Mistletoe Mansion

The next door led into a mint green bathroom with a gleaming walk-in shower and shiny silver accessories. It even had a bidet! And was that a waterproof telly? I’d seen one on an old series of MTV Cribs. The tiling was understated and the streamlined accessories classy.

Jess dragged me out, and along the landing to the last room at the front of the house. It was a modest size with a full bookcase.

‘Stieg Larsson, Audrey Niffeneger…’ murmured Jess, flicking through. ‘All the modern greats.’

I squinted. Hmm, couldn’t see any of Kim Kardashian’s novels and you didn’t get more modern than that.

‘You happy in here?’ I asked and took in the terracotta walls, peach bedcover and minimalist furniture. The room also had its own ensuite with gigantic mirrors. On the right, a big window faced the front garden. With its distinct lack of knick-knacks, this room was probably for guests. That meant one of the locked rooms must have been the master bedroom – probably the first one I’d tried to get into, on the other side of the landing, at the front.

‘Sure am,’ said Jess. ‘I left my novels at Ryan’s.’ She took a weathered-looking book off the shelf, sat down on the bed and yawned. ‘It’s been quite a day. Think I might get an early night.’

‘But we haven’t been in the hot tub yet,’ I protested. ‘Or played at least one game of darts.’ I didn’t want to go to bed and, in the black of night, have to face thinking about my break-up with Adam this morning.

‘Some of us have got to be up for work tomorrow.’

Claws scratched against the door which opened slightly. Chocolate eyes appeared. Groucho squeezed himself through the gap and cocked his head.

‘I bet our instructions include taking him out for a late-night pee,’ said Jess and gave a wry smile.

‘Leave it to me,’ I said, with my most martyr-like expression.

Jess grinned. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll stay up so that nosy you can tell me what you discovered about the neighbours.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said innocently.

‘And I’ll have a list of things to do tomorrow ready for when you get back.’

With Groucho shadowing me, I trotted downstairs and into the kitchen. I grabbed my gold parka and slipped it on. Then I fetched the dog lead from the white desk in the hallway. I fastened it to Groucho’s collar and stopped by my pink case for a moment, wondering if I should change into something more fashionable. I wanted to make the right impression and it was good practice for dealing with all those fancy clients I’d have on my books when my business took off.

Except I was pretty tired. It was dark. And somehow it wouldn’t feel the same without Adam there to tell me I looked nice. He still did that, even though we’d been going out for two years and eight months – longer than any of Mum’s boyfriends had hung around. Just as I’d get to the point where I’d hug her latest bloke longer than he’d hug me, there’d be some massive argument between him and Mum and he’d leave – whereas Adam had sticking power…

‘Come on, boy,’ I said, and we headed to the front door. I shivered. Was someone behind me? Don’t be stupid, I told myself. Don’t let that Luke spook you out. The air smelt grassy and fresh as I locked up behind us. I squinted through the darkness. No one was around. Where were the drunken shouts? The screech of bus brakes? The empty kebab wrappers? Ah yes. I’d left them, back in Luton.

‘Don’t tempt me!’ yelled a distant voice.

Hmm. I spoke too soon. I was right, when I heard shouting outside, on opening the window of my new bedroom – some couple was having one hell of a row.

I glanced down at the tiny Jack Russell. The last time I’d walked a dog it had belonged to Mum’s boyfriend before last. One and a half long years Rick had stayed, with his roll-ups, his mechanic’s oily nails and his Pirelli calendars. The plus was, he’d found my little car cheap and done it up. Also, he owned Stud, the gentlest of Staffies, with a tickle-stick tongue and shiny mocha coat. As soft as putty on the inside, if you gave him a biscuit, he held out his paw to say thanks. But he had the neck of a boxer and eyes of a jackal – I never felt scared walking him out, at night. Whereas Groucho stared up at me as if he rather hoped I might growl if anyone dodgy walked past.

