A Cozy Christmas in Cornwall

by Jane Linfoot

  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.

  Bill’s closing his eyes even more now and his voice has softened. ‘It’s amazing to see you again, Ivy, why did you wait so long to get back in touch?’

  I manage to get over the liquid brown warmth of his gaze enough to get the words out. ‘I’m not here on a social call, Will – I mean Bill – or whoever you are.’ Hopefully that’s shown him how little I’ve thought about him since 2013. Truly, Fliss doesn’t even know about him, and I tell her all my secrets. If he or anyone else ever found out the truth I’d die of shame. ‘This is a total coincidence, one of those “small world” moments …’ I’m dying at how trite I’m sounding ‘… I’m here for this year’s Christmas rental.’

  His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Shit. Right. Really? Surely you can’t be, you’re a day early!’

  He’s just got that air that suggests no one ever contradicts him so I force myself to stand my ground. ‘It was Mrs Johnstone-Cody who made the booking. Just so you know, she never makes mistakes, we are due today.’ Just saying. After three hundred and fifty-odd miles, I’d rather not come back tomorrow. Beautiful people stuff up too sometimes, and he has to be the one who’s wrong here.

  A perplexed look crosses his face, then it’s gone. ‘Well, whatever day it is, it’s great to see you, Ivy.’ That’s the thing with super-attractive people like this – they mess up – then they move on seamlessly like nothing happened. His hand comes towards me, and I stare at it in horror for a second, then step close enough to brush the end of one dripping finger.

  ‘Now you’re here, how about coming in for a dip?’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Castles, hot tubs, delicious guys coming out with the most ridiculous suggestions? It’s like I dropped into an episode of Made in Chelsea. ‘Absolutely not. Thanks all the same.’ I’m up for fun, but even I draw the line at jumping into a bath with someone I’d once have had difficulty keeping my hands off. Especially when he’s still hot as …

  ‘Your loss, it’s wonderfully warm, the bubbles are just starting to come through.’ As he dips down and re-emerges his muscular shoulders are tanned and gleaming under the lights, and his gaze is soft yet intense. And from the one slightly closed eye, I know he’s laughing at me.

  I’m from the north, my mum and dad had tiny horizons, I didn’t hit the bright lights of London until I was in my twenties, so I’m used to cracking people up with my lack of social polish and the way I say ‘bugger’ not ‘bogger’. Come to think of it, me being a hilarious northerner was probably why there was all that laughing in Chamonix. If posh people taking the piss is what I’ve come to expect, it doesn’t mean I like it. If Bill’s like the rest of George’s extended social circle he’ll be one of those entitled guys who were weaned on champagne and assume the rest of the world was too. The kind who don’t even know what a back door is, let alone how to use one. Those cheekbones are the giveaway. That accent. I know it’s wrong to judge, worse still to write people off without knowing them properly, but after the way George walked out on me, any guy with tuned-up vowels can’t be trusted.

  ‘I’ll take your word for that.’ It takes me a second to change the subject. ‘So what’s with the music?’

  ‘Feliz Navidad? It’s so much less obvious than your usual Christmas tunes.’ Even though he’s pulling a face, he still looks like perfection on a stick. ‘On repeat in an attempt to get in the festive mood.’

  That’s one way of looking at it. George saw continuous repetition as lazy, and a total lack of musical creativity. But there you go, it wouldn’t work if we all liked the same. George was entitled once, but by the time he hit thirty he’d fallen on hard times, which was where I came in handy. As a temporary interim. A stepping stone. A door mat to use on his way to better places. If I needed a lesson that normal people need to stay away from rich people, George was it. The minute he got his break he left me f
or someone more suited to his new, moneyed life. And things went seriously downhill after George. So far down they ended in the accident.

  Nowadays I put all my energy into riding a better wave, and believe me, that doesn’t include guys. Especially ones who talk like they’ve swallowed a plum and luxuriate in bubble baths in Cornish castles when they know damned well they should be leaping out of the water and sorting their guests out.

