Mistletoe Mansion (16 page)

‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ I said and followed him back to the hallway. ‘Luke thinks I’m bonkers.’

‘Ever watched Most Haunted?’

‘I love that show!’ I said.

‘Me too! Aren’t the celebrity episodes hilarious?’

I grinned. ‘But Walter’s house isn’t ancient. And according to Luke, before Badgers Chase was built, there was nothing here but fields and rivers. No cemetery. Or jail. Or psychiatric hospital.’ I shuddered.

‘It’s a mystery.’ Terry ran a hand over his bald head. ‘Anyway, got to go. All the best for this morning. I look forward to hearing the details!’

I closed the door behind him and raced back into the kitchen. First things first: heat up the frozen goodies – most only took twenty minutes. Whilst they were cooking, I prepared the garnishes. When the buzzer went I took out the snacks and laid them on platters.

I reached for a jar of black olives. I could scatter those with some flat-leafed basil, in between the pizza and cheese bites. As for the mini hot dogs… I quickly fried up some chopped onion and put a spoonful on top of each with a squirt of mustard – that looked well cute. I’d lay the tempura prawns out on a bed of lettuce and sprinkle cherry tomatoes and slim cucumber sticks on top. Natural yogurt, another of Jess’s favourites, would help make yummy dips.

I looked at the time: nine o’clock. For good measure, I’d also take a couple of tubes of Pringles. Well, these guests weren’t celebrities.

I to-ed and fro-ed with all my boxes and plates, stacking them in the hallway. Hands on hips, I surveyed the pile. I’d just have one last check of the kitchen, where I stopped dead at the door. There, on the worktop, stood a couple of silver cupcake stands. They were beautiful, with silver wire swirls to hold the cakes, the stands in the shape of trees. Where on earth had they come from? What an exquisite, beautiful design. It was as if they’d been left there on purpose, just like the apron.

Feeling more like a professional than ever, I carried them into the hallway. Luke rushed past, said he had to go. If that was Adam, he’d have insisted on staying to help me get my stuff over to Melissa’s. Three quick journeys on foot I’d need, to dump everything outside the Winsfords’ house. By the time I’d made my last trip up the drive and past the garages and golf club shaped fountain, it was bang on half past nine – and the gathering grey clouds had turned black. Rain was becoming a bore. With Christmas exactly two weeks today, I was dying for at least a sniff of snow.

I rapped the eagle knocker, which was in the middle of an amazing Christmas wreath, made from miniature gold and white baubles, interspersed with glittery fake bronze holly. Jonny’s Bugatti wasn’t on the drive and I was kind of relieved not to meet him for the very first time in my sexless outfit. As for my make-up free face, I had no intention of meeting such a hot celebrity guy as nature intended. Shivering without a coat on, I smoothed down my hair. The Winsfords’ gardener wore an out-of-season man-from-Del-Monte hat and smiled as he trimmed the hedges at the front of her lawn. I smiled back then flicked a fly away from the tempura prawn platter. Tasty smells escaped the foil cover and my stomach rumbled.

The door opened. Wow. Melissa had theme-dressed for the occasion. Her hair was twisted back in a conservative chignon and she wore modest cream plus fours with a beige, diamond-print, jumper. And as for that demure pearl necklace… Ten out of ten, I thought. It was all very modest.

‘Kimmy, darling… Glad to see you on time!’ Melissa led me into the hallway.

I didn’t see the assassin. I’d been murdered, right? That was the only way I could have died and gone to heaven. I mean, OMG! I’d officially walked into a virtual Hello! magazine spread. Was the décor romantic, or what, with the damson chaise longue and delicately carved telephone table running along the right side of the stairs?

‘That’s an amazing chandelier,’ I murmured, eyes raised to the high ceiling. It had silver effect leaves curling around each glass candle and a hundred times more crystals than on Walter’s.

‘Imported. Cost a fortune,’ said Melissa as she repositioned a large vase of white lilies, mixed with gossamer light feathers, on the window sill at the front.

On the far wall, as you entered, was a large framed quote on a white background:

“Nothing is too beautiful,

Nothing is too expensive.”

Ettore Bugatti

‘And all those trophies,’ I said, in a daze, staring at a glass cabinet straight ahead, behind the chaise longue.

Both of us went over. Melissa opened the glass doors and talked me through each one. She knew exactly when and where each prize had been awarded and carefully lifted them out, one by one – the big silver cups with enormous handles, bronze figures in the middle of a swing, glass golf balls perched on gold tees, a silver golf bag inscribed with the number one, and shield after shield. They were all on full view to potential burglars. No doubt they were protected by some laser beam alarm system, like in Mission Impossible.

