Czytaj książkę: «A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall»

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.’