‘So you’ve said before. Come on, we need to crack on. I’ve got gravy to make.’ Jason had recommended making the gravy in advance as a time-saving method, using a recipe that Adrienne at the cookery school had taught them.
As she chopped onions and peeled vegetables, drizzling olive oil and sprinkling herbs over chicken wings, she kept looking out the window, hoping each time to find that the snow had ceased falling, but every time the pale grey sky was exactly the same; there had been no let-up of the whirling blizzard of snowflakes for hours.
Once the roasting dish was stowed in the oven, she turned her thoughts to dinner for eight that night. Luckily she’d planned to make two lasagnes – one to freeze for later – so she had plenty of ingredients and it was as easy to make one big one as it was to make two. That with a salad and garlic bread would be perfect.
As she took the mince out of the fridge, she eyed the large piece of venison, which had become her bête noire. Maybe she should have practised making a Wellington before. It was a bit too late now.
This time tomorrow the guests would be here and she’d have to put into practice everything she’d learned during those weeks in Ireland. It was all going to be fine. Providing they got here.
At five-thirty, Xanthe marched into the kitchen. She’d changed into a scarlet dress with white piping and red suede boots.
‘You’re a few days early, Mother Christmas,’ said Izzy, sliding the lasagne and the foil-wrapped French stick filled with garlic butter into the oven to cook.
‘Oh, I’ve got another outfit for Christmas Day but I thought as Alicia and Graham were here, we’d have drinks in the lounge. So why don’t you go up and put a dress on for a change? Make yourself look pretty.’ The matching red fascinator bobbed as Xanthe grabbed her by the elbow and tried to steer her towards the door.
‘I’m fine as I am,’ said Izzy.
‘No, you’ve been working far too hard. I’ll lay the table while you go and freshen up.’
Izzy frowned at this unnatural concern, which wasn’t like Xanthe.
‘I thought we’d eat in here, save the dining room for tomorrow night.’
‘Excellent idea, darling. Go on, off you go. I know where the knives and forks are.’ She flapped her hands as if Izzy was a chicken that needed shooing away.
‘Okay,’ she said. There wasn’t anything to do until the lasagne was cooked and it would be nice to spend some time out of the kitchen for a change and to sit down on one of the plump sofas, although she might fall asleep if she wasn’t careful.
‘Don’t take too long. I’ve got Graham on drinks duty. I’ve told everyone to be there by quarter to six, so you’d better be quick.’
‘Yes, Xanthe.’ Judging by her mother’s immaculate makeup, the lipstick the exact same shade as her dress, someone had allowed themselves more than fifteen minutes to get ready. Izzy might be a low maintenance sort of gal but she did like to dress up and make an effort sometimes. Fifteen minutes felt like a stretch but she resolved to do her best.
She still had quite a few dresses from her event management days, including a couple of go-to little black dresses, which her mother described as funeral chic. Knowing that donning one of them would elicit exactly that comment, she took a blue velvet dress from her wardrobe instead. Without being vain, she knew that it complemented her red hair and flattered her shape, hugging her curvy figure in all the right places. She was never going to be, and didn’t want to be, a stick insect. After a super quick shower, she applied a barely there lipstick, a single coat of mascara and a spritz of perfume. ‘You’ll do,’ she told herself in the mirror, tugging out her usual ponytail and dragging a brush through the long curls.
‘Well, look at you,’ said Ross, catching sight of her at the top of the stairs. Her eyes widened. Well, look at him. He’d changed into smart black trousers and a white shirt that was open at the neck and – wonders would never cease – it looked as if he’d brushed his hair, although she did wonder how long it would be before the usual forelock of wild hair fell forward.
He saw her quick glance. ‘Don’t you start. My mother’s already telling me I need a haircut.’
‘I was thinking it looked unusually smart.’
‘It won’t last.’
‘I figured as much.’ She smiled at him.
‘You look gorgeous, by the way. I like the dress.’
‘Thank you.’ She stroked her hand down the skirt, enjoying the luxurious feel of the velvet. ‘Once upon a time I used to look quite smart.’
‘I can’t imagine you anywhere but the castle. It suits you. Do you think you’ll stay?’
‘I think so, unless I sell it, I suppose.’
He did a quick double take. ‘Sell it?’
‘If it doesn’t pay its way, I’ll have to. That’s why so much is resting on the Carter-Joneses.’
‘I didn’t mean that. Who owns the castle?’
‘I do.’
