Mistletoe Mansion

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Luke’s whistling stopped as, towards the bottom of the garden, he examined the door of what looked like the poshest Wendy house, just in front of the poplar and apple trees. It was shaded by a weeping willow which was almost as big as the one in the front. I caught him up and peeked through the windows at a wicker table and two matching chairs with embroidered pillows. Talk about a private beach hut. I could just imagine myself lounging on the decking at the front, in designer glasses and eating a skinny ice cream… I could see the tabloids’ paparazzi photos of me sitting in the shade, reading some movie script, wearing shades and one of those Greta Garbo turbans, with Luke, topless, fanning me with a palm leaf…

‘Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning the house? This isn’t a holiday park,’ muttered Luke, back to his former unfriendly self.

Daydreaming ruined and my sugar rush having worn off, I stared at him – why run hot and cold? Airily, I walked on a little, to admire a regimental-looking vegetable garden. A little overgrown, but… wow! Those looked like leek tops and various other lines of green leaves… Vegetarian Jess wouldn’t believe her luck.

With a glare at Luke, I made my way back inside. What was it with him? I was making an effort, even though we’d got off to a bad start. With a sigh, I walked through the kitchen, on my way picking up some nibbles I’d bought for the Games Room which I took in and stashed behind the bar. Dust covered all the bar’s glasses and with the sun shining on the panes, I could see that the inside of the windows needed a good scrub down.

However, riled by Luke saying I needed to start cleaning, I delayed and picked up the darts. One by one I threw them at the dartboard. Triple twenty! I hadn’t lost my touch. One of Mum’s boyfriends had been a pub team champion. I took three more shots.

Several goes later, I yawned, left the Games Room and went to check my shower, unable to face another sleepless night. As I went upstairs, I cocked my ear to listen for dripping water but instead heard a strange noise, like… a blowing gale. There it went again. I ran up to check in Jess’s room. Perhaps it was some of that New Age stuff she listened to, like the tide breaking or the mating call of whales. But there was no CD player; her iPod was missing. The office was very quiet too.

The spooky image from the night before jumped into my mind and within seconds my hands felt clammy. But ghosts didn’t haunt houses this modern, I told myself, sternly. You only had to watch Most Haunted to know they hung out in historical buildings and graveyards. I went into the ensuite in my room. The dripping had stopped. At least that Luke had done something right.

I came back out into the bedroom and picked up the photo of me and Adam. Sunday morning – normally we’d still be in bed, him reading the paper after I’d pinched the supplement to read the celebrity stories. Then we’d head over to his parents for a traditional roast. I’d take dessert. My chest tightened. Life with him was comfortable. I enjoyed chilling with him – enjoyed curling up cosily at night, with someone who accepted me for who I was.

I shook my head. Thing was, since yesterday, I’d been questioning whether that was really true. Adam asking me to leave confirmed what I’d refused to consider for a while now – he didn’t truly “get” the real me, who had ambitions and aspired to running a successful baking empire. Yet this realisation didn’t stop me missing my “Ex” – there, I managed to say that word without choking or going through a box of tissues. Perhaps I should phone him. Plenty of couples stayed together happily, despite not fully understanding each other… right? I reached into my trouser pocket for my mobile…

Urgh. No. I pulled back my hand. Stay strong. Best to wait a couple of days, by which time he’d work out that the toilet didn’t clean itself. I glanced up. Funny, I hadn’t heard the bedroom door close – a draught must have pushed it shut. I gripped the gold door handle. Hmm. It wouldn’t budge. I grasped tighter and pulled it hard. Still no luck.

Heart thumping, I again recalled the spooky face from last night and hurried over to the window. Down on the lawn, Groucho swaggered up to a blackbird. It looked like Luke had gone. Maybe if I shouted through the open top window, that friendly man Terry or Melissa would hear and raise the alarm. But their houses were so far away, not like the mid-terrace I’d grown up in where the neighbours could probably hear my disgusting teenage brother break wind.

