by Jane Linfoot
As Tom and co. amble in late in the evening I’m lounging on the sofa with Merwyn who’s having a sneaky sit next to me. We’re both in our third best Christmas jumpers because, to be honest, Libby’s lot are such a downer we needed to do something to cheer ourselves up. As they trail through, I’ve already worked out a ploy to hurry their long faces through with the minimum of lingering.
I jump up and put my brightest voice on. ‘Hot chocolate to drink by the fire anyone? We have marshmallows, squirty cream, chocolate sprinklies, and sparkly snowflakes for toppings.’ It’s amazing what they stock in St Aidan Spar. Goodies like this are why it took me so long this morning. I’m already at the Aga, milk and mugs at the ready to speed them through to the family space.
Libby’s coming towards me. ‘Leave the cocoa to me, Ivy. You go and ask Bill about interesting days out locally for the kids for tomorrow.’
It’s a good thing I’m watching out for her foot coming towards mine. I jump sideways at the last moment and instead of her boot landing and crushing my toe it crashes down on the floorboards. For someone so teensy and slight she’s got a stonking left foot on her.
I’m beaming at her from the safety of two yards along the worktop, fishing for more clues. ‘What kind of children?’
Over the top of her ice-white cashmere roll neck she’s re-knotting the scrunchie on her perfect silky ponytail and hissing at me, ‘The vegan moaners are arriving first thing.’
There’s some kind of strangled noise coming from inside Tom’s hood. ‘Get real, Mum, just call them the Twiglets like everyone else does.’
‘Tom!’ If Libby’s amused it hasn’t reached her lips as she turns to me. ‘The mum’s called Willow, they’re thin, home schooled and painfully fragile.’
Tarkie’s throwing in his contribution. ‘They’re twiggy like stickmen, they wear dungarees and live in the family tree.’
If these are her friends and she despairs of them, I must remember to ask Fliss why she’s invited them.
‘Enough, Tarkie!’ The glare she turns on him is chilly enough to freeze-blast him. Then she turns back to me again. ‘Just find me an Instagram-worthy destination and we’ll have a day out with everyone. You too.’
I’m nodding furiously. ‘Great, got that, two minutes, I’ll see what Bill says.’ And thank frig that I’ve left my laptop in there and that Bill’s Do Not Disturb sign isn’t up yet.
Me hanging onto my super-bright smile for Bill’s benefit turns out to be unnecessary. When I knock and Merwyn and I slip into the bedroom there’s enough of his scent around to be disturbing, but no sign of the man himself. As I perch on his bed and open up Google I’m half thinking Bill might come along too. Then I unthink it just as fast. Because that’s the last thing he’d want and the last thing I’d want either. Where kids are concerned, however differently Fliss saw it, I know better. Children in the same county is too close for Bill. You only had to see him earlier, when he collided with the kids he couldn’t get away fast enough.
When Mr Google finally comes up with festive delights for kids in the area – well, all I can say is Cornwall’s not London. It’s a dead cert they’ll get rejected, but I note them down anyway and whistle a rather confused Merwyn straight back to the kitchen.
I’m taking a deep breath to announce the list but Tarkie gets in first over the packets of chocolate sprinkles.
‘What did she go in there for?’
Libby’s warning face tells me what I already know – for everyone’s sake, they must not find out about the wifi. She opens her mouth to answer them, but Tansy’s already eyeing me smugly.
‘That’s where her boyfriend is, silly, she goes to snog him. You must have noticed, she’s in there all the time.’
Libby coughs. Hopefully she’ll crush this with the same efficiency she uses when she stamps on people’s feet. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ For someone in control her voice is rather squeaky.
Tansy’s looking triumphant. ‘Granny Miranda said it.’
As I wade in to put them right I’m inwardly cursing Libby for her lightweight challenge and Miranda for blurting her opinions. ‘ONE, he’s not my boyfriend, his partner is a supermodel barrister, and TWO, there won’t be snogging, because we don’t have mistletoe.’
Tiff’s eyes narrow. ‘A barrister and a supermodel … like that would ever happen. If it was at all real I’d totally need to interview her for the vlog.’
