Mistletoe Mansion

by Samantha Tonge

  ‘We were fifteen years together. And I didn’t lose the bastard, he buggered off with a twenty year old shelf-stacker from BargainMarket – you know, the frozen food shop.’ He caught my eye and chuckled. ‘I’m trying to see the funny side now. At least he left me with a stocked freezer. Last count I still had forty-five mini pizzas, seventy-two sticky chicken skewers, ninety vegetarian spring rolls and a hundred and eight jumbo tempura prawns. Walter used to call in before his dinner sometimes and we’d share a plateful with a bottle of Merlot.’ He pulled a face. ‘Ghastly food.’

  ‘So, why don’t you throw it out?’

  ‘Now it’s just me, what else am I going to put in the freezer? And Walter would turn in his grave; said I should at least donate them to some soup kitchen for the homeless.’

  ‘He sounds like a good bloke.’

  ‘The best.’ Terry smiled at a middle-aged lady who walked past with her Dalmatian. She wore a glossy fur (was that real?) hat and matching gloves. ‘Anyway, listen to me blathering on,’ he said as we arrived at Walter’s drive.

  ‘Did you know the last housesitter?’ I said. ‘Luke… he’s the handyman–’

  ‘Helpful lad.’

  Really? ‘He was around earlier collecting her stuff – seems she left in a rush.’

  We reached the drive.

  ‘She was, er, a pleasant enough woman. So was the one before her.’ He looked at me and shrugged. ‘Walter was always happy here, whereas everyone since…’

  ‘What?’

  He fiddled with his manbag for a moment. ‘It’s getting late. I never know when to stop chatting. You get off, to unpack. Why don’t I call in, some time, erm, in the daylight? I know Walter’s house inside out and could show you around. Luke can sometimes be a bit… He’s a busy man, but his heart is in the right place.’ Terry cleared his throat. ‘Only if you two girls want, though – an old fogey like me might cramp your style!’

  ‘You cramp our style?’ I said, with a wink.

  Terry clapped me on the back. ‘I’m going to enjoy living next to you.’

  ‘That would be great if you could show us where everything is. Thanks… Terry.’ I tugged my head towards the Winsfords’ place. ‘Must be cool for you, living two doors down from a golfing legend.’

  ‘Legend? That would be Greg Norman or Seve Ballesteros. Whereas this rookie…He’s done okay. Bit flash, though. But his wife’s brought a breath of fresh air to the sport. Some of her clothes are just fabulous.’ His face lit up. ‘And I’m sure I saw that pushy brunette from morning telly at their house the other day, for some sort of interview. Then there was the time Antonia… ’

  ‘Not Antonia Hamilton who won last year’s Strictly Disco?’

  He clasped his hands together. ‘Yes! She visited. I think she took time off from her tour to help choreograph Melissa’s fitness DVD. I looked through my backlog of Starchat and sure enough, they both went to school together. They’d been photographed together by the paparazzi at some school reunion.’

  ‘You keep a backlog of Starchat magazines too? My boyfriend never understood why I did that.’

  ‘Neither did Ken.’

  ‘And Infamous magazine?’

  ‘Shh! It’s our little secret! We really ought to be reading some more upmarket coffee table magazine in Harpenden.’

  I grinned again.

  ‘You’ll have to come round some time, Kimmy. Now must go. Frazzle will be wondering where I am.’ He tilted his cap. ‘Ciao, sweetie! Any problems, I’m just next door.’

  Frazzle? Was that a nickname for some new boyfriend? He paused for a few seconds to look at Mistletoe Mansion, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then changed his mind.

  Mrs Winsford! Antonia Hamilton! Living here was going to be so cool. Maybe I’d become good mates with Melissa, we’d go shopping and she’d tell me the latest gossip about her famous chums. Perhaps she’d advise me on keeping your man, and help me win back Adam.

  Humming quietly, I led Groucho up the drive, when he suddenly ground to a halt. His chocolate button eyes stared right up at the locked front left room. I followed his gaze and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. In that top window, staring straight back, appeared a…a strangely illuminated, transparent face. Every millimetre of moisture drained from my mouth and my legs felt wobbly. I squinted as it darted from side to side, my heart racing and hands feeling clammy. OMG! Not only did we live next to a celebrity – now we had our very own ghost.

  OF COURSE! The G word that Deborah had managed to hide… That red writing, under the hole-punch… The Gh must have meant… I swallowed hard: Must Love Ghosts.

