A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall

He gives me a hard stare. ‘Why the sudden interest? From what I remember in Chamonix you prefer to stay indoors.’

Once again, I’m quietly cursing his recall. ‘Those mountain ski runs scared the bejesus out of me, even the nursery slopes were too steep, but in any other situation snow is dreamy.’

His eyes have locked with mine. ‘So that finally explains why you concentrated on the hot chocolate, not the black runs. Why didn’t you say? I’d have helped you.’

I may as well be honest, even if I wasn’t then. ‘I was enough out of my depth as it was, I’d rather have dived head first into a snowdrift than admit I couldn’t ski.’

He shrugs. ‘I did come back early every day so you had company.’

I’m not sure he’s thinking of the right holiday. ‘I thought you came back so you could grab the steam room first?’

His head is tilting. ‘That was Gemma, not me. When she wasn’t falling over in front of me she pretty much superglued herself to my snowboard, that’s why we always arrived back together. But I came back to see you.’

I’m blinking. ‘Sorry?’

‘As I remember, I especially liked your jumpers.’

I can feel my eyes stretching open as I shriek. ‘What?!!!!’

‘They were really nice. Everyone else was in ski jackets, you were always in your base layer.’

I’m still squeaking in shock. ‘Jeez, Bill.’ Then it hits, from the way his eyes are dancing, this has to be a total wind up.

‘I liked how you made me laugh too.’

I let out a groan. ‘Please tell me you’re joking me.’

‘Of course I am, all I ever wanted was to get in that sauna. That’s why I was always hanging round the fire telling you my best jokes, they can’t have been very good if you can’t even remember them.’

I can feel my lips curling even though I’m trying to stop them. ‘What’s the difference between a snow man and a snow woman?’ And more fool me for encouraging him here.

‘Snowballs.’ He gives that resonating low laugh. ‘Something tells me you know a lot more than you’re letting on, Ivy Starforth.’

Oh my days, now he’s tied me up in knots again. I’ve no idea what he means, so to save my sanity I’m taking this back to where we left off. ‘If you gave us a snowy Christmas, you’d be off the hook with Libby.’

He’s back to staring at me in that same, slow way he has. ‘I’ll talk to Tomasz Schafernaker and see what I can do.’

‘Who the hell is …?’

‘He’s a meteorologist.’ He’s tilting his head, looking down on me through those narrowed eyes again. ‘The BBC weather man.’

Forget the protests about how bloody condescending he is, there are way more important questions. ‘There’s really a chance of snow?’

He gives a shrug. ‘It’s not unknown.’

‘We’ll have all the sledges then.’ I’d love snow so much, I’m not even daring to think about it, so I’m moving this on. The thing is, for me, in a world where lately it feels like nothing can be relied on, Christmas is the one certainty I can cling onto. I know the recipe to make Christmas work. Other things spiral out of control and my life comes crashing down. But so long as I have enough lamella and berries, I should be able to win with Christmas and everyone else will get the benefit.

‘It’s a simple equation – the more glitter you throw at Christmas, the more enjoyment you get back. Name me anything else that sure to pay off?’

He shoves a couple of galvanised buckets at me. ‘It’s an awful lot hanging on one day. And it’s not that healthy to be this obsessed with perfection.’

I have an answer for that. ‘Unless you’re talking gin.’ It’s a stab in the dark but as he’s always banging on about it, I suspect I’ve got him.

‘Gin’s different.’ It’s as if he’s woken up for the first time. ‘Obviously when you make it, you’re bound to strive for the ultimate, you wouldn’t do anything less. Or at least, I wouldn’t.’

I shrug. ‘So, you’re hung up on gin, for me it’s Christmas.’

There’s a new light in his eyes. ‘Now you’ve mentioned it, I might as well show you the distillery, it’s only next door.’ He’s so enthused, he’s already set off. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you the shortened version of the tour.’

‘Why not?’ I’m going to have to do this sometime, so I try not to let my eyes glaze over as I follow him out into the fading daylight. Hash tag, I’d rather be sleeping. Just saying.

7.

