The Night Before Christmas (8 page)

It was ridiculous, all of it. Snowed in, in the middle of nowhere, with the man she’d thought of as long gone and lost to her about to check into the room next door with her best friend; it was the sort of crazy
coincidence that would be too farfetched even for a Rock Hudson and Doris Day film. But sadly, not so crazy in terms of her own life; this was Christmas, after all, the time of year that never seemed to meet up to her persistently idealistic hopes and expectations.

Lydia knew she couldn’t go back downstairs and ruin Christmas for everyone. Not only was there no place to run to, she also realised that what wasn’t meant for her was perhaps meant for Joanna. And she only wanted her friend to be happy. Besides, there was one other huge, glaring factor Lydia seemed to be overlooking. She had Stephen, Stephen loved her, and he was about to ask her to marry him. Her future was what she should be thinking about now, not the past. And this was
her
Christmas, the one she’d been looking for since she was a little girl who believed in Father Christmas. There was snow outside and the people she loved most in the world were all around her. Resolute, Lydia determined that the only thing she could do was take her cue from Jackson, and say nothing. And in the meantime, she had to concentrate on her future, and, more importantly, concentrate on being in love with Stephen.

Dimly, Lydia became aware of hot breath on her neck and something heavy on her chest. She frowned, muddled by sleep and dreams. Stephen kissed her ear.

‘Pyjamas,’ he said gleefully, running hands over the cotton. ‘I love you in pyjamas.’

Groggily, Lydia forced herself to open her eyes to find Stephen, who was obviously a little worse for wear, smiling down at her.

‘What time is it?’ she asked him. After a hot bath and a large toothbrush mug of wine, she must have fallen asleep almost as soon as she’d climbed into bed. She’d forgotten that she’d told Stephen she’d be waiting for him. He, evidently, had not.

‘Sexy time,’ Stephen said, drunkenly, and it was so out of character that Lydia giggled. Honestly, she had never been less in the mood for the polite, affectionate, friendly sort of sex she had with Stephen, but it had been so long since they’d been close in that way that it seemed bad manners to refuse.

‘Hope you’re feeling better, because I’m going to ravish you, like that Darcy bloke does that Jane Brontë woman.’ Raising a rakish brow, he began to unbutton her top.

‘Darcy doesn’t do any ravishing, as such,’ Lydia admonished him fondly, as he fumbled with the third button. ‘And it’s Elizabeth Bennett and Jane Austen, there isn’t a Brontë in sight.’

‘Well, I do do ravishing,’ Stephen said, his brow furrowed in concentration as he finally undid enough buttons to gain access to her bosom. ‘Hmm. Boobs.’

Lydia lay back as she felt his hand slide over her breast, squeezing it, pulling back the material of her top to reveal one pink nipple, which he kissed and
nipped at in quick succession. She closed her eyes as, growing bored with all the buttons, Stephen pushed her top up in a bunch under her chin.

‘I’ve always loved that you’re stacked,’ he said, which was perhaps a little short on romance, but still heartfelt. Lydia felt that she shouldn’t be too churlish. It was, after all, the first interest he’d shown in her for months, and a girl could only handle so much rejection before she got the message and gave up. He slid his body down hers, buried his face in her hair as his hand travelled lower, negotiating the drawstring of her pyjama bottoms with one hand, the other still firmly clamped on her bosom. One of her hips was under a little too much pressure from the weight of him, and her back hurt. But Lydia didn’t say anything, instead making herself concentrate on his lips against her neck as his left hand pulled down her trousers.

Sex, Lydia thought. I’m about to have sex with the man I love and will probably marry. I should be so excited; I must show him that I am excited. She tried out a little groan to let Stephen know exactly how excited she was, and was disappointed that he didn’t respond. Another moment passed and Lydia realised that, although his right hand was still clamped to her breast, he’d stopped moving, his breathing had evened out and then, to cap it all, he let out a snore.

‘Stephen?’ Lydia prompted him. ‘Darling?’

The only response was another snore. Furiously,
Lydia pushed him off her body, pulling her pyjama top down as she climbed out of bed and marched into the bathroom. Running the cold tap, she let the water flow into her cupped hands and doused her heated face with it. After months without any sort of sex, he’d fallen asleep on her! She’d let him drunkenly molest her, like a schoolboy, and then … then he’d passed out. Bitterly, Lydia wondered if it was possible to feel any more humiliated or hurt than she did at that moment.

