s patchy, that’s all.’ My bad luck to hit a hot spot now. If she’s going to ask about the castle, I have no idea what I’m going to say.

‘So how’s the castle?’

My stomach drops. ‘Practically on the beach, can you hear the sound of the waves?’ I push my phone high in the air.

Whatever surf splashes she’s picking up, she’s shouting over them. ‘How about inside, is it gorgeous?’

Yards ahead Bill turns and raises an expectant eyebrow.

What can I say? She won’t want to hear the truth, I don’t want to lie, so there’s only one option. ‘You’re breaking up … sorry … I’ve lost you …’ I press the red circle on my screen, then switch the phone off completely.

Bill sends me a disbelieving frown. ‘You find signal and then end the call, what’s that about?’

I’d call it a survival tactic. ‘I’ll talk to her when I know what there is to work with.’

He pulls a face. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

We have a couple more false starts before we make our way along the path through the shrubbery beyond the side of the castle. Twice more we set off and both times we’re stopped by van drivers with clipboards and sheafs of papers and parcels to add to the pile in the castle hallway.

As we finally head off Merwyn’s skipping along at my side, his tail waving like a flag, it’s as if he’s decided that now he’s officially on the guest list he might as well look like he owns the place. I pull my hat down more securely to keep out the freezing wind gusts, and get a first glimpse of the coach house buildings through the foliage. They’re long, low and barn-like, but with their dark slate roofs rimy with salt and the late afternoon sunlight reflecting off the shimmering silver of the sea, they make a dramatic group against the fading sky. By the time Bill’s pushing open the wide door at the end of the longest building, he’s still chuntering.

In Chamonix Will was good tempered, and in my head that’s how he stayed. I can’t help being taken aback by how grouchy the passing years have made him.

As he flicks on the lights, he lets out a sigh. ‘Okay, knock yourself out.’

I’m staring around a wide space lit by the flat glare of strip lights, up to the rafters of a high slanting roof, taking in shelves full of boxes and lumpy tarpaulins. ‘Go on then, show me what’s under the dust sheets.’

He sniffs as he lifts up a corner. ‘Bits of furniture, general rubbish, they’re hardly going to satisfy a high end customer are they?’ His eyes flash. ‘And there’s definitely no child equipment either.’

As I swoop in on an ancient leather armchair, I can’t believe what I’m looking at. ‘How many of these have you got?’ I’m holding my breath, hoping there might be a pair to go either side of one of the fireplaces, or to tuck away to make a cosy corner in one of the tower alcoves.

Bill frowns. ‘There’s loads, but none of them match and they’re all scuffed.’ He’s saying it like that’s a bad thing.

‘That’s not a scuff, it’s patina.’ I lean forwards and breathe in the deep waxy smell of the hide. ‘Better still, Libby’s going to love them.’

‘And some are velvet, not leather.’

I try not to melt into a silent pool of stylist happiness. ‘And what’s in the boxes?’

Bill takes a couple down and pulls them open. ‘Mismatched crockery and old jars, the kind of rubbish that’s no use at all.’

I’m staring down at the prettiest assortment of plates and dishes but now I know they’re here I don’t need to keep contradicting him. ‘And you’re sure it’s okay to use this stuff?’ As I take in a nod I can hardly believe my luck.

Further along the shelves we find hanging candle chandeliers, a whole load of plant pots, storm lanterns, ancient kitchen utensils, old baths and enamel jugs. Propped up against the walls there are step ladders, hundreds of pictures and photographs in frames, endless boxes of books.

I reckon this lot will more than take care of the accessorising, but I’m not going to put him out of his misery yet. ‘The stuff here will go part way to saving your neck, what about the rest?’

‘There’s more?’

Okay, I’m mean, but I’m truly enjoying another appalled squeal. ‘Even if we raid the grounds for twigs, we’re still short of Christmas trees, candles and a million tea lights.’

He lets out a groan. ‘The Facebook ad was one desperate moment – I never thought anyone would actually bite.’

I’m not interested in details – he got himself into this mess, now he needs to sort it. ‘Well, we’re onto damage limitation now. So do you have a budget?’

His voice is dry. ‘Not really.’

I’m searching his face for clues as he swallows. ‘Not really, because you haven’t thought about it, or not really, meaning there’s no money?’ He doesn’t look dodgy, just beaten.

‘Realistically I can throw a hundred at it.’

‘Jeez, Bill.’ It comes out as a shriek.

‘And I have a mate with a Christmas tree plantation, he might give us some mis-shapes.’ He takes in my horrified look. ‘Or a discount.’

He’s taken Libby’s money with no plans to put in the extra effort and he’s not getting away with this. But there’s a flip side too. His accidental advert ended up giving me my chance to make Christmas wonderful for everyone. As Fliss knows, I’ve jumped at the chance to prove that everything that I touch doesn’t have to turn sour. The accident happened at the end of a horrible year that began with George walking out. Then the whole of last December was a blur of hospitals and police interviews and Michael’s funeral and visits to the scene of the accident. When so many things have gone wrong I’m starting to feel that it’s all down to me. Being part of a lovely Christmas, if only from the outside, would give me hope that I’m not destined to wreck and ruin everything I go near. But that’s the last thing I’d ever tell anyone else. Especially Bill.

‘Lucky for you, I know all the best fairy light suppliers and their discount codes. We should get onto that straight away.’

He’s wincing. ‘Like … now?’

As for me inviting myself into his bedroom this soon, I’m going to have to grit my teeth and go with it. And pretend he looks like Quasimodo.

Friday

13th December

5.
Make it a December
to remember

When I’m woken by hammering on my bedroom door on Friday morning, it’s so early that when I pull back the curtains it’s not even light enough to see the sea.

‘If you want to choose trees, I’m leaving in five.’

‘And I love you too, Bill.’ I don’t. At all.

Despite my groans and Merwyn’s yawns and dirty looks we pull on our clothes and do a dazed run-in-the-dark round the lawn. By the time Bill’s battered pick-up rattles to a halt by the front door we’re standing, backs to the gale, coffee in hand, watching the dawn light send luminous pink streaks across the pale grey sky.

Bill throws the door open. ‘I brought the Landy, hop in.’

