Under The Mistletoe

‘We’re not the press. I’m Luke. Last month I unblocked your upstairs loo, as a favour to Mr Winsford. He saw me mending Mr Carmichael’s roof.’

‘How nice for you, darling.’ She stopped posing, whilst I chuckled as she visibly shuddered at his cords. If only I’d thought to grab Groucho, complete with his new glitter-trimmed sweater. ‘Are you the cleaner?’ she asked me. ‘I’d have thought they’d have sold this place by now.’

‘No, I’m…’ My cheeks flamed up and I felt toasty warm, despite being out in the arctic air without a coat. What was my name, again? Deep breath, in and out… Pull yourself together. ‘I’m Kimmy. The housesitter. Can I just say, what a fan I am, Melissa? Is it okay to call you that? I follow all your fashion tips in Starchat. Did…’

She held up a hand. ‘Cute. Drop by my place later; the housekeeper will give you a signed photo.’

‘We thought you were in trouble,’ said Luke, a long blade of grass now in between his teeth. ‘Obviously we needn’t have bothered dropping everything to run to your side.’

She fished in her handbag and pulled out a crisp twenty pound note. ‘That’s for your time.’ Luke shook his head and, whistling, strode back up the drive. ‘Is he gay?’ she whispered. ‘He’s certainly got the body for it. And with some top products he could have great hair. Although his whistling would give me a headache… Why can’t he just wear an iPod like any normal person?’ She passed me the twenty, instead. ‘You take it.’

‘Um, thanks!’ I just couldn’t turn down the chance to hold a banknote that had once belonged to someone famous.

Melissa still wore her glasses. Maybe her eyes were red and swollen. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I asked softly. ‘That phone call… I couldn’t help hearing…’

She removed her glasses. Were those false eyelashes? And tattooed eyebrows were so cool.

‘Have you ever been let down badly, Kimmy?’

‘Yes, there was that time–’

‘Hurts, doesn’t it,’ she continued. ‘It was going to be one of the most important days of my life.’

‘What was? I hid my hands behind my back, wishing I’d redone the nail varnish before breakfast.

‘I’m having a little get-together this week, for some of the golf wives from the local club. Nothing flash – not like the parties I have with the national birdies. But still – I want to make an effort. Jonny and I have lived here for over a year now, and… I don’t feel like I know them much at all.’ Her smile nearly blinded me as the winter sun caught her Osmond white teeth. ‘Not that I’m bothered, you understand, I’m a busy woman.But the golf on a local level, the social life, it’s still important to Jonny…’

Really? If the tabloids were right, her husband spent most of his time abroad, or in Woburn or London. Perhaps she got lonely out here in the sticks, where the theatre was hardly West End and the common was no Hyde Park. Although Harpenden was only half an hour away on the train from the capital, not that I expect she ever took public transport.

‘I’ve pretended it’s a fundraiser,’ she continued, ‘told them to bring their cheque books. But the real reason, the real surprise…’ She clapped her hands. ‘I’ve arranged for them to all have Botox! A few injections and I’ll be their new best friend.’

‘But I thought you hadn’t had anything done… In all your interviews you say…’

She gave a bright laugh. ‘Some of these ladies are older than me – it’s a favour to them. It goes without saying, I don’t need it yet.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Okay, maybe I’ve had it done once,’ she said and gave another small laugh, ‘as an experiment, nothing more.’

But she’d only just turned thirty! I gazed at her rosebud lips. Maybe she also had fillers and collagen; perhaps dermabrasion or a chemical peel. I studied her face with interest. Reading the gossip magazines practically qualified me to carry out most procedures.

According to Infamous, the top players’ wives didn’t approve of her glamour. She’d only met Jonny a couple of years ago, and they still thought her under their league. Clearly they didn’t know class when they saw it. You only had to flick through the magazine spreads of the Winsfords’ wedding to see that Melissa had good taste. It had taken place right at the beginning of December and was Christmas themed. Melissa wore mini-bauble earrings and a dress trimmed with fur. The vicar let them spray the length of the aisle with fake snow. At the reception there was a whole turkey on each table, with crackers. As for the cake, it was an almost life-sized chocolate Christmas log, decorated with fake robins. Perfect.

‘Has the doctor let you down, then?’ I asked. Perhaps she’d booked some dodgy East European medic you see on those documentaries called things like “Plastic Surgery Holidays from Hell: How My Nipples Fell Off”.

