The Christmas Party

by Karen Swan

  ‘Absolutely, you must rest,’ she said, jumping up and setting down her cup. She’d kept him talking too long. In her rush to be hospitable, she’d forgotten he was a recuperating patient. ‘Here, let me help you get up.’

  She put one of his arms around her shoulders again and tried not to groan as his entire body weight had to be spread between his one good leg and her two, as she lifted him to standing. ‘There.’ She handed him the crutches. ‘I’ve . . . put some fresh towels out for you and a blanket on the chair in case it’s cold. It can get chilly here, but hopefully it won’t be.’

  He regarded her with his impenetrable gaze and nodded. ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Do you need any help getting—’

  ‘I can take it from here. But thanks.’

  She watched as he hobbled into the bedroom, his gaze meeting hers for just a second as he closed the door behind him. She swallowed, feeling her nerves come down a little, and walked over to the window – the windsurfer was still out there, criss-crossing the bay in sharp angles.

  That had gone well, she thought, crossing her arms over her chest and gripping them tightly. Conversation had been easy; he was clearly a driven and complicated man which, even if it didn’t make him the most happy-go-lucky company, at least meant he was interesting.

  She took the cups back into the kitchen and washed them up, something catching her eye in the corner of the window. She stared out at the little red tent, still flapping in the breeze at the back of the garden. It had been there for five days now and every sighting of it filled her with guilt and shame for how she’d behaved, her fit of pique for missing an opportunity with Bertie snowballing exponentially into near-tragedy.

  She hurried into the garden and began unpacking the tent. There wasn’t much to move anyway – a duffel bag with a fresh shirt and tie, clean boxers and socks, toiletries; his suit in the zipped-up suit bag and his sleeping bag. She rolled it up efficiently and brought everything into the house, returning a moment later to take down the tent; it wasn’t raining for once; everything was dry. There was no better time to take it down and she couldn’t cope with being reminded of how poorly she’d behaved every time she washed the dishes. She needed it gone.

  She stuck her head in to check everything was cleared and went to zip down the door when she noticed something, a photograph, on the groundsheet; it must have been under the sleeping bag. Crawling in, she reached for it and stared at the image of the brunette. She was as glossy and scary-looking as Ottie expected a Manhattanite to be: perfectly blow-dried hair, lipsticked lips, gym-honed arms, direct gaze. It looked like a headshot for a fancy lawyer’s website.

  Wife? Fiancée? Girlfriend? Whatever, she looked right for him. Serious. High-flying. Ballsy. Tough. Seriously tough given she seemingly hadn’t called him once since his accident, much less come over to see him.

  Ottie slipped the photograph into her jeans pocket and backed out of the tent, zipping down the door and unhooking the guy ropes. She watched as the red tent collapsed in on itself like a lowered mainsail, pushing out the air and folding it in down in ever-decreasing squares. She had dismantled enough tents in her time to do it blindfolded – Pip had once commented she was like a soldier able to strip down a rifle – but as she hugged and folded the neat parcel to her chest, ready to go back inside again, she saw there was a yellow patch of grass left on the lawn now, like a little scar in her garden to remind her exactly of what she had done.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Jeesht, what the hell is going on?’ Pip exclaimed, jumping out of her Land Cruiser in such a hurry, she left the driver’s door open.

  Willow looked up from her conversation with a man in a navy boilersuit. They both had clipboards and were looking very officious. ‘Oh, Pip, hi.’

  ‘Hi, yourself. What’s going on?’ she asked, crossing the drive in short indignant strides, dried mud flying off her boots, as two men struggled past her carrying the pocketed pale-blue damask chaise from the breakfast room. There were five enormous lorries parked at matching angles, dozens of removal men hurrying to and from the castle, her family’s treasures in their hands. ‘I thought you said Christie’s couldn’t do the contents sale till after Christmas?’

  ‘I’ll come and find you in a bit, Harry,’ Willow said to her companion before looking over at her. ‘That’s right. But everything’s being put into storage until then.’

  ‘Why?’ Pip asked, coughing lightly into her fist and frowning as their grandmother’s dressing table was carried past them.

