Читать книгу Under The Mistletoe - Jennifer Joyce, Kerry Barrett - Страница 18

Chapter 9

‘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.’

Lucy Locklove! She was only my all-time fave TV presenter!

‘It’s hard work being a national sportsman’s wife. Even on holidays I have to be well turned out, because of the paparazzi. For our last spring break in Barbados I bought ten bikinis.’

I pointed to the breakfast table and scraped my hair back into a scrunchie that was in my jeans’ pocket. Melissa brushed some crumbs off a stool and sat down. Didn’t she have just the perfect life? The golfer’s wife had matched all my expectations about celebritydom. I couldn’t wait to see inside her home.

‘Do you see much of the national birdies?’ I said as she rested her bag on her lap. I put one of the mincemeat brandy butter cakes on a plate and passed it over.

‘Only when the tournaments are on. I’m still a bit new to the group. Luke Donald doesn’t live far away, though. His wife’s really into art…’

‘Diana Donald’s gorgeous-looking,’ I muttered. During the Open, Starchat had done a page on the best-dressed golfers’ wives.

‘It’s her Greek roots,’ said Melissa and shrugged. ‘Ian Poulter’s wife, Katie, is okay too; used to be a nurse.’

‘They sound… normal,’ I said. ‘Not like footballers’ wives.’

‘I suppose most are – although Sam Torrance’s wife used to be a film star. Another is a show jumper.’

I wondered what Melissa used to do. The magazines never spoke about that.

‘Napkin?’ she said.

‘Of course.’ Oh dear. Kitchen roll would have to do.

She picked up the cake and smelt the buttercream icing before prodding the marzipan holly leaf with a long nail. Then she took the biggest bite ever and, in slow motion, chewed. I took this opportunity to scrutinise, up close, the first celebrity I’d seen for real. She had a smooth forehead, no crow’s feet, manicured nails, non-existent roots, tattooed eyebrows in an immaculate arc and spotless skin, as well as full lips, perfectly outlined and glossed. What a goddess. The camera didn’t lie, not if you had access to all the top cosmetic procedures and products.

‘Try this,’ I said and passed her one of the Cranberry and Orange ones I’d made at Adam’s. But I almost dropped it upside down when she put the kitchen roll to her lips and… Did she spit out my cake?

‘Is there a bin in here?’ she asked and I pointed to one of the cupboards. Had I been fooling myself? Were my non-celebrity friends and family too kind to tell me that actually, my cooking was pants?

She helped herself to another piece of kitchen roll and took a big mouthful of the Cranberry and Orange one, then did exactly the same again – chewed slowly, before spitting it out.

‘They are fabulous – with the light texture, irresistible flavours and so pretty.’

‘But you… I mean I thought…You spat them out!’

‘Spat?’ she looked shocked. ‘Goodness, no! That’s a trick I learnt from the American wives. It’s just a different way of eating – none of the calories but all the taste.’ She sighed. ‘I love those girls, over the ocean. What amazing lifestyles… They’ve all got indoor cinemas and outdoor barbeques the size of your average council flat. The captain’s wife, Tulisa, has just got planning permission for an underground nightclub at their ranch. And talk about great hair, sensational nails… Rumour has it, they all even co-ordinate their underwear. Whereas the English birdies…’ She grimaced. ‘Once we were trying on some free jogging outfits, a sponsor handed out – a couple of them don’t even match their own bras and knickers.’

‘Really?’ I gasped. Surely everyone followed that rule? They needed to buy my bible, Cut-Above-Couture. God forbid they wore tights with open-toed sandals or black with navy or brown.

‘They haven’t even all had Brazilian waxes,’ she continued. ‘How unhygienic is that? But then I suppose they’ve had an uphill struggle, this side of the Atlantic. I try to tell myself it isn’t their fault, if they think we should look inconspicuous. It’s all that British tradition, all that Old Boys stuff.’

‘Huh?’

‘Women are to be seen but not heard at the golf club. It’s a haven for the men. Some still won’t serve anything in a skirt at the bar, unless it’s tartan and hiding more than a frilly thong.’