  But before you think I’ve written off the whole south of England, I haven’t at all. Meeting Fliss and being welcomed into her very southern family gently opened my closed northern eyes in the best possible way and I’ll always be grateful for that. Fliss wasn’t only my bestie and my party partner and next-room neighbour at uni. She was also my social translator. She held my hand as I discovered the scary world of student London and later hauled me up into my job at Daniels.

  And thinking of nicer things, one mention of the ‘f’ for ‘festive’ word, and I’m glancing up, appraising the pergola. Okay, I put my hands up, I can’t help it, it’s my job. However slick and polished the outdoor space is already, in my head I’m already up the stepladders, festooning it with fairy lights. Pink and turquoise strands hanging from the wooden poles, moving in the breeze. They would work amazingly.

  ‘You haven’t got around to the decorations out here yet?’ I’m stating the obvious, expecting him to say it’s his last job, and maybe to share what he’s planning.

  ‘Decorations?’

  I’m taking in his blank stare when two things hit me.

  First, even though Merwyn is standing next to me, staring at Bill even harder than I am, I’m not actually holding his lead any more. How did that happen? And second, since I moved in and braved the crackling static of that finger touch, my (early Christmas present to myself) Russell and Bromley Chelsea boots (off eBay) have been kicking up against a towel. Except now I’m looking more closely it’s not just a towel. Dropped across the top, there’s also a pair of cotton boxers.

  ‘Ok-a-a-a-a-y.’ My voice has gone all screechy and as the words naked hot entitled hot man of my personal dreams in a hot tub zip through my brain I’m suddenly sweating inside my fair isle. As I look at the boxers, then look at Bill, Merwyn is following my gaze. And over the tub edge I can see Bill doing the same. There are times when the only way forward is to ignore the roaring of blood pounding through your ears and simply come out and say it like it is. So I take a deep breath and press ‘go’. ‘You’re not actually wearing any clothes in there are you, Bill?’

  Bill’s grin is unrepentant. No surprise there then. ‘Good call, Ivy, I am totally in the buff here, thanks for getting that one out into the open.’ On the down side, him coming clean is even more disarming than plain old arrogant. ‘In my defence, I have to say, whatever Mrs Johnstone-Cody understood, I wasn’t expecting guests until tomorrow.’

  I sniff. ‘I’ll take your word for that too.’ It’s good that he’s switched back to super-pleased with himself.

  ‘Great.’ Nice recovery there from Bill, we both know it isn’t at all. ‘So if you’d throw me the towel and my – ahem – shorts, we can fast-forward to your welcome tour.’

  It’s a relief we finally got as far as him mentioning showing me round. ‘Lovely, I’ll do that now.’

  Merwyn’s giving me one of his ‘I don’t believe a word and neither should you’ looks, but I’m not going to tell him off for cheek because Merwyn and I need to present a united front here. I’m in enough shit with my misplaced, completely inappropriate and bloody alarming flutters without starting an argument with the dog.

  As I dip down towards the towel I’m mentally assessing the size and how much mannequin coverage it would offer if it were on a display in a Daniels department store window. Transposed to a Cornish courtyard, and the body I’ve been undressing in my head for years, the answer is, nowhere near enough. And then there are the – ahem – shorts. I’ve had plenty of practice after years of picking up George’s underwear. But as my hand reaches out towards the shorts the pale blue checks look as expensive as Bill does, and the thought they actually belong to him makes me freeze for long enough to mouth a silent O-M-G in my head.

  And how I’ll come to regret that OMG. One moment of hesitation on my way down, and Merwyn picks up on it. He sees the minute space in time as a challenge, and goes for it. One dart, he’s grabbed the shorts, a swift turn and he’s off across the courtyard. Two more delighted leaps, then he’s shaking the life out of the boxers, haring off into the shadows with the towel and dog lead trailing behind him.

  I run as far as the courtyard corner and see him disappearing into the shrubbery, but it’s no use going further because he thinks it’s a game. The more I chase the faster Merwyn will go.

  ‘Well, I did not see that one coming.’ As Bill shakes his head, there’s no clue if he’s being ironic or straight. From my experience it takes more than a pair of lost boxers to throw these hard-boiled guys off kilter even if the boxers are disappearing at a hundred miles an hour into the night.