  I’d always wanted to appear on Most Haunted, that programme where they investigated spooky goings-on. Now I had my own live show. Stumbling slightly, I scooped up Groucho and looked around for Terry, but there was no sight of the bright anorak. I forced myself to gaze up at the window again and jumped back – it was still there.

  ‘Cooee!’ I warbled and waved with a trembling hand. Appear friendly. Don’t show you’re scared to death (unfortunate use of words, there).

  The face stopped still for a minute then darted manically. My stomach scrunched. Perhaps I’d upset it. Who knows what other ghouls were in this place? With a deep breath, I charged towards the house. There was no time to lose. Practically wetting myself with fear or not, I had to get in the house and warn Jess.

  Chapter 7

  Go on, you beast, do your worst. Turn into some incisor-flashing, blood-drooling werewolf… Try and take a bite. I’m not scared.

  It was no good. My attempts at telepathy were useless. Groucho merely rolled onto his back, batting his chocolate button eyes for a tickle. Clearly he’d be no help fighting against some spirit risen from the dead. I was trying to convince Jess that there really was evil afoot in Mistletoe Mansion. ‘Officially nuts’ – that’s what she thought I was.

  ‘A ghost?’ she’d eventually said. ‘You’ve been watching far too much Most Haunted.’ Just because I’d tried to impress her with what I’d learnt from the show and talked of light anomalies and residual energies. But she didn’t laugh out loud until I suggested asking this astral being I’d spotted to knock three times to prove it was there.Tears had run down her face as she’d waved me out of her room. ‘It’s late,’ she’d said, and giggled. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow. And no, this isn’t Blue Peter, so I’ll decline your request to help you make a Ouija board out of cereal boxes and loo roll.’

  Still spooked, I’d then played dirty and questioned her love of a certain supernatural zombie series. She’d shaken her head. Didn’t I know those shows were fictional?

  Squinting at the shafts of morning winter sunshine, I dumped my shopping on the kitchen floor and made an extra strong coffee. Last night I’d hadn’t slept a wink, due to all my senses being on red alert, homing in on every suspicious creak or thud. Yet when Jess popped into my room before work – with my first caffeine shot of the day and with the daily to-do list Luke had mentioned (Jess had edited it of course, and written on several other things she thought were important) – we had a good laugh. Maybe she was right. The face I saw could have been the moon’s reflection. As if a cut-throat estate agent would believe in, let alone jot down notes about, ghosts.

  Not that Jess was happy when I finally told her about Deborah running after us, trying to stop our car. She worried there might be something wrong with the tyres or exhaust. Not likely. Adam gave my car a thorough check-over, once a month.

  Tucking my slightly frizzy hair behind my ears, I gazed out of the kitchen window, onto the sweeping back garden and the cloudless, crisp December sky. A smile inflated my cheeks. I had to update my Facebook status to “Kimmy Jones is…” What’s that expression? Living the life of Riley? No, living the life of Kylie, more like! After the shock of Adam dumping me, my stomach still twisted when thinking of him, but the waves of nauseous hurt were now alleviated by my belief that me helping to sell Mistletoe Mansion could bring me and Adam back togeth
er.

  It was great to be back in this bubble of luxury after my quick trip to the supermarket. I’d been tempted to drive into Harpenden and explore the upmarket food shops. But I’d found some cash for our expenses, in with the list of instructions, and it wouldn’t stretch too far. So, I’d headed to my usual store and bought the essentials (Pringles and Oreos) before buying baking ingredients and other groceries. I’d also picked up some cheap garlands of tinsel, to drape over the pictures and portraits, otherwise – my broken tree apart – no one could tell Christmas was only two weeks away. Despite the storm, my car started straightaway, after its first ever night in a garage. What fun I’d had with the remote – at the touch of a button: garage door up, garage door down.

  I finished my drink, put away the shopping and ticked off the first entry on Jess’s list (“Stock up”). What an awesome kitchen, with its pristine cupboards that opened properly and shiny worktops. And what an array of utensils, some of which looked surprisingly old. Walter must have kept more reminders of his wife than Terry knew about. There were Tupperware boxes, pastry cutters, jelly moulds, pie funnels, whisks and spatulas… Yet the inside of the double oven was spotless. After Lily’s death, Walter must have eaten out every day or nuked ready meals for one, in the microwave.

