Mistletoe Mansion (11 page)

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
in
different and those
in
sanely 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.’