Sunday
15th December
12.
Wrap up!
Me, bribed by baking? I’m really not that shallow. But when we come back from our before-breakfast walk to find a tray of cranberry and cinnamon swirl buns, still warm from the oven, I have to admit, my mouth is watering. When I find a note sayingIvy, help yourself (not for dogs!)mainly I’m struck by the writing. It’s slightly italic, and despite the(very bossy!)condition, it’s friendly and relaxed, with neat even letters that are confident and clear, without being showy. Handwriting and cranberry buns can tell you a lot, they’re like a secret view into a person’s soul. And it’s actually fine to exclude Merwyn, because he’s only allowed dog specific food anyway.
By the time I’ve gone through every surfer in my head plus Ambrose and Miranda to guess a match I’m already on my third bun and counting. There’s something about the delicious doughy crunch, the snowy drift of icing sugar on the top, the way the juice of the berries is shot through with heat as its tartness hits my tongue. And whatever Bill claimed about hangovers,someoneis up and about and working all kinds of magic with the Magimix.
Then because Ireallydon’t want to show up too early, I creep into Bill’s room and fire off a couple of ‘see youverysoon’ messages to Fliss and Libby, which really mean, ‘arrive as late as you like’. When neither of them reply it’s fine – we all know what a nightmare last minute packing is. If they haven’t even set off yet it means all the more time for us to get the place perfect.
If I’m extra mellow as we finally make our way through to the castle entrance hall, it’s because I’m stuffed. Like Merwyn after his favourite turkey dog-dinner blow out, as I swing the bag of shells I collected on the beach and added ribbon loops to last night, I’m waddling rather than walking. I also have zero expectations about what I’m going to find. Let’s stay real here – even if Bill’s not in his room, why should he pull his finger out with the castle when he hasn’t this far?
Then as I push through into the entrance hall my jaw drops. ‘Stepladders!’ It’s one of those times I’m so surprised I end up saying exactly what I’m looking at instead of anything more sensible.
‘That’s the one, Hat-girl. Wearing the furry pompom indoors five days in a row? We’ll be thinking it’s deliberate.’
Obviously that was Bill, and obviously I’m not going to reply, especially when he’s calling me that. Although if it’s a choice between jokes about my hat and jokes about ghostly orgasms, or falling on top of Christmas trees, or my untimely leap into the effing hot tub, or worse still, my supposedly desperate hunt for a man, I’ll take the head gear every time.
‘And Taj too!’ I’m still startled and stating the obvious. ‘First one here, working through your hangover?’
He’s sliding a second set of steps into place. ‘Head’s clear as a bell, and I was actually last to arrive. When word got out about those cranberry twirls it caused a surfie stampede.’ He dips into a box and pulls out a miniature gin bottle. ‘So we’re hanging these on here with some shells? How about we make a start and you come back in five minutes and see if we’re doing it right?’
‘Great.’ For once it actually is. I hand him the bag of shells, then I turn to Bill. ‘What’s that you’re leaning on?’
Bill steps back and holds up the stick, to show what’s on the end. ‘It’s a mop, we’re all hard at it in there, I can personally guarantee every floor will soon be patina free.’ He’s pushing on the door. ‘There’s something through here I know you’ll want to work on too.’
As I follow his dark tousled curls past the sofas and fireplace and groups of easy chairs, I’m pinching myself to check I’m not dreaming. Much less productively, I’m mentally tracing the lines of his back muscles through his jumper. Watching the back of his neck flexing as he turns his head to grin at me over his shoulder, and hating myself for it. ‘Charcoal – it’s a good colour for cashmere.’ I’ve no idea where that blurting came from either.
He glances back at me. ‘There you go again, Ivy, completely missing the bigger picture. After all that carrying too.’ He steps to one side and takes a breath. ‘So what do you think – or are they so transparent they’re invisible?’
For a second I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about and then I see – the three long glass tables from the distillery arranged in the empty space beyond the sofas, surrounded by my favourite perspex chairs. ‘Oh my, are they spectacular, or what?’ It’s like they’re there, but they’re not. Sure, they’re big, but because they’re see-through it’s as if they don’t take up any space.
‘Good call of yours, Pom Pom. They actually look so good they may have to stay forever. Are you putting lights on the chairs?’
‘I’ll do that now.’ It’s a shock he’s even remembered. I dive into a box I left here yesterday, and pull out the sets of the prettiest tiny see-through perspex stars on strands of copper wire along with the tape to stick the battery boxes to the chairs. ‘And maybe if you have some larger empty gin bottles, we could have them in clusters down the table centres, with the tea lights in jars.’
As I hear Miranda’s laugh approaching I’m expecting her to sweep through in her dressing gown. Instead she’s in navy leggings and lots of woolly layers with flashes of brightly flowered silk, all topped off with a shimmery gold puffa coat, and she’s carrying pots full of pine branches. ‘Had a lovely lie in, sweetheart? We’ve been at it for hours, where do you think for these, I’ve got another eight outside?’
I’m picking my jaw up off the floor. Again. For all the reasons. ‘How about along the long wall between the trees. They’ll be a great way to break up the rockiness of the walls.’
She’s purring at me. ‘You’ve got such a good eye, Ivy-leaf, I knew you’d know.’ As for being called Ivy-leaf, no one loves a pet name quite as much as Miranda. This one stuck on my very first visit to Brighton when I accidentally blurted that my mum called me Ivy after the ivy-leaved toadflax which grew in our back yard when she was pregnant. They’re like tiny purple snapdragon weeds that scramble in nooks and crannies on walls and everyone seemed to think it was hilarious they were the only flowers we had. It could have been worse, they could have called me Toadflax, and at the time I remember loving that I had my own special name.
But getting back to the present, I’m hot on the trail of my mystery baker. ‘And those lovely buns in the kitchen, Miranda, were they down to you?’ She used to hate cooking, but with Paul Hollywood flexing his pecs in theBake Offtent, she wouldn’t be the first hopeless cook to be inspired to brush up on her sponge skills.
She lets out a hoot of laughter. ‘I can’t take the credit for those, Ambie and I would starve before we switched the oven on.’ So that’s them out of the running. As she turns to Bill she changes from a velvety purr to a spit. ‘So here we all are,totallyclothed and working our little tushes off for you, have you got anything to say to me?’
Bill shrugs and half closes one eye. ‘Your jacket is looking fabulously tinselly?’ Is that seriously the only glittery word he knows?
Miranda’s not backing off. ‘You might like to try again?’
‘Nice pine twigs?’
There’s a low laugh, a flash of neon orange and the rattle of hair beads, and Keef bursts in. ‘Don’t listen, he’s winding you up.’ His joggers are streaked in a shepherd’s delight sunset, but there’s no sign of any giveaway traces of flour dust. ‘If you’re after a four poster, Miranda, I’m your man. Say the word, my Milwaukee is at the ready.’
As Miranda unwinds her scarf and readjusts her layers a large expanse of bare chest comes into view. ‘It’s never too early for cocktails!’
