Page 38 of The Secret Christmas Library
‘Esme!’ said Jamie reprovingly.
‘What? Shut up – you don’t inherit everything IN THE WARDROBES!’
‘Well, I do, actually, but I don’t care about that. I meant, this is Mum’s stuff.’
Esme rolled her eyes. ‘I won’t tell her if you don’t.’
‘Where did you say your mum is?’ said Mirren, smoothing down her dress, which now felt a little odd to be wearing. They were talking about her as if she was dead.
She sipped her drink, which was warming and utterly delicious, the whisky soft and smoky, not harsh and abrasive as she usually thought of it, with a bright edge of clementine. There were cloves in the glass too, and the delicious maraschino cherry. Theo was already halfway down his.
‘She got out,’ said Esme drily. ‘Sometimes being a girl does work in your favour.’
‘She had a small trust fund,’ explained Jamie. ‘She took it and went to St Tropez . . . ’
‘Where she got taken in by an increasing pool of gigolos,’ said Esme. ‘Some of the oiliest men in the history of the universe. Then she got married and moved to Australia. I don’t know how far the trust fund goes these days either. We certainly haven’t got one.’
‘You don’t see her?’
‘Only when she wants something,’ said Esme. ‘I’m glad you found those gowns, actually; I can stave her off a little longer.’
‘But she’s your mum!’ said Mirren. She fell out with Nora all the time, but only because they loved one another so much.
The siblings looked at each other.
‘She wasn’t around that much when we were small,’ said Jamie. ‘That’s why we spent so much time here.’
Mirren felt it once again. Slightly sorry for these ridiculous rich people who had everything. It must have shown in her face because Theo gave her a stern look, then quickly raised his glass.
‘To . . . a successful outcome,’ he said, that rather wolfish smile spreading across his face.
Esme closed the window and came into the centre of the room, then they clinked glasses. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I notice you guys haven’t told me how you got on today . . . ’
Everyone went slightly quiet, looking at Jamie for a way forward. He looked torn; on the one hand, Mirren guessed, he wanted to share what they knew and what they had yet to find out. On the other, it was entirely possibly he didn’t trust Esme one bit – he didn’t seem to; didn’t trust her not to behave exactly as her mother had, taking what she could get and then disappearing. She was very happy it wasn’t a decision she had to make – and, thankfully, that great shuddering bell came once more.
‘Lucky you,’ said Esme. ‘Saved by the bell.’
Theo and Mirren followed the siblings as they trailed out into the corridor. It was ridiculous, Mirren found herself thinking, that it took so long to get anywhere in this building. As though they deliberately made life less convenient for themselves.
‘What do you think about telling Esme?’ Mirren whispered to Theo.
Theo glanced at the great arched window at the end of the corridor. The world remained a maelstrom, and they were still completely hemmed in by the falling snow.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘nobody is going anywhere. She’s going to be staying here. It’ll be a bit daft if she just follows us about the entire time.’
‘But Jamie hired us. It’s his house.’
‘I know,’ said Theo. ‘It’s a bit of a shame, though: I think she’d be the brains of the outfit.’
He glanced at Esme, in what Mirren worried was a rather admiring way, as she stalked her way down the corridors, utterly at ease in the half-light. She was wearing a pair of tight trousers teamed with a combat jacket and a light shirt and heavy boots; a little piratical and very sexy, Mirren concluded, a little glumly. Her spiky hair stood up straight from her head: she looked remarkable. Suddenly her red dress felt absurdly old-fashioned, as if she was dressing up for a costume party.
They walked past shut-up rooms, and one with a door cracked open, which Mirren noticed was full of great dark shapes covered in white drapes. It was incredibly spooky.
‘What’s that? Ghost furniture?’ she couldn’t help asking.
‘Music room,’ Jamie replied without stopping. ‘It’s to preserve the instruments.’
‘It doesn’t work,’ said Esme. ‘All the harp strings pinged aeons ago. If you hear music in the night, it’s definitely the ghosts.’
