Mistletoe Mansion (8 page)

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.