Under The Mistletoe: Mistletoe Mansion / The Mince Pie Mix-Up / Baby It's Cold Outside
in Latin. How come only doctors and gardeners got to speak a classical language? I took a deep breath, feeling as if I was on some epic film set. Any moment now a voice would shout “action” and some heartbreaker hero – hopefully a clone of Adam – would appear, perhaps in classical dress. I would allow him to accompany me for a walk,then his love rival would turn up with a shotgun and… I sighed. This cul-de-sac oozed romance. The houses stood so far apart – whereas I’d never lived anywhere that wasn’t a bowling ball’s roll from a fish ‘n’chip take-away or betting shop. At the foot of the leafy, winding road which led here was the nearest bus stop, a thatched pub called the Royal Oak and a post box.
Despite the menacing clouds, I walked down the drive to join Jess. Woody scents filled the air. Where was the stink of exhaust fumes? Or the litter? Or the sound of Mrs Patel shouting at a late newspaper boy? Or the roaring engines of planes leaving Luton airport? I slowed down to a stroll and imagined the photo if paparazzi snapped me now. Maybe I’d look like some Hollywood star in one of those awesome perfume adverts, in some lush setting, the breeze blowing my hair… Good decision Kimmy, not to tell Jess about Deborah running after us. Nothing was going to stop me moving into this place. No doubt the estate agent had heard the weather forecast and was simply going to warn us about the storm.
‘Ooh, nice.’ Jess said and pointed to a border running along the fence, right near the house.
I admired the plant, with its sprinkling of small, cream flowers.
‘Lonicera fragrantissima – unusually it flowers in winter.
I shrugged.
‘Winter honeysuckle to you,’ she said and grinned.
I headed over and plucked a small spray of the flowers. Mmm, what a lovely sweet scent. I tucked it behind my ear.
‘Not as festive as holly,’ I said and jerked my head towards a prickly plant next to the honeysuckle, ‘but less painful.’
Jess shook her head at me and then gazed around. ‘We’ll have to get some white wine vinegar to get rid of all these weeds.’ Jess didn’t believe in chemical products, something she kept from Dana, her sales-mad boss at the garden centre.
Another splat of rain landed on my head and I hurried back to the car and grabbed my pink case and Christmas tree. I’d pull Jess’s bike out of the hatchback later. There’d be room for it in the massive double garage. Like an evacuee from a city, I hovered in front of the cylindrically carved white pillars either side of the front door. There was a brass lion’s head knocker right in the middle. On the red brick wall to the right was a fancy gold plate, saying Mistletoe Mansion. My eyes ran over the classy Georgian windows and moss-free grey-slated roof.
‘Come on,’ I called, ‘let’s get in before this rain does more than spit.’ On cue, thunder rolled. The car door creaked as Jess fetched her rucksack. Seconds later she stood beside me and took the keys out of her pocket.
‘Maybe we should knock first,’ she said and chewed her gum slower for a moment. ‘I thought I saw someone at an upstairs window. That Luke might be inside.’
‘Hopefully filling the fridge,’ I said and realised all I’d eaten today was that cranberry and orange cupcake. I smoothed down my hair, grasped the knocker and rapped hard. The sky was charcoal-grey now and a shiver ran down my spine. Maybe I should have rapped quietly in case some giant dog really lived here. Yet there was no barking, just the pelting of rain. I reached for the knocker once more.
At that moment, the door swung open but no one appeared. Prompted by a small yap, Jess and I glanced to our feet.
‘Aw, what’s your name, buddy?’ said Jess and knelt down.
You had to be joking! Who could be afraid of this tiny brown and white mutt? With those chocolate button eyes, it wasn’t the slightest bit fearsome. In fact, it would have looked well cute in a little tartan jacket.
‘Scoot, Groucho,’ said a flat voice. From around the side of the door appeared the man from the photo, wearing a lumberjack checked shirt with fawn cords.
I rubbed my ear as my eyes swept over his frame. Cords and a checked shirt? That was the uniform of granddads. Except he somehow made them look fashionable, and as for his chestnut bedroom hair and half-shaven face… A frisson of something stirred in my belly. Huh? That had to be a hunger pang. I’d only just broken up with Adam. It couldn’t be anything else.
I hauled my case over the doorstep and he watched me drag it into the ginormous hallway, unlike Adam who would have insisted on carrying it for me. His almost old-fashioned manners were one of the things that had attracted me in the beginning – the way he’d always be the first to buy a round at the pub; how he’d offer to drive, if he and his workmates went out on the razz. I took in the arrogant stance of this Luke, with his hands shoved in his pockets. Would I ever meet another bloke like Adam?
‘Groucho’s an unusual name,’ I said, as Jess followed me in. At least there wouldn’t be any poop-scooping up after a Great Dane. I gazed around. Oh my God. That staircase was amazing. You’d build up an awesome speed, sliding down those banisters.
‘Walter Carmichael – Mike Murphy’s deceased uncle, the guy who used to own this place – he bought Groucho at the turn of the millennium, the year he gave up the evil weed,’ said Luke. ‘It was his idea of a joke.’
Groucho… Marx. Of course, that ancient comedian with a bushy moustache and eyebrows, and a fat cigar always between his lips… Must love G… So, I was right, those red scrawled notes were about the dog, but the G stood for his name, not his breed. I looked down as he cocked his head sideways. What possible harm could this Groucho cause, especially with those little grey hairs sticking out from his chin?
‘Does he, um, behave himself?’ I asked, as the white-tipped tail vanished around the side of the staircase.
‘He’s toilet-trained and doesn’t bite, if that’s what you mean,’ said Luke, staring at the flower in my hair. ‘But he’s a Jack Russell – nosy; always into everyone’s business.’
‘You must be Luke?’ said Jess and smiled as she closed the front door. ‘I’m Jess and this is Kimmy.’
She held out her hand but he shoved his hands deeper into his trouser pockets, which irked me as it made me focus even more on the great things about Adam I was missing.
‘There’s milk, eggs and bread in the fridge. Help yourselves to anything else you find. The last housesitter quit this place in a hurry.’ He smirked. ‘The kitchen cupboards still have some food in them.’
I set my Christmas tree down on the laminated floor, next to a mahogany coatstand, and took a good look around. The winding staircase really was well impressive, with its oak banisters and burgundy carpet. At the top it branched out, to the left and right, past several glossed white doors with gold handles, on both sides leading around to the front of the house. On the cream walls hung brass-framed paintings – I squinted – of foxhunts and deer and fishermen. All this place needed was a tinselled pine tree much bigger than mine – it would be the perfect family home to live in during the festive season.
‘Wow. Impressive,’ I muttered, head back as I gazed up towards the high ceiling and a waterfall effect crystal chandelier. Downstairs were more paintings and to the right, a watercolour of Mistletoe Mansion, in the far corner, above a door – perhaps that was a loo. On the same side, near the front of the house, was an open door leading to the poshest lounge. I walked over to peek in and admired the sage green armchairs and sofa, the long oak coffee table, matching dresser and mega fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a photo of a friendly-looking old couple.
‘Mr Carmichael liked his paintings,’ I said and came back into the hallway. Jess was still gazing at the chandelier.
‘Yep. Murphy’s already sold some of them off.’ Luke stared at a portrait, to the left of the lounge door. It was of an old man, serious looking apart from a twinkle in his eyes – the man from the photo on the mantelpiece.
‘That’s