I lift Merwyn up into the cab and heave myself in after him. ‘So what are we listening to? Apart from the banging of metal panels, I mean.’

Bill pulls out of the entrance gateway onto the lane. ‘Pirate FM’s obscure festive half hour, it’s quite a challenge to hear the awful tunes that didn’t make it. We’ll be there in forty.’

My eyes are barely open, but as the road winds back to hug the coast I’m sitting back basking in the sound of some band singing about Puppies for Christmas, and it’s magical to see the breakers crashing relentlessly up the beach as dawn lightens to day.

Bill finally showed me to his room and the wifi yesterday evening, after my dinner of Aga baked potatoes. It’s on the ground floor, tucked away beyond the stairs that lead up to mine and as empty and pared back as the rest of the place. If I was hoping for a glimpse of the real guy in there, I was truly disappointed. I can completely see that he’d strip back the rest of the castle so the stags don’t crush the ornaments as they fall over, but in his room you’d have thought there’d be a flash of something – anything – more individual. I understand not everyone wants to be like Fliss and I and have every drunken moment from our youth emblazoned across the walls to remind us of the fun times we had and how crazy and alive we used to be. But there aren’t any photos or any personal touches at all even on Bill’s bedside table. No birthday cards, not a single postcard or memento to express that he has a private life or indeed a past. There’s nothing. It’s as if his backstory and history have been completely wiped out. There isn’t as much as a paperback here, not even a print on the wall. It’s as if someone’s come and very carefully wiped away every trace of his past.

I’m not being nosey, or judging here. I’m just really puzzled that someone who I once glimpsed as such an outgoing, fun and rounded guy should be living this stark and sterile existence. I mean, I did get a glimpse in his suitcase in Chamonix, it was as full of shit as mine, his room too. So it’s not that he’s an anal tidying minimalist who travels through life with nothing, because he’s not. Even if he did think he was better than people, he didn’t deserve this. There has to be some rational explanation for the vacuum, something more than the castle being newly converted.

Whatever the explanation, he didn’t touch on it last night. He was in and out and mostly left me clutching my laptop, perching on the edge of his king sized bed which is so high I only had one toe on the floor. Obviously Merwyn insisted on coming too, so we took his furry tree rug for him to lie on and had to promise he wouldn’t try to clean his face on the pristine pale grey duvet cover.

The moment I put in the password a hundred emails from Libby pinged in, all of them delivery notifications, and all duplicated in the matching texts that popped up on my phone too. Then I rushed off a Facebook message to flag up to Fliss and Libby that the interiors we’ve been mooning over are the wrong ones and that what we have here is more-tower-less-frills. Then I called Fliss a few minutes later, certain by half past eight her kids would be asleep. They weren’t.

I love Oscar and Harriet to bits, but they’re the kind of insomniac babies who drink milk non stop, scream really loudly and never close their eyes. The theory that second babies are easier hasn’t worked for Fliss either, which is why popping out number two has almost pushed her over the edge. Oscar was easily three before I saw him fully zonked out and that was only with chickenpox and after Calpol, which if you don’t know is squirted into their mouth from a syringe, and the baby equivalent of a tranquiliser dart. Fliss swears all that saved her as a mum is the phone app she works with her nose at the same time as clutching both kids, which reads advice out loud and plays soothing tunes.

If Fliss ever actually gets her nose onto her phone when I ring her, there’s a five second window to talk, so when she answered I didn’t mess about.

Unlike her babies, she always sounds super-sleepy. ‘… Ivy … fab … just feeding Harriet …’ Nothing new there then.

I fired out the words ‘… stylish … stony … sparse … small-but-snug …’ then threw ‘staff’ in as an inspired afterthought. Then I blurted. ‘I’ve taken full charge of the deccies too.’ And damn for putting my head on the block there.

I could hear Fliss musing over the sound of Harriet’s sucking noises and Oscar banging the life out of what might have been a drum, or possibly the patio doors. ‘Sparse … how?’

Another damn for that one. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be full by the time you arrive.’

‘Brill … we’ll see you Sunday …’ And then there was a clatter of the phone being dropped, Fliss was telling Oscar not to lick his mango yogurt off the TV screen, and we got cut off.

I must admit, conversations like this make me view the super-cute baby clothes in Daniels in a whole different light – the kind that has me whooshing off to Pet’s Corner. Five seconds listening to life on Fliss’s sofa is enough to remind me crooning over the tartan velvet coats and diamanté dog collars is a whole lot safer. Even if they cost ten times more than the human versions they’re cheap at the price when you consider what they’re saving you from.

After that I took refuge in shopping for the castle and by the time Bill wafted back in again my online baskets were overflowing. I trotted out my favourite festive mantra, ‘You can never have too many candles, or ribbons …’ then tossed in a couple of kiddie ones just for the pleasure of seeing him shudder again, ‘… or fire guards or high chairs …’

It must have worked, because he pulled a face at the checkout totals, paid by one-click PayPal, then disappeared. I’d gone in armed with my strongest cinnamon candle, worried about how I’d cope with his scent when we were poring over the screen together, but as that bit turned out to be complete wishful thinking on my part, I never got to light it.

But this morning, in spite of the mix of dust and oil and wax jacket in the front of the Landy, as I watch his hands wrestling the steering wheel around the twisty country lanes between fields and hedges that are monochrome in the cold morning, there’s more. In fact the man-scent wafting my way is so delicious I’m already working on excuses to get into his bathroom to check out what it is he’s wearing. I know I’m taking an extended break from dating, and the women in Men’s Fragrances at Daniels are great at splashing them around. But if I ever spot a new one in the wild, I like to get it in my notebook for future reference. A boyfriend in my future definitely isn’t a priority. But in the unlikely event I did get one, decades down the line etc. etc. – please, oh please let him smell like the inside of this Landy cab does now – end of Fairy Godmother message. And the fastest way to make that happen is to find out what Bill’s aftershave bottle looks like.

I might have to fall back on the doggy choc trick – throw one into Bill’s bathroom then dive in after Merwyn to drag him out when he chases it. I’m working on the finer detail of the plan, when I notice Bill’s braking, and glancing over at me.

‘We’re here, you might like to wake up.’

