Page 4 of One More Christmas at the Castle
At night, I often wondered whether I was sleeping over a Matisse, or possibly a cubist Picasso, which might account for my often fractured dreams when I was staying there. I don’t think it can have been subterranean surrealism, though, which would have given me proper nightmares.
Dad was also surprised to be reminded that Granny Celia and her friend, Dora, were somewhere in the middle of their latest long cruise, even though I could see a series of bright postcards propped along the mantelpiece, probably put there by one of the housekeeping staff, who came down to the cottage daily, like invisible house elves, while he was at the gallery.
Granny – Celia Sedley Jones – adopted Thomas, the illegitimate son of a distant relative, when he was a small child, and when I came along in my turn she became my guardian: dumping your inconvenient offspring on Celia seemed to have become a family habit. I called her Granny, anyway, my other one, Dad’s birth mother, having died not long after depositing her cuckoo in Celia’s nest.
My family, or what little of it there was, was not so much dysfunctional as dislocated.
My stay with Dad was as uneventful as usual, but pleasant.I had a tour of the gallery and saw the latest acquisitions, was invited to dinner twice with the millionaire owner of all those hidden treasures and a young wife I hadn’t seen before, also presumably recently acquired.
Other than that, we saw something of Dad’s friends from the university, where he was occasionally persuaded to give a lecture, and with whose family he always spent Christmas Day. They collected him – he’d have forgotten what day it was, otherwise.
They had a large family and I’d spent a lot of time with them when I was younger, learning to surf and skateboard, getting a California tan in the process. It was good catching up with them again and hearing the latest news.
In fact, it was a very relaxing break, apart from the long flight home again, which as usual rendered me spaced out with jet lag and rattling with airline peanuts and pretzels. It always took me a day and night to adjust my vision from warmly glorious Californian Technicolor, to monochrome, dark and drippy November in Cheshire.
Still, the thought that Christmas was on the horizon was very consoling because soon Henry and I would be off to provide seasonal cooking, comfort and cheer to one of our regular clients, and too busy working to even notice what the weather outside was doing.
Henry was both my business partner and my best friend – or one of them, since I also had Charlotte, even if I only now saw her very infrequently.
Henry and I, on the other hand, couldn’tmissseeing each other, since we occupied twin lodges on either side of the gated drive to Cranberry Chase, a bijou Queen Anne des res that belonged to a distant relative of his. His family were cash-strapped, but had a wealth of rich and posh connections.
So there we were: Henry was the Grace and I was the Favour, which is whyhehad the lodge with the large extension on the back and all mod cons, while mine was the original box, though with the outside loo and coalhouse now knocked through into a tiny bathroom. It had the kind of shower cubicle you need to stand in with your elbows clamped to your sides, feeling as if at any moment you might be sucked up a force-beam to a starship, starkers and slippery as an eel with soap.
Henry had filled my fridge with fresh food and drink before my return, but then left me alone to recover. But as usual, by the next morning I was more or less back in my right mind and ready for action.
This was just as well, because as I was finishing my second round of buttered toast and Marmite, he sent me a text:
Disaster, darling! Come quickly – I’ll put the coffee on!
I wasn’t unduly worried by this, because he’s such a drama queen – it’s his way of making life exciting and squeezing the last drop of enjoyment out of everything.
We run our business, Heavenly Houseparties, from the huge kitchen extension at the back of his lodge, where there’s plenty of room to spread out the paperwork on the pine table and stick up the charts of our bookings –andour projected absences, during which we both had other fish to fry – so I texted back that I was on my way and headed over.
Henry kissed me on both cheeks rather distractedly and exclaimed, in a voice of sepulchral doom: ‘You have come!’
Then he led the way into the kitchen, where he handed me a large mug of coffee.
‘Though given the bad news, it ought to be a stiff gin andtonic!’ he said, in more natural tones, but since he wasn’t looking desperately worried, I assumed the problem wasn’t life or death.
Henry had curling, rose-gold hair, pink cheeks and round, bright blue eyes, so he looked like a Botticelli cherub with attitude … until you noticed the short, square, muscular, rugby-playing physique. His curls were currently dishevelled from having agitated fingers raked through them, but he stopped now after suddenly catching sight of himself in the mirror and asked if I thought it was a good look.
‘No, people will simply think you’ve forgotten to brush your hair,’ I said, taking a gulp of good coffee. ‘And I couldn’t have drunk alcohol anyway, because I’ll have to drive over to Granny’s house in a bit, to make sure Mrs Frant has watered the succulents this week. It’s a pity Granny couldn’t take them on the cruise with her, because she does fret about them.’
Henry abandoned the mirror and plumped down opposite me. ‘Don’t you want to know what the bad news is?’
‘You haven’t had a single date from that upmarket dating site you paid so much money to join, while I’ve been away?’ I guessed.
‘No, it isn’t that … though actually, I haven’t had a single bite yet, you’re quite right,’ he said. ‘But this isbusinessbad: Lady B has done a Grinch and cancelled Christmas!’
‘What, Lady Bugle has cancelled her booking?’ I exclaimed, astounded, because we’d catered for her Christmas house parties for four years running.
‘Tootled her tin trumpet and toddled off,’ agreed Henry. ‘I thought she was as good as money in the bank.’
You certainlyneededa lot of money to afford the services of Heavenly Houseparties – ‘complete, carefree house party catering: from a weekend to a month’ – and especially the Christmas bookings, which came at a premium.
‘Why?’ I demanded. ‘I mean, it’s nearly the end of November, a bit late in the day for her to cancel, or forusto find another gig.’
‘Family illness, apparently. You can’t really argue with that, and she said she wasn’t expecting her deposit back.’
