Under The Mistletoe

Chapter 13

‘You’ve got to be joking, Melissa. You brought me all this way under false pretences so that someone could inject a toxin into my face?’ Denise shook her head. ‘This isn’t as exciting as it might seem,’ she said to Saffron, who had sat bolt upright, eyes all sparkly.

‘Toxin’s a misleading word,’ said Sandra. She went over to Denise and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘And we all enjoy a few glasses of wine, but that’s not supposed to do your liver any good – what’s the difference? We can do it right here if you like. Just lean back and relax, deep breaths…’

Saffron glanced at the other ladies and her shoulders sagged. ‘Um, of course. Denise is right,’ she said and shook back her hair. ‘Anyway, who’s to say all of us need it, know what I mean?’

‘And even if we do,’ interrupted Vivian, ‘it’s cost me a lot of air miles and packets of Silk Cut getting my wrinkles. That’s quite an investment. Who wants to see the face of a twenty year old on the body of a gran?’

‘Might be a few sessions before we could knock that many years off you,’ muttered Sandra and brandished the needle.

‘It’s only a bit of fun,’ said Melissa. ‘Kate… You’re up for it?’

‘Sorry, hon, but how will I tell the kids off, if I can’t even frown?’

‘One of our patients had too much and it spread,’ said Denise, flinching as Sandra raised her needle. ‘It gave her temporary facial paralysis. Her cheek muscles were so badly affected, she couldn’t eat properly for weeks.’

‘She lost weight as well, then?’ said Melissa. ‘Bonus! Come on, ladies. It’s my treat and doesn’t hurt a bit. I mean, not that I’d know, but so I’m told.’ Her cheeks tinged pink.

‘Just relax,’ said Sandra to the doctor’s receptionist. ‘You’ll hardly feel a thing.’

Denise’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you even properly trained? I don’t fancy placing my face in the hands of a nail technician.’

‘Like you’ve got a lot to lose,’ muttered Melissa.

‘I’ve been treating Mrs Wins… um, I mean, lots of clients, successfully for months,’ said Sandra.

Saffron did a poor job of suppressing a smile. ‘Wow, Melissa, babes, so the rumours are true. You must be even older than I thought if Botox is your best bud.’

‘You look great on it, hon,’ said Kate in a loud voice. ‘I guess it’s just not for everyone. But…’ she glared at the others. ‘It was very generous of you to think of us.’

Denise grabbed her rucksack and stood up. ‘Speak for yourself, Kate. I’m a busy working woman with a family to look after. If this isn’t for charity, then I’m wasting my time.’

‘And I don’t want to end up with lips like obese caterpillars,’ said Saffron. ‘No one would ever kiss me again.’

‘It’s collagen that does that,’ I said.

‘Whatever,’ she replied airily and picked up her handbag.

‘It was just… I thought you’d be pleased,’ said Melissa, eyes looking all shiny. ‘Your average woman doesn’t get the chance to go to a Botox party.’

‘Are you calling us average?’ said Saffron, drawn-on eyebrows arched.

‘Botox parties are for people with too much money, if you ask me,’ said Vivian. ‘Or too little sense. Whereas we all live in the real world…’ She flicked some crumbs off her silk blouse and wavering slightly, stood up. As she walked past, she patted my arm. ‘I’ll get your number. Those Santa Coladas would be a huge hit at my Bridge Club.’

I smiled but didn’t feel like jumping quite so high as before because Melissa’s shoulders slumped as her guests left. Sandra was back in the conservatory, shaking her head as she packed away her stuff.

‘Ring you later,’ said Kate to Melissa, and mouthed “sorry” before following on the heels of Saffron who, with a flounce of her frilly dress, teetered out of the room.

‘What went wrong?’ Melissa sank onto the plum sofa. She swilled back a mouthful of champagne and asked me to fetch another bottle and a glass for myself. By the time I got back, she was ready for a second glass.

‘Here,’ I said and passed her one of the rich mincemeat cupcakes. ‘This’ll make you feel better.’

