Читать книгу Under The Mistletoe - Jennifer Joyce, Kerry Barrett - Страница 23

Chapter 14

‘Take that!’ I said, not referring to Auntie Sharon’s favourite pop group. I glanced at the clock: nine already. Deborah and the prospective buyers would be here in two hours. My arms ached, my palms stung and my chest heaved up and down. Had I just had a fight with that arrogant Luke or Jess’s Ex or that obnoxious photographer outside? No. The target of my aggression was some butter and a few innocent-looking eggs.

The reason? My lip quivered as I flexed my weapon (a silver hand whisk). It was Adam’s fault. He’d eventually answered his phone yesterday evening, after I’d spent the afternoon tidying up the house. I’d hardly stopped for breath to tell him about Melissa’s cheque and the other bookings, namely Saffron’s hen night, the cakes for Kate’s niece’s birthday and Vivian’s bridge club. His reaction? On the positive side, his first words were:

‘You okay then, babe? Where are you staying?’

On the negative side? Where to start? I’d gone on to tell him about Mistletoe Mansion – you know, hot tub, fancy neighbours, micro-pig called Frazzle. He didn’t think I’d taken on board his plea for me to keep my feet on the ground; didn’t give so much as a grunt of interest when I’d babbled on about how my business was taking off.

‘So, when does this holiday come to an end?’ he’d muttered.

‘Holiday? Hardly, what with running this house, keeping it clean and tomorrow I’m showing potential buyers around as well as baking my (fake designer) socks off.’

‘And what happens when you move back to Luton? You still don’t get it, do you? It’s an unworkable dream. These people you’re mixing with are giving you fanciful ideas.’

‘Three hundred pounds, Adam – for a few hours’ work – plus half a tin of caviar!’

A sigh whooshed down the phone. ‘Look, gotta go.’ He rang off.

I poured the batter into the silicone moulds. These were the vanilla and strawberry ladybird cupcakes I’d promised to make Deborah. The front doorbell rang and I closed the oven door, before heading into the hallway. I pulled out my scrunchie and hoped my hair didn’t look too much of a mess.

Eyes alert, Groucho sat under the table in the hallway, as I opened the door to… a red-nosed, shivering Terry. He wore orange and brown checked plus fours and an apricot anorak. I loved his colourful ensembles.

‘Not stopping long! I just came over to see how yesterday went.’ He stared at my face. ‘Did you get any Botox?’ He put Frazzle on the ground and Groucho scooted over for a sniff.

‘Poor Melissa,’ I said. ‘No one was impressed. When they found out the coffee morning wasn’t for charity, they all left, wrinkles intact.’ I gave him a run-down of the details.

‘Poor Melissa. What’s her house like?’ he asked.

‘There’s a massive birdcage in the lounge and the kitchen’s done out in black and gold. You should see this cabinet full of trophies. And the décor was co-ordinated down to the last thread of cotton and shelf bracket…’ On and on I went, Terry lapping up every detail. ‘Then there’s the carpet – it’s higher than Jedward’s quiffs. And I counted at least three Christmas trees.’

His eyes widened. ‘Ooh, wonder if I can get the name of her interior designer. By the way, why all the paparazzi outside Melissa’s place? The last time they had that much attention was when Jonny made that joke about the Scottish, whilst up there playing the Open. Remember that picture of him in Starchat?’

‘How could I forget!’ It was of Jonny in a sporran (sexy legs or what), telling some offensive joke about Glaswegians and bagpipes. I shrugged my shoulders. Who cares why the cameras were there? All that attention was exciting.

‘Got to fly,’ said Terry, and picked up the pig, ‘if I want to get nine holes in, without freezing my fingers off. The weather’s decidedly chilly today. By the way, do you watch Celebrity Snippets? It’s on tomorrow at seven. There’s supposed to be new revelations about Zac Efron.’

‘I love that programme! Look…Why don’t you come here to watch it? We’ll have something to eat. Maybe go in the hot tub?’

‘Sure you young girls want me around?’

‘Who else can I talk to about what Melissa’s house and clothes are like? And you won’t believe how the Winsfords have landscaped their back garden. Jess isn’t interested and Groucho isn’t really one to gossip.’

Terry grinned. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll bring my costume and something fizzy to drink.’

I closed the door. It was awesome to finally find someone who could match my fascination for celebrities. The girls at Best Buns bakery bought the magazines to glance through at lunch, but didn’t pore over the outfits and accessories like me. Sure, they’d daydream about living like Cheryl Cole, but I actually worked on how I could achieve that by myself. A bit like Mum, my colleagues just hoped one day Mr Right would come along and simply hand them a perfect life. They didn’t even collect and categorise the magazines like me and Terry. I mean, what could be more inspiring than flicking back a few years to remember just how far your fave celeb has come?

I dashed into the kitchen to take out and check the cupcakes. Pressing them gently, I found that each sponge sprung back exactly the right amount. So, I left them to cool whilst I prepared the topping, with butter, icing sugar and thawed out mini frozen strawberries. The icing blushed just the right shade of pink and smelt all sweet and summery, despite the time of year.