‘Doctor? No, my lovely nail lady, Sandra, is doing it.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t know what I’d do without that women, she’s more like a counsellor, the problems she’s helped me talk through whilst she’s filed and buffed. Anyway, no, it’s far worse than that. The top-notch catering I’d ordered – a small exclusive company run by a chef who used to work at Claridge’s… He’s pulled out.’

‘Oh.’ Naughty of me, wasn’t it, to feel disappointed that her upset wasn’t caused by a more sensational story? But I was used to her living her life in the headlines. I wanted the excitement of affairs, drug problems, surgery gone wrong or – every girl’s nightmare – cellulite, weight gain and spots. ‘That’s bad luck,’ I said and tried to sound sympathetic. Adam would have told her to get a life and do the cooking herself.

Melissa shook her head. ‘People nowadays, it’s all me, me, me. Just because his mother died suddenly last night. I mean, I’m only asking for one afternoon out of the week.’

Footsteps approached and Luke walked past with his toolbox whilst I digested her news. Er, she did sound just a bit insensitive. I squirmed, trying to ignore the possibility that one of my favourite celebrities wasn’t perfect after all.

Melissa scrolled through the contacts on her phone. ‘There’s no way I’m cancelling. It took me long enough to get some of those wrinklies to agree to come.’ She caught my eye and gave a nervous giggle. ‘I mean, those lovely ladies are so busy with their charity work and families, they don’t have time to look after themselves properly,’ cooed her velvet tones. ‘I was thrilled to finally find a date they could all make. I’m trying to move them into the twenty-first century and make them more on trend.

On trend. I loved that expression. Yet if I used it I’d sound like Eliza Doolittle trying her luck at being the Speaking Clock.

‘God knows it took long enough to get the national birdies to wear matching jackets, like the Americans,’ continued Melissa. She sighed. ‘The Ryder Cup will be here before I know it. I’ll have to start my pre-tournament diet. You know, the last fancy lunch I went to was at the house of the team’s brightest new player, Jason Lafont. His wife…’

‘Alexandra?’ I’d seen her in one of those more traditional magazines full of recipes, short stories and adverts for clothes with elasticated waists. Mrs Lafont was a more natural version of Melissa, with strawberry blonde waves and natural curves. Much as I admired Melissa’s dedication to her appearance, I’d never have implants, not since reading they could burst on an aeroplane or if you sneezed really loud.

‘Yes. Alexandra,’ she said, as Luke appeared at the front door. ‘She put on miniature fish ‘n’chips in specially made newspaper cones. It was salmon, of course, with sweet potato wedges, balsamic vinegar and pesto ketchup on the side. It was all anyone talked about for weeks afterwards.’

‘Try Kimmy’s cupcakes,’ said Luke, as he strode past, heading towards his van. ‘They’re up there with Mr Kipling’s; exceedingly good.’

Huh? So now he was being nice?

‘I don’t think so.’ She pressed dial on her phone. ‘Hi Charlotte,’ she said. ‘Did I ever phone to say those canapés we had at your Wimbledon party were out of this world? Hmm. Yes, really super. In fact, I was wondering, what’s the name of your caterer? Really?’ Melissa pulled a face. ‘Gosh, clever old you! Oh, my taxi’s arrived, must dash. Let’s lunch some time. Byeee!’ She ended the call. ‘Ghastly woman,’ she muttered. ‘Teeth as yellow as custard. I can’t believe she does her own baking.’ She fanned her face as Luke started the van’s engine and drove off.

‘Why don’t you come inside?’ I said. ‘I’ve just made a fresh batch of cakes. I cater for parties and can do any flavour you like.’

‘You run your own cupcake company?’

‘Yes,’ I said, with more confidence than I felt. Well I did. I’d been paid for my work and I was the boss. ‘I’ve catered widely for children’s parties, weddings…’ Okay, only one, but still. Adam would be proud – here I was, pushing my business forward. Except Melissa was looking at her phone again… I took a deep breath.

‘Our current, um, specials are all to do with Christmas. Like Cranberry and Orange, Merry Berry and Mouthwatering Mincemeat,’ I gushed. ‘There’s also a, um, skinny range for the health-conscious.’ Did I sound entrepreneurial? I hoped so – this was the chance of a lifetime. Imagine me, catering for the Winsfords? Perhaps OK Magazine would do a photo shoot. I’d have to get some business cards done. If Jess was off work, she could waitress and… Another deep breath. ‘Then there’s our regular alcoholic range,’ I continued, ‘including Pina Colada surprises topped with Malibu flavoured buttercream icing and popping candy, and coffee cakes decorated with, um, Baileys whipped cream, plus festive Port and Orange. Then there are the fun ones,’ I said, thinking back to the kids’ parties I’d catered for, ‘decorated with green and red sprinkles, marzipan Santas and snowmen…’

‘I suppose a look wouldn’t hurt.’ The phone went back into her handbag. ‘After all. I am desperate.

