Carrington's at Christmas

by Alexandra Brown

  I leg it down the hallway as my mobile buzzes with a text message from Tom, which I press to view while simultaneously kicking the bathroom door open with my good toe.

  Sorry I had to dash. Really do need to get this paperwork done See you later. Mooooo! X

  Ha-ha, in a funneee boom-boom way – he does work too hard, though, but then he’s totally focused on building the Carrington’s brand, and has already made some incredible changes since buying the majority share in the store from his aunt Camille – there’s the pet spa, the gourmet food hall down in the basement, a new cocktail bar (installed specifically to attract the glamouratti instore from the new Mulberry Marina), the roof top ice-rink, the glitzy Cartier boutique and there’s even a staff crèche now, so everyone’s a winner, which reminds me, I must call Sam. She’s my best friend and her adorable twin girls; Holly and Ivy (yes they were conceived at Christmas time) play in the crèche while Sam creates truly scrumptious comfort food and bakes delicious cakes in her café, Cupcakes At Carrington’s, up on the fifth floor. Sam also owns the freehold for the Carrington’s building, so she’s invited to the party too. Her wonderful dad, Alfie Palmer, the charismatic and incredibly wealthy owner of Palmer Estates, one of the biggest estate agencies in the country, died last year, leaving his vast fortune to Sam. And we’ve known each other since boarding school days – before I got thrown out because Dad had gambled everything away and couldn’t pay the fees. So I was billeted back home on the first train and then slapped around for talking posh in the local school playground by the following Monday morning.

  I promised to call Sam for a pre-soirée briefing before arriving on board. And I never go back on a promise, even if I am tight for time.

  ‘Hey you. How was last night?’ Sam says after the first ring.

  ‘Sizzling as always,’ I smile. ‘But how are you?’ I quickly add, knowing how she’s been feeling really jaded recently.

  ‘Exhausted. Ivy was screeching at three o’clock this morning, which then set Holly off. And then my darling husband, Nathan, couldn’t get back to sleep so started rattling on about a client that he’s been having problems with … Like I’m interested in all his legal work stuff at four in the bloody morning!’ She lets out a big puff of air.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I reply diplomatically.

  ‘Never mind. I’m not complaining. Well, I guess I am a bit,’ she quickly adds. ‘But it’s just what babies do. And lawyer husbands, I guess … So, tell me about the sex. Remind me, please, what it’s like to have a whole night of bacchanalian bliss without the tandem wailing of year-old twins as an immediate passion killer, because I can’t even remember my last time.’ She does a feeble laugh. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’d literally die for my girls, but it would be sooooo nice to have just one whole night off – to drink champagne, share a bath and have wild uninterrupted multiple orgasms courtesy of my own husband. Just like before. You know how much I love sex … does that make me a bad mother?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m not an expert – hell, I’m not even a parent, so what do I know about mummies and their orgasms, but aren’t there places that use sleep deprivation as a preferred method of torture?’

  ‘Ha! Yes, very good point. Nathan reckons we should get a nanny. A team of six, to work eight-hour shifts ensuring twenty-four-hour cover for each twin.’ She heaves another weary sigh. ‘He’s practically dead on his feet at work each day – me too, I’m so exhausted, I feel like I’m wading through treacle most of the time. And I’m making mistakes – baked a whole batch of lemon drizzle cupcakes yesterday and totally forgot the crucial ingredient, the actual lemon juice!’

  ‘Oh no!’ Sam’s lemon drizzle cupcakes are legendary; shoppers come from all over Mulberry-On-Sea to devour them. She’s even had phone orders from people who’ve moved away but just can’t live without them.

  ‘Yep, we’ve tried the whole taking-it-in-turns thing to stagger out of bed, which never works as we both still end up wide awake in the middle of the night, and then start bickering over the duvet and whatever other trivial things our addled brains have suddenly elevated to paramount importance. But an actual nanny? I’m just not sure.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Hmm, well, it just seems so grown up, somehow. And I’d feel a bit guilty, I guess. I’ve overheard the stay-at-home yummy mummies in the café bitching about the “lazy women with help” and, “why did they bother having children if they were just going to give them to someone else to look after?”’

