A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall. Jane LinfootЧитать онлайн книгу.
Christmas tunes and singing along to I Wish it could be Christmas Every Day, which would be my tag line if I had one. George, my ex, would never have put up with non stop Pirate FM either; sometimes it’s good to make comparisons with the past and come out ahead.
‘Come on, time to stretch your legs, we have to go round the back for the key.’ I drag on my coat and pull my woolly bobble hat further down, clip on Merwyn’s lead, and let him scramble out over me as I open the car door. Then I grab the wodge of instructions and follow his bounds.
As we pass a studded front door that’s big enough for a giant, I feel as if I should be pinching myself to be sure I’m not dreaming. Then an icy blast of air slices up under my fake fur jacket, whips straight through my chunky fair isle jumper, and saves me the trouble – anything this freezing has to be real.
And just in case anyone’s wondering who this woman who has everything is, it definitely isn’t me. Hell no! It’s my best friend, Fliss’s, older, more successful, and seriously driven sister, Liberty Johnstone-Cody. Libby is one of those amazing multi-tasking entrepreneur super-mums who started a decade ago with a new-born, a toddler and an idea for a baby carrier, and went on to take over the world.
Just to get things straight from the start, where Libby is fabulous at amassing and seizing the day, I’m more of an accidental dropper. I got as far as a steady boyfriend, but I managed to lose him. One time I was going to buy a very small flat, but then I didn’t. This time last year I had an awful disaster it’s very difficult not to think about. Let’s just say, right now I’m trying really hard to do better.
I do have a job I used to love, as a visual merchandiser at Daniels, which is a family run department store tucked just behind Regent Street in London. My mum calls it window dressing but I actually style and build displays. But along with everything else, that’s gone a bit pear-shaped lately, since Fliss, my best friend who works in the same team, went on two lots of maternity leave in quick succession. The first was very much planned, the second was a disaster because it happened too fast. But that’s what life’s like for Fliss and me; we have calamities but we have so many of the damned things, mostly we grit our teeth and try to ride those catastrophe waves. Whereas lucky old Libby wouldn’t recognise a setback if it slapped her in the face, because, quite simply, she doesn’t allow negativity into her life.
Libby actually grabbed this two week rental in a Cornish castle for Christmas within six seconds of it appearing on Facebook Marketplace. She bought it herself, because that’s what she’s like, and got her husband Nathan to pay for it afterwards. But it’s only slightly less romantic because of that. Sometimes we women have to do things for ourselves, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Realistically, Nathan’s a high flying banker who struggles to find time to go home to see his kids, he’s not going to have space in his day to mess around on Facebook. And buying your own present might mean you forfeit those two seconds of amazement when it arrives. But the plus side is you get exactly what you want and you’re never disappointed. Best of all, you’re in control. And for Libby control is a must.
That’s the other thing about being a hot shot business mother of four, nurturer of kids and a burgeoning business, running through life at a million miles an hour with all her hands full, while juggling fruit at the same time. These days it’s not enough to be one, she has to show the world she’s doing it too – if the social media posts aren’t there, whatever she’s doing may as well never have happened.
So Libby pulling off a fortnight over Christmas in a castle will be entirely wasted if she doesn’t get the word out – she has to get those Instagram photos loaded. And not only that, every single one has to look more amazing than anything anyone else is posting. No pressure there then. Which is basically where I come in – I’m here to style the arse off Libby’s Christmas, and to make her uploads look prettier than everyone else’s.
A few years ago, Fliss would have been the obvious choice for this job. But she’s up to her ears in sleepless nights and stroppy toddlers, and – she won’t mind me sharing this – multi tasking just isn’t a thing that’s working for her. She’s barely made it out of her pyjamas in three years. Which is why Libby turned to me.
When she marched into Daniels a month ago like a pocket-rocket begging me to help style her castle Christmas, waving her arms and tossing around words like ‘sumptuous’ and ‘luxurious’, I was off to Human Resources to beg for time off faster than you could say ‘ramparts’.
Just to give you a picture, Fliss and Libby are both teensy, neat, and various shades of blonde, depending on the week. With my gangly frame I feel like the big friendly giant when I’m next to them. And it’s worse still since I had a car accident this time last year and cut my face really badly. Since then I’ve had to grow my cute dark haired pixie cut into one of those straight-ended wavy bobs that’s hell to maintain and isn’t quite working, and then top the whole lot off with whatever hat works for the weather. It’s not that I’m making light of the accident, because how could I when the man who was driving the car died in it, but the only way of coping I’ve found has been to throw myself into work. So for me the offer of working over Christmas felt like a life saver.
With twenty-four days still left to take before March, HR could hardly refuse me the time off. Libby promised me a wodge of cash too, but, I have to be honest, I’d have come without. Not being rude to my mum and dad, because I was so grateful for the way they came to the rescue last year. But I couldn’t face another Christmas in Yorkshire with them and the grans all worrying about me. And with Libby giving me the chance to help add all the trimmings to her Cornish house party I’m counting on her making so many demands there won’t be any time at all for me to think about how awful December was last year.
But the great thing is, if we’re talking professional expertise, Christmas is my speciality area. In retail we’re planning for next Christmas while the current one’s still going on. Behind the scenes in Daniels it’s Christmas most days of the year.
Libby, being the wheeler dealer she is, insisted on having a few extra days added onto the let at the start, which to be fair probably wasn’t that difficult to do. We all know December’s a slack time for holiday rentals, people are too busy with parties and preparations to go away. So I’ve come on a couple of days ahead of the rest of the party to be here for any deliveries.
As Merwyn and I make our way around the side of the castle, the moon is shining like a spotlight through the bare criss-crossed branches of the trees, and the crenellations at the top of the tower walls are pale against a black sky spattered with stars.
I’m actually looking for someone … I glance at the paper … called Bill. Not that I’m ageist, but aren’t most castle caretakers as old and decrepit as the buildings themselves? I’m mentally preparing myself to fall over someone stooped, white haired and wrinkly at any moment. Or maybe I’ve been watching too many Disney films.
After a full day of driving I know Merwyn’s enjoying the walk, and I know castles ramble, but I hadn’t expected it to be quite so far between the front door and the back. The terraced house I grew up in had its front door on the side, and its back door round the corner only a few feet away. My dad used to joke that if he chose his spot carefully he could answer both doors at the same time. Although if this place boasts that it sleeps twenty-five in ten glorious bedrooms, they have to fit in somewhere.
As we make our way further, the moon is washing the lawns with pale grey light, and the shrubbery is casting long shadows around the edges – I don’t think I’ve ever seen moon shadows before. And over the sound of Merwyn’s snuffles and the buffeting of the wind I’m catching a few notes of music. It’s funny how little you need to hear before you can pick out a tune. It takes about a second to know it’s that song where they repeat ‘Happy Christmas’ in Spanish over and over again, and end with the words ‘bottom of your h-e-a-r-t’.
My ex, George, had it down as the most maddening Christmas song ever, and after five years with him I found myself thinking the same. As you do. It’s certainly not the kind of song I’d expect anyone like Bill to listen to. He’d