Shit. I try for nonchalant and remind myself not to breathe in too deeply. ‘Just thinking about delicious smells.’

‘Like pine needles?’ The rough piece of board with a spray painted Christmas tree outline and an arrow we’re trundling past and a very bumpy lane that finally ends in a car park full of potholes suggest his mate in the trade is as cut price as he is. Merwyn’s bobbing up and down as we stop, then as I open the door he sees the puddles and he looks doubtful.

‘Your call, Merwyn.’ I shout to Bill behind the pickup. ‘He doesn’t like getting his paws muddy.’

Bill’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Except when he’s burying my shorts, then apparently he doesn’t give a damn.’

‘Would you like me to order you some more?’ I’ve no idea why I’m offering, the way Bill left them lying around, he was asking for them to be run off with.

‘You’re okay, they weren’t my best ones.’

‘Definitely too much information.’ As I clamp my hands on my ears Merwyn decides he’ll join us after all, and jumps into my arms.

From the way Bill’s rubbing his hands and taking long strides down the car park he’s either wanting to get this over with or he’s taking charge here. Or possibly both. ‘So are you looking for Norway spruce, Nordmann fir, or something more exotic? It’s all about the needle drop, you do know that?’

As Merwyn and I pick our way between the puddles I have to ask. ‘So when did you become the expert?’

There’s no crack in his confidence. ‘Since I phoned up to arrange it. We pick up the smaller ones here, I’ll pay for them all when they bring the big one for the hallway. So do you want one more or two?’

I’m hoping he’s joking. ‘If you’ve sorted the huge one, we need a medium one for the kitchen, two more for the chill out spaces, some for the tower rooms and then another ten for the bedrooms.’

‘That many? Really?’ Bill’s horrified expression matches his squawk.

‘They’re the fastest way to get the festive feel.’ I’m taking this to him. ‘Unless you’ve come up with a better idea?’

As expected, he doesn’t take me up on that one. ‘No doubt you want the fancy ones?’

This time I’m thinking of the minuscule budget and the bigger picture. ‘A tree is a tree. Let’s get as many as we can of the cheapest.’ I know he’s being tight, but if they’re freshly cut the plain ones will easily last us until Boxing Day. ‘Unless you want them to double up for your New Year lets too?’

‘Hell, no.’ He strides further along the yard, to where there are trees propped against the fence.

‘That way there will be more cash to splash on the rest of the deccies.’

‘You mean this doesn’t end here?’ He just gives a disgusted head shake. ‘Hurry up and grab them then, I haven’t got all day.’ He picks up two by their tips and swings around.

‘Not so fast.’ I take in his look of incomprehension. ‘You can’t just take any, they’re not all the same.’

‘You just said, a tree is a tree.’

I’m enjoying breaking it to him. ‘We have to choose the prettiest ones. Let’s start with the smaller ones for the bedrooms. Hold them up one by one, turn them around, and I’ll say yes or no.’ I have to admit I’m loving how much he’s hating this.

By the time I’ve carefully selected sixteen trees the pile is huge. Bill looked like he lost the will to live some time ago, but I’m flying because suddenly Christmas feels so much closer. I slip Merwyn’s lead over my wrist and wrestle as many trees into my arms as I can, which turns out to be three.

Bill’s staring at me. ‘But you don’t have to …’

‘I lug stuff around all the time at work, I’ve got this.’ It’s not a technique that would comply with any of Daniels’ manual handling guidelines, but hey!, this is Cornwall, it’s the holidays, rules are made for breaking. It’s always great to shock guys who assume women can’t lift anything heavier than a lipstick and by the time I set off I’m pretty damn pleased with myself. I’m half way back to the car park when I hear Bill’s shout.

‘I-v-yyyy …’

My mouth is pretty full of pine needles. ‘What now?’

‘You’re going the wrong way.’

Unbelievable. He comes out with the name Fraser fir, and now he knows it all. I can’t see past the branches, but I spin around anyway. ‘Wrong way how?’ Of course I’m going the right way, when I looked three seconds ago the Landy was still in the same place.

I’m not the only one who’s confused as I hesitate. Below the branches Merwyn’s on his fully extended lead running backwards and forwards in ever crazier circles. Then I try to take a step, and my foot won’t move because Merwyn’s lead is tightening around my ankles. ‘What the heck …?’

One minute I’m storming down the car park, the next I’m wobbling. It’s one of those moments when I know I’m going to fall, I can feel myself toppling, and there’s nothing I can do except tilt, and follow the trees forwards.

‘Waaaaaahhhhh …!!!!’

The next thing I know, there are pine needles sticking up my nose, my body’s rocking on a springy cushion of spruce and my legs are sticking up behind me, and I suspect they must be waving wildly too. And Merwyn is next to my ankles, still attached, and barking like a mad thing.

‘Bill!!! Help!!!!’ I’m yelling and trying to kick, but my legs are stuck. ‘Come and h-e-e-e-e-l-p me!!!’

There’s a low laugh behind me. ‘Hold it there, I’ll just get a few more pictures.’

What? ‘Forget effing pictures, come and untie me NOW!!!’ I push spikes out of my mouth, unstick my hat from the prickles that are pulling it and drag it down as far as I can over my face. As I roll sideways off the branches, if it wasn’t for the freezing water seeping around my bottom I’d be hot to the point of exploding.

Bill’s laughing so much he’s staggering towards me. ‘One more. Sitting in that puddle next to your tree pile, that’s the best one of all.’ Then he slides his phone into his pocket and holds out his hand. ‘What?’ He’s trying to look innocent.

‘Taking pictures, instead of helping me up, that’s what.’ Seriously, if he doesn’t stop the doubled up laughing soon he’s in for a swipe on the head with a Nordmann spruce.

‘You’re the one who wants stuff to load to Instagram. That sequence is pure gold.’

I’m despairing at how little clue he has. ‘That’s nothing like what Libby wants.’

He pulls me to my feet even though by now, obviously, I’d rather he hadn’t. He’s still laughing, watching me as I pull stiff soaking denim off my legs.

‘What, don’t tell me your boxers are muddy too, would you like me to order you some more?’

I take a deep breath and give him my best glare. ‘Have you finished?’

The way his eyebrows go up is really annoying. ‘There is one more thing …’

I’m almost roaring. ‘What?’