‘Well, I’m sure the local golf wives will love the Botox.’ The most generous thing I’d laid on for my friends was a night of chick flicks and face packs.

Melissa half-smiled. ‘I’d better get going. Jonny’s bringing his son home for supper.

‘His ex-wife lives near, doesn’t she?’ I said, hoping my knowledge would prove myself a real fan.’

‘Jeanie?’ Melissa’s voice went funny. ‘Yes. Lovely lady. Done, um, a great job of bringing up Eddie. He’s very polite for a teenager.’

All the magazines said how well Melissa got on with the first Mrs Winsford. Amazing, really, since Jonny left Jeanie for her.

‘Anyway, must go, darling. They’ll be home toot sweet.’

Ooh, I wished I could speak French like that.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow? Are you free?’

Oh my God. She was going to invite me round for lunch!

‘Um…’

‘Get your people to speak with my people,’ she said.

‘That would be great!’ I said and beamed. Oops. Reality check. ‘Um, except that I don’t have “people” – I… I prefer to sort stuff out myself.’

‘Really?’ She pulled a face. ‘Okay. Let’s say half past nine sharp. My guests will be here at ten.’

How exciting! What would I wear? And… Huh? Guests? Ah. I got the impression that didn’t include me. But yay! Cue a mental image of me jumping up and down! That meant I’d got a catering contract, for a bunch of ladies being treated to Botox. But boo! It didn’t give me long to prepare.

‘How many are going?’ I asked, forcing my voice to steady.

‘Six wives.’ She yawned. ‘Let’s see if I can remember all the details: the captain’s wife, Vivian, sixty-ish… one of the few wives who plays golf. Her best friend Pamela, who’s also heading for retirement…’ I listened as Melissa gave descriptions of all the guests. ‘And finally Saffron…’ She wrinkled her nose.

‘Saffron?’ I grinned. ‘Haven’t cooked with that for a while. You don’t like her?’

‘Bit of a bitch. In my position, three types of ordinary people step into my world: those in awe, those indifferent and those insanely jealous, like Saffron. Her boyfriend, Steve, is a new member. They recently got engaged. He gets on well with Jonny. She’s a receptionist, in a car sales room, I think, and always loaded with some snide-y comment. At the Centenary Ball last month she praised me loudly for wearing last season’s shoes, what with the recession. Then she questioned what I did all day, whilst most of the other wives work. I only invited her tomorrow because the others seem to like her. She’s very young; brings out the older women’s maternal instincts. Jonny thinks I mad for asking her.’

‘Why?’

‘He must have heard her digs about me not having a proper career. He knows how much time it takes networking and supporting everything he does.’ She beamed. ‘So, enough about her. I’m looking forward to a good selection of cupcakes – and yes, a Christmas theme would be fab. Maybe a few skinnies. Everyone’s driving so cut the alcohol.’ She put on her shades. ‘Although, no – why should I miss out? Those Pina Colada ones sounded good. Nothing beats the flavour of a cocktail. Maybe call them Santa Coladas…’

‘But I haven’t told you how much they cost…’ I said, practically clapping my hands.

She peered over the top of her glasses. ‘Money is no object. By the way, what’s your baking company called?’

‘KimCakes Ltd.’ I’d seen this name a million times, on the side of my imaginary delivery van.

‘Let me write down my landline and mobile numbers for you – I’d rather you ring than call at the house, if you’ve any questions.’

I grabbed a notepad and biro Jess had left on the kitchen unit and gave them to her.

‘That’s awesome writing,’ I said, as her delicate hand expertly guided the pen.

‘Thanks,’ she said and stood up. ‘I once did a course in calligraphy. It always impresses when writing out party invitations.’

We went into the hallway and I opened the front door.

‘I don’t need to say to look smart… Ciao.’ Catwalk-style, she and her size six legs sauntered off, down the drive, crocodile handbag swinging from side to side.

I closed the door and did a little jig around the hallway. Tonight I’d Google cupcakes and find out the going price. I glanced at my watch: one o’clock – I had to get back to the supermarket, there was no time for lunch. I hurtled into the kitchen, grabbed the last Cranberry and Orange cupcake and scrabbled around for my car keys, accidentally knocking Jess’s list of jobs onto the floor. I’d tidy up later. Taking a large bite of sweet yumminess, I headed outdoors.

