A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall

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‘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. (#ulink_41a644cf-d400-51d3-90e3-4dbbc61aa363)

Surprise surprise (#ulink_41a644cf-d400-51d3-90e3-4dbbc61aa363)

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. (#ulink_dfb4c042-5a66-57fb-9aae-1d3f5b2c34ba)

Happy landings (#ulink_dfb4c042-5a66-57fb-9aae-1d3f5b2c34ba)

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.’