  The doorbell rang. I put away the last bottle of milk and yawned as I headed for the front door. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have slept last night anyway. Apart from the shower dripping every sixth second (I counted), the bed was well big without Adam. I’d stretched star-shaped, burped out loud, done all those things I’d fantasised about doing if I ever slept alone. But it wasn’t much fun and I felt even worse when Groucho reminded me of an amorous Adam, by waking me up with a nudge in the back (except the pointy body part Groucho used was his paw).

  The doorbell rang again and I looked at my watch – it was almost time for a sandwich. Suddenly I stopped dead. My heart raced. What if that was Melissa, inviting me around for a sushi lunch? Or maybe she just drank that maple and cayenne pepper diet formula all the celebrities swore by. She was so slim, I bet she never ate a bacon butty or double cheeseburger with extra large fries.

  I dashed into the hallway and wished there was a mirror to check my appearance. Feeling judgy, I glanced down at my legs, squished into discount skinny jeans. At least I was wearing my new black top with a silver sequinned stiletto on the front. I sucked in my stomach. What would I say? Pretend not to know her? Or gush about her talented husband?

  ‘Just coming!’ I politely called, at the last minute remembering my – what did the French call it? – pièce de résistance. I couldn’t resist buying it, whilst out at the shops. I legged it back into the kitchen and grabbed a cute pink canine sweater with glitter trim off the worktop. I tore off the tag and knelt down by Groucho’s bed. ‘Good boy,’ I said and made him stand up. Well, they didn’t have it in blue, and weren’t dogs supposed to be colour blind? Wrestling his front paws, I managed to pull it on snugly and adjust the shape. ‘Aren’t you handsome?’ I cooed. Melissa probably had a Toy Poodle or Chihuahua. ‘Naughty, don’t pull back your top lip. Pink is soooo your colour.’ Feeling like Paris Hilton or Britney, I carried him (squeezed as if my arm were a vice, to be honest). Talk about ungrateful – he did his best to tug off the new outfit.

  I opened the door to a wall of icy air and felt the smile drop from my face. ‘You again?’ Oops. That sounded a bit rude. Terry thought Luke was okay, so perhaps I should try to see his better side. It wasn’t his fault that he’d made me realise not all men were as thoughtful and considerate as Adam.

  ‘Ten out of ten.’ Luke eyed Groucho’s sweater. ‘You going to invite me in? After all, I did ring the bell this time.’

  ‘Can I ask what for?’ It’s not as if this Luke owned the place; he couldn’t just call by for no good reason.

  ‘The chandelier bulbs blew during that storm, yeah? Of course, if you’d rather fix them yourself…’

  ‘Erm, okay,’ I muttered. He was wearing those light cords again with a blue shirt, under his unzipped anorak. The skin on his chest (what little of it I could see) was tanned and his profile straight and solid. Yet he didn’t seem the gym bunny type, like Adam, whose muscular shape was well-defined. Luke bobbed out of view for a moment, and then came in carrying a step ladder and toolbox.

  ‘What’s with the jumper?’ He nodded at Groucho.

  Groucho barked and I released him to the ground. He rolled on his back, paws scrabbling at his stomach.

  ‘Think he’s trying to tell you something.’ Without asking, Luke bent down and pulled the jumper off.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Honestly, forget my good intentions. He could have at least asked first.

  ‘He’ll overheat indoors, let alone be the laughing stock.’ He ruffled Groucho’s head. ‘That better, mate?’

  Annoyingly, the little dog ruffed.

  ‘He has been taken out this morning, hasn’t he?’

  ‘There’s no need to check up on us,’ I said stiffly. ‘We found the list of instructions. It’s not rocket science.’

  ‘How about a cup of tea then, Jess?’ He leant forward towards me. Once more I smelt his musky aftershave that made the word “sex” pop into my head.

  ‘It’s Kimmy,’ I muttered.

  ‘Huh?’

  Arghhh! This man really was soooo annoying!

  ‘I might put the kettle on,’ I sniffed, ‘if you have a look at the shower in my room. It’s dripping. Or leave me a large pair of pliers and I’ll unscrew it later. I reckon the washer’s damaged.’

  He stared at me for a second. ‘No. It’s okay. I’ll take a look. Where are you sleeping?’

  ‘At the back of the house, on the left.’