‘Let’s track down this argument,’ I whispered to him and zipped up my jacket, hoping the evening dampness wouldn’t curl my hair. We veered left at the bottom of the drive and eventually a house even bigger than Walter’s loomed into view. That was proof of money – owning a place in a road where the homes are all different designs. I’d only ever lived in a terrace or block of flats.

I squinted. A huge conservatory was attached to the back. This house was set further forwards than Walters’s and the brickwork looked centuries old. The left hand side was a wide turret. The massive front door was oak and had a huge chrome knocker, in the shape of… an eagle. Ivy climbed the door and in front of the turret was a double garage and… Wow! A parked silver and blue… I strained my eyes… Bugatti! I’d read an article on them and recognised the elegant shape, the spoiler and the distinctive two-toned bodywork.

In the middle of the right hand lawn stood a grey water fountain and – another bonkers thing about this place – it was in the shape of a bag of golf clubs! Water ran from the club heads, poking out of the top. This house belonged to a sports-mad pensioner, no doubt. As we carried on, something black darted down from the trees. Was that a bat?

‘Don’t walk away from me, when I’m talking,’ shouted a woman’s voice. I crouched behind a bush in the front border. The Bugatti had been parked at an angle, as if the driver had been in a hurry to get inside. All the downstairs lights were on. A door slammed and seconds later a man and woman appeared in the top bedroom. Their outlines seemed strangely familiar.

Groucho sniffed a nearby shrub and I evil-eyed him. Don’t you dare cock your leg just inches from my face! I stared again at the Bugatti. Adam would have killed to give that a test run…

Suddenly the front door flew open and I ducked down further, behind the bush, inhaling the smell of wet leaves and damp soil. I could see frosty white mist escape my mouth, as I breathed in and out. Willing Groucho not to yap, I peered through a gap in the plants. At the sound of footsteps on the drive, and thanks to the porch light, I got a clear view of the man’s face.

What? No, it couldn’t be. My heart skipped a beat, before I took a quick double take. The number plate said JON 45. I was right! IT WAS GOLFING STAR, JONNY WINSFORD!

Chapter 6

It’s official: miracles do happen; fantasies come true. My new neighbour was the hottest talent on the UK golfing circuit, known as The Eagle. That explained the door knocker and the bonkers water fountain. And that woman… I put my fist in my mouth. She must have been Melissa, she of the velvety voice who, only this morning, on the telly, had taken me through my putts and tee offs.

Me? Living just along from the Winsfords? Who cares that I left my fitness DVDs in Adam’s flat, because now I had the real 3D version of the instructor living right next door. Not that Adam would be impressed. He reckoned golf was a sissy’s sport and that any bloke who promoted moisturiser was “a right muppet”.

I bet he secretly fancied Melissa, though, with her full lips and pert bum. She’d single-handedly sexed up British golf – and her trophy-winning husband certainly put the pwhoar into plus fours. Between them, the Winsfords had brought golf to the nation and even increased sales of those naff jumpers with diamonds printed on. After their weekly appearances in the glossies, even I’d picked up lots of golfing terms, like a “slice” meaning a shot curving to the right, like a “bogey” – yuck – meaning a score of one over par.

The bass beat of Jonny’s – I’d already decided we’d be on first name terms – radio pulsated loudly as he got in and revved the engine. As he reversed down the drive, Melissa raced out of the house. Unsteady on her feet, she wore a sexy nightie and screamed at him to stop. On a frosty patch of tarmac, she slid to a stop, then yanked open the car door, grabbed his… phew, belt, and pulled him out.

I wanted a nightie that clung to my nipples; I wanted a car that didn’t need a bump start. She stabbed his chest with her finger and then shook her fist. In response, he stroked her hair, moved in closer and lifted her up. Wow. She looked even more glamorous, spread-eagled, across the blue bonnet. Maybe posh cars needed a hump start?

‘Let’s go.’ I whispered to Groucho, as Jonny lifted Melissa up again and carried her indoors. They were obviously one of those passionate couples who, like in the movies, had great make-up sex. Unlike me and Adam. He’d just sulk for days whereas I should copyright my selection of flounces and dramatic sighs. We were well-matched in that way and would jokingly vie for the Brownie points of apologising first.

