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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.
3.
Fa la la la la
(or maybe not)
‘Is everything okay?’
By the time we next see Bill, Merwyn and I have been blown all the way to St Aidan and all the way back again. Thanks to a well-timed snack rescue in St Aidan and the kind of planning you can only do when you’re half running, half falling along the sand, we’re now curled up back in the kitchen feeling more collected than before. So instead of yelling THERE’S NO FURNITURE OR COMFORT OR INTERNET OR DECCIES OR DOGS, HOW THE HELL CAN ANYTHING BE OKAY? I just sniff and stay completely silent.
It was a bracing walk, with the wind smashing into our faces, so I have to admit it’s way cosier watching the cobalt blue sea dissolving into wiggles of white foam rolling up the beach from the comfort of the sofa in my case, with a frothy hot chocolate. Or in Merwyn’s case, from his Christmas Tree rug with the pompom edge, on the polished wood plank floor.
Bill’s taken off his Barbour and is resting a denim-shirted shoulder on the wall as he studies us. ‘You seemed a little bit over-wrought before, that’s all.’
Over-WROUGHT????!!! So like a guy to imply it’s the woman who’s being unreasonable when he’s the one who’s responsible for every aspect of the panic. I make my voice airy, because there’s only going to be one winner here. ‘St Aidan was pretty, thanks for the recommendation.’
Not that Bill can take any of the credit, but there were the cutest white painted cottages with grey slate roofs stacked up the hillside, narrow cobbled alleyways winding up between the buildings, postage-stamp sized views of the jewel-like sea, and brightly coloured boats bobbing in the harbour.
‘It was very Christmassy too.’ We even saw a pony and trap, driven by Santa and an elf, its bells jingling as it sped off around the bay. Every shop window was festooned with decorations, and there was a wedding shop with snowy lace dresses, trails of frosted ivy and the kind of twinkly ice-chip fairy lights that take your breath away. Not that I’ll ever be needing a shop like that myself, but I couldn’t help but sigh at the prettiness.
But Bill must know that there are outdoor Christmas trees every few yards around the harbour and all the way up into the town too. Despite his ‘decoratively significant’ two week let, for some reason he hasn’t felt inclined to follow that festive lead.
He tilts his head on one side. ‘So, did you call in anywhere?’
‘We popped in the Hungry Shark, it’s dog friendly, and it has free wifi.’ I stare at him pointedly. ‘Just saying. It is possible to find both only a mile down the beach.’ I also discovered they do mince pie muffins to die for, and I had two, but given who he is and what he’s not done, not to mention his ‘don’t give a damn’ attitude, that’s one tip I won’t be passing on.
He nods. ‘The hot apple punch there is good, you should try that next time.’ His eyes go just a little bit darker as they narrow. ‘I can’t promise it tastes half as good as those vin chaud cocktails we drank in Chamonix, but I reckon they must have had magic mountain dust sprinkled in them.’
I don’t even have to think hard to bring back the heady mix of warm cinnamon, Cointreau and mandarin, but I’d never tell him that. I’d also rather not let him know that I’d be a lot more comfortable if he wasn’t dragging things up from so long ago. I mean, I thought women were the ones who nailed every detail of distant memories. It’s quite a shock when a guy pulls one out. ‘Probably all down to those rose tinted holiday ski goggles you were wearing.’
He lets out a low laugh. ‘As I remember, you were wearing those too.’
‘No, mine were definitely genuine, see it like it is, bog-standard Raybans.’ Jeez, I need to move this on. But I’m not going to tell him I had two of the punches he mentioned, or who knows where he’ll take that to.
I was trying to pluck up the courage to send Fliss the ‘Houston, we have a problem’ text. I’d planned to ping that off the minute I had signal, then follow up a few minutes later with a call. If there had been one bit of bad news I could have done it. But after everything I discovered earlier this morning, it felt like too much of a disaster avalanche to drop onto Fliss when she has so much on her plate at the moment. Not only has she got two babies to deal with, but her husband Rob has been causing her to worry recently too.
Fliss and Rob are one of my favourite ever couples, simply because they seem so much more right together than on their own. From their meeting in a cupboard playing sardines at a party, past an Eiffel Tower proposal, their huge and wonderful farm meadow wedding, through to Rob delivering Oscar on his own in the bathroom when the hospital had sent Fliss home – they’ve been there for each other in the most incredible way. For my money, two people consistently appreciating each other is a very rare thing, but these two have that in spades. Or at least they have done for the eight years they’ve been together. When everyone else ran out of dizzy love a few months in, until very recently they were still solidly head over heels. Rob’s so reliable, and laid back and supportive and always there, for a guy he seemed too good to be true. But nothing less than Fliss deserved.