‘Whatever do you mean? The morning was a success. They enjoyed the food. I’m sure they thought me very generous.’ But her mouth downturned and she took a huge bite. ‘Sod the calories. Take one yourself. At least we know how to enjoy ourselves. Saffron hardly ate one mouthful. And as for Denise… She’s always got some medical horror story to tell.’

I took one of the dark chocolate logs before sitting next to her, on the sofa. Who would believe I was sipping champagne in Jonny Winsford’s house? I felt another Facebook status announcement coming on: “Champers to celebrate as business is booming.”

‘Do you want me to stay for a while, Melissa?’ said Sandra in a soft voice as she stopped by us, holding her case. She’d taken off her coat to reveal a pastel skirt and smart magnolia blouse. ‘Don’t you worry about those ladies. They wouldn’t know a favour if it pinched them on the bottom.’

‘No. Honestly. But perhaps you could come round later in the week to do my nails. Your cheque…’ Melissa muttered, words slightly slurring now.

‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Sandra squeezed Melissa’s shoulder. ‘We’ll sort that out next time. I’ll show myself out.’ She disappeared into the hallway and the front door opened and closed.

‘She seems nice,’ I said.

Melissa topped up our glasses. ‘My manicure sessions are a godsend. Sandra always has really good advice. She’s shown me this facial exercise routine that’s supposed to produce results better than a facelift. And once I opened a bottle of champagne for lunch whilst she was here to celebrate sales of my DVD. I’d forgotten I was supposed to drive to meet Jonny in Harpenden for some fundraiser. Sandra insisted on giving me a lift there and wouldn’t let me order a taxi.’ She took a large sip. ‘What a wasted opportunity. Those women don’t know how to make the best of themselves.’ Her words were less velvety and strands of hair had slipped out of her chignon. ‘And we never got to try your savoury nibbles. I’ll keep them if you like. Jonny’s agent’s visiting tonight.’

‘Really?’ That sounded important. I wouldn’t want to let Melissa down. Not after the humiliation she’d faced this morning. ‘Um… I’m better at baking cakes than making canapés. Honestly. I’m sure he’d prefer some of your home cooking.’

She giggled. ‘Darling, Jonny didn’t marry me because I know how to hold a whisk. We eat out a lot and if people come to dinner, I get in caterers. Just tell me how to heat them up. In fact, why don’t you come back later and–’

‘I was thinking the, um, prawns looked a bit off.’

‘But you were going to serve them to the ladies.’ Melissa looked at me sideways, then got up and wended her way into the kitchen. I followed. She yanked open the fridge door and lifted the foil on a platter of mini hot dogs. Her eyes narrowed. ‘They all look exactly the same – more factory-produced than handmade.’ She slammed the door and hiccoughed. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I… I thought you only wanted cakes. When you mentioned at the last minute about savoury nibbles, I panicked and…’

‘Bought them?’ Melissa shrugged. ‘I hope you used that new deli in town.’

I swallowed hard. ‘They came from BargainMarket.’

‘Oh, BargainMarket, yes well…’ She gasped. ‘BargainMarket! I wouldn’t feed a dog from there. Wasn’t it recently investigated by the Health and Safety Watchdog?’ She glared at me for a few seconds before her eyes twinkled and she laughed. ‘Can you imagine Vivian’s face if she knew?’ she spluttered. ‘And as for Saffron, she’d die at the levels of salt and unsaturated fat. And no doubt squillions of Denise’s patients have lost their lives to cheap, mass-produced savoury snacks!’

‘I have tarted them up,’ I said and chuckled. ‘I think we’d have got away with it.’

‘Good thing I didn’t waste my caviar on them.’ Melissa glanced at me. ‘Although it does need eating up. Ever tried it?’

I shook my head.

She opened the fridge door, took out the tin and fetched a teaspoon. ‘Wish I had some crackers,’ she said, and prised off the lid.

‘I’ve got tubes of Pringles,’ I said and rummaged in one of my bags. With a flourish I dragged a tube out, opened it up and set it on the table top.

‘Pringles?’ Melissa giggled. ‘Why not? Hold one out.’ She spooned a teaspoon of dark grey pearly eggs onto it.