  ‘Lily’s room.’ His face softened. ‘She suffered from insomnia; preferred her own space so she could do her embroidery in the night, without waking up Walter.’

  Luke must have known the Carmichaels well. He made them sound more like relatives than former employers.

  ‘Milk, no sugar, thanks Jess,’ he beamed.

  I glared, turned three sixty degrees and made my way back into the kitchen. Scraping my hair back into a ponytail, I ignored his irritating whistling. I seized some flour, sugar butter, eggs, rummaged around for a sieve and mixing bowl, then grabbed the fab silicone cupcake pan Jess had bought me for my last birthday. There was nothing better for stress than beating cake batter – apart from eating it of course, once it had been baked, iced and sprinkled. Mmm.

  Three quarters of an hour later, six naked cupcakes stood on a wire rack, almost cool and waiting to be dressed. I’d mixed the batter with a generous dollop of mincemeat and was just finishing off the brandy buttercream icing, which I piped on top. Then I delicately added a green marzipan holly leaf and red berry to each one. Just as well I’d subbed our expenses money to pay for my baking ingredients. I grinned to myself. This was the kitchen I’d always dreamed of. Film crews could tape my latest series here: Kimmy’s Sixty Minute Meals (I wasn’t as quick as Jamie Oliver).

  ‘All done,’ said a voice behind me.

  I turned around and to my annoyance my cheeks burned. He’d taken off his anorak, unbuttoned his shirt a little and had rolled up the sleeves. Determined to find a distraction from his appealingly toned skin, I focused on a scab above his eyebrow.

  ‘Um, your cup of tea, I forgot…’

  ‘Let me.’ He brushed past me to wash his hands before filling the kettle. He reached for the packet of tea bags and my eyes ran over his lean back. He was lankier than Adam; looked as if he kept himself in shape without really trying.

  ‘How’s your head?’ I said, when the drinks were ready. We sat down at the breakfast table and he helped himself to a cupcake. Deep breaths. Must be nice, because apart from anything else I wanted to quiz him and find out why some of the bedrooms – particularly the one where I’d seen the moon-face – were locked.

  ‘I’ll live.’ Luke shrugged. ‘You not having one?’

  ‘It’s lunch ti
me.’

  ‘But you might have poisoned it; perhaps you still think I’m the Harpenden Ripper.’ He took a knife out of a nearby drawer and cut the cake into four. He offered me a quarter.

  ‘Thanks.’ Why did I say that? After all, I was the host and he was the guest. Although nothing made me happier than watching someone stuff their face with my cake. It made me feel like I’d won the lottery or magically fitted into a size ten.

  ‘Not bad.’ Crumbs fell from his mouth and I felt an inexplicable urge to run my finger along his top lip, which was covered with the brandy buttercream icing. Not that there was any need as, seconds later, he slowly licked it off with his tongue. I touched my throat. No surprise that he didn’t use a napkin like Adam. Good, reliable, straightforward Adam, who knew my name was Kimmy and didn’t break into houses to cavort around with headless dummies.

  ‘Lily made amazing cakes,’ he said. ‘A rich fruity one with brandy was one of her specialities.’

  I took a bite and then another. Mmm, great, the sponge was lovely and light, despite the mincemeat. The sugar soon worked its magic and made me think that maybe Luke wasn’t so bad after all. Another bite. I mean, here we were, drinking together, making chit-chat…

  ‘Yes – I’ve heard about her secret recipe book that some of her so-called friends have been trying to get their hands on,’ I said.

  Luke picked up another quarter, leaving me the slice with the marzipan holly.

  ‘So, Miss Cake-baker, what’s the story? Why are you really here?’

  I almost choked. ‘Pardon?’

  He lolled against the back of the stool. ‘We both know you two girls aren’t housesitters.’

  ‘And what makes you say that?’ I said airily, and tried to keep my cool.

  ‘For a start, you’ve picked holly out of the garden and, along with that gaudy tinsel, decorated the house. Then I spotted a framed photo of you and some bloke out on show, in your bedroom. The first day here you’re baking and worried about a slightly dripping shower as if you hope to stay here for a long time. Then there’s that god awful dog sweater.’ He took a swig of tea. ‘You’ve even bought potpourri for the lounge. All of these things say to me that you see Mistletoe Mansion as some kind of home, rather than a job. Housesitters don’t become attached like that. They bring the minimum amount of stuff and leave half of it packed.’