‘Two, actually.’

I roll my eyes.

His lips are twisting. ‘If this is a taste of how this Christmas let is going to be, bring it on.’

I’m growling through gritted teeth. ‘It’s not. At all. I will personally guarantee, the rest will be perfect beyond the point of boring. And?’

As he tilts his head, he has dimples in his cheeks. ‘There are trolleys further along … for carrying the trees.’ His eyes are mocking. ‘And a machine that pulls the branches into a net to make them neat for travelling. So they’re easy to carry and they’ll fit in the pick up.’

‘Know it all.’ And damn. For every part of this. But mostly for what the slices in his cheeks are doing to my stomach. It’s not that I’m usually bossy but he seems to have forgotten who’s in trouble here. ‘Well what are you waiting for? Get a trolley then.’

6.
If in doubt,
add glitter

‘I thought Christmas was meant to be about the people?’

This is Bill, later on Friday. And, yes, I am talking to him again after the tree toppling fiasco, but only because if I want to get this show on the road, I have to.

Finding a well equipped laundry room next to the enormous pantry helped. And while my puddle soaked clothes were being washed and dried I found a stripy blue apron, a whisk and a frying pan. After inhaling a stack of pancakes dripping with warm maple syrup I was back in the game but this time with a whole new strategy – in future I will not be taking shit from castle personnel.

So we have a castle hallway stacked with trees in nets, and we’re now in the coach house checking the pile of furniture that I’ve spent the last couple of hours sorting out to take over to the castle. And I’m half way to thinking, so long as I keep Bill very firmly in his place (and out of my head) I might just be able to pull this off.

I’m looking up at him from the leather armchair I’m testing out. ‘Of course it’s about the people – any people who sit in this seat will be super-comfy.’

He gives me an exasperated look. ‘But surely what matters is the company not the trappings?’

I can’t let that opportunity pass, so I round on him. ‘In which case, why are you spending your Christmas at work with strangers?’

That question turns his pissed off expression even darker. ‘Christmas is a write off for me this year, I don’t care what I do.’

Of course, we’ve ruined his Christmas being demanding and having a party that includes nine kids instead of a minibus full of stags. How did I not get that before? After jumping in with both feet last time, I’m feeling my way with this. ‘So Gemma won’t be here then?’ For everyone’s sakes, given what hard work she was back in the day, I’m desperate he’s not going to say she will.

‘Gemma’s off on a winter holiday.’

I suppose it’s pointless both of them having to lie low at the castle looking after a yawny Christmas let. Us writing off his Christmas probably explains his attitude, but he’s the one who chose to do it.

‘My dad will be around though.’ There’s that twist of his lips again. ‘So long as I let him out of his tower.’

My mouth drops open. ‘You keep your dad in a …?’ Then I see from the glint in his eyes – of course he bloody doesn’t. I’m kicking myself for being so gullible. This has to be him breaking the news of another guest in what’s getting to be a very overcrowded castle. ‘Someone else we’ll be sharing the toaster with?’ And shit to that thought.

‘Nope, for once you’re wrong. He usually eats breakfast in his pyjamas, in his motor home beyond the coach house.’

‘Camping? In winter? IN THE GROUNDS?’ This place just keeps on giving. I mean, why the hell is he not at Downton Abbey or whatever their stately pile’s called? This quest for the simple life is all the fault of a certain Duke, abandoning his palace and decamping to a farm cottage next door to Sandringham. Take it from me, I shared a teensy bedsit with George once, after the first couple of days, the novelty of waking up where you can reach the kitchen sink to put the kettle on from the bed is less than thrilling.

Bill’s laying down the reassurances. ‘It’s warm in his motor home, and handy – he helps out here too.’

‘Well, that sounds as if it’s going to be fabulous for all of us.’ Not. It’s yet another eccentricity to hide from Libby.

Bill nods at the heap of furniture and boxes that I’ve piled up by the door. ‘I’ll get him to bring this lot over to the house first thing tomorrow, then we can get it into place.’

‘That sounds like a plan.’ Anyone else, I’d feel guilty for my mean thoughts, but this may not be the worst news.

A text came through from Fliss when I was in Bill’s shower earlier – obviously I wasn’t going to let an opportunity like that pass me by, me not traipsing mud from the car park all the way upstairs was the perfect opening for me to get into Bill’s bathroom. Except I still have no further idea what he’s smelling of. However spartan the rest of the place is, his man-perfume shelf is rammed. If I’d even begun to work my way through them trying them out I’d have had total nose confusion. I didn’t just make it up, that is a real thing, the Daniels’ girls on perfume talk about it all the time. But sadly I’m still without my hot tip for my notebook.

According to Fliss’s text, Libby is so stoked at the idea of her own handyman there’s a good chance that will totally make up for the lack of deep pile carpet. If Bill’s dad is going to be knocking around the wood baskets too it’s going to be double the fun. Especially if their shared gene pool means he’s equally decorative.

As for the butler shots I know she’ll be setting her heart on, more mature might be better still, so I may as well test the ground. ‘So how does your dad feel about dressing up?’

The cloud that passes across Bill’s face says it’s an instant thumbs down. ‘Sorry, but there’s only room for one Santa in St Aidan. Gary from the jingle bells pony cart gets very cross about imposters.’

Weird, but fine, Santa was way off what I’m after anyway. ‘We definitely don’t want to upset any locals.’ As he didn’t dismiss it entirely it’s worth another try. ‘But if red coats are out, an evening suit might work?’

His voice shoots up. ‘If you knew my dad, you would not be asking that. Don’t catch me, don’t change me free spirits don’t dress to order, he’s all about wild hearts and the open road.’ He takes a second to blow out his cheeks. ‘If you want a guy in a tux, you’ll have to sweet talk me.’

I ignore that my toes just turned to hot syrup. ‘That’s not a thing I’ll be doing any time soon.’

‘Great, well in that case, let’s look at this lot.’ He’s scowling at my accessorising heap. ‘I simply can’t see how shitloads of superfluous ornamentation are going to give anyone a great time.’