Obviously George coming home ridiculously late, and being vague with his replies and turning up on Facebook at places I didn’t even know he’d been to happened so often I’d have been more surprised if they hadn’t. But Rob’s always been so consistent, if his heart misses a beat Fliss notices. It’s not that she’s clingy or possessive because she’s really not. It’s more that they’re so in tune she picks up on the smallest variation. And lately there have been a few instances. Singly I’d have sympathised and forgotten them. But there have been enough now to set my pre-alarm bells ringing. And even though there’s nothing so extreme to make it okay to bring it up with him, there are certainly enough to send her round the bend with silent worry. And kick herself for not getting rid of all that baby weight she put on, and not getting dressed for three years and forgetting about sex. And doing all the things it’s okay to do when someone really loves you enough they won’t give a damn.
So, I hold my hands up – I chickened out and I’ve come back to reassess. Before I launch the bad news dump on Fliss, I want to see if I can improve the situation.
‘So what were you saying about Merwyn earlier?’
It seems like a good place to begin. When life puts brick walls in front of you, you can turn around. Or you can knock them down and march on forwards. That’s the kind of person I am. It’s not always easy, but that’s the outcome I’m trying for here. And Lord Arrogant would do well to note, my demolition hammer’s at the ready. I might have been soft and naive back in the day in Chamonix, but there’s been a lot of water under a lot of bridges since then.
I’m deliberately personalising this by calling Merwyn by name, so I give the dog in question a nudge with my toe and make sure he sees me get a doggy chocolate out of the pocket of my jeans. I stopped short of the emotional blackmail of dressing him up in his super-cute Santa suit which makes everyone melt, but when he sits up and blinks those soulful brown eyes of his and offers his paw, he’s equally irresistible.
But Bill’s not even looking our way. ‘Well behaved dogs are by prior arrangement only, Merwyn isn’t on the guest list.’
Damn. If I’d known this before I could have rung ahead or even tried to hide him, not that I’d have managed that. I might as well come clean. ‘He was always invited, but he was only available to come at the last minute.’
Bill’s blinking at us now. ‘Keep going.’
I’m trying doubly hard here, not to be distracted by the views, and not to lose my cool no matter how annoying he is. ‘He belongs to my neighbour, Tatiana, she’s a model, I’m his stand-in mum when she works abroad.’ I can see I’m not making any impression. ‘He’s a kind of a dog share.’
Bill’s frowning. ‘Still not getting it.’
‘Tatiana got a last minute job and flew off to Prague, there was no one else to look after him so he’s here with me.’ I’m throwing in all the details to make him understand. ‘Merwyn begged me … he was wearing his Santa outfit … I couldn’t refuse.’ That’s how I know how effective it is.
Bill’s raising his eyebrows. ‘So this wasn’t another of Mrs Johnstone-Cody’s oversights?’ He’s so condescending.
‘Merwyn’s all down to me.’ Merwyn’s eyes are still popping, his gaze welded on the chocolate drop, but I hadn’t counted on him drooling quite so much. I’m going to have to grovel fast before he dribbles all over the rather expensive-looking floor. ‘I’m sorry, I assumed dogs would be welcome, they are in all the best on-trend places now.’ Flattery’s not working so I try again. ‘It’s a big castle, he’s a little dog.’ I almost add so get over it, but I manage to bite it back. Instead I get a tissue out of my pocket and try to mop the slobber puddle off the floor without Bill seeing.
Before I know it Bill’s standing in front of us, handing over kitchen roll, studying me through narrowed eyes. It’s actually more like an in depth examination than a look.
‘So you lost the pixie haircut you had in Chamonix?’
Damn, I was hoping we’d get Merwyn the ‘all clear’ before we moved on anywhere else. What I want to talk about is Merwyn’s free pass to a castle Christmas, not sodding hairstyles.
Bill’s stare is so piercing it’s as if he’s turning me inside out. ‘It made you look like Audrey Hepburn in her elfin period. You wore your hat less then too.’ He blinks at me. ‘Come to think of it, you’ve had it on ever since you got here. Are you cold?’
However persistent he is, I’m not giving anything away. ‘I’m fine, it’s just with longer hair I get more bad hair days that need covering up.’ Even if he caught me off guard there I’m so pleased with that reply I throw in a bit more. ‘You know what it’s like, all this damp sea air and salt, it’s a nightmare for messy bobs.’