Next to the cabinet was a six foot Christmas tree. It was artificial silver, with co-ordinated tinsel and baubles in black and sparkly grey.

Set in the wide turret on the left was the kitchen, and Melissa called the gardener to help me carry in the food. For a moment I stood transfixed by the black circular breakfast island and matching stools with gold legs. In the middle was a black vase filled with exotic black roses, intermingled with gold-sprayed leaves. Another chandelier, in gold, hung from the pointed ceiling.

‘Feel free to use the fridge-freezer,’ said Melissa, graciously, showing me to an industrial-sized fridge even bigger than Walter’s. There was plenty of room inside for my BargainMarket platters. In fact, it didn’t look like Melissa and Jonny ate in much at all. There were some diet colas, low calorie ready meals, chilled champagne, a half-eaten bar of king-sized chocolate and various jars of cosmetics. And… oh my God, I’d seen pictures of that in magazines: a shallow sky-blue and gold tin of Beluga caviar. Next to the fridge was a tall gold rack filled with wine bottles. I stared at a door on the right, at the end.

‘The dining room’s through there,’ said Melissa. ‘Take a look. We really ought to use it more often.’

As instructed, I peeked my head in. It was sumptuous – all mahogany, buttercream and fuchsia pink, with billowing curtains that looked like ships’ sails. To one side was a smaller Christmas tree, in the more traditional colours of green and red. In the middle of the table stood a pearl shell vase filled with candy-coloured fake tulips. At the back of the room was part of a simple, white conservatory; it must have stretched further across, out of sight, to the back of their lounge.

I turned back to the kitchen and gazed out of the sparkling windows. Huh? Little greens and bunkers?

Melissa shook her head. ‘Don’t ask. Jonny wanted a mini golf course landscaped into the back garden.’

‘Is that…?’ I pointed to a massive looking shed. It was well smart, with a flag on the top and…

Melissa nodded. ‘His own little clubhouse. It’s got its own bar, a snooker table, juke box… What more could a man want?’

I could just imagine Adam and myself living in a similar place. Infamous magazine would make us their lead story: “Reunited cake magnate Kimmy and partner show us around their lush lovenest…”Luke would be the hired help and I’d make him obey one of those wacky celebrity rules where he wasn’t allowed to look me in the eye.

‘You’ll serve the food in the lounge, darling,’ said Melissa’s velvet tones. I followed her into the room on the other side of the hallway. It was bigger than Adam’s whole flat, especially with the other end of the humungous conservatory at the back. It was ultra modern, unlike Walter’s which was filled with various bits of traditional furniture which didn’t necessarily match. Everything here was co-ordinated, right down to the colour of the drink mats. There were no cosy touches like Walter’s dog-eared books or Lily’s needlework box with multi-coloured threads hanging out. Even the little row of gold Christmas socks, hanging from the mantelpiece, looked brand new. Plus there was a third Christmas tree, again perfectly co-ordinated, this time in plum and gold. No homemade baubles dangled from its branches, no wooden ones or clip-on fake robins… Everything looked as if it was there for effect. Inwardly I chuckled. What
would
Melissa think to the little one I’d hit Luke over the head with?

She chatted about a small table she’d set up by the window, for the cakes, but I hardly listened. It was as if I’d dived into my favourite celebrity homes TV show. I gazed at the velvet red curtains and glistening glass coffee table, the fragrant bowls of purple and red potpourri, a wicked gold ornamental birdcage and massive, gilt wall mirrors… Two armchairs matched a plum, curved sofa, and ornate ottoman, and on every seat in the room was a palatial cushion, neatly positioned into a diamond. As for the carpet, it was even more luxurious than the thick pile in Lily’s bedroom. If it was green, Jess would have said it needed a damn good mow. If only I had time to text Terry – he’d be well jealous.

‘When the ladies arrive, darling, make the coffees toot sweet. After a drink and one of your creations, I’ll introduce Sandra, my nail lady, and she can get out her needles. Whilst she’s knocking off the years, nearer to lunch time, you can fetch the savoury food.’ The front knocker rapped. ‘Shirley, the ex-captain’s wife cancelled, by the way.’ Melissa’s mouth sunk a little. ‘Apparently she’s woken up with a headache.’

We walked into the hallway, and she opened the door to a tiny, plump-ish lady with bobbed grey-blonde hair in a short-sleeved white medical coat. Her perfectly pink painted nails curled around the handle of a plastic case.

‘You must be the caterer. Lovely to meet you,’ she said to me, before air-kissing Melissa. ‘Where shall I set up?’ she asked.

