Читать книгу A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall - Jane Linfoot - Страница 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Come through and see the chill out areas …’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Right.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You don’t get it do you, Ivy?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But if she had …?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You are joking me?’

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

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

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

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

‘Problems …?’ The word hangs between us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘There is one last thing …’

Surely there can’t be. ‘And …?’

‘We don’t accept dogs.’

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

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