Keef laughs. ‘I’m talking about my Milwaukee drill, not my drinks cabinet. Super-fast four poster conversions are my speciality. Do you fancy scaffold poles, ash saplings or rope-tied sail battens?’
Totally entranced doesn’t begin to cover her expression. ‘It all sounds very hands on! How about you come up and give me a demonstration or two, talk me through the options?’
As he turns to follow her he leans across and pats my arm. ‘Stress less, live more, Ivy. You’ll be pleased in the long run.’
‘Me, stressed?’ I’m so incensed it comes out as a shriek.
He’s wiggling his eyebrows at me as he heads for the door. ‘Stop waiting for perfect, don’t forget to play,carpethose effingdiems!’
Merwyn and I exchange WTF? glances, then I turn to Bill. ‘Would you like to translate?’
Above the corners of his pulled down mouth Bill’s eyes are dancing. ‘That’s just Dad giving you the benefit of his YOLO repertoire. Think yourself lucky you didn’t getYou’re a diamond, let yourself shine.’ He’s rubbing his hands.‘Anyway, no time to lose, we’d best push on, what are you onto next?’
I’m still opening and closing my mouth at the sheer audacity when Taj’s head appears around the door. ‘We’re fine for bottles out here, Ivy, but you’re going to need a hell of a lot more shells.’
‘Right.’ At least this way it sounds like my idea. ‘I’ll get the lights on these chairs then I’ll head straight off to the beach.’
Bill’s on his way out but he hasn’t quite left. ‘I was going to stock up the wood baskets, but I could come with you instead – give you a hand?’
‘No, totally not, all your hands are needed here.’ Bossing people around. Keeping the crew in order. I’d rather eat my own head than go for a walk with Bill. Just saying.
‘Okay, your loss. Well … busy, busy.’ He points to his mop. ‘Catch you later, then.’
I sort out the chairs, and there are enough lights left to put them into jars down the tables too. Although I say it myself, as I tiptoe away it looks so amazing and magical I have to go back for another look – three times. Then Merwyn and I hurry out across the sand to collect shells, as I bob to scoop up whelks and cockles, he’s chasing sticks and trying to catch the bubbles as the waves rush up the beach. The sea is iron grey, streaked with foam slashes and as we pick our way along the high tide line, and as my stomach starts to growl with hunger and I still haven’t filled the bag, I’m slightly cursing myself for being hasty and not accepting Bill’s help. But, jeez, spending any more time with the guy than I already have to would simply not be worth the agony.
When we get back to the kitchen it’s wonderfully Christmassy, with the lights on the tree and the fairy lights I’ve strung around the door. As I drill holes in the shells, then thread them with pink and orange hanging ribbons, with my favourite festive playlist on my phone, a frothy hot chocolate, and the rest of the cranberry whirls to dip into, it’s the first truly relaxing moment I’ve had to myself since I arrived. However much bollocks Bill’s dad talks, by the time I’m swinging towards the entrance hall with my second bag of shells I’m pretty chilled. Then I open the door, see most of the surfies plus Miranda hanging off the ladders and my jaw hits the floor, followed closely behind by my stomach.
‘But what are you wearing?’ It comes out as a whimper.
Miranda beams down at me from a top step. ‘They’re Cockle Shell Castle sweat shirts, aren’t they lovely, isn’t this a gorgeous shade of yellow?’
Keef’s below her, hanging on to her hips, her bum wedged against his chest, but he manages to turn around. ‘Bill found a huge box of them in the laundry. #TeamChristmas on the back, that’s definitely us!’ He’s patting his stomach. ‘All different colours too! Come and see this gorgeous, glittery writing, it’s actually edged in sequins.’
‘I don’t need to look, I …’ ordered the damn things, spent hours poring over the different fonts, choosing the wording, agonising over whether to pay the massive amount extra for that damned edging ‘… I saw it when I unpacked them.’ They were so beautiful. What’s more, they’re not meant for random surfies, they were part of my secret stash, my personal thank you to all Libby’s guests for sharing their Christmas with me. Also designed to whip out in case of a crisis to pull the party together. Although why the hell I’d think there’d be any of those, I can’t imagine.
Miranda’s staring down at me. ‘You need to join in too or you’ll spoil the effect. Even Ambie’s wearing one, he’s in the tub but he’s rolled it up to his armpits to keep it out of the water.’ As Bill comes in she’s even beaming at him. ‘Cockle Shell Castle tops, that’s another no brainer you’re missing out on, Bill.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Branded clothing fornaturists –how’s that a good fit, Miranda?’
Miranda’s laughing. ‘You’re such a naughty tease. It’s a good thing I’m pleased with my bed.’
My eyes are popping in disbelief. ‘You actually have your four poster?’ When it comes to getting what she wants, Miranda is a human dynamo, we could all do with taking lessons. Although I suspect her methods are probably too ‘Hollywood starlet’ for anyone in my generation to be comfortable with.
She’s nodding like a cat who’s had creamandfresh red tuna. ‘Timber battens lashed with natural hemp rope, draped with twists of muslin. All Keef’s design, and so unbelievably floaty, he’s doing them for the other rooms too.’
‘Astonishing. I mean brilliant!’ I pass my bag up to Taj on the other ladders, then incline my head. ‘Here’s the shells, if I could just have aprivateword with Bill in the kitchen?’ It’s out before I realise my folly.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Bill compounds it. ‘Yes, fine by me, I need that too.’
Miranda’s chortling down at me. ‘Absolutely, and not before time, sweetheart.’ She gives me a wink. ‘Take as long as you want, we know the score, we’ll all stay out here and give you some space.’
It would matter more if Bill and Miranda weren’t daggers drawn. Except, I’m hopeful that now she’s got her posts and wispy twists, and with Libby arriving, she’ll fade into the background and be less confrontational.
As for confrontation, I’m so silently apoplectic about my own disappointment, the second we reach the kitchen I turn on Bill.
‘So you found the sweatshirts and decided to give them out?’
He’s looking sickeningly pleased with himself. ‘You pushed me to use my festive initiative and I went the extra mile. Is there a problem?’
