A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall

Wednesday

11th December

1.

Be Jolly

‘Could there be a better present for the woman who has everything?’

I’m smiling across at Merwyn in the front seat and, as I take in the words Cockle Shell Castle carved into the monumental gateposts, I’m so excited I’m finding it hard to breathe. Then I ease my car through the gateway and onto the winding approach, and as we round a bend and the pale walls and castellated towers come into view, washed in moonlight, I can’t help letting out a gasp. I’ve held my anticipation in check for six whole hours since we left London, but now we’re here there’s a butterfly storm in my tummy. In the pictures the castle looked wonderful, but in the flesh, above the twinkle of the dashboard fairy lights, it’s more magical still. As I pull the car up by some big square planters and gaze up at the building, it’s one of those rare moments in life when it feels like I’m actually living in a fairy tale.

‘Christmas in a Cornish castle by the sea has to be the perfect gift. It’s as if those small-paned windows are drawing us in. We’re just so lucky to be here.’

After so long in his doggy travelling harness, Merwyn’s side eye tells me he’s less enthusiastic than me. He may look like a messy brown floor mop more often than he looks like a dog, but in his Yappy Christmas neck tie he’s beyond cute, and he’s been surprisingly good company on the way. He never grumbled once about me playing non stop Christmas tunes and singing along to I Wish it could be Christmas Every Day, which would be my tag line if I had one. George, my ex, would never have put up with non stop Pirate FM either; sometimes it’s good to make comparisons with the past and come out ahead.

‘Come on, time to stretch your legs, we have to go round the back for the key.’ I drag on my coat and pull my woolly bobble hat further down, clip on Merwyn’s lead, and let him scramble out over me as I open the car door. Then I grab the wodge of instructions and follow his bounds.

As we pass a studded front door that’s big enough for a giant, I feel as if I should be pinching myself to be sure I’m not dreaming. Then an icy blast of air slices up under my fake fur jacket, whips straight through my chunky fair isle jumper, and saves me the trouble – anything this freezing has to be real.

And just in case anyone’s wondering who this woman who has everything is, it definitely isn’t me. Hell no! It’s my best friend, Fliss’s, older, more successful, and seriously driven sister, Liberty Johnstone-Cody. Libby is one of those amazing multi-tasking entrepreneur super-mums who started a decade ago with a new-born, a toddler and an idea for a baby carrier, and went on to take over the world.

Just to get things straight from the start, where Libby is fabulous at amassing and seizing the day, I’m more of an accidental dropper. I got as far as a steady boyfriend, but I managed to lose him. One time I was going to buy a very small flat, but then I didn’t. This time last year I had an awful disaster it’s very difficult not to think about. Let’s just say, right now I’m trying really hard to do better.

I do have a job I used to love, as a visual merchandiser at Daniels, which is a family run department store tucked just behind Regent Street in London. My mum calls it window dressing but I actually style and build displays. But along with everything else, that’s gone a bit pear-shaped lately, since Fliss, my best friend who works in the same team, went on two lots of maternity leave in quick succession. The first was very much planned, the second was a disaster because it happened too fast. But that’s what life’s like for Fliss and me; we have calamities but we have so many of the damned things, mostly we grit our teeth and try to ride those catastrophe waves. Whereas lucky old Libby wouldn’t recognise a setback if it slapped her in the face, because, quite simply, she doesn’t allow negativity into her life.

Libby actually grabbed this two week rental in a Cornish castle for Christmas within six seconds of it appearing on Facebook Marketplace. She bought it herself, because that’s what she’s like, and got her husband Nathan to pay for it afterwards. But it’s only slightly less romantic because of that. Sometimes we women have to do things for ourselves, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Realistically, Nathan’s a high flying banker who struggles to find time to go home to see his kids, he’s not going to have space in his day to mess around on Facebook. And buying your own present might mean you forfeit those two seconds of amazement when it arrives. But the plus side is you get exactly what you want and you’re never disappointed. Best of all, you’re in control. And for Libby control is a must.