  ‘Oooh, harsh,’ I tut.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean you have to be superwoman. Sam, you can’t do it all – run the café, oversee Alfie’s estate with all those meetings up in London, not to mention the management of the Carrington’s freehold, and still find time to be Mary Poppins. For the sake of your orgasms you must say no!’ I laugh to lighten the mood.

  ‘Don’t you mean yes yes yes?’ Sam laughs too, not missing a beat.

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Do you think Mary Poppins had orgasms?’

  ‘Stop it! There’s no place inside my head for that image.’

  ‘Hmm, on second thoughts, you’re right.’ And Sam makes a bleeeeugh sound down the phone.

  ‘Besides, you’re already a fantastic mother just the way you are. You really are. So you must do whatever works best for you and ignore the opinions, because everyone has one, but they’re just that … opinions!’ I say gently, wondering where the old Sam went – she would never have been bothered by a bit of gossip; she’s always been so self-assured and confident. Blimey, she’s put me right on many occasions, but now it seems to be the other way around, which is OK – of course I’ll champion her as best I can – but I’d much sooner see Sam happy. And by the sounds of it, this really doesn’t seem to be the case.

  ‘I know. And you’re right, of course. But then my own mother couldn’t be bothered with me, remember? So I don’t ever want the girls to feel the way I did, and still do sometimes …’ Her voice trails off.

  ‘Oh Sam, that will never happen. You’re not Christy …’

  At boarding school, Sam and I had shared a bedroom, and she’d lie awake at night wondering about her mum, Christy, an interior designer who ran off to LA with a famous rock star client when Sam was only five years old. I used to try to comfort her by sharing sweets and whispering bedtime stories about princesses in castles, and even though Sam hasn’t mentioned Christy for years until now, I think she still struggles to understand why she left. And even more so since becoming a mother herself, but then who can blame her? Christy literally did a moonlight flit. There at bedtime and gone by breakfast, and that’s tough, especially when all you have is a bag of Haribo Strawbs and the vivid imagination of a nine-year-old friend to comfort you.

  ‘True … but my brain is so addled from lack of sleep, it’s affecting everything, and it’s just sooooo not like me,’ she replies.

  ‘Of course it isn’t, you’ve always been the most positive, upbeat person I know. Tell you what, why don’t I babysit for a weekend or something? You and Nathan could stay in a hotel overnight, get some rest, chat, have loads of sex – do whatever you like, it would be just like the old days,’ I say impulsively, instantly pushing away the panicky feeling that follows – I’m sure it can’t be that hard to look after two tiny babies for an evening. Heeeelp!

  ‘Would you really do that?’ Sam perks up.

  ‘Sure, that’s what best friends are for. I’m just sorry I didn’t think to offer before now.’ I know Nancy will jump at the chance to lend a hand should I need it. She adores children and really cannot wait to be a grandmother; she even asked me one time if Tom and I had chatted about all that yet. I didn’t have the heart to tell her we haven’t – that our time together is spent mostly in bed, or across my kitchen table or in the shower, or the hallway, and my sofa has certainly seen a lot of action too – and that I’m just not interested in having babies, to be honest. No wild urge to procreate. That biological thing I h
ear so much about hasn’t kicked in for me yet. Maybe it never will.

  ‘Well, that would be brilliant. I’ll chat to Nathan about it. It might put him off the nanny idea for a while longer.’

  ‘Are you really that against it, then?’

  ‘Hmm, I can’t help wondering – what if she tries it on with him and they end up having a steamy affair? I know it’s a cliché, but you hear about that kind of thing all the time, and the way I feel at the moment, I’m not entirely sure I’d have the energy to confront them, let alone slap her before chucking them both out,’ she laughs wryly.

  ‘Don’t be daft. Nathan adores you, so that would never happen. Besides, you could get a manny …’

  ‘A male nanny! Yes, now that’s a good idea. Like a fit pool boy … But with childcare qualifications obviously,’ Sam confirms, sounding a whole lot perkier, and more like her old self now.

  ‘Yes, something like that.’ I smile.

  ‘You could help me with interviews?’

  ‘Of course I could.’