Which goes to show how very wrong first impressions can be. He was such a happy guy all those years ago by that alpine fire, there was no sign whatsoever he’d turn out this grumpy. Me not getting what my most secret inner self wished for back then saved me from the hugest heap of trouble. All I can think is that over the years, having him all to myself in my head, I must have gradually changed him, whittled him into someone else entirely. I’ve somehow built him into someone very different from the guy himself. It was bound to happen. That’s the trouble with fantasies, when you give them free rein they travel a long way from their real life counterparts. They never talk back either. Which is possibly why having too many of the damn things isn’t ideal.

I’m going to have to put him right on that all-encompassing comment though. ‘If you create the most magical setting imaginable, those all-important people enjoy it so much more.’

‘Excuse me for missing there was so much alchemy involved.’ It’s that snarky tone and – oh joys – he’s shaking his head again. And to think I thought him being an anti-child dog-phobe was as bad as it was going to get.

I have to stick up for #TeamChristmas. ‘We’re creating memories that will last a lifetime, you can’t put a price on that.’ I stand up, give Merwyn a tickle to remind Bill we’re two against one here, and start to search for containers to put the trees in. ‘A castle and a beach is already fabulous, but overlay it with candlelight and pine needles, cranberry cocktails in frosted glasses, warm baked cinnamon biscuits and gingerbread houses, the distant sound of Santa’s sleigh bells, and it’ll never be surpassed.’ My eyes are probably sparkling too much as the images of present piles and frosty mornings flash through my head, I might be giving too much away here, but I don’t even care.

Bill’s blowing out his cheeks and sounding disgusted. ‘You’ve really fallen for the whole stockings hanging by an open fire thing haven’t you?’

My shriek of protest comes out louder than I’d planned. ‘And I’m completely happy with that. Some people live for summer, my time is December.’ Or at least, it used to be. And then something beyond the pile catches my eye. ‘Are they what I think they are?’

‘Traditional alpine toboggans? Just like we had in the mountains.’

I ignore the last bit because I really am gasping with excitement. ‘You have that much snow here?’

He gives me a hard stare. ‘Why the sudden interest? From what I remember in Chamonix you prefer to stay indoors.’

Once again, I’m quietly cursing his recall. ‘Those mountain ski runs scared the bejesus out of me, even the nursery slopes were too steep, but in any other situation snow is dreamy.’

His eyes have locked with mine. ‘So that finally explains why you concentrated on the hot chocolate, not the black runs. Why didn’t you say? I’d have helped you.’

I may as well be honest, even if I wasn’t then. ‘I was enough out of my depth as it was, I’d rather have dived head first into a snowdrift than admit I couldn’t ski.’

He shrugs. ‘I did come back early every day so you had company.’

I’m not sure he’s thinking of the right holiday. ‘I thought you came back so you could grab the steam room first?’

His head is tilting. ‘That was Gemma, not me. When she wasn’t falling over in front of me she pretty much superglued herself to my snowboard, that’s why we always arrived back together. But I came back to see you.’

I’m blinking. ‘Sorry?’

‘As I remember, I especially liked your jumpers.’

I can feel my eyes stretching open as I shriek. ‘What?!!!!’

‘They were really nice. Everyone else was in ski jackets, you were always in your base layer.’

I’m still squeaking in shock. ‘Jeez, Bill.’ Then it hits, from the way his eyes are dancing, this has to be a total wind up.

‘I liked how you made me laugh too.’

I let out a groan. ‘Please tell me you’re joking me.’

‘Of course I am, all I ever wanted was to get in that sauna. That’s why I was always hanging round the fire telling you my best jokes, they can’t have been very good if you can’t even remember them.’

I can feel my lips curling even though I’m trying to stop them. ‘What’s the difference between a snow man and a snow woman?’ And more fool me for encouraging him here.

‘Snowballs.’ He gives that resonating low laugh. ‘Something tells me you know a lot more than you’re letting on, Ivy Starforth.’

Oh my days, now he’s tied me up in knots again. I’ve no idea what he means, so to save my sanity I’m taking this back to where we left off. ‘If you gave us a snowy Christmas, you’d be off the hook with Libby.’

He’s back to staring at me in that same, slow way he has. ‘I’ll talk to Tomasz Schafernaker and see what I can do.’

‘Who the hell is …?’

‘He’s a meteorologist.’ He’s tilting his head, looking down on me through those narrowed eyes again. ‘The BBC weather man.’

Forget the protests about how bloody condescending he is, there are way more important questions. ‘There’s really a chance of snow?’

He gives a shrug. ‘It’s not unknown.’

‘We’ll have all the sledges then.’ I’d love snow so much, I’m not even daring to think about it, so I’m moving this on. The thing is, for me, in a world where lately it feels like nothing can be relied on, Christmas is the one certainty I can cling onto. I know the recipe to make Christmas work. Other things spiral out of control and my life comes crashing down. But so long as I have enough lamella and berries, I should be able to win with Christmas and everyone else will get the benefit.

‘It’s a simple equation – the more glitter you throw at Christmas, the more enjoyment you get back. Name me anything else that sure to pay off?’

He shoves a couple of galvanised buckets at me. ‘It’s an awful lot hanging on one day. And it’s not that healthy to be this obsessed with perfection.’

I have an answer for that. ‘Unless you’re talking gin.’ It’s a stab in the dark but as he’s always banging on about it, I suspect I’ve got him.

‘Gin’s different.’ It’s as if he’s woken up for the first time. ‘Obviously when you make it, you’re bound to strive for the ultimate, you wouldn’t do anything less. Or at least, I wouldn’t.’

I shrug. ‘So, you’re hung up on gin, for me it’s Christmas.’

There’s a new light in his eyes. ‘Now you’ve mentioned it, I might as well show you the distillery, it’s only next door.’ He’s so enthused, he’s already set off. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you the shortened version of the tour.’

‘Why not?’ I’m going to have to do this sometime, so I try not to let my eyes glaze over as I follow him out into the fading daylight. Hash tag, I’d rather be sleeping. Just saying.

7.
Let the fun beGIN …

I follow Bill as he hurries along the outside of the coach house building and when he pushes through some wide glass doors, the dimly lit space I’m staring around is as big as the building we’ve come from, with the same high ceiling following the slant of the roof. But in here the stone end gable has been completely knocked out, and instead there’s an immense glass window looking straight down onto the beach and out to sea.