  ‘If you’d had a decent sized bath sheet it would have been too heavy for him to do that.’ Just saying. So he knows for the future. But I can’t blame this on anyone other than me. Merwyn’s my dog, I have to take full responsibility here. Well, he’s not actually mine, but there’s no time to go into that now. ‘Give him a minute, he’ll be back.’ Or at least that’s what I’m banking on. What Merwyn hates most is being ignored, hopefully he’ll reappear any second to see why I’m not joining in the fun.

  Bill’s got one eyebrow raised. ‘Time flies when you’re in a hot tub, you could come in for a dip while we’re waiting?’ This is exactly what I meant by hard boiled – totally unflappable, ignoring the concerns of the entire rest of the world, getting straight back to his own hedonistic priorities.

  ‘For the second and last time, I’m NOT coming in. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Message received, loud and clear. In which case I’ll use the time to suggest you settle into a room in this part of the house tonight, then I’ll show you around the rest in the morning.’

  ‘Fine.’ There’s no point in arguing. He’s also called it a house not a castle, but I’ll let that go for now. It’s one more sign he’s used to a place the size of Downton Abbey.

  ‘There’s food if you’re hungry, wine if you want to unwind, or if you want to get completely wiped out there are vats of gin.’

  Seriously, as if the signs weren’t all there already, you can’t trust anyone who offers you that lot. ‘For a handyman you’re really going the extra mile.’

  He’s looking at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Let’s hope you still feel that way in the New Year when you’re writing your review.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got supper in the car.’ It may take a couple of days to stop my insides feeling like hot syrup sponge every time he looks at me. Hopefully by the time everyone else arrives at the weekend, I’ll have had so much practice I’ll be entirely impervious to his charms.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  When was I ever this confused about someone being serious or joking around? ‘You do have a microwave?’ My mouth’s watering at the thought of my mac and cheese ready meal, I’m so pleased I bought the big size.

  ‘That wouldn’t be very authentic.’ The uncertain frown is back, making furrows on Bill’s forehead.

  I can’t stay silent about this. ‘Said the man in the twenty-first century hot tub.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Ivy-star, I’m sure the Aga will do the same job.’

  Ivy-star is Fliss’s nickname for me which came from the first boss we had at Daniels who used to bark, ‘Ivy Starforth, what a STAR!’ every time I had a good idea. I’m flinching that Bill’s remembered George calling me it enough to pull it out here seven years on. I’m still standing mentally scratching my rather bemused head, desperately trying to pull my wobbly bits together when I hear the sound of paws galloping on gravel.

  ‘Merwyn!’ I brace myself to swoop him into a ‘welcome
back’ body slam. Somehow as I’m squatting trying to dodge the licks we end up on the floor, but at least I’ve got him by the collar now. As I scramble back to standing I can’t help feeling proud to be proved right. ‘See, I told you he’d be back.’

  ‘Covered in mud, without my shorts or my towel, I might add.’ Bill’s shaking his head. ‘Do you know how much Calvin Kleins cost? I can’t afford to let dogs bury them.’

  ‘Down to the last penny as it happens. I also know Calvin Klein doesn’t do boxers in that particular check. Never has, as far as I can remember.’ There are advantages to knowing your way around the entire men’s underwear department inside out. Strictly business of course. As for Merwyn, his cute brown furry face is caked in dirt clumps all the way from his nose to his ears. His paws and legs too. He has to have been digging. I’ve never actually seen him this filthy, but I’m not going to play it up. So for once he’ll have to go without a telling off. ‘Someone’s going to need a bath.’

  Bill gives a grunt. ‘Let’s hope he’s less water averse than you.’

  It’s been a very long day. I’m still reeling at the shock of finding Bill/Will here and there’s a limit to how much a woman can take. To be honest, I wasn’t completely certain Merwyn was going to come back. But now he has, all I want to do is clean him up then collapse into a comfy chair. Preferably at the opposite end of the castle to anyone called Bill. As blasts from the past go, this is the equivalent of that Icelandic volcano that erupted and brought worldwide air travel to a standstill due to the dust in the atmosphere. The aftershocks from this could go on for weeks.