What would they have done on Most Haunted? ‘I mean you no harm,’ I eventually said, voice trembling. ‘Show me a sign that someone is here.’

At that exact moment, a sweet-smelling cloud of smoke edged its way under the door. What now, a fire? Had I left the oven on? Yes, that must be it. My chest relaxed for a second. All these shenanigans had to be due to something logical like that – except that… that… the smoke smelt kind of sweet and the whooshing wind noise increased in pitch. Oh shit! I swallowed hard.

‘Show me your presence,’ I stuttered, mouth dry, like I’d scoffed a whole packet of wafer crackers.

Brave Kimmy Flees Fire – I could see the headline in OK Magazine. And a photo of me and Adam, arms around each other, him declaring his love since I’d almost died.

I sat on the bed and picked up the list of instructions I’d been reading that morning. There was no other option; Luke was nearest. I’d have to find his number and ring for his help. The police was a no-no. If Mr Murphy got to hear of any damage, from me having potentially caused a fire, he’d probably blame me and I’d be out; I’d lose my chance to impress Adam. I had to keep any funny goings-on in this house well under wraps. Ghost or no ghost, Mr Murphy had to think my stay was running smoothly.

My finger ran down the page, to Luke’s number. I slid my phone out of my trouser pocket and dialled.

‘Luke? It’s me, Kimmy… The housesitter. I’m trapped, in the bedroom. Talk about odd noises… and I think something’s on fire.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Someone’s in the house, I’m sure of it. Can you come back? I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else.’

Apparently Luke was in his car and about to drive off. Finally, with a sigh, he said to shut myself in the ensuite, just in case the smoke was dangerous. Not that I needed his advice. I laid a damp towel across the bottom of the bedroom door. It reminded me of the time Mum lit the barbecue with petrol and the flames instantly spread to the lawn. Hands flapping, she’d run around the garden, whilst I got the hose and put it out.

After a few minutes, a voice shouted, ‘Kimmy? You in the bathroom?’

Legs feeling wobbly, I pushed open the ensuite door and there Luke stood, by Lily’s bed, chestnut hair all tousled. Slowly I left the bathroom.

I looked around. ‘Was it, um, the oven? Have you put out the fire?’

‘This your idea of a joke?’ His lips pursed. ‘It’s not my job to play your silly games. My Murphy pays me to do handy work. That’s all. I’ve got another job to get to.’

‘Games?’

‘Smoke, an intruder, sounds of a blowing gale…? What next? Voices coming out of the telly?Crockery moving on its own?’ He shook his head. ‘And as for your door being locked…’

‘I could have been burnt to death!’

He laughed. ‘I know it’s a boring job, minding the house, but really – if you need company, go visit Terry next door, he’s a sound bloke. I’m flattered, don’t get me wrong, but…’

‘You think I fancy you?’ My top lip curled. Who the hell did he think he was?

He folded his arms. ‘Why else would you pretend the shower was broken? Ply me with cupcakes? Ask me to come back and put out some imaginary fire?’

‘That dripping kept me awake all last night!’

‘All the showerhead needed was a good clean. Any idiot could see that.’

‘Well, for your information, I’m not romantically available,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘That photo you spotted is of–’

‘Adam?’ he smirked.

‘Yes. My boyfriend… well my Ex… But we’re getting back together and I’m not looking for a replacement and even if I was, you would hardly be–’ I stopped. Did someone just scream?

This whole cul-de-sac was bloody bonkers, what with shagging on Bugattis and smoke under doors; what with dogs that didn’t understand pooch jumpers were the in-thing and big-headed handymen who thought a leaky shower was an excuse for seduction. Luke eyed me for a second, as if he might say something else, but instead charged downstairs. I followed. There was another bloodcurdling scream and we legged it onto the drive.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_385b2fce-a2bd-58cb-a023-83efa7bf74f5)

‘This is a matter of life and death!’ screeched a female voice. ‘You can’t do this!’