My knees shook. I’d invited the star of all my magazines in for a coffee and cake and she’d said yes!

Chapter 9

‘I wish now I’d put a dress code on the invitation: no sleeveless blouses.’ Melissa shuddered. ‘A couple of the golfers’ wives don’t even shave under their arms.’

I waved at Terry as I turned to close the front door. He was driving past in his cream Beetle.

Melissa craned her neck to look into Walter’s lounge. ‘Cute. Very homely.’ Her tone shouted “boring and bland”.

I pointed past the staircase. ‘The kitchen’s through there.’ As she led the way, I ogled her thin thighs. ‘Do you do your DVD every day?’

‘Mine? You’ve got to be jok… Ahem. Yes, of course I do.’ She turned around and beamed. ‘If I’m not too busy. What with my massage appointments, nails and hair, then there’s the sessions with my personal trainer, three times a week – and that’s only if I’m not speeding up to London to have lunch with Lucy Locklove.’

Lucy Locklove! She was only my all-time fave TV presenter!

‘It’s hard work being a national sportsman’s wife. Even on holidays I have to be well turned out, because of the paparazzi. For our last spring break in Barbados I bought ten bikinis.’

I pointed to the breakfast table and scraped my hair back into a scrunchie that was in my jeans’ pocket. Melissa brushed some crumbs off a stool and sat down. Didn’t she have just the perfect life? The golfer’s wife had matched all my expectations about celebritydom. I couldn’t wait to see inside her home.

‘Do you see much of the national birdies?’ I said as she rested her bag on her lap. I put one of the mincemeat brandy butter cakes on a plate and passed it over.

‘Only when the tournaments are on. I’m still a bit new to the group. Luke Donald doesn’t live far away, though. His wife’s really into art…’

‘Diana Donald’s gorgeous-looking,’ I muttered. During the Open, Starchat had done a page on the best-dressed golfers’ wives.

‘It’s her Greek roots,’ said Melissa and shrugged. ‘Ian Poulter’s wife, Katie, is okay too; used to be a nurse.’

‘They sound… normal,’ I said. ‘Not like footballers’ wives.’

‘I suppose most are – although Sam Torrance’s wife used to be a film star. Another is a show jumper.’

I wondered what Melissa used to do. The magazines never spoke about that.

‘Napkin?’ she said.

‘Of course.’ Oh dear. Kitchen roll would have to do.

She picked up the cake and smelt the buttercream icing before prodding the marzipan holly leaf with a long nail. Then she took the biggest bite ever and, in slow motion, chewed. I took this opportunity to scrutinise, up close, the first celebrity I’d seen for real. She had a smooth forehead, no crow’s feet, manicured nails, non-existent roots, tattooed eyebrows in an immaculate arc and spotless skin, as well as full lips, perfectly outlined and glossed. What a goddess. The camera didn’t lie, not if you had access to all the top cosmetic procedures and products.

‘Try this,’ I said and passed her one of the Cranberry and Orange ones I’d made at Adam’s. But I almost dropped it upside down when she put the kitchen roll to her lips and… Did she spit out my cake?

‘Is there a bin in here?’ she asked and I pointed to one of the cupboards. Had I been fooling myself? Were my non-celebrity friends and family too kind to tell me that actually, my cooking was pants?

She helped herself to another piece of kitchen roll and took a big mouthful of the Cranberry and Orange one, then did exactly the same again – chewed slowly, before spitting it out.

‘They are fabulous – with the light texture, irresistible flavours and so pretty.’

‘But you… I mean I thought…You spat them out!’

‘Spat?’ she looked shocked. ‘Goodness, no! That’s a trick I learnt from the American wives. It’s just a different way of eating – none of the calories but all the taste.’ She sighed. ‘I love those girls, over the ocean. What amazing lifestyles… They’ve all got indoor cinemas and outdoor barbeques the size of your average council flat. The captain’s wife, Tulisa, has just got planning permission for an underground nightclub at their ranch. And talk about great hair, sensational nails… Rumour has it, they all even co-ordinate their underwear. Whereas the English birdies…’ She grimaced. ‘Once we were trying on some free jogging outfits, a sponsor handed out – a couple of them don’t even match their own bras and knickers.’

