Under The Mistletoe. Kerry Barrett

quite young.’

      ‘Come on. I reckon we both need a cupcake,’ I said and we headed for the kitchen. ‘I made a batch of those marzipan ladybird ones I promised for your kids.’

      ‘Sod the kids.’ Deborah smiled.

      Twenty minutes later we were sitting in the green velvet armchairs in the lounge, coffees on the low oak table, a plate with a cupcake on each of our laps.

      ‘Have you told Mr Murphy why the house won’t sell?’ I said and took a large bite.

      ‘What would I say? Word would get back to my boss. If anyone got to hear I thought a ghost was in one of my properties, my reputation would be in tatters.’ She took a mouthful of sponge. ‘That reminds me. Mr Murphy’s down here on business the day after tomorrow – said he’d drop by here in the morning. So it goes without saying…’

      ‘I know. I’ll make sure everything’s spotless and hope no astral being messes it up.’ I’d have to do an early tidy up on Thursday morning, as Terry would be around the night before for telly. Walter would be pleased to have his nephew visit.

      Deborah licked strawberry buttercream icing from her top lip. ‘Mmm.’ She sighed and slipped off her shoes. ‘Do I really have to give the rest to the children?’

      I grinned. Perhaps the viewing wasn’t so bad I thought, taking another mouthful. There’d be others. I was determined to get this place sold.

      ‘So what exactly have you told Mr Murphy?’ I asked.

      ‘The same excuse I gave you – that times are hard and that pre-Christmas is a notoriously bad time for the market. I suggested he should lower the price if he wants a quick sale. He said another agency had told him the same – that’s his way of letting me know he might take his business elsewhere.’

      ‘But you found him housesitters!’

      ‘For the commission on a place this size, any agency would do the same, whether he’s friends with the boss or not. You and Jess… Are you definitely staying? You won’t run off in the middle of the night?’

      ‘No.’ I wanted to help Walter. In any case, what choice did I have? Adam was no nearer to taking me back and more importantly, pregnant Jess needed stability for at least a few more days.

      A sudden rapping on glass came from the kitchen. Deborah looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get going – appointments to keep, piles of paperwork to plod through…’

      ‘I’ll just get you the rest of those cupcakes. Come round again and I’ll make you those toffee teddy bear ones I mentioned, with peanut butter icing.’ I grinned. ‘For the kids, of course.’

      The knocking became more frantic and whilst Deborah slipped on her shoes and went out of the front of the lounge, I dashed to the door at the back, almost skidding around the corner into the kitchen. Outside stood Melissa, leaning against the patio doors – hair bedraggled, black, gold-trimmed velour tracksuit grass-stained. Perhaps she and Jonny had, ahem, sunk a few holes on their mini golf course. I opened the patio doors and a gush of cold air breezed in. A little unsteady, she held out a jar of black olives.

      ‘Hello, darling,’ she mumbled. ‘You left these behind, yesterday.’

      I sniffed. That was some “perfume”. I recognised the alcoholic bite to it straightaway. It was from the same range as Mum’s – let’s call that Eau de Cider. Melissa’s smelt slightly classier – Eau de Prosecco, perhaps. The golfer’s wife half-smiled, then promptly tripped over the patio frame. The olive jar and England’s number one birdie – appropriately – went flying.