And then she heard it, the dull thud of the door shutting in the next-door bedroom, followed by peels of Joanna’s distinctive seductive laughter. Hating herself, even as she did it, Lydia took the remaining tooth mug, pressed it to the wall and listened. Unable to make out words, she could only hear Jackson’s deep tones against Joanna’s lighter voice, a conversation punctuated by giggles. There were a few moments of silence and then a sort of rhythmical creaking. Realising a little too late exactly what she was listening to, Lydia dropped the glass, which fell unbroken into the sink with a thick thud.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Lydia took in her dark brown eyes staring back her, her long, tangled hair, her flushed cheeks, pyjama top half undone, exposing the curve of her breast. Everything seemed disjointed and out of place, as if the natural order of the universe was entirely out of line. Here she was, pulsating with life, love and lust, burning like a flame, her body and
soul aching to be touched by somebody who – what was it Joanna had said? – somebody who understood her. And the possibility of that happening now seemed like a month of Christmases away.

‘Your trouble is,’ she told her reflection unhappily ‘you’ve spent your life watching old movies in which happy endings always happen.’

But this was real life. This was
her
life. A life where her parents hated each other, and where Christmas – a proper storybook Christmas – had never existed for her. Where past lovers appeared with best friends, and made rampant love to each other while her boyfriend fell asleep on her. Surely now, Lydia thought painfully, as she heard Joanna climax typically dramatically in the next room, surely
now
things couldn’t get any worse.

Chapter Six

22 December

Lydia awoke, almost immediately aware of two things: that the room, which looked less chic and infinitely more shabby in the cold light of day, was filled with that particular kind of artificial light that meant the outside world was smothered in snow; and secondly, that she was freezing cold. Dragging what was left of the covers up under her chin, she shivered and huddled against Stephen’s indifferent back for some warmth. He had not stirred since passing out last night, except to roll over onto his side and take most of the quilt with him, tucking it between his legs as if he were embracing a lover. It came to something, Lydia thought ruefully, when the bed linen got more action than she did.

Gingerly, she poked a toe out of the covers and then yanked it back, noticing her breath misting in the air as she sat up. Looking around, she spotted a deep, dark crack, the sort of crack that usually harbours spiders, running down the wall opposite the bed, and although the room had been nicely painted
and furnished, there was still an aged musty scent to it, as if it had not been lived in for a hundred years. It wasn’t quite up to hotel standard yet, Lydia had to admit, wondering if she should mention her impressions to Katy or not.

‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered as she leaned over and touched the radiator, which looked so old that it should probably be an exhibit in some sort of museum. Last night, it had been boiling and gurgling away to its heart’s content, but now it was silent and cold to the touch. Flinging herself back on the pillow, Lydia assessed her chances of going back to sleep and decided that, what with the risk of frostbite, not to mention the fact that one of her best friends was in bed in the next room with her secret ex-lover, the chances were low.

With a brief, scathing glance at Stephen’s slumbering form, she braced herself and clambered out of bed, deciding to bypass looking for socks and pulling on her ankle boots as soon as her feet hit the icy cold boards. Stealing one of Stephen’s many jumpers off the back of a chair, she tugged it on over her head before finding an official Heron’s Pike dressing gown hanging behind the bathroom door and wrapping it tightly around her. True, she did look a bit like a style-starved Michelin man, but she was warm, which at this point was about the only plus in life she could think of.

Going into the little turret room, Lydia leaned against the windowsill and traced the tip of one finger
along the lacy film of frost that had formed on the inside of the glass during the night, etching a beautifully symmetrical pattern across the glass. She pulled the towelling sleeve of the dressing gown down over her wrist and rubbed clean a circle of glass with the heel of her hand, then peered through it.

The outside world was silent and still. All signs of life had been muffled under acres of white, but Katy had been right about one thing. This was the perfect location for a hotel. The snowy mountains that bordered the lake looked majestic against the freezing blue sky. They were much bigger and more imposing than Lydia had ever imagined. The lake itself, laced with ice around its shores, stretched into the distance, its dark and calm waters keeping all its secrets under its smooth implacable surface. It was a landscape so raw and untamed that it made Lydia feel tiny – an insignificant scrap of humanity lost in an indifferent wilderness. Well, if you could call it being in a wilderness when you had an en-suite bathroom.

Her watch indicated that it was ten past eight, and yet the house seemed silent. Perhaps everyone had frozen to death in the night, which at least would get her out of any awkwardness over the next few days. More likely, most of them had all consumed at least the same amount of alcohol as her darling boyfriend had last night, and were still sleeping it off. Hugging the dressing gown around her, she set off to find
breakfast, intent on keeping herself busy by boiling, poaching or scrambling something. Preferably, the brains of all the men who had ever wronged her, including the two still sleeping upstairs. But if those weren’t available, then eggs would have to do.

It took a while to find the kitchen, and she only managed to do so by following the sound of Katy’s trademark sanitised swearing that she reverted to whenever the children were around.