By three o’clock I’d returned and after letting Groucho out to kid himself he could catch a pigeon, I set out my extra ingredients: flour (wholemeal and plain), sugar (icing and caster), butter (low-fat and normal) and eggs (large). Then there was a tub of glace cherries, chocolate bars, a bottle of Malibu, marzipan… a whole variety of toppings and flavours.

Phew! I rolled up my sleeves, grabbed the mixing bowl from earlier and studied the array of items for a while, before weighing out the ingredients for the first of five small batches. The completed menu would include:

Miniature dark chocolate logs cakes, filled with a rich chocolate cream and dusted with icing sugar.

Skinny Stollen slices, made from a light fruity dough and topped with low-fat almond buttercream icing.

The rich mincemeat cupcakes, topped with brandy buttercream icing and a green marzipan holly leaf with red berries.

Uncomplicated wholemeal cinnamon and spice muffins, for any guests who suffer from indigestion.

The Pina – I mean, Santa – Colada Surprises consisting of pineapple juice flavoured cake, filled with popping candy with Malibu buttercream icing and a sprinkling of “snow” (dessicated coconut).

Three hours later, I gazed around the kitchen, my work finished, face sweaty and arms tired. Flour had showered down my clothes and across the floor. I could feel butter around my ear and suspected my lips might have been stained with dark chocolate. But then, a good chef always tastes what they’re cooking. The breakfast island was cluttered with open jars and packets, plus a puddle of almond essence and red colouring. The sink was stacked high with dirty cutlery, pans stained with melted chocolate and measuring jugs smelling of Malibu. Before I could tackle any tidying up, I needed a strong coffee.

Ten minutes later, I sat down on one of the stools and gazed at my cakes with pride. A burst of music interrupted my self-congratulations and I walked into the hallway. The festive notes floated down from upstairs… Wait a minute. It was that classic song, White Christmas… It made me feel all dreamy myself, although it set Groucho off as he ran around the hallway, wagging his tail and yapping.

I crept upstairs. It was coming from the left hand front room. I tried the door handle which was well and truly locked. I shivered. The air had turned cold, as if the heating wasn’t really turned on. As the music faded, I returned to the kitchen. Whatever. I hadn’t got time to investigate Mistletoe Mansion’s strange happenings. The black clock ticked to six and the front door slammed. I went back into the hallway. Jess wouldn’t believe the day I’d had. And it hadn’t finished yet. I still had business cards to make. Tomorrow I had to network, network, network!

Except Jess didn’t look like she wanted to talk… And that wasn’t just because of her red swollen nose and streaming eyes, still suffering with a cold. Instead she threw down her hessian carrier bag, slipped out of her trainers and let her thick winter coat drop to the floor. She sank down onto the bottom of the stairs. Muddy stains streaked her jeans and dust covered her bottle green “Nuttall’s Garden Centre” shirt.

‘Drink?’ I asked.

She shook her head.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Ry…Ry….’ She sneezed loudly and blew her nose. ‘Ryan came into work; told me he’d stored a lot of my stuff away in the loft.’

‘That’s a bit quick.’

‘Apparently some bloke from his work is moving in. Ryan says he’s about to live the bachelor life he’s always dreamed of. You know, bin overflowing with empty beer cans, take-away pizza boxes piled high and used as foot rests.’ She shrugged. ‘This housesitting job has really got to work for us, Kimmy. We need to stay here long enough to sort something else out. I’ve rung a couple of friends but one’s got her sister staying with her at the moment and the other said her landlord would go mad if she let anyone stay longer than one night.’ Jess plucked some sticky seeds from her sleeve. ‘At least you’re here all day, to keep things running smoothly and work through our lists of jobs. If Mr Murphy has no complaints, we should be here for at least a couple of weeks.’

Ah. That list of jobs. I wasn’t even quite sure where it was.

‘Although Deborah’s message was a bit worrying,’ said Jess and wiped her nose. ‘But then we owe it to her to do our best.’