‘Great view!’ I can’t deny him that one. The late afternoon has leached away the colour and the edges have blurred, but I can still make out the muted blue of the sea broken by lines of breakers frilling up the sand, a sky streaked with silver. Pin pricks of lights coming on around the edge of the bay, the twinkly cluster that is St Aidan. Then as Bill snaps on the inside lights, the outside darkens, and I’m suddenly blinking at reflections off a polished concrete floor, and flashes from some very shiny copper cauldrons and pipework and dials set back in the corner. The tangy salt and seaweed smell from outside has given way to the heady mix of fresh paint and neat alcohol.

‘So you weren’t joking, you really do have a still?’

The weary boredom on his face has turned to illuminated bliss. ‘We’re only a couple of years into production but Cockle Shell Castle gin’s already winning awards.’

I pick up a bottle from a shelf and turn it over in my hand. ‘Star Shower – the name’s cool.’ That’s as much as he’s getting – the silver and rose gold and pink stars on the label are lovely, but I know better than to heap on the praise.

The way he’s suddenly jumping from shelf to shelf, he couldn’t be more animated. ‘That one’s got a raspberry burst to it, Shining Comet’s got an orange hint. We use juniper berries from the gardens and we’re developing other flavours too. The rhubarb and lime’s almost ready to go.’

‘We?’ There’s no sign of collaborators. Apart from the equipment and shelves of glasses and bottles the space is almost empty.

He coughs. ‘At first I had help with the marketing, but now it’s just me.’

I’m gazing around. ‘You … and some very smart glass tables and Philippe Starck ghost chairs.’ See-through perspex with a hint of Louis Quatorze, they’re still one of my favourites from Daniels’ furniture department. The last thing I was expecting to get in Bill’s distillery was furniture envy.

‘They’re for the tasting sessions, I liked the way the transparency of the tables echoed the transparency of the gin.’ If only he’d applied half this much inspiration and attention to our deccies.

‘I don’t suppose …’ I’m kicking myself for sounding this tentative, so I try again. ‘I may have to … actually I’ll be stealing them for a few days.’ Well, two and a bit weeks actually.

‘What for?’

‘For dining at the castle over Christmas.’ I can mix and match with extra chairs to make up the numbers, but that won’t matter.

He’s looking at me like I’ve seriously lost my marbles. ‘Only one hitch with that, Ivy – there isn’t a dining room.’

‘One end of the bit you call the chill out space? Obviously we’d keep the plastic away from the roaring fires.’ If we overcome the melting risk, they’ll be sensational. I’m chipping away. ‘The whole transparency thing … echoes of icicles … how amazing the chairs would be, draped with fairy lights? They’re exactly what we need to transform those – ahem – empty spaces.’

‘Two hitches actually.’ He lets out a breath. ‘Glass tables, and all those sticky kiddie fingers? How’s that going to work?’

I’m cursing his stubbornness when my second brainwave hits. ‘Imagine the Christmas tree in the entrance hall decked with miniature gin bottles and sea shells.’ I’m searching his face for a positive sign. ‘The tables and chairs are just the start – we could fill the entire castle with transparent gin-themed decorations?’ See what I’m doing here? Weaving the furniture into the vision. Taking Christmas back to his adult-only comfort zone. ‘We’ll take our lead from the stars on the gin labels and have bright orange and cerise pink as our theme colours.’ I’m doing this so wholeheartedly I’m actually getting carried away on my own wave of enthusiasm.

And finally, he nods. ‘You could be onto something there, Ivy-star.’ Then he sweeps up a glass from a tray. ‘Let’s drink to that!’

Just when it was going so well, my heart comes crashing down to my boots again. ‘I’m actually on a break right now.’

His voice shoots up. ‘From alcohol?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘But you can’t be. Think of all those toffee vodkas we had by the log fire … you can’t give up anything that delicious.’

This time I clamp my mouth closed before it drops open and try to laugh this off. ‘They could explain the blurry judgement.’ Now I come to think of it, the caramel flavoured alcohol might explain why I remember that delicious feeling of my toes turning to syrup. But I need to call a halt to all this reminiscing. ‘Can we please stop wasting time living in the past. If we’re going to sort out a fabulous Christmas, there’s no time to lose, we need to get on.’

‘So what happened?’ He’s frowning. ‘You refused my offer of a drink two seconds ago, that qualifies as the present.’

He’s got me there. But if I fill him in with the middle bits, at least I’m being open and honest, and it’s a darn sight less dangerous than talking about ski lodges. ‘After George there was too much drinking, too many awful dates. I’m taking a holiday from all of it.’

Actually it was so much less fun than I’m making it sound. But when George left almost two years ago now there was this crazy voice inside me, telling me I’d thrown away my fertile years. The more desperate I was to find someone new, the more impossible it was. And the worse the guys became, the more reason I had to throw down the shots.

If I’m honest the accident was the culmination of that very awful time. It was the bottom of a very deep trough, the turning point. But anything that tragic is very hard to move on from. So long as I throw myself into doing things for my friends rather than for me, and pretend to the outside world that everything’s okay, I can just about hold it together.

Bill shrugs. ‘Sleeping with strangers, Tinder’s got a lot to answer for.’

As my eyes pop open my protest is loud. ‘Actually I didn’t do that.’ Mostly not, anyway. Mostly I passed out way before I got anywhere near their beds. ‘But eventually I got a wake up call that made me rethink all those poor choices.’ I’m trying for my best super-confident beam, knowing it’s coming across more wild eyed than I’d like, and that I’m sharing so much more than I should. And knowing that if I hadn’t been in that awful state, Michael would probably be alive now.

That’s not something I’ll ever leave behind, it’s a weight I’ll carry with me forever. However much I pretend I’m fine, which I have to do for other people, I know I’ll never get past the guilt. But that’s something I’ve got to lock up deep in my heart, something private for me, my very own penance. The only way to explain it is that it feels like a rock sitting inside my chest. I can’t let it spill out and bring other people down. But I know that it will stay there forever, because I really don’t have the right to be happy again. And I’m completely resigned to not being.