‘Really?’ I gasped. Surely everyone followed that rule? They needed to buy my bible, Cut-Above-Couture. God forbid they wore tights with open-toed sandals or black with navy or brown.

‘They haven’t even all had Brazilian waxes,’ she continued. ‘How unhygienic is that? But then I suppose they’ve had an uphill struggle, this side of the Atlantic. I try to tell myself it isn’t their fault, if they think we should look inconspicuous. It’s all that British tradition, all that Old Boys stuff.’

‘Huh?’

‘Women are to be seen but not heard at the golf club. It’s a haven for the men. Some still won’t serve anything in a skirt at the bar, unless it’s tartan and hiding more than a frilly thong.’

‘Well, I’m sure the local golf wives will love the Botox.’ The most generous thing I’d laid on for my friends was a night of chick flicks and face packs.

Melissa half-smiled. ‘I’d better get going. Jonny’s bringing his son home for supper.

‘His ex-wife lives near, doesn’t she?’ I said, hoping my knowledge would prove myself a real fan.’

‘Jeanie?’ Melissa’s voice went funny. ‘Yes. Lovely lady. Done, um, a great job of bringing up Eddie. He’s very polite for a teenager.’

All the magazines said how well Melissa got on with the first Mrs Winsford. Amazing, really, since Jonny left Jeanie for her.

‘Anyway, must go, darling. They’ll be home toot sweet.’

Ooh, I wished I could speak French like that.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow? Are you free?’

Oh my God. She was going to invite me round for lunch!

‘Um…’

‘Get your people to speak with my people,’ she said.

‘That would be great!’ I said and beamed. Oops. Reality check. ‘Um, except that I don’t have “people” – I… I prefer to sort stuff out myself.’

‘Really?’ She pulled a face. ‘Okay. Let’s say half past nine sharp. My guests will be here at ten.’

How exciting! What would I wear? And… Huh? Guests? Ah. I got the impression that didn’t include me. But yay! Cue a mental image of me jumping up and down! That meant I’d got a catering contract, for a bunch of ladies being treated to Botox. But boo! It didn’t give me long to prepare.

‘How many are going?’ I asked, forcing my voice to steady.

‘Six wives.’ She yawned. ‘Let’s see if I can remember all the details: the captain’s wife, Vivian, sixty-ish… one of the few wives who plays golf. Her best friend Pamela, who’s also heading for retirement…’ I listened as Melissa gave descriptions of all the guests. ‘And finally Saffron…’ She wrinkled her nose.

‘Saffron?’ I grinned. ‘Haven’t cooked with that for a while. You don’t like her?’

‘Bit of a bitch. In my position, three types of ordinary people step into my world: those in awe, those indifferent and those insanely jealous, like Saffron. Her boyfriend, Steve, is a new member. They recently got engaged. He gets on well with Jonny. She’s a receptionist, in a car sales room, I think, and always loaded with some snide-y comment. At the Centenary Ball last month she praised me loudly for wearing last season’s shoes, what with the recession. Then she questioned what I did all day, whilst most of the other wives work. I only invited her tomorrow because the others seem to like her. She’s very young; brings out the older women’s maternal instincts. Jonny thinks I mad for asking her.’

‘Why?’

‘He must have heard her digs about me not having a proper career. He knows how much time it takes networking and supporting everything he does.’ She beamed. ‘So, enough about her. I’m looking forward to a good selection of cupcakes – and yes, a Christmas theme would be fab. Maybe a few skinnies. Everyone’s driving so cut the alcohol.’ She put on her shades. ‘Although, no – why should I miss out? Those Pina Colada ones sounded good. Nothing beats the flavour of a cocktail. Maybe call them Santa Coladas…’

‘But I haven’t told you how much they cost…’ I said, practically clapping my hands.

She peered over the top of her glasses. ‘Money is no object. By the way, what’s your baking company called?’

‘KimCakes Ltd.’ I’d seen this name a million times, on the side of my imaginary delivery van.

‘Let me write down my landline and mobile numbers for you – I’d rather you ring than call at the house, if you’ve any questions.’

I grabbed a notepad and biro Jess had left on the kitchen unit and gave them to her.

‘That’s awesome writing,’ I said, as her delicate hand expertly guided the pen.

‘Thanks,’ she said and stood up. ‘I once did a course in calligraphy. It always impresses when writing out party invitations.’

We went into the hallway and I opened the front door.