Let the fun beGIN …

I follow Bill as he hurries along the outside of the coach house building and when he pushes through some wide glass doors, the dimly lit space I’m staring around is as big as the building we’ve come from, with the same high ceiling following the slant of the roof. But in here the stone end gable has been completely knocked out, and instead there’s an immense glass window looking straight down onto the beach and out to sea.

‘Great view!’ I can’t deny him that one. The late afternoon has leached away the colour and the edges have blurred, but I can still make out the muted blue of the sea broken by lines of breakers frilling up the sand, a sky streaked with silver. Pin pricks of lights coming on around the edge of the bay, the twinkly cluster that is St Aidan. Then as Bill snaps on the inside lights, the outside darkens, and I’m suddenly blinking at reflections off a polished concrete floor, and flashes from some very shiny copper cauldrons and pipework and dials set back in the corner. The tangy salt and seaweed smell from outside has given way to the heady mix of fresh paint and neat alcohol.

‘So you weren’t joking, you really do have a still?’

The weary boredom on his face has turned to illuminated bliss. ‘We’re only a couple of years into production but Cockle Shell Castle gin’s already winning awards.’

I pick up a bottle from a shelf and turn it over in my hand. ‘Star Shower – the name’s cool.’ That’s as much as he’s getting – the silver and rose gold and pink stars on the label are lovely, but I know better than to heap on the praise.

The way he’s suddenly jumping from shelf to shelf, he couldn’t be more animated. ‘That one’s got a raspberry burst to it, Shining Comet’s got an orange hint. We use juniper berries from the gardens and we’re developing other flavours too. The rhubarb and lime’s almost ready to go.’

‘We?’ There’s no sign of collaborators. Apart from the equipment and shelves of glasses and bottles the space is almost empty.

He coughs. ‘At first I had help with the marketing, but now it’s just me.’

I’m gazing around. ‘You … and some very smart glass tables and Philippe Starck ghost chairs.’ See-through perspex with a hint of Louis Quatorze, they’re still one of my favourites from Daniels’ furniture department. The last thing I was expecting to get in Bill’s distillery was furniture envy.

‘They’re for the tasting sessions, I liked the way the transparency of the tables echoed the transparency of the gin.’ If only he’d applied half this much inspiration and attention to our deccies.

‘I don’t suppose …’ I’m kicking myself for sounding this tentative, so I try again. ‘I may have to … actually I’ll be stealing them for a few days.’ Well, two and a bit weeks actually.

‘What for?’

‘For dining at the castle over Christmas.’ I can mix and match with extra chairs to make up the numbers, but that won’t matter.

He’s looking at me like I’ve seriously lost my marbles. ‘Only one hitch with that, Ivy – there isn’t a dining room.’

‘One end of the bit you call the chill out space? Obviously we’d keep the plastic away from the roaring fires.’ If we overcome the melting risk, they’ll be sensational. I’m chipping away. ‘The whole transparency thing … echoes of icicles … how amazing the chairs would be, draped with fairy lights? They’re exactly what we need to transform those – ahem – empty spaces.’

‘Two hitches actually.’ He lets out a breath. ‘Glass tables, and all those sticky kiddie fingers? How’s that going to work?’

I’m cursing his stubbornness when my second brainwave hits. ‘Imagine the Christmas tree in the entrance hall decked with miniature gin bottles and sea shells.’ I’m searching his face for a positive sign. ‘The tables and chairs are just the start – we could fill the entire castle with transparent gin-themed decorations?’ See what I’m doing here? Weaving the furniture into the vision. Taking Christmas back to his adult-only comfort zone. ‘We’ll take our lead from the stars on the gin labels and have bright orange and cerise pink as our theme colours.’ I’m doing this so wholeheartedly I’m actually getting carried away on my own wave of enthusiasm.

And finally, he nods. ‘You could be onto something there, Ivy-star.’ Then he sweeps up a glass from a tray. ‘Let’s drink to that!’

Just when it was going so well, my heart comes crashing down to my boots again. ‘I’m actually on a break right now.’

His voice shoots up. ‘From alcohol?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘But you can’t be. Think of all those toffee vodkas we had by the log fire … you can’t give up anything that delicious.’