‘So here I am, there are lots of things I don’t do for now, neat gin’s only one of them. But it’s all working out really, really well.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He swallows and looks like he’d rather be anywhere other than where he is. ‘It explains why tinsel’s become inordinately big in your life.’

Could he be any more patronising? ‘No, I’ve always been the same with tinsel.’

He’s still going. ‘How about we take the buckets over to the castle on a trolley and wash them instead?’

At last there’s an offer I can’t refuse. The distillery was supposedly a doggy no-go area, so I’ve been pretending Merwyn wasn’t here, but if we’re leaving I can talk to him again. ‘Time for a walk?’

His tail shoots up, and he skitters towards the door, claws slipping on the gleaming floor.

8.
Surprise surprise

Wandering towards the castle as the sky darkens with the crash of the waves echoing in the distance and the lights shining on the front doesn’t get any less thrilling. But however picturesque it is, as I hang on to Merwyn and make sure the bucket stacks don’t topple off the trolley, I’m reminded again that real life is a lot less perfect than fairy tales. I actually love trundling gear around, ideally I’d be the one hauling the trolley. But you know what guys are like? Even though George rarely ventured into a supermarket, the once in a blue moon he did, he had to be in charge of the wheels. And as Bill is head of ops and arrogance personified, I don’t get within a country mile of this trolley handle.

Instead of minding, I’m thinking ahead to dinner, and the spag bol I left bubbling on the Aga. The only flaw in my plans for an evening on the kitchen sofa sorting out lists is that Bill could be crashing around in my space.

Bill pulls the trolley to a jerky halt in front of the house, and as I make a lunge for the falling buckets he’s staring at a huge, shiny, black four by four.

‘Looks like Jeff Bezos is out making the Amazon deliveries himself today.’

‘It’s good of him to take the parcels round the back, fingers crossed he’s bringing fairy lights.’ I realign the pots and we set off again. ‘And please let’s avoid sudden stops like that in future.’

As we round the corner at the rear of the castle the courtyard is already flooded with light, and the trolley lurches again. This time the buckets go clattering across the stone flags and I’m cursing Bill’s bad cornering as I chase them across the lawn. It’s only when I’ve finally collected them all that I turn and see the reason they fell – the package stack he swerved to avoid is as big as a wall. As we manoeuvre around the boxes I’m looking at Merwyn.

‘So where did the driver go?’

I’m noticing the steam coming off the hot tub, when there’s a high pitched giggle. Then a cloud of blonde curls bobs up over the edge and I do a double take. ‘Miranda?!?!’ Seeing as she’s Libby’s mum, just in time I manage to stop myself being super-rude and asking what the hell she’s doing here.

She picks up a champagne glass from the side and takes a swig. ‘Ivy! You’re looking beyond cute in your woolly hat! And after everything that’s happened too, it’s so lovely to see you’re here and looking so well.’

You know what mums can be like, even other people’s, bringing up all the stuff you’d rather not talk about. And as if it wasn’t enough of a shock finding Fliss and Libby’s mum here ten days earlier than she’s pencilled in on the arrivals list, a second later another head bobs up beside her.

Miranda’s waving her fizz. ‘Top tip, if you travel with champagne and glasses like we do, you’ll never go far wrong. We thought we might as well make ourselves at home and have a dip while we waited for you to get back. There’s someone here I’ve been dying for you to meet – Ivy, this is Ambrose.’

This is the first I’ve heard of Ambrose, but whatever. As I coax Merwyn forward so I can reach his dripping fingers and try not to tread on their clothes pile, I’m aware I’ve been here before.

‘Enchanté, Ivy.’ Ambrose’s voice is as deep and luxuriant as his tan, even if his greeting is a bit naff. He flicks an iron grey curl back off his forehead then picks up his own glass and dips his shoulders back under the water.

As I launch into the introductions I refuse to sound disappointed that someone else has arrived. I mean, I’m not, so why would I? ‘So this is Bill the castle caretaker, and Merwyn, who’s slightly Tibetan and currently a contender for the cutest dog in the world.’

Bill’s cough is low beside me. ‘So long as he’s not burying your underwear.’

‘If you’re wondering why we’re here so early …’ It’s a relief that Miranda’s read my mind and is talking over Bill. When she breaks off to smile at Ambrose, she’s looking as if she could eat him whole. And then go back for seconds. ‘… well, it’s a complete secret from Libby, but Ambrose and I thought we’d snatch a few romantic days here on our own before the family arrive. You won’t tell on us will you?’

Ambrose steps in to help. ‘You know the first rule of house parties … the early birds get the best rooms.’ He laughs. ‘But you must do, you’re here. And Miranda isn’t settling for anything less than a four poster master suite, by the way.’

Miranda’s eyes are such a startling blue, and so full of warmth and concern, I can completely see why she’s rarely without a husband. ‘You look worried, sweetheart. It is okay for us to be here?’

‘It’s fine.’ I take a deep breath and decide to go for a white lie. ‘The last let needed the place empty …’

Miranda jumps in before I finish. ‘Oh my, was it for a photo shoot? No wonder either, the place is amazing.’ She nudges Ambrose so hard he almost slides off the shelf at the side of the tub. ‘We said it looks pretty enough to be a film set, didn’t we, Ambie? It’s just like the castle on Frozen.’

It isn’t at all. This one’s way prettier, but I’m not going to argue. ‘So long as you don’t mind that we’re still moving things back in?’ We’re here to make dreams for guests, not shatter illusions, so I don’t say any more.

I’ve known Miranda years, ever since Fliss and I were art students at St Martins in London and we used to go to stay with her in her flat in Brighton. As a mum she’s a bit off-the-wall, if only because ever since their dad died when Fliss was ten she’s been a stalwart mum, but as Fliss always says, she’s gone through her men like a dose of salts. But other than the revolving-door guys, she’s always the same – generous and warm, laid back, welcoming and fun, easy to be with, and we all love her to bits. I take it from the bare third finger on her left hand that’s dangling over Ambrose’s bronzed shoulder, and his absence from the guest list, that he’s a relatively new addition.

Her love life was going through such a turbulent patch when Fliss and Rob were getting married, in the run-up to the wedding they gave up trying for a definite name, and just put Mother of the Bride’s plus one on the table plan. Whoever it was she brought – none of us are that good pinpointing names, except Libby who writes everything down which takes the pressure off everyone else, including Miranda, because they know they can always check in her archives – the first and last time Fliss met that one was when he turned up on her wedding photographs and the top table.