  ‘Wonder if I could get away with issuing a uniform – tiny running shorts, perhaps? Perfectly reasonable, seeing as they would definitely be doing lots of running around, the twins will make sure of it.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, enough of this manny talk – more importantly, what are you wearing to the soirée? Indulge me with a few minutes of adult chat about frivolous things like dresses and shoes, instead of eco-friendly reusable nappies because, to be honest, I couldn’t give a shit … oops, no pun intended,’ we both snigger, ‘what little Luella wears on her backside.’

  ‘Who’s Luella?’

  ‘Oh, just another overheard conversation in the café – a group of eco-mummies were having a nappycino —’

  ‘A whaaaat?’ I yell, wondering if a bonkers barista somewhere has come up with yet another kind of hot beverage. Hmm, skinny soya nappycino to go – sure doesn’t sound very appetising.

  ‘Well, it’s not an actual coffee.’ Oh that’s a relief. ‘But from what I can gather, it’s some kind of get-together to chat about nappies. I didn’t join in or anything – was too busy working.’

  ‘Of course you were,’ I offer in solidarity.

  ‘Anyway, it got me all edgy about my seemingly indulgent use of disposables, but I can’t get my head around having buckets full of pooey nappies all over the place, waiting for the recycling van. Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough!’ Sam laughs, but I’m sure I detect an edge in her voice. ‘Sooo, your outfit? I bet it’s gorge.’

  ‘It is,’ I confirm quickly, sensing she’s keen to change the subject. ‘I’m going with that new butterfly print silk maxi-dress that I bought in the Womenswear sale – beautiful, and such a bargain with my staff discount.’

  ‘Lovely. And shoes?’

  ‘I was thinking the silver strappy Laurent sandals.’

  ‘Oh yes! Divine and very super-yacht yah-yah,’ she says in an exaggerated plummy accent.

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘With a bit of luck, something baby-gunge free.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, you always look amazing.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, and you always cheer me up.’ A short silence follows. ‘Oh for crying out loud – Jeeeeeeesus. I don’t believe this … Nathaaaaaaan, where the hell are you?’ My stomach tightens. What on earth has happened? Something catastrophic, by the sounds of it. I hold my breath. ‘Gotta go – Ivy has just tipped raspberry yogurt over Holly’s head.’

  And the line goes dead. I sigh with relief.

  Stowing my mobile on the bathroom shelf above the mirror, I flick the shower on and select my favourite body wash – Soap & Glory Sugar Crush. Sam has always wanted a big family full of children, and I’m thrilled that she has the twins, and she really does do a fantastic job all round, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for all that just yet.

  As the warm water saturates my hair and cascades down my back, I can’t help thinking how wonderful my life is right now, just the way it is – why change it? When I have a job that I adore – two, in fact, plus fab friends, money in the bank, and a cosy, secure home of my own. Dad is back in my life, with Nancy now too, and we’re getting on really well – the three of us are close, loving and supportive, like a proper family should be, and I have a brilliant boyfriend who loves me, and I love him. (I make a mental note to make sure we find the time for us to talk about living together; perhaps he could move in with me? Now there’s a thought … My flat may be small but it’s much more of a proper home than his sterile new-build apartment.) And I honestly can’t remember ever having all these wonderful things, together, at the same time … It’s perfect. And I truly hope it stays this way forever because it’s been a long time coming, but so very worth the wait.

  3

  Taking Tom’s hand, I carefully step onto the narrow wooden gangway and through a twink-ling fairy-light-studded voile tunnel, arriving in a Maplewood-panelled stateroom swathed in streams of silver satin with opulent mountains of fruit – grapes, plums, pineapples and pears – all piled high in pewter platters set on head-height pillars. There’s even a ceiling curtain cascading from the enormous central chandelier. A string quartet is playing Mozart in one corner, and a group of waiters – who surely must be Ralph Lauren models, they’re that fit – are loading up silver trays with canapés in the other.

  The whole yacht looks like an Italian Renaissance painting. On one wall, there’s even a giant mural of Botticelli’s The Birth Of Venus – I know, because I read up when Tom and I first got together. He’s a talented artist in his spare time, and I wanted to appear cultured and educated, show an interest in his passion for painting. And I can see where he gets it from now; I imagine he grew up surrounded by this stuff – a million miles away from the Take That poster I had pinned to the space beside my bed.

