‘And I’ll have to say, Amanda had abandoned us for another family’s Christmas, and she’ll give a sad smile and say she’s happy for you, and then she’ll pour an extra-large gin. And you know what gin brings.’
‘Tears.’
Megan pressed her fingers against the edge of the table. ‘You can’t hide forever.’
‘Forever is a stretch,’ I said. ‘I’m hiding for ten days. And I’ve already told Mum and Dad.’
‘Christmas isn’t that bad…’
‘It’s loud and fake, and people expect things from you,’ I said. ‘It thrusts you under mistletoe with men who can’t take no for an answer. It drags out all my failings as the family probes me about why I haven’t found another boyfriend yet. It makes Mum look at me like she’s waiting for me to announce a miraculous conception, while I’ve only brought a bloody cheese board.’
Megan scrunched her nose. ‘We love you, though.’
‘I know. I love you all too. Just can’t handle another Christmas in a misery sandwich.’
She reached for the little stack of gift tags on my dresser.
‘Are these for them?’ The tags were beautiful: thick cream card, hand-pressed lettering, my logo, a tiny golden monogram on the back—pale gold ribbon. No glitter.
‘For place settings and presents. Gifts are purchased, wrapped, and weighted so they look generous but fit in cases to travel home. There’s a Santa sack with their initials embroidered on it. The thing cost more than my first car. I’ve got the menus finalised and the alcohol signed off on. The tree is arriving with its own team, decorated in the soft golds and glassware that’s in this season. We even have a full sleigh and a team of reindeer stopping by with a Santa who’s flown in from Norway for the day.’
‘A sleigh.’
‘A real one. For photos.’
Megan grinned. ‘You’re going to hate how beautiful it is there.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘You are.’ She flopped onto my bed and punched my spare pillow before stuffing it under her cheek. ‘You’ll get out the car and pretend not to notice the shimmer of the sea or the quaint little houses. Just hide behind your clipboard like an emotionless robot. You’ll scowl at it all and then secretly fancy living there in about four days.’
I allowed myself half a smile. ‘If I get any notions, I’ll call you.’
We did the checklist dance. Passport, I always bring it; rich people can pivot destinations like they’re ordering pudding. Charger. Chargers for the chargers. Contract file. Site maps. The emergency bag with needles, paracetamol, plasters, stain remover, safety pins, and my little black book of sources. The people who can get just about anything at the drop of a hat. For the right price, of course.
‘Do you get a day off?’ Megan asked, reading my schedule upside-down. ‘At all?’
‘I get hours that are less insane than others.’
‘When will you call me?’
‘Every time I can.’
She came around the bed and hugged me, which I endured like a belligerent cat. ‘I know you’re doing what you need to, but you don’t have to do it alone.’
‘I’m literally taking a team.’
She squeezed, eyes shiny. ‘Text me when you get there?’
‘If I have signal.’
‘If you don’t, I’ll assume a kelpie ate you and tell Mum you died doing what you loved, bossing people around.’
‘I don’t enjoy bossing people around.’ I just happened to be good at it. If anything, it was exhausting.
‘ I hope Bayview Manor is haunted by a friendly ghost who teaches you the true meaning of Christmas.’ Megan said as we battled my suitcase onto the floor.
‘If I’m going to get haunted, it better at least be a hot ghost.’