Miranda’s beaming. ‘Of course we don’t mind, we’ll help won’t we?’

Judging from his white knuckles on the tub side, this time Ambie’s ready for the nudge she’s about to give him. He grins at her. ‘When we’re not in here, we will.’

Miranda’s locked her gaze elsewhere. ‘He’s joking, Bill.’ Her laugh is low and chesty. ‘I’m an artist, I’m very creative, I don’t mind rolling up my sleeves.’

Ambrose’s laugh is a low echo. ‘You can say that again.’

‘Not appropriate, Ambie.’ There’s a throaty peel of laughter and a gigantic wall of water splashing over the stone flags as Miranda shoulders Ambie off the tub shelf and he disappears below the waves. As Ambie splutters his way back to the surface, Bill is still getting the benefit of her cherubic full-beam smile with an extra dose of static crackle. ‘Did you see that, Bill, that’s what happens to men who don’t behave.’ Miranda folds her arms across her chest squeezing her more than ample bazumbas and cleavage into view above the waterline. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t let you down.’

You only need to see the look on Bill’s face to read the writing in his invisible thought bubble.

FUCK!!! FUCK!!! and WHAT THE FUCK?!!! There might also be a teensy whimpering Get me out of here! too.

‘Okay, Bill?’ As I give him a nudge, he comes to and gives a cough.

‘So, just to be clear, there’s no smoking in the castle, the courtyard, or the car parking areas.’ The furrows in his brow deepen as he eyes her tobacco tin and Rizla papers next to the towel. ‘Or the coach house … or the distillery.’

I’m beaming to cover my own WTF? ‘And thanks, Bill, for that lovely welcome.’

Miranda’s still twinkling at him. ‘But roll ups will be fine, won’t they? Because they don’t actually count as cigarettes?’

He hasn’t even flinched. ‘Roll ups are banned too. And any tab ends go in the sand buckets by the doors, we don’t want you dropping them around the grounds or on the sand.’

Miranda’s winking at him in mock horror. ‘What, you own the beach now?’ She’s such a tease.

Bill’s not seeing the funny side. ‘It is with the castle, yes, but we do let people walk on it. But not if they drop cigarette ends.’

She’s completely unbothered. ‘I eat little boys like you for breakfast, Bill!’ There’s another chortle. ‘But I’ll let you off today. And you can tell whoever is king of your very lovely castle that we’ll behave impeccably.’

Bill carries on as if he hasn’t heard. ‘No horseplay in the hot tub either. If we get ice on the courtyard, the hot tub will be emptied. Immediately. And just out of interest, for the record, are you wearing swimsuits in there?’

I put my hand over my mouth and hiss ‘hypocrite’ at him under my breath.

‘Bill, you are such a spoilsport.’ From the sparkle in her eyes, Miranda is loving this. ‘Skinny dipping in the hot tub is my favourite Christmas thing.’

Bill’s completely cool. ‘In which case, you’ll have to find a different hot tub somewhere else. This one is only available for non-naked guests.’

‘Fine, no need to get your Speedos in a twist.’ It’s rare for Miranda to look like she’s beaten. But behind the steam clouds, beyond the two angry red circles on her cheeks, she’s as deflated as a popped balloon because she’s offered Bill her palmful of goodies and he’s flatly refused to eat out of it. And I’ve never heard her sound snappy before. She’s holding her hand out. ‘I take it you provide endless supplies of fluffy towels? In which case, please would you get us some. Unless you’d rather we came inside as we are?’

At which point, my hopes for Christmas take another nose dive.

All out war between Bill and Miranda won’t be pretty. It wasn’t even on my list of stuff to worry about. But realistically, if Bill’s taken five minutes to fall out with Miranda who is easy, what the hell is going to happen when Libby’s sleigh slides into town?

Saturday

14th December

9.
Happy landings

With everything there is to do in the castle, and Libby arriving tomorrow evening – pause for a silent scream at that – when I wake up early on Saturday morning there’s so much adrenalin pounding through my system it’s impossible to stay in bed. As I get dressed Merwyn is giving me his ‘just no, totally no’ look from the comfort of his squishy red velvet sleeping cushion. He is obviously bullshitting because even though I set off without him he still reaches the bottom of the stairs before I do. We’re even more wide awake after our scamper along the beach by phone-light. The wind is icy, but the sound of the waves pounding and the frothy water rushing up over the sand and onto our feet seems so much louder in the dark than it does in the day.

Whatever Bill claimed about his dad’s breakfast habits, when we get back to the kitchen the toasters are full and there’s a tall man in orange woven Aztec joggers watching toast on the Aga top too. Then as he turns to grin at me his smile is a livelier, more lived-in version of Bill’s, and I get the full effect of his long straggly hair and the two dangling beaded braids that swing around as he moves his head.

He’s straight in with the introductions. ‘Hi, I’m Keith, better known as Keef the reef, or Bill’s dad. And these …’ He waves a hand at the crowd around the table who look like they all shopped at the same place as him when they bought their clothes thirty years ago. ‘… are Rip, Brian, Bede, Taj and Slater, my crewmates from the Surf ’til we die club.’

I’m blinking at silver ponytails and grey grizzly beards of all lengths from stubble to full and bushy, taking in lashings of thong necklaces and shell bracelets, faded ripped denim as weathered as their faces. From the tangles of their hair I’d say none of them visit the barbers except to buy salt spray.

Bill raises an eyebrow beyond the kitchen island. ‘The name’s ironic, obviously they’ll never die, because they’re way too busy rocking their hang fives and helicopters and riding their party waves.’ There’s an amused twist to his lips. ‘He looks nothing like me, that’s because he’s adopted.’

My brows are knitting together. ‘Really?’

Keith’s face crinkles into a grin. ‘The first rule of the castle – never believe Bill’s bollocks. Toast, Ivy?’ The cuffs on his faded peach Rip Curl sweatshirt are hanging in shreds as he hands me a plate and two perfectly browned slices. ‘We’ll finish our coffee then we’re all yours.’

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