This time I clamp my mouth closed before it drops open and try to laugh this off. ‘They could explain the blurry judgement.’ Now I come to think of it, the caramel flavoured alcohol might explain why I remember that delicious feeling of my toes turning to syrup. But I need to call a halt to all this reminiscing. ‘Can we please stop wasting time living in the past. If we’re going to sort out a fabulous Christmas, there’s no time to lose, we need to get on.’

‘So what happened?’ He’s frowning. ‘You refused my offer of a drink two seconds ago, that qualifies as the present.’

He’s got me there. But if I fill him in with the middle bits, at least I’m being open and honest, and it’s a darn sight less dangerous than talking about ski lodges. ‘After George there was too much drinking, too many awful dates. I’m taking a holiday from all of it.’

Actually it was so much less fun than I’m making it sound. But when George left almost two years ago now there was this crazy voice inside me, telling me I’d thrown away my fertile years. The more desperate I was to find someone new, the more impossible it was. And the worse the guys became, the more reason I had to throw down the shots.

If I’m honest the accident was the culmination of that very awful time. It was the bottom of a very deep trough, the turning point. But anything that tragic is very hard to move on from. So long as I throw myself into doing things for my friends rather than for me, and pretend to the outside world that everything’s okay, I can just about hold it together.

Bill shrugs. ‘Sleeping with strangers, Tinder’s got a lot to answer for.’

As my eyes pop open my protest is loud. ‘Actually I didn’t do that.’ Mostly not, anyway. Mostly I passed out way before I got anywhere near their beds. ‘But eventually I got a wake up call that made me rethink all those poor choices.’ I’m trying for my best super-confident beam, knowing it’s coming across more wild eyed than I’d like, and that I’m sharing so much more than I should. And knowing that if I hadn’t been in that awful state, Michael would probably be alive now.

That’s not something I’ll ever leave behind, it’s a weight I’ll carry with me forever. However much I pretend I’m fine, which I have to do for other people, I know I’ll never get past the guilt. But that’s something I’ve got to lock up deep in my heart, something private for me, my very own penance. The only way to explain it is that it feels like a rock sitting inside my chest. I can’t let it spill out and bring other people down. But I know that it will stay there forever, because I really don’t have the right to be happy again. And I’m completely resigned to not being.

‘So here I am, there are lots of things I don’t do for now, neat gin’s only one of them. But it’s all working out really, really well.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He swallows and looks like he’d rather be anywhere other than where he is. ‘It explains why tinsel’s become inordinately big in your life.’

Could he be any more patronising? ‘No, I’ve always been the same with tinsel.’

He’s still going. ‘How about we take the buckets over to the castle on a trolley and wash them instead?’

At last there’s an offer I can’t refuse. The distillery was supposedly a doggy no-go area, so I’ve been pretending Merwyn wasn’t here, but if we’re leaving I can talk to him again. ‘Time for a walk?’

His tail shoots up, and he skitters towards the door, claws slipping on the gleaming floor.

8.

Surprise surprise

Wandering towards the castle as the sky darkens with the crash of the waves echoing in the distance and the lights shining on the front doesn’t get any less thrilling. But however picturesque it is, as I hang on to Merwyn and make sure the bucket stacks don’t topple off the trolley, I’m reminded again that real life is a lot less perfect than fairy tales. I actually love trundling gear around, ideally I’d be the one hauling the trolley. But you know what guys are like? Even though George rarely ventured into a supermarket, the once in a blue moon he did, he had to be in charge of the wheels. And as Bill is head of ops and arrogance personified, I don’t get within a country mile of this trolley handle.

Instead of minding, I’m thinking ahead to dinner, and the spag bol I left bubbling on the Aga. The only flaw in my plans for an evening on the kitchen sofa sorting out lists is that Bill could be crashing around in my space.

Bill pulls the trolley to a jerky halt in front of the house, and as I make a lunge for the falling buckets he’s staring at a huge, shiny, black four by four.

‘Looks like Jeff Bezos is out making the Amazon deliveries himself today.’

‘It’s good of him to take the parcels round the back, fingers crossed he’s bringing fairy lights.’ I realign the pots and we set off again. ‘And please let’s avoid sudden stops like that in future.’