  ‘An opportunity came up that I couldn’t turn down,’ Willow replied, her eyes on the table as it was carried into the truck and fastened with ropes tied to the sides.

  ‘What kind of opportunity?’ Pip asked suspiciously.

  She bit her lip. ‘A private members’ club has hired out the castle for their Christmas pop-up event.’

  Pip stared at her in bewilderment. ‘Huh?’

  ‘It’s a big glorified Christmas house party basically. They’re taking over the entire place the weekend before Christmas and installing all their own staff. All we’ve got to do is give them a blank canvas to work with.’

  ‘All?’ Pip laughed. ‘Like that’s no tall order!’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Willow said with a groan as the kitchen table was carried past. ‘Uh, Dower House for that, please!’

  ‘But . . . a weekend hire? I thought you were selling the place. Does this mean you might be having second th—’

  ‘No. We still need to sell,’ she said quickly.

  Pip stared at her.

  ‘And don’t look at me like that,’ Willow said quietly, not returning her stare. ‘You know there’s nothing else I can do. We have to sell and that’s all there is to it.’

  Pip knew it was true. In spite of his best intentions, their father had left it to his youngest daughter to do what he could not – cut the cord and sever the link with his family’s past. They both watched in silence as the grandfather clock was carried out feet first, its reassuring tick temporarily stilled. The sunlight glanced off the brass pendulum and it occurred to Pip that many of these items hadn’t been moved, much less reacquainted with fresh air and the elements, for tens, if not hundreds, of years. It was a serene day today, the sun mild and low in the pale sky, winter birds pitching through the cold air. Blessedly, there was almost no wind at all, which was just as well seeing as she’d forgotten her jacket.

  Pip shook her head, hardly able to believe her own eyes, as the contents kept on coming, their home being dismantled one piece at a time, like a woollen blanket being unravelled stitch by stitch, Willow pulling on a thread. Part of Pip had always felt like the place might fall down without the Lornes in it, like the ravens in London’s Tower but she was the one who felt weak-kneed by the sight. ‘How’s Mam taking it?’

  Willow cleared her throat, looking suddenly stiff. ‘Much as you’d expect. She left before the first truck came this morning. She’s gone to Shula’s for the day.’

  Pip rolled her eyes. That wasn’t a surprise. ‘Probably best. This is all going to be way too much too soon for her.’

  Willow wheeled around to face her, a sudden flush spreading over her cheeks and down her neck. ‘Look, Pip, you’ve got your place, okay?’ she cried. ‘You’ve got your land and your stables and your flat and your horses. You’re sorted! Dad kept things easy for you! He wasn’t quite as kind to me, quelle surprise! I didn’t ask for this!’

  Willow looked away as Pip stared at her in shock, seeing how her lips were pulled thin, angry tears shining at her eyes. It was clear she was right at the edge of her emotions. She never raised her voice. Chill Will they’d always called her as kids. ‘Will—’

  ‘Just forget it,’ she snapped, folding her arms over her chest.

  ‘Will,’ Pip said more quietly, putting a hand on her arm and feeling how she trembled. ‘Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it worse for you. I know you’re doing the best you can. And you’re right, this is a shi
tstorm for you to sort out. I don’t know why Dad left it all for you either. It mega sucks.’

  Willow didn’t reply but an eyebrow kinked slightly at the teenage language they had revelled in ten years earlier.

  ‘. . . So where are you both going to stay while the party’s on?’ Pip asked more gently.

  ‘The Dower House,’ Willow replied after a moment. ‘It’s Mam’s now, whether she acknowledges it or not; she’s going to have to go there sooner or later. She point-blank refused to help so last night I went round putting red stickers on all the things I thought she’d definitely want to have with her there and then I started packing.’

  ‘Jeesht. Fun night.’

  ‘Got it in one,’ Willow murmured, hugging her arms tightly around her torso.

  Pip squinted at her sister, taking in her drawn pallor. ‘Have you slept?’

  ‘About three hours.’

  ‘Will, that’s not enough.’