That’s the other thing about being a hot shot business mother of four, nurturer of kids and a burgeoning business, running through life at a million miles an hour with all her hands full, while juggling fruit at the same time. These days it’s not enough to be one, she has to show the world she’s doing it too – if the social media posts aren’t there, whatever she’s doing may as well never have happened.

So Libby pulling off a fortnight over Christmas in a castle will be entirely wasted if she doesn’t get the word out – she has to get those Instagram photos loaded. And not only that, every single one has to look more amazing than anything anyone else is posting. No pressure there then. Which is basically where I come in – I’m here to style the arse off Libby’s Christmas, and to make her uploads look prettier than everyone else’s.

A few years ago, Fliss would have been the obvious choice for this job. But she’s up to her ears in sleepless nights and stroppy toddlers, and – she won’t mind me sharing this – multi tasking just isn’t a thing that’s working for her. She’s barely made it out of her pyjamas in three years. Which is why Libby turned to me.

When she marched into Daniels a month ago like a pocket-rocket begging me to help style her castle Christmas, waving her arms and tossing around words like ‘sumptuous’ and ‘luxurious’, I was off to Human Resources to beg for time off faster than you could say ‘ramparts’.

Just to give you a picture, Fliss and Libby are both teensy, neat, and various shades of blonde, depending on the week. With my gangly frame I feel like the big friendly giant when I’m next to them. And it’s worse still since I had a car accident this time last year and cut my face really badly. Since then I’ve had to grow my cute dark haired pixie cut into one of those straight-ended wavy bobs that’s hell to maintain and isn’t quite working, and then top the whole lot off with whatever hat works for the weather. It’s not that I’m making light of the accident, because how could I when the man who was driving the car died in it, but the only way of coping I’ve found has been to throw myself into work. So for me the offer of working over Christmas felt like a life saver.

With twenty-four days still left to take before March, HR could hardly refuse me the time off. Libby promised me a wodge of cash too, but, I have to be honest, I’d have come without. Not being rude to my mum and dad, because I was so grateful for the way they came to the rescue last year. But I couldn’t face another Christmas in Yorkshire with them and the grans all worrying about me. And with Libby giving me the chance to help add all the trimmings to her Cornish house party I’m counting on her making so many demands there won’t be any time at all for me to think about how awful December was last year.

But the great thing is, if we’re talking professional expertise, Christmas is my speciality area. In retail we’re planning for next Christmas while the current one’s still going on. Behind the scenes in Daniels it’s Christmas most days of the year.

Libby, being the wheeler dealer she is, insisted on having a few extra days added onto the let at the start, which to be fair probably wasn’t that difficult to do. We all know December’s a slack time for holiday rentals, people are too busy with parties and preparations to go away. So I’ve come on a couple of days ahead of the rest of the party to be here for any deliveries.

As Merwyn and I make our way around the side of the castle, the moon is shining like a spotlight through the bare criss-crossed branches of the trees, and the crenellations at the top of the tower walls are pale against a black sky spattered with stars.

I’m actually looking for someone … I glance at the paper … called Bill. Not that I’m ageist, but aren’t most castle caretakers as old and decrepit as the buildings themselves? I’m mentally preparing myself to fall over someone stooped, white haired and wrinkly at any moment. Or maybe I’ve been watching too many Disney films.

After a full day of driving I know Merwyn’s enjoying the walk, and I know castles ramble, but I hadn’t expected it to be quite so far between the front door and the back. The terraced house I grew up in had its front door on the side, and its back door round the corner only a few feet away. My dad used to joke that if he chose his spot carefully he could answer both doors at the same time. Although if this place boasts that it sleeps twenty-five in ten glorious bedrooms, they have to fit in somewhere.

As we make our way further, the moon is washing the lawns with pale grey light, and the shrubbery is casting long shadows around the edges – I don’t think I’ve ever seen moon shadows before. And over the sound of Merwyn’s snuffles and the buffeting of the wind I’m catching a few notes of music. It’s funny how little you need to hear before you can pick out a tune. It takes about a second to know it’s that song where they repeat ‘Happy Christmas’ in Spanish over and over again, and end with the words ‘bottom of your h-e-a-r-t’.