‘Banana poops!’ Katy yelled furiously as Lydia walked into the large but seemingly ill-equipped kitchen. Slate flagstones lined the floor, and the units and tiles looked like they would have been the height of fashion circa 1979. All Lydia could see was Katy’s bottom. The rest of her was leaning into the depths of a rather aged-looking Aga.

‘Fat, fat, teddies!’ Katy growled. ‘I knew it. I knew we should have done the kitchen first. Fat, f— f— fat teddies!’

‘It’s not the teddies’ fault they are fat,’ Tilly said, somewhat offended, colouring in what Lydia thought at first was a piece of paper and then realised was the table top. ‘It’s all the honey they have to eat to stay alive.’ She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Mummy, do teddies go to the dentist?’

‘Twice a year,’ Lydia said calmly, pausing to admire the child’s rather spectacular doodle. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

Katy looked up at her, her usually serene face wrought with distress. ‘Can you install a new boiler? Ours has conked out again, which, judging by the fetching outfit you’re wearing, you’ve already worked out for yourself. I don’t know what I’m going to do, Lydia. It’s pantsing freezing and of course nobody wants to come out to patch it up a couple of days before Christmas, and in this weather! And to cap it all, I can’t pantsing get this pantsing thing working, and if I want to have it hot enough to cook Christmas dinner in, then today is the last chance I have to get it lit. Every time I think I’ve got it going, it goes out again. I pantsing hate farting Agas!’

‘Pants, farts!’ Tilly giggled, before adding forlornly. ‘I’m awfully starving, Mummy.’

‘Excuse me.’ Lydia pressed the back of her hand against Katy’s creased forehead. ‘Who are you and what have you done with my friend Katy, you know the one that was reading
The Aga Cookbook
aloud back when the rest of us were living off Pot Noodle on toast? The one that spent her university years channelling Martha Stewart and owned her first set of homemade ceramic
napkin rings
by the time she was twenty-four?’

‘That was then, before I actually had a f— farting Aga,’ Katy wailed. ‘No one said anything about them being bast … bar stewards. Honestly, Lydia, owning an Aga doesn’t make me feel nearly as smug as I’d hoped!’

Lydia smiled, hugging Katy tightly; the poor woman was clearly suffering from a serious bout of reality.

‘Okay, well … It’s not the end of the world if it’s not working. It probably needs some sort of service, or something. You’ll be able to get it up and running before New Year, I bet. And in the meantime, you made a feast last night, how did you do that?’

‘That thing,’ Katy said sullenly, nodding at a standalone electric cooker that was stuffed in the corner. It looked decades old, was dented and slightly rusty around the hob, and Lydia had to admit that, if she hadn’t been in the presence of her uncharacteristically highly-strung and stressed-out dear friend, she would have immediately recommended that it be condemned as a health and safety hazard. Still, looks weren’t always everything, and Katy had clearly been using it for weeks, judging by the large quantities of what looked like homemade mince pies, mini Yule logs and brandy snaps that were stacked up in Tupperware all around the kitchen.

‘Well, that looks perfectly up to the job of cooking a turkey to me,’ Lydia lied.

‘I know, it’s just that I’ll have to do everything in shifts, and try and keep stuff warm while I’m waiting for other stuff to cook, and … and … oh f— fiddle sticks, Lydia. How am I ever going to cook breakfast for twenty people every day on that pile of junk? I told Jim a kitchen was more important than all those floodlights, I told him!’

‘Katy, breathe,’ Lydia said firmly, pointing at the seat next to Tilly. ‘Sit down. I’ll make coffee and breakfast.’

‘But you’re the guest,’ Katy complained. ‘I was going to do a great big feast in the dining room, with cinnamon lattes and … and gingerbread croissants.’

‘Please let Aunty Lydia make breakfast,’ Tilly begged her, plaintively. ‘So that I can eat again.’

‘Sit!’ Lydia commanded her. ‘Let’s sort us, and Tilly, out first, and then I’m sure we can rustle up something for everyone else. Relax. I’ve got this all under control.’

‘Isn’t that what you said when you were trying to hail us a taxi back from that night club, and it turned out to be a police car and we all spent hours in a cell?’

‘Yes, that’s true, but I was eighteen then. I’m a grown-up woman now.’

‘Debatable,’ Katy said, but she was smiling as she leaned her chin on her hands and watched Lydia fill the kettle and heap spoonfuls of instant coffee into two mugs, and hot chocolate into another. Sensing something food related was afoot, Vincent appeared from somewhere, shuffled in, sniffed the air and then collapsed in an unruly heap under the table to await whatever gastronomic delights might come his way, courtesy of the ever-generous Tilly.

‘I wish I had fur like Vincent.’ Tilly shivered. ‘I’m an icicle!’