As we round the corner at the rear of the castle the courtyard is already flooded with light, and the trolley lurches again. This time the buckets go clattering across the stone flags and I’m cursing Bill’s bad cornering as I chase them across the lawn. It’s only when I’ve finally collected them all that I turn and see the reason they fell – the package stack he swerved to avoid is as big as a wall. As we manoeuvre around the boxes I’m looking at Merwyn.

‘So where did the driver go?’

I’m noticing the steam coming off the hot tub, when there’s a high pitched giggle. Then a cloud of blonde curls bobs up over the edge and I do a double take. ‘Miranda?!?!’ Seeing as she’s Libby’s mum, just in time I manage to stop myself being super-rude and asking what the hell she’s doing here.

She picks up a champagne glass from the side and takes a swig. ‘Ivy! You’re looking beyond cute in your woolly hat! And after everything that’s happened too, it’s so lovely to see you’re here and looking so well.’

You know what mums can be like, even other people’s, bringing up all the stuff you’d rather not talk about. And as if it wasn’t enough of a shock finding Fliss and Libby’s mum here ten days earlier than she’s pencilled in on the arrivals list, a second later another head bobs up beside her.

Miranda’s waving her fizz. ‘Top tip, if you travel with champagne and glasses like we do, you’ll never go far wrong. We thought we might as well make ourselves at home and have a dip while we waited for you to get back. There’s someone here I’ve been dying for you to meet – Ivy, this is Ambrose.’

This is the first I’ve heard of Ambrose, but whatever. As I coax Merwyn forward so I can reach his dripping fingers and try not to tread on their clothes pile, I’m aware I’ve been here before.

‘Enchanté, Ivy.’ Ambrose’s voice is as deep and luxuriant as his tan, even if his greeting is a bit naff. He flicks an iron grey curl back off his forehead then picks up his own glass and dips his shoulders back under the water.

As I launch into the introductions I refuse to sound disappointed that someone else has arrived. I mean, I’m not, so why would I? ‘So this is Bill the castle caretaker, and Merwyn, who’s slightly Tibetan and currently a contender for the cutest dog in the world.’

Bill’s cough is low beside me. ‘So long as he’s not burying your underwear.’

‘If you’re wondering why we’re here so early …’ It’s a relief that Miranda’s read my mind and is talking over Bill. When she breaks off to smile at Ambrose, she’s looking as if she could eat him whole. And then go back for seconds. ‘… well, it’s a complete secret from Libby, but Ambrose and I thought we’d snatch a few romantic days here on our own before the family arrive. You won’t tell on us will you?’

Ambrose steps in to help. ‘You know the first rule of house parties … the early birds get the best rooms.’ He laughs. ‘But you must do, you’re here. And Miranda isn’t settling for anything less than a four poster master suite, by the way.’

Miranda’s eyes are such a startling blue, and so full of warmth and concern, I can completely see why she’s rarely without a husband. ‘You look worried, sweetheart. It is okay for us to be here?’

‘It’s fine.’ I take a deep breath and decide to go for a white lie. ‘The last let needed the place empty …’

Miranda jumps in before I finish. ‘Oh my, was it for a photo shoot? No wonder either, the place is amazing.’ She nudges Ambrose so hard he almost slides off the shelf at the side of the tub. ‘We said it looks pretty enough to be a film set, didn’t we, Ambie? It’s just like the castle on Frozen.’

It isn’t at all. This one’s way prettier, but I’m not going to argue. ‘So long as you don’t mind that we’re still moving things back in?’ We’re here to make dreams for guests, not shatter illusions, so I don’t say any more.

I’ve known Miranda years, ever since Fliss and I were art students at St Martins in London and we used to go to stay with her in her flat in Brighton. As a mum she’s a bit off-the-wall, if only because ever since their dad died when Fliss was ten she’s been a stalwart mum, but as Fliss always says, she’s gone through her men like a dose of salts. But other than the revolving-door guys, she’s always the same – generous and warm, laid back, welcoming and fun, easy to be with, and we all love her to bits. I take it from the bare third finger on her left hand that’s dangling over Ambrose’s bronzed shoulder, and his absence from the guest list, that he’s a relatively new addition.