  ‘Says you. You look like the walking dead too.’

  Pip cracked a relieved grin. Insults were always a good sign with the Lorne sisters. ‘Thanks. Did a little shading under the cheekbones this morning. A bit of contouring under the eyes to really bring out the bags, you know?’

  Willow gave a small chuckle in spite of herself. Pip had never knowingly worn make-up in her life; tinted lip balm at a cousin’s wedding once was as good as it got. She sighed, relaxing again. ‘I’ll sleep at the weekend. Right now, I’ve just got to push on through. Soonest dealt with, soonest done. The first truck’s already down at the Dower House unloading the first batch of furniture. I’m heading over later to unpack.’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  ‘No. You need to rest.’

  ‘Unpacking boxes is not arduous work. I’ll sit down while I’m doing it if you like.’

  ‘Ugh, fine,’ Willow groaned. Pip knew it was easier for her to give in than argue.

  ‘So how long is it going to take them to empty this place?’

  ‘A few days, they reckon. They’ll be done by Friday.’

  ‘I don’t understand how you got them all here so quickly,’ Pip said, watching a sixteenth-century mahogany four-poster come out in various separate pieces.

  ‘Christie’s sorted it. They were here sorting through stuff for the estate sale anyway so I had a word with them and they’re going to take it all back to their warehouses and just go through it there. They’ve got proper lights and humidity levels sorted so it’s probably better for them anyway.’

  Pip glanced at her sister. ‘And does Ottie know about this?’

  Willow hugged her arms around herself – a defensive gesture as much as a warming one. ‘I rang and left a message for her the other day, asking whether she wanted the harp or any other bits but she hasn’t returned my call. And she’s not been up here for days. Apart from at the hospital, I’ve not seen her at all. She’s still avoiding me.’

  ‘Jeesht, you think everyone’s avoiding you!’ Pip replied.

  ‘Because they are.’

  ‘You’re paranoid.’

  Willow turned to face her. ‘Am I? It should have been her who got this place, Pip, not me, and we all know it.’

  Pip didn’t reply immediately. What could she say? Her little sister was right. Things shouldn’t have turned out this way. Their father had done more damage than he could have anticipated with that will. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve only seen her ‘cos I popped in on Monday – helped her with the post-race tidy-up. You should have seen it – protein bars, avocado nuts, thermal foils, lentils fricking everywhere.’

  ‘Pip, you’re supposed to be resting, not tidying up campsites!’ Willow said exasperatedly. ‘It’s doctor’s orders.’

  Pip tutted. ‘What else was I going to do? I can’t sit on that sofa all day and I’ve no more bookings till after Christmas now; it’s the dead zone for me. No one wants to trek when the Wild Atlantic Way’s really wild.’ Shalimar’s magnificent image flashed in front of her eyes again, hitting her like a punch to the stomach. What was she doing now? Did she understand what had happened – that the days were passing and she wasn’t going to go back to Lorne? Not ever?

  ‘You are a nightmare,’ Willow muttered.

  Pip shrugged and looked around them, watching the men scurrying like ants. No one was standing around taking a break, drinking coffee, having a smoke . . . This was industry in action. ‘So what happens when the place is empty? They putting up balloons?’

  ‘Ha! Not before the club sends in its SWAT teams.’

  ‘Its what now?’

  ‘Tradesmen. Decorators . . . They’re stripping back the place. Making it “breathe” again, apparently.’

  ‘What? You’re letting them change things?’ Pip was scandalized.

  ‘I’d let them cover it in feathers, what they’re paying us for it.’

  ‘Us?’ Pip asked sardonically.

  Willow tutted, ignoring the jibe. ‘That’s not the pertinent bit. It’s all got to be up and running by next weekend.’

  Pip looked at her sister as if she was febrile. ‘There is no way that castle is going to be emptied, redecorated and refurb’d by a week Saturday!’

  ‘I know, it’s tight.’

  ‘Tighter than Kim Kardashian’s jeans!’

  Willow shrugged, unperturbed. ‘Well, apparently they’ve got all their own in-house people. They’ve got furniture stock in storage and can turn things around quickly.’