  ‘Ciao, mio bel figlio. Tom, daaahling, you made it!’ It’s Isabella, looking resplendent in a floor-grazing lemon lace Givenchy gown. And blimey, she’s even wearing a jewelled tiara on top of her immaculately coiffed jet-black hair. She loops her arm through Tom’s and immediately steers him away from me. I smile as he glances over his shoulder to mouth ‘sorry’ when Isabella refuses to let him go. She’s definitely not taking no for an answer; even when he tactfully tries to release his arm from her grasp, she grabs his hand instead and practically catapults him towards her guests. Poor Tom. He hates being cantered out like some kind of show pony.

  ‘What’s she come as? Queen of fucking everything!’

  An arm circles my waist. I spin around – I’d recognise that outrageously acerbic voice anywhere.

  Eddie!

  Oh my God. We chat on the phone and Twitter all the time, but I haven’t actually seen Eddie, physically, in ages, and now he’s here, standing right in front of me and looking more like a superstar than ever. His dapper blond hair is now all messy quiff, and he’s wearing an exquisitely tailored charcoal grey Tom Ford suit. And on closer inspection he’s had a little lifting work around his sparkly blue-green eyes and his brows have definitely been manscaped. He looks fantastic. Flawless. And smells divine, too, of tropical summer holidays – coconut and citrus.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I fling my arms around his neck and squeeze him tight. ‘God I’ve missed you. I thought you were in LA.’ Eddie is my other best friend and used to work at Carrington’s as Tom’s BA, or boy assistant – that was before he was ‘discovered’ on Kelly’s TV show and practically became a superstar overnight. He has his own chat show with a Saturday night primetime slot, and a reality series called Eddie: I Do It My Way, and lives between his villa in the Hollywood hills and a penthouse apartment overlooking Mulberry Marina. And he’s actually stayed at Simon Cowell’s house in America, as Simon’s personal guest! Doesn’t get much starrier than that.

  ‘Tom invited me – as a nice surprise for you,’ Eddie says, as we pull apart.

  ‘Aw, how lovely. He’s so thoughtful,’ I beam.

  ‘Ooh, he is – the quintessential gentleman. Delish too. Not as beautiful as
my Ciaran, mind you, but still, a very close second.’ He nudges me.

  ‘How is Ciaran? Is he here?’ I scan the deck.

  ‘No, he’s looking after Pussy – you know what a diva that dog is, hates travelling and refuses to go in a crate, so Ciaran’s flown straight back to LA with her on his lap after she created the most almighty fuss when Claire dared to go near her.’ I laugh and shake my head. Pussy is Eddie’s fluffy white bichon frise, and thoroughly spoilt, so it’s hardly surprising. Claire is Eddie’s manager, Peter André’s too.

  ‘Straight back? What do you mean?’

  ‘Only a fleeting visit, petal. Filming starts on my second series tomorrow. We were in Ireland yesterday, at some windswept tiny town that time forgot …’ He rolls his eyes. ‘For Ciaran’s cousin’s wedding – Sinéad, Shona, Sorcha; something like that, anyway … I forget which one, he has that many … and I wasn’t even drinking.’ He waves a dismissive hand in the air and I smile, thinking, same old Eddie, as grandiose as ever, fame really hasn’t changed him one bit; he must be the only person I know who can go to a wedding and then claim not even to know the bride’s name the very next day. ‘Yes, it was a last-minute decision – we weren’t going to bother after the way his family shunned him when he finally leapt out of the closet. Anyone would think he’d tried to poke the Pope, the way they all carried on.’ Eddie pauses to pull a face while I wonder if perhaps it was just that they were a bit shocked. I mean, Ciaran did actually come out at his own wedding, to a woman, after all. It was all annulled quite swiftly, but still, his mother is practically on first-name terms with the Pope, so I can’t imagine it was easy for her. ‘But you know how Ciaran is for all that family stuff, and then when his Catholic guilt kicked in, I just couldn’t bear watching him perched on the proverbial spike doing all that hand-wringing, so we dashed to the airport and managed to get last-minute flights. Plus I needed to check on the apartment and then remembered Tom’s invite, so I thought, why not pop in and see my most fabulous bestie in the whole wide world. So, surprise surprise!’ Eddie bats a hand in the air. ‘But I haven’t got long, I have to check in for the return flight in like …’ he pulls back a sleeve to glance at his watch, ‘an hour!’