Libby’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘No mistletoe?! What an oversight! How can you possibly style an Instagram Christmas without that?’
The side eye Tiff sends me is worse than Merwyn’s, and that’s saying something. ‘You must think we were born yesterday. Everyone knows, the first rule of having a boyfriend is you never admit it.’
Sometimes you have to quit while you’re ahead. With this lot, the only way it can go from here is further downhill. So I let it drop and move on. ‘So, days out … there’s a really nice “chop your own Christmas tree” place not far way, with a Winter Wonderland, a snow machine, and LIVE REINDEER! How cool is that?’ I admit I’m totally out of my comfort zone here even saying the word, but if they go for it I’ll just have to make my excuses – throw up on the way to the car or something.
I’m leaving it to Libby to take it from here. For anyone other than me reindeer have to be exceptionally cute and very shaggy, so I’m really not expecting to hear a mass groan.
Tom’s first. ‘Reindeer …? Seriously …? Surely, NOT AGAIN?’
Tarkie’s jumping up and down. ‘Yawnsville! Yawnsville! Yawnsville!’
Tiff pulls a face. ‘But reindeer don’t do anything, they’re astonishingly non-interactive and disappointing, I already exploded the myth when I did my vlog from Lapland. Whoever wrote that song that makes them sound like they have individual personalities was giving a misrepresentation of the species as found in festive captivity.’
Tansy’s in again. ‘What about reindeer rights, and animal welfare?’
Libby’s joining in too. ‘More trees? Don’t we have enough?’ She’s frowning too. ‘Solomon, Scout and Sailor have done Lapland every year since the cradle, they were trekking in Bolivia and Peru all last December, they’ve Christmassed in Australia, Vietnam, New York and Cuba, it’s going to be hard to find something fresh to top that lot.’
My heart is plummeting faster than a high speed lift. With three even more cynical, demanding and miserable children due tomorrow, what chance do a few almost-jolly adults stand against this band of fun-suckers?
‘How about a visit to the donkey sanctuary?’ I’m fighting off the objections before they make them. ‘Donkeys have bags of personality and it’s a rescue so they should be well looked after.’ I’m slightly talking out of my bum here, the only donkey I personally have experience of is Eeyore.
Tom’s eyes are up in his hood again. ‘And how are donkeys festive?’
I’ve got him there and I’m going for it. ‘Remember Little Donkey, little donkey on a dusty road … sing out those stars tonight with your precious load … Bethlehem, Bethlehem?’
Tom looks bemused. ‘Why’s she saying everything twice?’
At least Tarkie gets it. ‘We sing that one. My best song from school is the one about jet planes flying through the air to be refuelled …’ He wrinkles his nose as he thinks about it. ‘Can we go back to the airport again?’ He’s upping the pressure. ‘That’s where Santa will come in to land, we need to be there.’
As this is the first shout-out Santa’s had, I’m not letting it go. ‘I reckon Santa might actually land his sleigh on the lawn here.’ The thought of a lawn full of sleigh and reindeer in front of the castle is bringing me out in goosebumps and for all the wrong reasons. I banish the thought before I have to run off to be sick.
Tarkie’s picking it up. ‘Yeah, or he might land on the roof … or even on the beach.’
Tansy joins in. ‘In that case, forget the airport, let’s go straight back to the cinema.’
Tiff’s frowning too. ‘If the
re’s a snow machine can we go skiing?’
‘Or snowboarding?’ Tom sits up. ‘There must be a snowdome, let’s go there.’
If he really wants to freeze his butt off balancing on planks of wood he could just try waterskiing. Just saying. Only not out loud.
‘M-u-u-u-m …’ Tom’s upping his whine. ‘Find us a ski slope then we’ll smile for your selfies.’
Libby’s as oblivious to Tom as she is to the marshmallow heaps and squirty cream exploding across the island unit. But she’s taking some control, because she’s banging a spoon on the granite. ‘That’s settled then, as soon as the Twig – I mean the Edmunsons get here tomorrow we’ll all go to the donkey sanctuary.’