Twenty minutes later, the cakes were iced and crowned with marzipan ladybirds. I put them in a Tupperware box, before wiping up the mess from the black and red food colouring. I didn’t want to provoke one of Jess’s hormonal rages again. It had gone ten and I pulled off my apron. It was time to check the house one last time, before Deborah got here.

The lounge, despite Walter’s clutter, actually looked tidy. The Games Room was immaculate. So were my and Jess’s bedrooms. The bathrooms sparkled, even the doortops were dusted. I slipped into the office. Pristine. There was nothing left to do so I just had time to log onto the laptop and check Facebook.

Oh my God! Leah’s new profile photo made her look like a vampire with that red-eye. Aw, Rosy from Best Buns had set up a fan group for her new kitten. Lucy from secondary school had invited me to do a quiz on my underwear – which would, apparently, unlock secrets about my personality. I scrolled down my homepage. Poor Becca had splashed bleach on her new trousers.

Yet again I had something exciting to report, other than what I’d eaten for breakfast. After clicking onto my status, I typed: “KimCakes Ltd is finally taking off – orders are flying in!” The doorbell rang and I shut down the laptop.

Groucho beat me to the hallway and barked loudly when I opened the door. Deborah wore a cream high-necked blouse, brown tailored trousers with a matching jacket and high heels with the cutest button straps. A couple in their forties stood behind her, properly wrapped up for the weather, in smart winter coats over office clothes – they had obviously taken time off work.

‘Hello, Kimmy,’ said Deborah, crisply, without quite looking me in the eye. Well, she must feel sheepish for failing to tell me I must love ghosts.

‘This is Mr and Mrs Davis,’ she said and turned back to them. ‘As I promised, this is an impressive property. Lovingly cared for and maintained, this house has everything you’re looking for – space, real character and the perfect location which is rural yet on the commuter belt. Shall we start in the Games Room?’ She pointed them to the left. As they went in, she held my elbow. ‘Watch and learn,’ she whispered. ‘In the future, you’ll show buyers around on your own.’

‘If I’m still here,’ I whispered. ‘Why chase after our car? Forget to tell us something, did you?’

She fiddled with her watch. ‘Erm… yes, I’d had second thoughts and was trying to catch you up to say that maybe I should chase your references.’

‘Rubbish! You knew why this place was taking so long to sell. I think you were going to warn us about Mistletoe Mansion.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said and her mouth took a firm line. ‘You wanted the job, didn’t you? Looked pretty desperate, in fact. I did you a favour. It’s my neck on the line, if this place still fails to sell.’

‘And it could be my neck, literally, in the noose, if whatever’s in this house turns out to be a hangman.’

‘You said nothing fazed you – mushrooms and mice…’

‘That didn’t include supernatural beings! You withheld vital information.’

‘You weren’t exactly honest yourself. Or shall I press you for the name of the agency you work for?’

‘Um, no, you see, as we said–’

‘You get to read people pretty well in my job. I always know when someone’s lying – like so-called buyers who just want to snoop around or rival agents bullshitting about how much commission they’re on.’

‘Hellooo?’ called Mrs Davis.

‘We’ll talk later,’ said Deborah and headed into the Games Room.

I followed her in.

Wow. She was good. Awesome as this room was, only an estate agent could make it sound like the welcoming front room of an aristocrat’s house – a much better idea than my intention of schmoozing clients by saying that it was the perfect place to act out some bloody battle or sexy seduction from Game of Thrones (well, doesn’t everyone watch that show?).

‘Bedrooms, next?’ she said and I led them upstairs, disappointed to hear Deborah explain that the two rooms full of Walter’s stuff needed sorting before you could get a real sense of their space. They wouldn’t be unlocked unless the Davis’s wanted a second viewing.

‘You’ll adore this room,’ Deborah said to Mrs Davis, ‘it’s wonderfully feminine and lush.’ Gingerly, she pushed open the door to where I slept.

I gasped. How did those cushions get on the floor? Why was the ceiling lampshade hanging loose? Who’d thrown my rouge onto the walls and pulled the paintings well crooked? Groucho lay in the middle of the bed, innocently licking his paws. If he was a Great Dane he might have done some of the damage but I could hardly blame a ten inch tall Jack Russell.

‘I, um… don’t understand,’ I muttered as the buyers raised their eyebrows.

Deborah bit her lip. ‘Perhaps we should move along,’ she said in a stiff voice, ‘to the room once used as an office.’ We walked past the locked room opposite the top of the stairs to the one where’d I’d just updated my Facebook status.

‘I was just in here two minutes ago!’ I said in a high pitched voice and gazed around at the knocked over swivel chair and papers scattered across the beech desk. ‘Look, um, let’s go down to the kitchen,’ I said. That would impress them and maybe a fresh cupcake would make them forget all this mess.

‘I hope we aren’t wasting our time,’ said Mrs Davis, in a tight voice as we all walked along the landing. ‘We’re very busy people.’

‘I can’t apologise enough,’ said Deborah. She caught my eye as we followed the couple down. I shivered. Maybe the mean spirit – the one that had grabbed my foot – was back.