‘I don’t need to say to look smart… Ciao.’ Catwalk-style, she and her size six legs sauntered off, down the drive, crocodile handbag swinging from side to side.

I closed the door and did a little jig around the hallway. Tonight I’d Google cupcakes and find out the going price. I glanced at my watch: one o’clock – I had to get back to the supermarket, there was no time for lunch. I hurtled into the kitchen, grabbed the last Cranberry and Orange cupcake and scrabbled around for my car keys, accidentally knocking Jess’s list of jobs onto the floor. I’d tidy up later. Taking a large bite of sweet yumminess, I headed outdoors.

By three o’clock I’d returned and after letting Groucho out to kid himself he could catch a pigeon, I set out my extra ingredients: flour (wholemeal and plain), sugar (icing and caster), butter (low-fat and normal) and eggs (large). Then there was a tub of glace cherries, chocolate bars, a bottle of Malibu, marzipan… a whole variety of toppings and flavours.

Phew! I rolled up my sleeves, grabbed the mixing bowl from earlier and studied the array of items for a while, before weighing out the ingredients for the first of five small batches. The completed menu would include:

Miniature dark chocolate logs cakes, filled with a rich chocolate cream and dusted with icing sugar.

Skinny Stollen slices, made from a light fruity dough and topped with low-fat almond buttercream icing.

The rich mincemeat cupcakes, topped with brandy buttercream icing and a green marzipan holly leaf with red berries.

Uncomplicated wholemeal cinnamon and spice muffins, for any guests who suffer from indigestion.

The Pina – I mean, Santa – Colada Surprises consisting of pineapple juice flavoured cake, filled with popping candy with Malibu buttercream icing and a sprinkling of “snow” (dessicated coconut).

Three hours later, I gazed around the kitchen, my work finished, face sweaty and arms tired. Flour had showered down my clothes and across the floor. I could feel butter around my ear and suspected my lips might have been stained with dark chocolate. But then, a good chef always tastes what they’re cooking. The breakfast island was cluttered with open jars and packets, plus a puddle of almond essence and red colouring. The sink was stacked high with dirty cutlery, pans stained with melted chocolate and measuring jugs smelling of Malibu. Before I could tackle any tidying up, I needed a strong coffee.

Ten minutes later, I sat down on one of the stools and gazed at my cakes with pride. A burst of music interrupted my self-congratulations and I walked into the hallway. The festive notes floated down from upstairs… Wait a minute. It was that classic song, White Christmas… It made me feel all dreamy myself, although it set Groucho off as he ran around the hallway, wagging his tail and yapping.

I crept upstairs. It was coming from the left hand front room. I tried the door handle which was well and truly locked. I shivered. The air had turned cold, as if the heating wasn’t really turned on. As the music faded, I returned to the kitchen. Whatever. I hadn’t got time to investigate Mistletoe Mansion’s strange happenings. The black clock ticked to six and the front door slammed. I went back into the hallway. Jess wouldn’t believe the day I’d had. And it hadn’t finished yet. I still had business cards to make. Tomorrow I had to network, network, network!

Except Jess didn’t look like she wanted to talk… And that wasn’t just because of her red swollen nose and streaming eyes, still suffering with a cold. Instead she threw down her hessian carrier bag, slipped out of her trainers and let her thick winter coat drop to the floor. She sank down onto the bottom of the stairs. Muddy stains streaked her jeans and dust covered her bottle green “Nuttall’s Garden Centre” shirt.

‘Drink?’ I asked.

She shook her head.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Ry…Ry….’ She sneezed loudly and blew her nose. ‘Ryan came into work; told me he’d stored a lot of my stuff away in the loft.’

‘That’s a bit quick.’

‘Apparently some bloke from his work is moving in. Ryan says he’s about to live the bachelor life he’s always dreamed of. You know, bin overflowing with empty beer cans, take-away pizza boxes piled high and used as foot rests.’ She shrugged. ‘This housesitting job has really got to work for us, Kimmy. We need to stay here long enough to sort something else out. I’ve rung a couple of friends but one’s got her sister staying with her at the moment and the other said her landlord would go mad if she let anyone stay longer than one night.’ Jess plucked some sticky seeds from her sleeve. ‘At least you’re here all day, to keep things running smoothly and work through our lists of jobs. If Mr Murphy has no complaints, we should be here for at least a couple of weeks.’

Ah. That list of jobs. I wasn’t even quite sure where it was.

‘Although Deborah’s message was a bit worrying,’ said Jess and wiped her nose. ‘But then we owe it to her to do our best.’

‘Huh?’