‘Huh?’

‘You know – I jotted it down for you, on the list. It was on the answerphone this morning; those prospective buyers coming around as soon as tomorrow, after lunch. That’s why I wrote down for you to clean the Games Room and lounge – close up, both are dead dusty. Then the dining room table needed polishing and all of the bathrooms needed a going over. The last housesitter clearly didn’t stay long – parts of this place haven’t been touched for weeks.’

I fixed a smile to my face. Surely she’d understand; I’d been too busy – this was my business at stake. And how long would it take anyway, to do a bit of tidying up?

She got to her feet. ‘Time to keep my end of the bargain now, anyway, and give both the borders a going over, get outside and tidy up the straggly weeds. I hope that shed out the back is unlocked.’ Her eyes scoured my clothes for a second. ‘You’ve been baking? You should have done that tomorrow morning, the smell might have helped sell this place.’ She turned and headed into the kitchen. ‘Good thinking, though. I’m starving. So, what is it today? Chocolate? Nutty? Dolly Mixture?’

She gasped as we entered the kitchen.

‘Um… It won’t take me long to tidy up. You see I was talking to Melissa – she’s got a party tomorrow – needed someone to take over the catering. She tasted my cupcakes and well… how could I say no? It… it was urgent. And we want to get on with the neighbours, don’t we?’

Crimson in the face, Jess glared at me. ‘Are you crazy? Does this mean you’ve done none of the jobs?’ She bobbed forwards and picked something off the ground. It was her list. ‘You haven’t even stocked up properly, I mean just look at all these items – how the hell did you pay for this stuff?’

‘Out of my own pocket. I’ll earn it all back tomorrow and more. She said money was no object.’

‘This do, tomorrow, it’s for charity, then?’ she muttered.

‘Kind of…’ I shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Well, that’s what I’d call it. She’s offering some old biddies free Botox.’

‘You’ve jeopardised our first proper duty in this house, showing people around, so that a bunch of women can inject poison into their wrinkles?’

‘It’s not like that… This was too good an opportunity to miss! You understand don’t you, Jess? Think how impressed Adam will be if I make some real money and contacts and bring in more orders–’

‘How impressed do you think he’ll be if we get thrown out before we’ve started the job?’ She shook her head. ‘So now, after a day on my feet, not only have I got to garden front and back, I’ll have to help you clean all those rooms? It’ll take ages to sort all this out into the relevant recycling bins.’

‘I can manage.’

‘What? In between hobnobbing with the neighbours and making marzipan berries?’ She jerked her head towards the puddle of red colouring. ‘Have you any idea how difficult that is to get off?’ She banged her fist on the breakfast table. ‘Maybe Adam was right! You’re totally irresponsible! If we lose this place we’ll be out on the street. How could you be so selfish?’ she gulped.

‘Jess, calm down,’ I stuttered. I’d never seen her like this before.

‘Calm down?’ She picked up a half-empty bag of flour, plunged in her fingers and lobbed a handful at my head. ‘Hey, this is fun, isn’t it? Let’s make as much mess as we can.’ She brandished the bottle of red food colouring.

‘No… not my… hair,’ I screamed, in between spitting out flour. Too late. And peroxide was so absorbent. Jess picked up one batch of perfect muffins, rushed to the patio doors, slid them open and–

‘No, Jess! You may as well put a gun to my head and shout pull!’

She gazed at me. Her lip quivered. Was that a sob?

‘What’s the matter?’ I hurried over and prised the wire rack from her fingers. I put it on the worktop. We both sat down. A fat tear plopped onto her shirt and I tucked a random strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Is it Ryan? Or work?’ My voice sounded alien due to the flour having dried it out. ‘You can tell me, Jess,’ I said, softly, chest squeezing. I’d never seen my bestie this upset before. ‘Whatever it is, I’ll help you sort it. That’s what best friends are for.’

‘How?’ she sobbed. ‘Can you wind back time?’

‘What do you mean?’

Her shoulders shook. ‘You’ll think me so dumb, Kimmy. I’m pregnant!’