OMG! My recent scary experience forgotten, I instantly recognised the back of that beautifully coiffured head. Melissa Winsford stood on the pavement at the bottom of Walter’s drive, shouting into a phone, wearing the shortest, tightest blue dress, which showed off every inch of her size six legs, plus a tailored black leather jacket and what looked like a real crocodile skin handbag. The sunglasses (totes unnecessary) had a Chanel C on the side. I could tell that, under the flesh-coloured tights, her caramel tan was perfect, with no streaks or blotches of orange – unlike my legs, which had the odd razor cut and patch of stubble. On the pavement just behind her, I stood panting, next to Luke. We’d practically sprinted the length of the drive.

‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll spread the word – make sure you never work south of Watford again!’

She stuffed the phone into her bag and something like a sob escaped her lips. Maybe her doctor had misdiagnosed some fatal illness. Or her accountant had fiddled the books.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked and subtly tried to brush flour off my jeans. Pity I hadn’t had time this morning to re-straighten my hair.

She jumped and turned around. ‘How long have you two been there? Do tell your editor that there’s nothing to report and if you’ve taken any photos, darling,’ she said to me in a more velvety voice, ‘delete them and I’ll provide you with some shots that’ll really sell.’ She unzipped her leather jacket and subtly pushed out her double D cups. What a pro!

‘We’re not the press. I’m Luke. Last month I unblocked your upstairs loo, as a favour to Mr Winsford. He saw me mending Mr Carmichael’s roof.’

‘How nice for you, darling.’ She stopped posing, whilst I chuckled as she visibly shuddered at his cords. If only I’d thought to grab Groucho, complete with his new glitter-trimmed sweater. ‘Are you the cleaner?’ she asked me. ‘I’d have thought they’d have sold this place by now.’

‘No, I’m…’ My cheeks flamed up and I felt toasty warm, despite being out in the arctic air without a coat. What was my name, again? Deep breath, in and out… Pull yourself together. ‘I’m Kimmy. The housesitter. Can I just say, what a fan I am, Melissa? Is it okay to call you that? I follow all your fashion tips in Starchat. Did…’

She held up a hand. ‘Cute. Drop by my place later; the housekeeper will give you a signed photo.’

‘We thought you were in trouble,’ said Luke, a long blade of grass now in between his teeth. ‘Obviously we needn’t have bothered dropping everything to run to your side.’

She fished in her handbag and pulled out a crisp twenty pound note. ‘That’s for your time.’ Luke shook his head and, whistling, strode back up the drive. ‘Is he gay?’ she whispered. ‘He’s certainly got the body for it. And with some top products he could have great hair. Although his whistling would give me a headache… Why can’t he just wear an iPod like any normal person?’ She passed me the twenty, instead. ‘You take it.’

‘Um, thanks!’ I just couldn’t turn down the chance to hold a banknote that had once belonged to someone famous.

Melissa still wore her glasses. Maybe her eyes were red and swollen. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I asked softly. ‘That phone call… I couldn’t help hearing…’

She removed her glasses. Were those false eyelashes? And tattooed eyebrows were so cool.

‘Have you ever been let down badly, Kimmy?’

‘Yes, there was that time–’

‘Hurts, doesn’t it,’ she continued. ‘It was going to be one of the most important days of my life.’

‘What was? I hid my hands behind my back, wishing I’d redone the nail varnish before breakfast.

‘I’m having a little get-together this week, for some of the golf wives from the local club. Nothing flash – not like the parties I have with the national birdies. But still – I want to make an effort. Jonny and I have lived here for over a year now, and… I don’t feel like I know them much at all.’ Her smile nearly blinded me as the winter sun caught her Osmond white teeth. ‘Not that I’m bothered, you understand, I’m a busy woman.But the golf on a local level, the social life, it’s still important to Jonny…’

Really? If the tabloids were right, her husband spent most of his time abroad, or in Woburn or London. Perhaps she got lonely out here in the sticks, where the theatre was hardly West End and the common was no Hyde Park. Although Harpenden was only half an hour away on the train from the capital, not that I expect she ever took public transport.