I’ve been so busy watching them demolishing the toppings, I’ve barely noticed that the French window was opening or that there’s a guy walking across the kitchen towards us.
‘A donkey sanctuary, that sounds like fun.’
He sounds at home enough to belong here, so I’m working through the possibilities of who he is. Even without the rather smart Barbour padded jacket which is so new it’s actually still got its tags on, he’s much too young for Keef’s gang so he has to be a friend of Bill’s.
Libby’s on this too. ‘Are you staff? It’s just we haven’t seen many around today and we might need more logs bringing in.’
He’s got an easy smile, and it breaks across his face now as he laughs. ‘No, I don’t work here, I’ve just arrived. I met someone called Bill Markham outside, he told me to come on in.’
So that’s all my theories scuppered. Which leaves me evaluating the way his boy next door grin lights up all the way to his eyes when he smiles and his nicely cut browny blond hair. His long legs in denim, the flash of a soft checked shirt. Thumbs looped through his belt loops. And some very new wellies, also with hanging tags. By which time, I have to be honest about my first-glance summing up … if this combo lived next door, and you were in the market in the way, say, Miranda is … you would not think twice about vaulting the garden fence.
Libby’s looking puzzled. What’s more, she’s paying the rent here, she’s way more invested than me. ‘So, if you don’t work here and you’re not with Bill, then who the hell are you?’
He seems completely unbothered by his lack of provenance. In fact he’s laughing even more. ‘I’m Miles Bentley, here to spend Christmas with my father.’ He gives a cough. ‘He didn’t actually mention there would be other people here. So if you don’t mind me returning the question, who are YOU?’
For once Libby’s silky calm cracks, but her snap sails straight past Mr Bentley. ‘For goodness sakes, Tom, you’re indoors, take your damned hood down.’
Tom lets out an incensed squawk. ‘What?’ He’s staring straight at me. ‘Tell her to take hers off first, then I might.’
Libby’s snipping back at him. ‘Leave Ivy out of this, she has a very valid excuse to wear her hat.’ And I really wish she hadn’t said that.
There’s a chorus. ‘Why does she?’
And damn that they’re all staring at me now as my hands creep up to my head and pull the woolly edge further down. ‘My hat’s my thing, that’s all.’ Despite the sudden focus that’s all they’re getting.
There’s a cough from Miles. ‘Still waiting for my answer here … forget the hats, I’m just not sure how happy my dad will be when he sees all the mess you’re making with hot chocolate in his Christmas rental?’
‘I assume you’re here to see Ambrose?’ Libby’s voice is back to pearly smooth. ‘To put it in context, he’s here as a guest of my mother, Miranda … who is here because I invited her.’
‘Right, okay, got that.’ Miles takes a step backwards and as his jaw sags he slams his hand on his head. ‘How did I get my wires so tangled? And here I am, barging in like I own the place, I’m so sorry, what must you think of me?’
Libby couldn’t be any more chilled. ‘It’s fine, it’s an easy mistake to make, it could happen to any of us.’ It absolutely isn’t and it wouldn’t. Which suggests she’s picking up on the whole dreamboat thing too.
‘And Bill said those two are “otherwise engaged”.’ The lines on Miles’s forehead deepen. ‘Has there actually been a proposal?’
‘Not that we know of.’ Libby’s nostrils flare. ‘He means it’s a choice of two activities – they’ll either be dissolving in the hot tub, or bonking the bottom off their new four poster.’
Tansy’s smirking behind her hand. ‘You said not to say bonking.’
Tarkie’s hitting her elbow. ‘What’s bonking again?’
Miles is bashing on. ‘Well, that’s all good then. And it looks like the most fabulous place you’ve got here. If you could possibly find a corner for an extra elf in the most ridiculous boots, just until tomorrow, I’d be very grateful to you. Forever.’
Libby’s half closing one eye. ‘And are you here on your own, or do you have a whole elf family with you too?’
‘No, it’s just me. Travelling solo … again.’
He’s cocking a self mocking eyebrow at me, and I’m smiling and waggling my head back at him when my heart dives. Solo, meaning on his own? If this is my plus one arriving, scrub the bit about jumping fences, I’ll be running … as fast as I can … away.