‘The conservatory,’ Melissa said. ‘It’s airy and cheerful and should ease the nerves of the Botox virgins.’

Sandra placed a hand on Melissa’s arm. ‘I’m sure it will be a great success. I’ve brought my varnishes and files too, thought I could throw in a free manicure, have them leaving here looking really glam.’

‘What would I do without you? That’s a fab idea!’ She linked her arm with Sandra’s. ‘Make yourself at home in the kitchen, Kimmy,’ she said, as they went into the lounge.

Minutes later, the phone rang and after a short conversation echoed into the hallway, Melissa’s face appeared around the kitchen door. ‘Pamela’s cried off now – something about a domestic emergency. So that’s four of them left. Although Sandra says not to worry, that’ll give her more time to do the manicures.’

What was wrong with those women? Weren’t they dying to see the house of someone famous?

Melissa looked at her watch. ‘Hadn’t you better switch the coffee machine on?’ She nodded towards a contraption on the unit, just along from the wine rack. Next to the compact black and silver machine were stacked china cups and saucers, white with black flowers.

Close up, it looked like something out of a spaceship’s control tower. Adam and I thought we were posh when we bought a percolator, but this… And just look at that stack of cute little sealed coffee punnets! I picked one up – oh, pardon
moi
, they were actually called “Disc Beverage Pods”. I’d be able to take individual orders, such as a Latte, Espresso, Medium Roast and Cappuccino, then Macchiato (huh?), Chocolate and – get this! – Tiramisu flavour!

Having whetted my own appetite, I switched on the machine and filled it right up to the two litres mark. I unpacked the cake stands and took the lids off the cake boxes. The rich mincemeat cupcakes and Santa Coladas looked awesome staggered up one silver tree, the Malibu buttercream icing easily overpowering the scent of those black roses. On the other stand, I carefully balanced the dark chocolate logs and skinny Stollens, then found a large serving plate to set out the cinnamon and spice muffins. I placed everything perfectly on the lace cloth in the lounge, having managed to find plates to match the cups and small silver forks. Melissa had left out some fancy holly and ivy paper cocktail napkins.

The doorbell rang and I stood to attention, feeling like the kitchen maid out of Downton Abbey.

‘Vivian!’ Melissa said. ‘So glad you could make it.’

I peered around the door and saw a busty women in her sixties barge in, black patent handbag (her court shoes matched) clasped to her chest, blue silk blouse bolstered tightly into a beige skirt. Her tanned, wrinkled face revealed a lifetime of golf and cigarettes – she was clearly the perfect candidate for Botox.

‘And Denise. Hello. How are you?’ asked Melissa.

She was the doctor’s receptionist, married to one of the pros, with two kids at secondary school. Middle-aged, with short mousy hair and no make-up, Denise wore a military design grey dress with buttons all the way up. Her slim legs cried out for stylish shoes but instead she’d chosen a flat trainer type. She wore what looked like one hundred denier flesh-coloured tights and on her back hung a mini rucksack.

‘Good morning, Melissa,’ said Denise stiffly, and looked around. ‘Rather isolated here, isn’t it? Give me the hustle and bustle of an estate, any day.’

Vivian was already over by the trophy cabinet. ‘You should see my Geoff’s collection of prizes; takes me a whole day to polish them. It’s just one of the responsibilities of being the captain’s wife.’

‘Ladies, what would you like to drink?’ Melissa said, her smile already looking a little fixed, like those actors at the Oscars who’ve just found out they haven’t won. ‘Cappuccino, Espresso…?’

‘Got anything straightforward,’ said Denise, ‘like black tea?’

‘Why don’t people sell coffee in English any more?’ said Vivian’s clipped tones. She turned to me. ‘White coffee, please dear.’

By the time I took their drinks into the lounge, the doorbell had rung again and two younger women were in there too, chatting. One had her hair tied back in a scrunchie and wore sporty culottes, a cute pink hooded cardigan and cute stud snowman earrings. She had to be Kate, who, Melissa said, had two toddlers and worked in a gym. Melissa liked her best. That meant the other was Saffron, with hair as yellow as her name and a tan which clearly didn’t come from one of those exotic holidays the Winsfords enjoyed. She’d given Kate a lift and had just slipped her keys into her Louis Vuitton handbag, which I subtly scanned. It was fake, just like the one I’d bought off St Albans’ market. You could tell because there was no monogrammed LV on the zipper pull. Saffron stared around the room, lip-lined mouth open, kohl-rimmed eyes like saucers. Her nails were turquoise with red jewels and her frilly dress was both higher at the bottom and lower at the front than any of mine. I could have sworn I’d seen that exact dress on sale last week in one of my favourite discount shops in Luton
.