With bated breath, I led the way into the kitchen, praying I wasn’t about to walk into puddles of food colouring. I sighed with relief. Everything was as I’d left it, the cupcakes neatly in their box, utensils draining, flour and other ingredients presumably still in their packets. Deborah ushered the couple to look out of the window. Despite the low winter cloud, the garden still looked magnificent.

‘… and you must see the hot tub.’ Deborah led them to the French patio doors. But eyes narrow, jaws set, they stopped by the glass. Tossed to one side was the cover and clumps of flour floated on the water, along with jet black pools, just like the marzipan ladybird dots.

‘Is this some joke?’ said Mr Davis to Deborah, looking around, perhaps for some hidden camera. ‘What sort of amateurish outfit do you work for? We won’t be using you again.’

‘Wait, please…’ she spluttered and hurried after them into the hallway. It was no good. The couple slammed the front door behind them. Deborah swore under her breath and we went over to the front window to watch them leave. Luke was at the end of the drive and they were talking to him. A man carrying a large camera walked past them, heading for Melissa’s house.

‘I would say sorry for the mess.’ I stared at Deborah. ‘But you know it wasn’t my fault.’

She threw her hands in the air. ‘Happens every time – an angry couple ring me, followed by the housesitter on the phone swearing blind they had tidied up.’ She sighed. ‘I know. I should have told you, that this place is… But it sounds so stupid… Have you seen the smoke? Heard the strange gale?’

‘Yes. And the White Christmas tune.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘That’s a new one on me.’

Inside I felt kind of warm. So Walter hadn’t revealed himself to the previous sitters. Perhaps he could relate to me because I baked like his wife. Or perhaps I’d picked up psychic abilities by watching so much Most Haunted.

‘What about the lights going out?’ she said. ‘And has anything, um, physically made contact?’

‘You mean grabbed me? Yes. I could have been seriously injured. You should have warned us this place was haunted.’

‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it?’ said Deborah. ‘But what else could explain this mess? I’ve cherry-picked the housesitters so far – all reliable, sensible sorts. In fact, you two have been my biggest gamble, with no references and you’re quite young.’

‘Come on. I reckon we both need a cupcake,’ I said and we headed for the kitchen. ‘I made a batch of those marzipan ladybird ones I promised for your kids.’

‘Sod the kids.’ Deborah smiled.

Twenty minutes later we were sitting in the green velvet armchairs in the lounge, coffees on the low oak table, a plate with a cupcake on each of our laps.

‘Have you told Mr Murphy why the house won’t sell?’ I said and took a large bite.

‘What would I say? Word would get back to my boss. If anyone got to hear I thought a ghost was in one of my properties, my reputation would be in tatters.’ She took a mouthful of sponge. ‘That reminds me. Mr Murphy’s down here on business the day after tomorrow – said he’d drop by here in the morning. So it goes without saying…’

‘I know. I’ll make sure everything’s spotless and hope no astral being messes it up.’ I’d have to do an early tidy up on Thursday morning, as Terry would be around the night before for telly. Walter would be pleased to have his nephew visit.

Deborah licked strawberry buttercream icing from her top lip. ‘Mmm.’ She sighed and slipped off her shoes. ‘Do I really have to give the rest to the children?’

I grinned. Perhaps the viewing wasn’t so bad I thought, taking another mouthful. There’d be others. I was determined to get this place sold.

‘So what exactly have you told Mr Murphy?’ I asked.

‘The same excuse I gave you – that times are hard and that pre-Christmas is a notoriously bad time for the market. I suggested he should lower the price if he wants a quick sale. He said another agency had told him the same – that’s his way of letting me know he might take his business elsewhere.’

‘But you found him housesitters!’

‘For the commission on a place this size, any agency would do the same, whether he’s friends with the boss or not. You and Jess… Are you definitely staying? You won’t run off in the middle of the night?’

‘No.’ I wanted to help Walter. In any case, what choice did I have? Adam was no nearer to taking me back and more importantly, pregnant Jess needed stability for at least a few more days.

A sudden rapping on glass came from the kitchen. Deborah looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get going – appointments to keep, piles of paperwork to plod through…’

‘I’ll just get you the rest of those cupcakes. Come round again and I’ll make you those toffee teddy bear ones I mentioned, with peanut butter icing.’ I grinned. ‘For the kids, of course.’

The knocking became more frantic and whilst Deborah slipped on her shoes and went out of the front of the lounge, I dashed to the door at the back, almost skidding around the corner into the kitchen. Outside stood Melissa, leaning against the patio doors – hair bedraggled, black, gold-trimmed velour tracksuit grass-stained. Perhaps she and Jonny had, ahem, sunk a few holes on their mini golf course. I opened the patio doors and a gush of cold air breezed in. A little unsteady, she held out a jar of black olives.

‘Hello, darling,’ she mumbled. ‘You left these behind, yesterday.’

I sniffed. That was some “perfume”. I recognised the alcoholic bite to it straightaway. It was from the same range as Mum’s – let’s call that Eau de Cider. Melissa’s smelt slightly classier – Eau de Prosecco, perhaps. The golfer’s wife half-smiled, then promptly tripped over the patio frame. The olive jar and England’s number one birdie – appropriately – went flying.