Wait until Jess heard about our glam neighbours, although glitzy sporting types weren’t really for her. She liked men with hidden depths and meaningful stares, like crossbow-armed Daryl out of zombie series The Walking Dead. God knows why she’d fallen for shallow Phil.

‘Lost something?’ asked a husky voice.

Aargh, talk about zombies! Maybe I should’ve followed Adam’s advice - he never approved of women going out on their own after dark. I jumped up and gulped with relief not to find myself facing a member of the maggot-infested Undead. Instead I stared at a double chin and friendly eyes topped with defined grey brows. The old man wore a bright yellow cap and an even brighter anorak, tightly zipped up around his rotund front. Groucho wagged his tail and the man picked him up.

‘Hope I didn’t scare you. Let me introduce myself. I’m Terry.’ He gave a little bow. ‘I live the other side of Walter’s.’ He ruffled Groucho’s ears. ‘I spotted you earlier – you’re the new housesitter? Just settled in for the festive season?’

‘Yes. The name’s Kimmy,’ I said, heart pounding. Jeez! First headless corpses carried down stairs, and now strangers creeping up on me in the dark… So much for Groucho alerting me of danger. ‘And there’s my friend, Jess – she’s housesitting too. I…um… thought I heard some money fall out of my pocket, that’s what I was looking for.’ I smiled and tucked my hair behind my ears, wishing I’d checked my make-up. No doubt this was an Important Person. You had to be, to afford a place in Badgers Chase. The man wore tartan trousers and – oh my God – over his shoulder had a brown leather man bag. LOL! I mean, funny. Must stop thinking in abbreviations. That’s the trouble with spending so much time on Facebook. ‘Did you know Mr Carmichael well?’ I asked, politely.

‘Walter?’ His sparkly eyes dipped at the corners for a second and he put Groucho back on the ground. ‘We’ve both lived here for… ooh, nearly two decades. Lily, his wife, died five years ago. They were the sweetest couple. She’d been ill for a while but seemed to have turned a corner. They even booked a cruise but, one night, she passed away, right out of the blue.’

‘That’s so sad.’

Terry nodded. ‘Took it hard, he did, as you’d expect – for a long time talked about not wanting to keep Lily waiting.’

‘Huh?’

‘They didn’t have children. It was only the two of them. She’d promised to wait for him if she went first, at the Pearly Gates.’ He smiled. ‘I told you they were sweet.’

‘How did he manage on his own?’ I asked, as we headed back to Walter’s.

‘As well as anyone can. Eventually he cleared the house of her things; even her fab pashminas and hats. Then he got a new kitchen fitted. She was a great cook – made a wicked lemon meringue.’ Terry sighed. ‘He couldn’t bear to spend time in the old kitchen – too many memories. He even got rid of her beloved Aga.’

‘Didn’t he keep anything?’

‘A few bits. She had this amazing recipe book that listed all her favourite cakes. Lily won lots of local competitions and there was a bit of a scrabble to find it after the wake, when her so-called friends from the Women’s Institute visited.’ He shook his head. ‘Not very dignified. Anyway, they were the kindest couple – traditional to the core. She never mowed the lawn and he never filled the kettle.’

‘You must miss them… ’ I liked Terry. He wasn’t at all what I’d expected – not stuffy nor snooty. I had wondered whether the neighbours might blank me, like that posh designer clothes shop owner in St Albans, who’d evil-eyed me when I’d ventured inside during the sales.

‘Walter introduced me to his golf club,’ he said, ‘and recommended me for membership, even though some of the other members were a bit… well… didn’t approve of…’

‘What?’

‘Me. Strange isn’t it, seeing as golf is one of the campest sports in the world – what with the bright colours and plus fours, the silly club covers and all those jokes about holes-in-one. The first few games were a riot. My opponents hardly dared bend over to pick up their balls.’

I grinned.

‘Walter always had a great sense of humour, though. I’d never have got through my Ken’s… departure last year, without him.’

‘You’ve also, um, lost, your partner?

‘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 together.

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.