I stared at the crisp for a moment.

‘Go on,’ she soothed.

Deep breath. Mouth open… Mmm. The smooth pearls burst on my tongue and tasted like a breath of sea air, just before the cheesy aftertaste of the Pringle kicked in.

A screech of wheels cut through our conversation, then a key turned and the front door opened. OMG! It had to be Jonny – the golfing god himself. Melissa jumped up and hurried into the hallway.

‘Honey?’ I heard her say. ‘You’re home early.’

‘Have you been drinking again?’ said a male voice. ‘Where is everyone? ’

‘They had to get off. Busy women. But they loved the cakes. The caterer’s still in the kitchen. We were just…’

‘You invited Saffron after all.’

‘How did–?’

‘Just saw her husband down at the club. Steve said she’d be coming. Get rid of the caterer,’ he said. ‘God knows why but the bloody paparazzi have trailed me all day again. So, if you open the door – try to at least stand straight.’ Footsteps disappeared upstairs.

Feeling a bit woozy, I hurtled into the lounge to fetch the cakestands. Then Melissa helped me carry all my stuff onto the front doorstep. She’d shoved the tin of caviar into my bag and handed me a folded cheque.

‘Thanks, Kimmy. This is the going rate, I reckon. Let me know if it’s not enough. Got to go. Ciao.’

‘But the savoury nibbles…? And I’ve written an invoice…’

‘I’m not fussed about the paperwork,’ she said and glanced up at the stairs again. ‘And those mini pizzas didn’t look too bad after all.’

She slammed the front door behind me and I was left staring at the golf fountain, before noticing a long lens peer at me from the bottom of the front garden. This was awesome! I was being papped! If only I was wearing more make-up and trendier clothes. How typical that for my first appearance in Starchat I was dressed like a butcher.

I made my first journey back to Walter’s house, strolling past the silver Bugatti and trying to ignore the photographer in muddy combat trousers. How important did I feel! Even though I walked quickly, the bloke soon caught up and grabbed one of the cakestands.

‘Let me help yer, love,’ he said, a cigarette drooping out of one side of his mouth. Puffy bags hung under his eyes. ‘Jonny and Melissa seem okay? Some fancy celebration was it? Yer know ‘em well?’

‘They seem very happy, which is all I’m prepared to say,’ I said, in my poshest voice. ‘You can quote me on that, if you like. The name’s Kimmy Jones.’

He snorted. ‘Not unless yer provide me with some dirt.’ He thrust the cakestand back in my arms and slipped a silver card into my apron pocket. ‘Give me a ring, if yer catch anything going on. Me or someone else from the agency can be here in minutes. There’s good money in it.’

Ew! I didn’t like him. He wasn’t what I’d expected from the paparazzi at all. Where was the cool bike, leather jacket and wavy mop of Italian black hair? With his chunky lily-white legs sticking out of stained shorts, his sweaty face and receding hairline, I wouldn’t want him shadowing me everywhere. I’d always imagined if I was famous, the paparazzi would be my friends. We’d laugh together and I’d hand them cups of tea. In the press I’d be known as ‘The Paps’ Sweetheart’.

Not long later, I lay on my bed, apron off and bun undone. The photographer’s silver card was on my bedside table. It had an oily fingerprint on it. Ugh. Jess was out. The house was quiet. It was just me and Groucho, cocking his head and looking all cute, cos he knew it was his dinnertime. On the little table next to me was the empty blue and gold tin of caviar. How decadent was that, me eating the food of the gods in bed? Clearly I was made for the celebrity lifestyle, as not everyone could enjoy raw fish eggs.

I gagged slightly and rushed to change the subject in my head. Now was my chance to try speaking to Walter again. I mean there were no rules, were there, that said ghosts only communicated at night? First things first though. Relaxed and calm, it was time to unfold that cheque. I took a deep breath. Fifty quid perhaps? My cakes were worth that. I squealed as my eyes scanned Melissa’s fancy writing. Surely there was some mistake? Hands shaking I reached for my phone. For a few hours’ work, I’d just earned three hundred pounds. An amount like that would blow Adam away!

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?’