Libby takes a deep breath. ‘There’s a free room up the back stairs next to Ivy’s, she’ll show you the way up. Anyone dressed in surf pants will bring your bags in for you.’
Worse and worse. I close down my smile and dive for cover. ‘I hope you like dogs, this is Merwyn.’ As Merwyn backs against my legs and flashes me a filthy look, I’m feeling guilty for dodging behind him.
‘Better and better.’ As Miles’s smile broadens we can all see his teeth are as great as the rest of the package. They’re also so even and dazzlingly unnatural he has to have had a little help with them. ‘If you two are up for an early morning stroll on the beach, just give me a knock.’
Bumping shoulders, picking up shells, dodging the curl of the waves as they roll up the beach, next to a smile full of dental veneers that’s been pre-planned for me? As a measure of how appalled I am by that thought, I’d rather ski.
But in the breath it takes me to decide that, Merwyn’s gone rogue.
Miles is scratching Merwyn’s head and tickling the silky bits of his ears exactly the way he likes it. Two seconds and Merwyn’s lapping it up like Miles is his new best friend. Seeing as I rely on him as my main ally here, that’s not the best news for me.
As Miles eases up on the tickling his voice is eager. ‘If you need wood, I can get that in too.’
With Merwyn the cuteness is all to do with his ‘what the eff’ glances. Miles is suddenly channelling puppy dog charm by the bucketful too, but his is all about enthusiasm, super-heartfelt looks, and eagerness to please. And it’s certainly working with Libby.
‘Thanks Miles, wood would be great.’ When she breaks off there’s the smallest softest sound that might be a laugh. But it’s the first since she came. ‘Wood-would, you see what I did there?’
‘We did.’ The appreciative smile that spreads across his face is offered up to all of us. He’s holding up a finger. ‘One more thing. I’m Miles at work, but to the family – and since we’re practically related now, that means all of you too – I’m Milo.’
Milo … that’s ten times more puppyish and so much worse.
Realistically, if Miles slash Milo can march in trying to claim Libby’s castle, then not only escape her wrath but thaw her within a sentence, this man has hidden powers. Or looking at him more closely again – not-so-hidden ones. Which could mean we’re all in trouble here. For all the reasons.
Not that I’d ever be tempted back into a relationship. But I’m really hoping he’s shit in the kitchen.
Tuesday
17th December
17.
Angels
with dirty faces
I know our mums spent their lives trying to persuade our dads to try out their stoves, and I’d have loved my ex George
to visit our kitchen even one time. But when guys schmooze in and effortlessly ace it, I can’t help feeling a little bit WTF? Like they’re treading on our toes. Taking over our territory.
I mean, glorious cranberry whirls are one thing, and that was only one (so far anonymous) surfer – with very nice handwriting, don’t forget. But coming back from the beach to find yet another guy – well, Miles, I can’t quite bring myself to call him Milo yet, however wide and winning his grin is – standing at the Aga like he’d been there his whole life, flipping his perfect triangular cream griddle scones? Then finding out how ridiculously light and fluffy they are. So delectable that when they’re split open, spread with oozing hot butter and molten golden syrup, I eat a whole griddleful without even blinking. Disturbing doesn’t begin to cover it. Then him being perfect enough to hang round the kitchen to tidy up too, to the point of even washing the mixing bowl. It’s really all too much.
So it’s a relief when the Edmunson-Twiglets arrive and we finally head off for the donkey sanctuary. Fliss’s sporty people carrier dwarfs my little car, but compared to what’s ahead of us in the convoy, it’s mini. As we wind our way between the high hedges along the narrow lanes behind Ambrose, Libby, Miles and the Twiglets’ cars, we’re singing along to kiddies’ Christmas tunes, in the hope it’ll drown out Harriet’s bawling.
As some hideous song about a Marshmallow World ends I have to comment, ‘Those cars in front are so huge it feels more like we’re following the Queen than a few friends and family.’
Fliss laughs at me. ‘Except royalty would never have glitter decals like Libby or white alloys with diamanté inlays like Ambrose.’