  ‘. . . You seem very relaxed about it all.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not my problem – it’s their deadline to make. We just need to ship out.’

  Pip nibbled her lip as she watched her childhood home be dismantled bit by bit. ‘Well, looking on the bright side, I guess it’s two fingers up to that bloke too.’

  ‘Which bloke?’

  ‘The pretty one who tried to stiff Dad.’

  Willow’s mouth opened, but for a moment, nothing came out. ‘The one who saved your life, you mean?’ she said finally.

  Pip gave a groan. ‘Touché.’ She looked across at Willow but her face was pinched and pale, the stresses clearly weighing on her. ‘Hey, you okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ But she looked as stiff as a steel rod.

  Pip jumped into action suddenly. ‘Oh, wait, no, not that!’ she cried running towards one of the men carrying a box and taking it off him, leaving the poor guy looking bewildered. She held up the kettle triumphantly. ‘This doesn’t leave until we do!’ she cried. ‘First in, last out!’

  After a moment, Willow came to, realizing her point. ‘I take it you’d like a coffee then?’

  ‘Damn right I would. Hey, mister . . .’ Pip cried, running after the removal man heading back into the castle. ‘What did you do with the biscuits?’

  It had been an exhausting day. Willow sat at the window seat on the landing and stared vacantly over the neglected garden, trying not to notice the thick spiders’ webs in every corner. Somewhere down there was a moss-covered statue of Artemis, the goddess of wild animals, but it was almost impossible to see under the thick tangle of brambles that had grown steadily over her.

  Absent-mindedly, she massaged the soles of her feet; they actually burned from all the running around she’d done. She figured she must have covered well over twenty miles today, haring up and down the stairs at the castle, directing the removals men on what went where, making cups of tea, going through final queries with Christie’s, and then when everyone else had clocked off for the day, dashing over here to make a start on unpacking again.

  Pip had come back here as promised after she’d nipped back to the stables to feed and rug-up the horses, and together they’d found the linen and made up two of the beds, decanted all the food into the larder and fridge, plumbed in the washing machine and somehow set the antenna to the right direction for the TV. Willow had even carefully set out her mother’s travel clock and personal belongings on her bedside table, down to filling her water glass and leaving her book open on the correct page – giving the impression that s
he had merely stepped out of her bedroom momentarily, rather than it be moved half a mile away.

  That would have to do for tonight. Dozens of boxes were still piled in high towers around the house but it would take days to go through them all and decide what would go where. There was no doubt they were also going to have to ruthlessly edit what stayed. It was going to be a big ask getting her mother to curate her lifetime belongings down to only what could fit here. Not that her mother was speaking to her right now. Willow had been obliged to tell her the new, very urgent plans when she had come in yesterday – buoyed up from her wreath-making course, it had been like taking the proverbial sweets from a child; she had retreated to her room again for the rest of the day, refusing entry even to Mrs Mac. Willow had red-dotted everything she thought her mother would want to have around her at the Dower House, but her heart had dived to see her father’s clothes on their hangers here, the only thing her mother had stipulated herself before she’d left, ready to be put back out in the wardrobes again.

  Mrs Mac had come over late afternoon, piling the contents of the freezer from the castle into the boot of her old Corsa and transferring everything to the box freezer the delivery men had brought down. She had thawed a casserole, ready for them to throw in the dismal little oven – she missed their sunny Aga already – but Willow wasn’t sure she had the energy to eat and there was no one to insist upon it; after all her exertions, her mother had telephoned from the Flanagans’ an hour ago, letting her know they’d ‘insisted’ she stay for the night. Willow supposed she really ought not have been surprised.

  She closed her eyes, wondering if she could just sleep here in this nook, her legs tucked under, her head resting against the deep stone reveal. But there was a chill coming off the single-glazed windows and reluctantly she made herself stir. She should check the central heating system worked before she went to bed or she might freeze in the night. The temperatures were plunging – something about an Arctic front coming in, Pip had said, hence the need for double rugs on the horses.