Her love life was going through such a turbulent patch when Fliss and Rob were getting married, in the run-up to the wedding they gave up trying for a definite name, and just put Mother of the Bride’s plus one on the table plan. Whoever it was she brought – none of us are that good pinpointing names, except Libby who writes everything down which takes the pressure off everyone else, including Miranda, because they know they can always check in her archives – the first and last time Fliss met that one was when he turned up on her wedding photographs and the top table.

Miranda’s beaming. ‘Of course we don’t mind, we’ll help won’t we?’

Judging from his white knuckles on the tub side, this time Ambie’s ready for the nudge she’s about to give him. He grins at her. ‘When we’re not in here, we will.’

Miranda’s locked her gaze elsewhere. ‘He’s joking, Bill.’ Her laugh is low and chesty. ‘I’m an artist, I’m very creative, I don’t mind rolling up my sleeves.’

Ambrose’s laugh is a low echo. ‘You can say that again.’

‘Not appropriate, Ambie.’ There’s a throaty peel of laughter and a gigantic wall of water splashing over the stone flags as Miranda shoulders Ambie off the tub shelf and he disappears below the waves. As Ambie splutters his way back to the surface, Bill is still getting the benefit of her cherubic full-beam smile with an extra dose of static crackle. ‘Did you see that, Bill, that’s what happens to men who don’t behave.’ Miranda folds her arms across her chest squeezing her more than ample bazumbas and cleavage into view above the waterline. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t let you down.’

You only need to see the look on Bill’s face to read the writing in his invisible thought bubble.

FUCK!!! FUCK!!! and WHAT THE FUCK?!!! There might also be a teensy whimpering Get me out of here! too.

‘Okay, Bill?’ As I give him a nudge, he comes to and gives a cough.

‘So, just to be clear, there’s no smoking in the castle, the courtyard, or the car parking areas.’ The furrows in his brow deepen as he eyes her tobacco tin and Rizla papers next to the towel. ‘Or the coach house … or the distillery.’

I’m beaming to cover my own WTF? ‘And thanks, Bill, for that lovely welcome.’

Miranda’s still twinkling at him. ‘But roll ups will be fine, won’t they? Because they don’t actually count as cigarettes?’

He hasn’t even flinched. ‘Roll ups are banned too. And any tab ends go in the sand buckets by the doors, we don’t want you dropping them around the grounds or on the sand.’

Miranda’s winking at him in mock horror. ‘What, you own the beach now?’ She’s such a tease.

Bill’s not seeing the funny side. ‘It is with the castle, yes, but we do let people walk on it. But not if they drop cigarette ends.’

She’s completely unbothered. ‘I eat little boys like you for breakfast, Bill!’ There’s another chortle. ‘But I’ll let you off today. And you can tell whoever is king of your very lovely castle that we’ll behave impeccably.’

Bill carries on as if he hasn’t heard. ‘No horseplay in the hot tub either. If we get ice on the courtyard, the hot tub will be emptied. Immediately. And just out of interest, for the record, are you wearing swimsuits in there?’

I put my hand over my mouth and hiss ‘hypocrite’ at him under my breath.

‘Bill, you are such a spoilsport.’ From the sparkle in her eyes, Miranda is loving this. ‘Skinny dipping in the hot tub is my favourite Christmas thing.’

Bill’s completely cool. ‘In which case, you’ll have to find a different hot tub somewhere else. This one is only available for non-naked guests.’

‘Fine, no need to get your Speedos in a twist.’ It’s rare for Miranda to look like she’s beaten. But behind the steam clouds, beyond the two angry red circles on her cheeks, she’s as deflated as a popped balloon because she’s offered Bill her palmful of goodies and he’s flatly refused to eat out of it. And I’ve never heard her sound snappy before. She’s holding her hand out. ‘I take it you provide endless supplies of fluffy towels? In which case, please would you get us some. Unless you’d rather we came inside as we are?’

At which point, my hopes for Christmas take another nose dive.

All out war between Bill and Miranda won’t be pretty. It wasn’t even on my list of stuff to worry about. But realistically, if Bill’s taken five minutes to fall out with Miranda who is easy, what the hell is going to happen when Libby’s sleigh slides into town?

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