My ex, George, had it down as the most maddening Christmas song ever, and after five years with him I found myself thinking the same. As you do. It’s certainly not the kind of song I’d expect anyone like Bill to listen to. He’d be way more likely to go for Frank Sinatra. Or Eartha Kitt singing Santa Baby. I only hope this Bill hasn’t gone out after we’ve come so far. As we get closer to the end of the wall we’re following the music gets louder and there are prickles of annoyance stinging the back of my neck.

And then we turn the corner, and as I take in the wide courtyard, its beautifully laid stone flags flooded with the kind of soft yet brilliant light that comes from expensive designer spots, my jaw sags. There are carved stone benches around the edge, hewn oak posts and pergolas, and in the centre of it all there’s the biggest hot tub I’ve ever seen. And lounging in the corner behind the steam clouds, muscular arms outstretched along the tub sides, there’s a guy. And even through the soft focus of the mist I can tell there isn’t going to be an ancient wrinkle anywhere in sight.

Phwoar. On second glances make that P-H-W-O-A-R.

Thank Christmas those completely uncharacteristic thoughts didn’t get as far as my mouth. It’s just, even though I work in high end retail, I don’t bump into beautiful, sexy, dark-eyed tousled-hair, stubble and cheekbones every day. More to the point, now it is laid this bare in front of me, my alarm bells couldn’t be clanging any louder. It’s great to look at raw power and beauty for a few seconds, in the way you’d enjoy watching a tiger from behind a barrier wall, a moat or two and a thick sheet of safety glass. But you totally wouldn’t want to meet it head on in the wild.

He’s shaking back his hair, rubbing the water out of his eyes, then his brows knit into a puzzled frown. ‘Hi, can I help you?’

My mouth’s still hanging open. ‘I seriously doubt it, unless you can tell me where Bill is.’

As his frown softens his flinty eyes soften too. ‘It must be your lucky day … I’m Bill …’

Then as his low laugh hits my ears and his eyes lock with mine my heart stops because this isn’t just a random hot guy swishing about in the waves – this is one I know.

Oh crap.

I swallow hard and slam my mouth closed just in time to stop my lurching stomach from escaping to turn cartwheels across the stone pavers. The hair might be longer, the face more worn, and initially I was thrown because I’ve never seen him naked before. But of all the guys I could do with never meeting again … in the world … ever … this is the one. If I’m honest it’s a long story I hadn’t ever expected to confront again …

Chamonix, January 2013. My one and only time skiing with George, sharing a ski lodge with his friends and friends of friends. Or more accurately, me spending shedloads I could not afford, then doing everything not to ski. Riding the lifts, trying the hot chocolate in every cafe, but mostly tucked up by the log fire reading, while the rest of them did the kind of moves out on the slopes that made me question why they weren’t all in the Olympic squad.

George and I were a few months into living together, he was just starting to break out with the kind of dick head behaviour he’d kept hidden up until then. And all of it given a worse twist when I took an early flight, knocked on the chalet door and it was opened by this hunk in socks called Will … the guy in the hot tub here … eeeeeek … who … well … you know those moments when your insides totally leave your body because you fancy someone so much?

We had this delicious time making the fire together before the rest of the party arrived. However cosy and picturesque you think checked wool sofas, sheepskin covered floors and pine clad walls with a view of distant snow covered mountains could be, times it by a hundred and then you’ll get the idea of how blissful it was.

But I was with George, and I hate people who cheat. So obviously I had to hide what was simply a very bad case of totally misplaced attraction. But my body had other ideas. The whole ten days I kept catching myself arching my back, maxing out my ‘open and available’ body language when I didn’t mean anything of the kind. Truly, those super-thin Merino wool base layers did nothing to hide my horribly big boobs, I was practically pushing my nipples into this poor guy Will’s face non-stop.

And then there was the laughing. That was the other unfortunate thing – we got jokes no one else did and cracked each other up the whole time. I put the whole thing down to that glass of free fizz I had on the plane that got me off on the wrong foot.

