Page 4 of Christmas Chaos
He raised an eyebrow.
‘Which of course is nonsense,’ she ploughed on, looking at a point an inch above his head.
He cleared his throat.
‘So, I—’she continued.
‘The Monteith–Kowalski wedding?’ he interrupted.
She grinned. ‘Did you see how much they are paying? The profits should cover a staff wage for a year.’
‘Yes, I saw. I’m surprised to wake each morning and find you haven’t tattooed it on the back of my hand overnight.’
Her expression was too excited at that prospect for comfort. He fixed her with one of his stern looks.
She responded the way she always did, by laughing.
He shook his head with a resigned smile. ‘Okay, get on with it. I need to check on the cows at Alasdair’s farm.’
‘Right! Okay! So, from May every other weekend is booked up with weddings and the rest of the time the castle is open for tourists. It’s great, but you know it only just covers wages and we’re not yet fully in profit.’
He nodded. The busier they became, the more staff were needed. But wages were the biggest drain on their coffers so the two of them were working seven days a week trying to get everything done and keep costs down.
‘This year I want to go all in. We’ve got the ceilidh, which is free for the village, but I want to have another one for the public and charge for entry.’
That made sense, but Rory knew she was softening him up for a killer blow.
‘And we’re going to hire out the entire castle to a private party for Christmas week.’
‘What private party? Who are they?’
‘They’re friends of, erm, “He Who Shall Not Be Named”.’
‘Please tell me he’s not going to be there too?’
‘No! No, I promise. He’s shooting Fight Dragon Club. Your mum assured me they would be staying in LA the whole time.’
Thank god for that. When Rory had visited his mother and new husband he found their lifestyle to be even more irritating and vacuous than he could ever have imagined.
‘I want to do a light installation in the castle gardens starting October half-term and running into December,’ Zoe continued. ‘With wreath-making workshops, mulled wine, carollers et cetera.’
He nodded. It would be an insane amount of work, but these were great ideas. However, his wife had a look he knew all too well and it made the back of his neck tingle.
‘What part of “et cetera” involves me?’ he asked.
‘Erm, you need to grow a beard.’
‘Why?’ he asked, already fearing the answer.
‘I want you to play Santa.’
‘Zoe, I’m thirty-five, not sixty-five. Go into The King’s Arms and choose someone else. Every night is like a Father Christmas convention there.’
‘But they’re not the Earl of Kinloch,’ she protested.
‘Do you think some snot-nosed little kid is going to care?’
Her cheeks were getting redder. This was not a good sign.