‘I’ve pretended it’s a fundraiser,’ she continued, ‘told them to bring their cheque books. But the real reason, the real surprise…’ She clapped her hands. ‘I’ve arranged for them to all have Botox! A few injections and I’ll be their new best friend.’

‘But I thought you hadn’t had anything done… In all your interviews you say…’

She gave a bright laugh. ‘Some of these ladies are older than me – it’s a favour to them. It goes without saying, I don’t need it yet.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Okay, maybe I’ve had it done once,’ she said and gave another small laugh, ‘as an experiment, nothing more.’

But she’d only just turned thirty! I gazed at her rosebud lips. Maybe she also had fillers and collagen; perhaps dermabrasion or a chemical peel. I studied her face with interest. Reading the gossip magazines practically qualified me to carry out most procedures.

According to Infamous, the top players’ wives didn’t approve of her glamour. She’d only met Jonny a couple of years ago, and they still thought her under their league. Clearly they didn’t know class when they saw it. You only had to flick through the magazine spreads of the Winsfords’ wedding to see that Melissa had good taste. It had taken place right at the beginning of December and was Christmas themed. Melissa wore mini-bauble earrings and a dress trimmed with fur. The vicar let them spray the length of the aisle with fake snow. At the reception there was a whole turkey on each table, with crackers. As for the cake, it was an almost life-sized chocolate Christmas log, decorated with fake robins. Perfect.

‘Has the doctor let you down, then?’ I asked. Perhaps she’d booked some dodgy East European medic you see on those documentaries called things like “Plastic Surgery Holidays from Hell: How My Nipples Fell Off”.

‘Doctor? No, my lovely nail lady, Sandra, is doing it.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t know what I’d do without that women, she’s more like a counsellor, the problems she’s helped me talk through whilst she’s filed and buffed. Anyway, no, it’s far worse than that. The top-notch catering I’d ordered – a small exclusive company run by a chef who used to work at Claridge’s… He’s pulled out.’

‘Oh.’ Naughty of me, wasn’t it, to feel disappointed that her upset wasn’t caused by a more sensational story? But I was used to her living her life in the headlines. I wanted the excitement of affairs, drug problems, surgery gone wrong or – every girl’s nightmare – cellulite, weight gain and spots. ‘That’s bad luck,’ I said and tried to sound sympathetic. Adam would have told her to get a life and do the cooking herself.

Melissa shook her head. ‘People nowadays, it’s all me, me, me. Just because his mother died suddenly last night. I mean, I’m only asking for one afternoon out of the week.’

Footsteps approached and Luke walked past with his toolbox whilst I digested her news. Er, she did sound just a bit insensitive. I squirmed, trying to ignore the possibility that one of my favourite celebrities wasn’t perfect after all.

Melissa scrolled through the contacts on her phone. ‘There’s no way I’m cancelling. It took me long enough to get some of those wrinklies to agree to come.’ She caught my eye and gave a nervous giggle. ‘I mean, those lovely ladies are so busy with their charity work and families, they don’t have time to look after themselves properly,’ cooed her velvet tones. ‘I was thrilled to finally find a date they could all make. I’m trying to move them into the twenty-first century and make them more on trend.

On trend. I loved that expression. Yet if I used it I’d sound like Eliza Doolittle trying her luck at being the Speaking Clock.

‘God knows it took long enough to get the national birdies to wear matching jackets, like the Americans,’ continued Melissa. She sighed. ‘The Ryder Cup will be here before I know it. I’ll have to start my pre-tournament diet. You know, the last fancy lunch I went to was at the house of the team’s brightest new player, Jason Lafont. His wife…’

‘Alexandra?’ I’d seen her in one of those more traditional magazines full of recipes, short stories and adverts for clothes with elasticated waists. Mrs Lafont was a more natural version of Melissa, with strawberry blonde waves and natural curves. Much as I admired Melissa’s dedication to her appearance, I’d never have implants, not since reading they could burst on an aeroplane or if you sneezed really loud.