‘I know, darling, I’m sorry. I’m sure that as soon as
Daddy gets up, he’ll sort it. He did last time, remember? Although, to be honest, I think that had more to do with luck than judgement …’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ Lydia said, clapping her hands together and grinning at Tilly. ‘Why don’t you take this smelly, hairy dog and your freezing little feet, and go and jump on Daddy until he’s up? I promise you I’ll have reams of toast and hot chocolate ready by the time you get back.’

‘Okay!’ Tilly was obligingly excited by the idea, unlike Vincent, who had to be forcibly persuaded to leave his vantage point under the table with a firm prod from Lydia’s pointed toe.

‘Jim is not going to appreciate that,’ Katy said, hugging to her chest the mug of coffee that Lydia handed her, defrosting the tip of her nose in the steam. ‘He’s not a morning person, he says. It must be a new thing, though, because when he worked in the city he was always up at six a.m. and at his desk by seven. I thought I’d see more of him out here, more of him awake, I mean.’

‘Perhaps he’s just kicking back, you know, getting into the country pace of life,’ Lydia said, as she discovered a large fridge brimming with food, and set about cracking eggs into a bowl before whipping them with a fork.

‘Or perhaps he’s just a lazy sod who’s quite happy to act the lord of the manor while his wife does
everything else,’ Katy replied, with more than a hint of bitterness.

‘Is everything okay with you, Katy?’ Lydia asked with concern. ‘I thought this was supposed to be your dream? Is life here not as idyllic as you’d hoped?’ Lydia asked, handing Katy the first round of toast to come out of the toaster for her to butter.

‘Yes, yes it
is
,’ Katy said, seemingly cautiously. ‘I’m just tired and cold, that’s all. I’m not being fair. Jim’s worked so hard on this place, getting it ready. And we’ve spent almost everything we have, already, which is a bit of a worry when the kitchen still needs doing, and the boiler’s so ancient … Anyway, I suppose it’s only fair that he gets a rest before we open for business, officially. It’s just that …’

‘You could do with a rest too?’ Lydia prompted her.

Katy nodded. ‘It’s my own fault. We could have had a quiet Christmas, just the four of us. All this was my idea. I so wanted you all to see what a good job we’ve done on the place. And I know how much you like the idea of a traditional Christmas … I really wanted to be the one to give you that, after all those terrible Christmases you used to tell us about, like the one when your mother had ’flu and couldn’t get out of bed and you had to make yourself beans on toast.’

It was just like Katy to be so sweet, but Lydia didn’t want her to feel guilty that her perfect Christmas wasn’t
going to plan. ‘I like beans on toast, and anyway it was a wonderful idea, and it
is
going to be a lovely Christmas, and you are going to be brilliant hoteliers, I promise,’ Lydia reassured her, mentally crossing her fingers as she poured the eggs into the frying pan. ‘You know what it’s like, these things always come together brilliantly at the last minute, you’ll see.’

‘So what do you think of him?’ Katy asked her.

‘Jim? Bit of a twat, but basically okay.’

Katy giggled, taking no offence. ‘No, what do you think of Joanna’s new bloke? He is rather handsome, isn’t he? And funny? You should have seen Jo-Jo last night after you went to bed, she literally looked like the cat that got the cream.’ Lydia’s egg scrambling slowed down as the weight of the situation in which she had found herself settled on her shoulders. ‘And when you think about it, that’s not like her at all to be so keen,’ Katy continued. ‘I can’t think of a single past boyfriend that she hasn’t picked on or criticised from the beginning. But with this Jack, it’s like the sun shines out of his very pert and muscular arse.’

‘So, what do you know about him?’ Lydia asked carefully, tipping out steaming eggs onto Katy’s toast.

‘Not much, just that he’s something big in publishing, lived in the UK for a couple of years, is the world’s most fantastic lover. Joanna says he’s never been serious about anyone, always been a confirmed bachelor … until now. I don’t think she knows for sure, but she
suspects he’s been a bit of a player in the past. Well, of course he has, look at him.’ Katy stared at her breakfast. ‘I wouldn’t mind him on toast, sunny side up. Anyway, I think that’s partly what she likes about him. All her other men have been totally under the thumb, but he’s his own man. Which is why she nearly imploded with excitement when she told us last night that, just before they came up here, he told her he’d never met another woman like her, and that he thought that what they had could be something really important.’

‘Really,’ Lydia said flatly, sitting opposite Katy, pushing her breakfast away.

‘Are you all right, Lyds?’ Katy asked her. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you seem a bit put out by Joanna and Jack? I know she can be a bit overpoweringly smug sometimes, but, to be fair to her, I’ve never seen her like this about a man before. I think she might actually love him.’