SASHA
Ten years later
16thNovember
‘Quick, that’s the photographer arriving!’ In the distance, car headlights swing into the winding gravel driveway.
A small crowd congregates on the paving in front of Huxley Castle Estate, awaiting the official switching on of the impressive Christmas lights. Our resident pianist plays traditional carols on a white grand piano from his station beside the ornately sculpted water feature of three entwined dolphins.
Thankfully, the weather’s behaving, for now at least. A fresh crispness lingers in the chilly evening air, but there’s no sign of rain.
My fingers trace the long-sleeved crimson silk dress I’m wearing, smoothing it into position. Patting my hair into place, I take a deep breath.
‘Relax.’ My best friend and the castle’s manager, Megan, pats my arm in a reassuring gesture. She begins to hum a familiar tune under her breath, the same one she always hums when I’m anxious.
‘Huh! You have no idea how hard it was to getTatlerto agree to come here at all! I practically had to beg. I offered the damn woman two nights free accommodation in one of our most luxurious suites, in exchange for twenty minutes work and a half-page slot in next month’s magazine, and that’s if I’m lucky! And do you know what her response was? She asked if the room had a sea view. Unbelievable.’
When my parents were alive, the glossy magazines used to fight over who got the exclusive at Huxley Castle. The switching on of the lights is a tradition they started long ago, and one of many that I’ve tried desperately hard to keep alive in honour of their memory.
When they died, I inherited the business, the entire estate and custody of my seventeen-and seven-year-old sisters.
Running the castle estate alone hasn’t been easy.
Raising a teenager alone hasn’t been easy.
But every time I worry if I’m doing a good enough job with either, a staff member reports an issue demanding an immediate solution, leaving me zero time to dwell on it. Not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.
A few years ago it emerged some parts of the castle had a rare form of dry rot. It cost a mint to rebuild those areas and now I’m in debt up to my eyeballs trying to keep the place afloat– a fact I’m desperately trying to hide from not only my own sisters, but my father’s two as well.
Aunty Mags is a dream; she’d do anything to help, even sacrifice her own trust fund if she had any idea of the financial difficulties this family is in. I’ll never allow that to happen.
Aunty Evelyn, on the other hand, makes Cinderella’s evil step-sisters seem positively amiable. As my father’s eldest sibling, Evelyn was adamant the estate should have fallen to her when he passed. Thankfully, I was eighteen and legally old enough to claim everything, including sole care of my sisters.
Chloe emigrated to Dubai the day after she turned twenty-one, carving her way in the world as a super successful events manager. Having founded her own company, she employs fifteen full-time staff and deals with the Emirates’ most elite.
Victoria is seventeen and the sole cause for the single strand of grey I found in my otherwise glossy chestnut locks this morning. Her happiness concerns me more than anything else. She was with our parents when the accident happened and, though she’s never spoken of it, it must haunt her subconscious. It has to. She still has night terrors. Especially this time of year.
So, beneath the intentionally well-presented exterior of both myself and the castle, I’m secretly struggling. The long and short of the situation is – I’m praying for Prince Charming to rock up on his white horse and save us, or a Hallmark-worthy Christmas fucking miracle, because without some sort of divine intervention, according to our accountant, this could well be our last Christmas at Huxley Castle, our family home for the previous three generations.
Swallowing hard, I whisper to Megan, ‘You know Christmas isn’t my favourite time of year. All those memories.’ It’s as close as I can bring myself to mentioning it.
‘I know, Sasha. I know. You’re doing a great job though.’ Megan’s sympathetic smile brims with reassurance and love. She’s one of the few friends I kept from my school days. When everyone else left for college, I became a parent, business owner and a hot fucking mess. It didn’t leave much common ground with my peers.
So, when Megan graduated from UCD with a degree in hospitality, she was the obvious choice when the previous manager retired. Not only is she the most loyal friend a girl could wish for, she’s efficient, savvy and unafraid of hard work.
Crunching tyres grind to an abrupt halt at the castle pillars, ending our conversation before it really begins.
My favourite porter, James, descends the concrete steps to assist. He’s been like a father figure to me these past ten years. Ever ready with a hot coffee and the ability to lend a thoughtful ear, he’s seen me at my best and worst and always keeps my confidence.
As he opens the driver door, a sharply dressed woman with jet-black hair secured in a severe-looking chignon steps out. She drops the car key into his hand without so much as offering him a glance, preoccupied with scrutinising the castle and its subtly eroding but charming features.
Its grandeur is unquestionable, but under close inspection, so is the fact it needs a small fortune spent on it. One I don’t currently have.
Megan imparts a swift dig to my ribs and sniggers. ‘Cruella has arrived.’
I shoot her a warning glare, then present an air of confidence I don’t truly feel. ‘Miriam, delighted you could make it. Welcome to Huxley Castle.’
Miriam, the Tatler journalist, glances round at the locals, my regular supporters, mostly comprised of family friends, neighbours, and the families that currently rent the cabins. ‘I thought there’d be more of a crowd.’