‘Yes. Alexandra,’ she said, as Luke appeared at the front door. ‘She put on miniature fish ‘n’chips in specially made newspaper cones. It was salmon, of course, with sweet potato wedges, balsamic vinegar and pesto ketchup on the side. It was all anyone talked about for weeks afterwards.’

‘Try Kimmy’s cupcakes,’ said Luke, as he strode past, heading towards his van. ‘They’re up there with Mr Kipling’s; exceedingly good.’

Huh? So now he was being nice?

‘I don’t think so.’ She pressed dial on her phone. ‘Hi Charlotte,’ she said. ‘Did I ever phone to say those canapés we had at your Wimbledon party were out of this world? Hmm. Yes, really super. In fact, I was wondering, what’s the name of your caterer? Really?’ Melissa pulled a face. ‘Gosh, clever old you! Oh, my taxi’s arrived, must dash. Let’s lunch some time. Byeee!’ She ended the call. ‘Ghastly woman,’ she muttered. ‘Teeth as yellow as custard. I can’t believe she does her own baking.’ She fanned her face as Luke started the van’s engine and drove off.

‘Why don’t you come inside?’ I said. ‘I’ve just made a fresh batch of cakes. I cater for parties and can do any flavour you like.’

‘You run your own cupcake company?’

‘Yes,’ I said, with more confidence than I felt. Well I did. I’d been paid for my work and I was the boss. ‘I’ve catered widely for children’s parties, weddings…’ Okay, only one, but still. Adam would be proud – here I was, pushing my business forward. Except Melissa was looking at her phone again… I took a deep breath.

‘Our current, um, specials are all to do with Christmas. Like Cranberry and Orange, Merry Berry and Mouthwatering Mincemeat,’ I gushed. ‘There’s also a, um, skinny range for the health-conscious.’ Did I sound entrepreneurial? I hoped so – this was the chance of a lifetime. Imagine me, catering for the Winsfords? Perhaps OK Magazine would do a photo shoot. I’d have to get some business cards done. If Jess was off work, she could waitress and… Another deep breath. ‘Then there’s our regular alcoholic range,’ I continued, ‘including Pina Colada surprises topped with Malibu flavoured buttercream icing and popping candy, and coffee cakes decorated with, um, Baileys whipped cream, plus festive Port and Orange. Then there are the fun ones,’ I said, thinking back to the kids’ parties I’d catered for, ‘decorated with green and red sprinkles, marzipan Santas and snowmen…’

‘I suppose a look wouldn’t hurt.’ The phone went back into her handbag. ‘After all. I am desperate.

My knees shook. I’d invited the star of all my magazines in for a coffee and cake and she’d said yes!

Chapter 9 (#ulink_c09d34e2-58e2-53dc-9605-f773145ac880)

‘I wish now I’d put a dress code on the invitation: no sleeveless blouses.’ Melissa shuddered. ‘A couple of the golfers’ wives don’t even shave under their arms.’

I waved at Terry as I turned to close the front door. He was driving past in his cream Beetle.

Melissa craned her neck to look into Walter’s lounge. ‘Cute. Very homely.’ Her tone shouted “boring and bland”.

I pointed past the staircase. ‘The kitchen’s through there.’ As she led the way, I ogled her thin thighs. ‘Do you do your DVD every day?’

‘Mine? You’ve got to be jok… Ahem. Yes, of course I do.’ She turned around and beamed. ‘If I’m not too busy. What with my massage appointments, nails and hair, then there’s the sessions with my personal trainer, three times a week – and that’s only if I’m not speeding up to London to have lunch with Lucy Locklove.’