‘I’d never have chosen it in a million years – I’d have been scared that it might be too dark – but Xanthe has a real eye.’
‘Mmm, she has flair, that’s for sure.’ The words didn’t sound entirely complimentary but then Izzy knew her mother wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Too loud and melodramatic for many people.
‘Help yourself to a paint brush. Do you want to do the fiddly bits or a wall?’
‘I’m more of a wall man. I don’t have the patience for the corners and skirtings. If you don’t mind, I won’t talk. This is good thinking time.’
‘No problem,’ said Izzy. ‘I’m listening to an audiobook and it’s got to a good bit.’
‘Oh? What are you listening to?’
‘Just a crime thriller thing. I’ve only started it today, but it’s a good story.’
‘There’s nojustabout it. People should read what they want to. I can’t bear all that literary snobbery. I’m a big fan of Ian Rankin’s Rebus.’
‘Oh, I like him too but I’m listening to Ross Adair’sWithout Bones.It’s a great series, have you read any?’
‘Mmm,’ he said non-committally and picked up a paintbrush. ‘Shall I start here?’
‘Yes, thank you. That would be great.’
‘You’ve made good progress in here.’ He studied one of the walls, running his hand over its smooth finish.
‘Thank you.’ She nodded with satisfaction, feeling a touch of pride as she glanced around. Over the last few days, she’d sugar soaped the walls and filled in many holes and cracks as well as sanded the woodwork before waxing and polishing it. The room was starting to come back to life and she couldn’t wait to see it when it was finished. Xanthe had also been darting in and out of the space with a tape measure for the last few days, sizing up the windows, measuring the fireplace and making mostly helpful observations along with plenty of constructive criticism about Izzy’s work and progress. Hearing praise from someone else was a welcome boost.
She picked up her own paintbrush and began to paint, waiting a few moments to see if he’d say anything else. When it became obvious that he really didn’t want to talk, she put her earphones in and began to paint around the skirting board that she’d carefully taped to protect the wood.
They painted in companionable silence and even though he didn’t speak his presence was oddly reassuring, especially when he gave her the occasional smile as they would look up and catch each other’s eyes.
They’d been painting for an hour – it seemed they’d both lost track of time – and the first coat was almost done when she noticed Ross had come to stand behind her. She pulled out her earphones.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘That would be lovely,’ she said, stretching out the kink in her back.
‘I’ll bring you one and then I need to get back to work. Oh blast,’ he said as his phone rang from the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out. ‘Hi, Bethany,’ he said in a decidedly weary tone before disappearing through the door.
Ten minutes later, when she was absorbed in her book once more, listening to the description of a tense flight by the detective hero, rushing back to his house after a tip off that the officers watching his girlfriend had failed to check in and the villain was closing in, Ross dropped in a mug of tea, gave her a wave with one hand, the phone still clamped to his ear with his other, and left the room again.
Even though they hadn’t spoken while they worked, she felt strangely bereft once he’d gone. There was something about someone else being around that had given her comfort, although she couldn’t have said exactly why.
Ross already seemed to be an integral part of the house along with Jim, Jeanette and Duncan. How was she going to feel when he eventually left?
‘They want stockings,’ announced Xanthe the next morning, coming into the bedroom where Jeanette was cleaning windows and Izzy was making up the bed with the crisp white sheets that had arrived the day before.
Izzy plumped a pillow and surveyed her handiwork, very tempted to crawl into the bed herself.
‘Who wants stockings?’ She tweaked the duvet cover and then bent down to pick up the soft cashmere throw in a rich, emerald-green colour, which Xanthe had selected to go with the accents in the phenomenally expensive wallpaper. Even Izzy had to admit the cost had been worth it and the room looked spectacularly opulent, with three painted walls that set off the striking wallpaper and roman blinds that Xanthe had made.
‘The Carter-Joneses,’ said her mother, doing a very odd crab-like sidle up to the wooden panelling around the fireplace.
Izzy blinked at Xanthe. ‘What do you mean, they want stockings?’
‘They want a traditional Christmas in a Scottish castle with all the trimmings and Mrs Carter-Jones has asked that everyone gets a stocking.’ Xanthe leaned back against the wall, one hand tapping against one of the panels, which set the white feathers in the boa she sported shivering.
She looks like an agitated swan,thought Izzy.
‘I don’t even know these people,’ she said. How on earth was she supposed to put together stockings for complete strangers? Stockings were personal. Each item had to be chosen with care. Her nan – Xanthe’s mother – had always made her a themed one. One year it had been all stationery items, another make-up gifts from nail varnish and eye shadow through to cotton remover pads and blusher brushes. The year she’d gone to university it had been filled with useful things like a set of screwdrivers, a Swiss penknife, a bottle opener and even a pack of condoms.