But now, looking at him in the hot tub all these years later, this guy Will has moved on from the past so far he’s actually changed his name to Bill. It wasn’t as if we knew each other well, we were simply accidental chalet mates for a really short time. Considering I look so very different – and so much worse – with my new hairstyle and what it’s hiding, the fact there was so much drinking he’ll most probably have the same alcoholic amnesia I do, and seeing that I didn’t even figure on his radar in the first place – I’m guessing he’ll have no idea who I am at all today.

All I have to do is stop my heart from clattering louder than skis being banged together and we’ll be back to how we were – me accidentally letting out a misplaced gasp at some tanned pecs through the steam. And then we’ll move on.

I clear my throat, desperately try to reconnect with my dignity so I can take this back to a more businesslike place. ‘So let me introduce myself properly, Bill, I’m …’

The crinkles at the corners of Bill’s eyes in the tub are unnervingly familiar as he raises his hand and cuts me off. ‘Hold it there, you don’t need to tell me, there can only ever be one Ivy Starforth.’ His lips twist. ‘You do remember me, right? I’m Will Markham, we met in Chamonix …’

I take a moment to let my stomach hit the floor and bounce back into place again. Then I try to minimise the damage. ‘Yes, but you’re the one who’s being confusing here – I once knew a dry, much more dressed, banker called Will. And now I’m faced with a very damp Bill outside a castle – what’s that about?’

‘People called me that when I moved to Cornwall.’ He gives a sniff. ‘And is your husband with you too?’

I’m struggling to keep up here. ‘Excuse me?’ If he hadn’t called me by my actual name I’d think he’d got the wrong person.

He’s frowning. ‘You do have one?’

It’s a relief we’re so far away from reality. However much he once tied my libido up in knots all those years ago, we’re talking financiers here. This one’s so superior he assumes he knows my marital status better than I do. I hope Merwyn’s taking this in so I can check back with him later, because I’m struggling to believe it’s happening.

‘Last time I checked, I didn’t have a husband – not as far as I know.’

‘When was that?’

‘Five seconds ago.’

One eyebrow shoots up. ‘Well, how good is that? Huge congratulations, Ivy Starforth, on not being married.’

I’m momentarily putting aside how surreal this is. He seemed so convinced about my husband. As for me, I’m not proud of that afternoon we spent alone at the chalet. In fact I’ve managed to lock it away in the filing cabinet in my memory bank that’s got a huge notice on telling me never to open it again. It’s not that anything awful happened, because it didn’t. At least not in real life, anyway. It might have in my head occasionally afterwards – maybe a few thousand times – simply because ever after that holiday, whenever the going got tough it was useful to use him as my go-to, cardboard cut-out, idealised fantasy man. But that’s the whole point about out-of-reach dreams – they’re what you use to get you through, you have them safe in the knowledge that they aren’t real and never will be. You certainly never expect to be embarrassed by barrelling into them head on in out of the way Cornwall, for goodness sake.

But there we were in Chamonix. George got some last minute session work and had to rebook his flight. Will had turned up early too while everyone else was working all the way to the end of Friday. Which left him and I chatting as we waited for the others to arrive. That’s all we did. But somehow he was so laid back and all over nice, not to mention the hot part, it left me wishing like hell that this could be the guy I was with rather than the one who was currently winging his way through the air on the FlyBe jet for the winter holiday of a lifetime he’d persuaded me we couldn’t miss out on. Which, as was usual with George, I ended up not enjoying very much in the end.

Getting trapped in a few hours of domestic fantasy never happened to me before or since. I’ve always blamed it on the holiday thrill and too much mulled wine. We certainly haven’t clicked again here. Quite the opposite. My immediate subliminal reaction was to pick up on how up himself Will was, and that was when he was practically submerged. Which just goes to show how unreliable first impressions from seven years ago can be. And how a few timber plank walls and the warmth from burning logs can totally blur your judgement. And leave you feeling guilty for the treachery for years after, because, truly, I’m not that kind of person usually. I rarely fancy anyone. I also pride myself on being loyal and faithful and steadfast and honest, which is why I was so appalled and ashamed of myself for that afternoon.