‘They’ve come to a genuine Scottish castle with a white Christmas to boot. The rooms all look perfect, the food is going to be excellent and like you said, worst comes to the worst, we’ll get them pissed. You’ve got me, Jeanette, Jim and Duncan on side. We’re a team. It will be fine.’
Despite his words, as soon as the car drew to a halt, she hopped out of the door and, leaving Ross to bring the wine in, she scurried inside, almost tripping over the suitcase that had been abandoned in the porch. With her heart beating rapidly, a mixture of nerves and apprehension, she hurried into the main hall. The fire was laid but there were no welcoming flames as she’d planned but thankfully the garland of fir branches wound around the spindles and banister of the staircase, decorated with alternating red velvet and satin tartan bows, made the room look festive, along with the artfully draped sprigs of holly above the picture frames, which Izzy knew she couldn’t have achieved in a million years. Left to her, they’d have looked like random drunken twigs that had been abandoned to their fate.
On the mantelpiece above the fire were a row of fat white candles surrounded by fir cones, which had been spray-painted gold. It was tasteful and striking without being too much. Izzy felt a little pang of relief, the tension leaking out of her like a deflating balloon. First impressions would be favourable. This looked like everything you might expect from a Scottish castle.
A distant shriek of laughter rang out from the corridor leading to the kitchen as Ross came in carrying a box of wine bottles.
‘They’re in the kitchen?’ Izzy shook her head in disbelief and headed that way closely followed by Ross.
At least Xanthe had offered the guests refreshments,thought Izzy as she pushed open the door to find Xanthe and a middle-aged couple sitting around the table with a plate of shortbread biscuits and mugs of tea. The woman didn’t look the least bit like Izzy had expected Mrs Carter-Jones to look. She’d imagined someone quite smartly dressed but a bit matronly. This woman had white-blonde hair tipped in purple cut in a short crop with longer gelled curls on top and she wore a denim smock accessorised with a brilliant rainbow-coloured silk scarf and stripy tights in mustard, green and orange along with faded red leather shoes reminiscent of Cornish pasties.
‘Izzy!’ Her mother greeted her as if she’d been gone for days instead of a couple of hours. ‘Come and meet Alicia and Graham.’
‘Hello,’ said Izzy as brightly as she could, wondering why on earth Xanthe had brought them in here. Admittedly, with the big pine table, the dresser filled with earthenware crockery and the Rayburn it was cosy, but her mother had put all that effort into making the sitting room look beautiful. ‘Nice to meet you. I hope—’
‘Mum! Dad!’ Ross put the box of wine down with a thunk. ‘What are you doing here?’
The woman stood up, beaming from multi-pierced ear to multi-pierced ear. Izzy wasn’t sure she’d ever seen quite so many earrings on one person before. ‘Ross!’ Her raspy smoky-voiced yell outdid Xanthe’s usual volumes by several decibels. ‘My baby.’
Izzy cringed at the utter mortification on Ross’s face as Alicia launched herself at him, the folds of her voluminous smock and the tails of her scarf flying, her arms outstretched.
Ross reared back. ‘Dear god, Mother. I’m thirty-five.’
‘You’ll always be my baby,’ she said, throwing her arms around him in an extravagant hug. ‘Oh. You big lug, come here, give me a hug.’
Ross gave her a stiff embrace, patting her on the back.
She kissed him on both cheeks and then stepped back to assess him. ‘You’ve been working out, young man. I can feel muscles.’
‘You can’t feel muscles. I’m the same as I’ve always been.’
‘Buff. Your father’s never been buff in his life, have you, Graham?’ she called over to her husband, to whom Ross bore a strong resemblance.
‘No, dear,’ he said, catching Izzy’s eye and giving her the ghost of a wry smile. Suddenly Izzy knew exactly who Ross had been talking about when he said that Xanthe reminded him of someone and that he was used to people like her.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Ross again.
‘They’ve come for Christmas,’ crowed Xanthe, clearly rather pleased with herself.
‘But…’
‘I mentioned to Alicia that you were staying here and she said you weren’t coming home for Christmas and she hadn’t seen you for ages. Well, there’s plenty of room here, so I invited her and Graham to come and stay for the week.’ Xanthe folded her hands on the table as if expecting a pat on the back.
‘Youmentionedto Alicia?’ Izzy folded her arms in an ‘and-what-were-you-up-to’ stance.
‘Didn’t I tell you, darling?’ Xanthe said with breezy nonchalance. Izzy narrowed her eyes at her mother in silent challenge. They both knew full well Xanthe hadn’t said a word.
‘There was a piece on Alicia’s website that I thought would look perfect in the Rose room. I decided to make an enquiry.’ Xanthe’s blithe tone didn’t fool Izzy for a moment. Her bloody mother had seized on the tenuous link of Ross staying here and had contacted Alicia.
‘So here we are,’ trilled Alicia. ‘When I heard it was a castle, well, I wasn’t going to say no. I popped the turkey in the freezer, packed up and we set off. And what a marvellous place you have, Xanthe. It’s so kind of you to invite us.’
‘Very kind,’ muttered Izzy, mainly to herself because Xanthe and Alicia were far too busy having a mutual gush-in to hear.
‘It’s so wonderful to meet you. I absolutely adore your work.’
‘That reminds me. Graham, the car.’ Alicia clapped her hands in a chop-chop, imperious gesture.
He rose and clapped a hand on Ross’s back as he passed him. ‘Good to see you, son.’
