Wednesday
18th December
19.
Have a banging Christmas …
As shitty days go, they don’t come much shittier than yesterday. I actually stripped most of my clothes off outside when we got back to the castle. When Fliss saw the onesie hit the floor she swore under her breath, squeezed my hand so tight my fingers almost went numb. Then she picked it up and marched off inside. She put the clothes through four hot washes before they were anything like clean. Meanwhile I wolfed down three reindeer cupcakes from a tray Fliss had picked up on the way home, simply because the icing was so delicious it seemed like the best way to get my sugar rescue. Which seemed somehow ironic and therapeutic at the same time, as if I was eating my phobia. Then I persevered with Bill’s shower on full power, helped by a plastic crate brimming with stags’ leftover bathroom products.
I began with a peppercorn scrub, and worked my way through everything from guava to maca root. Past very fragrant bergamot and pear to Scandinavian snowdrop. Then ended up with something called Cowshed Bullocks splash and according to Fliss I still wasn’t smelling great.
When Willow passed in a huge bottle of her special organic tomato ketchup from the kitchen, even though Fliss and I were grateful for any help at all, we were still exchanging disbelieving glances. Then she came rushing back in again with sage, muttering about how alarming my aura was and the state of my chakras. Truly, she has no idea. But however much it sounded like she’d got it from some new-age bullshit generator, after sloshing on a whole bottle of ketchup followed by the sage oil, the smell of donkey did actually fade from my skin.
So this morning when Merwyn and I come in from our early morning beach blast and find the table full of baking, it feels like a banging start to a whole new and better day. And I’m peering at the humungous piles on the trays while Bill watches from where he’s filling the coffee pot.
‘Let me guess – white chocolate chip muffins with raspberry?’ They’re criss-crossed with snowy white icing dribbles, and the cracks in the golden tops are just wide enough to catch a glimpse of pale gold sponge with scarlet raspberry splashes. And they smell so delectable, I’m sucking back my drool.
He pushes me a plate and a mug of coffee. ‘And the darker ones are rum and raisin. Here, grab a knife and tuck in.’ In spite of all the cash Libby’s paid, Bill’s still acting like he owns the place. And despite my growling at him yesterday, he’s still giving all the kids dead eyes, especially Harriet and Oscar. As if grumpy kids aren’t enough to deal with, it isn’t exactly helping the Christmas jolly having him glowering at the kitchen island twenty-four seven.
I’m on the sofa, Merwyn at my feet, munching my way through my third muffin, when we hear the distant sound of Milo coming down the back stairs. As he pushes through the door, he’s looping an apron over his neck. He’s got a pinny string in each hand when he spots the muffin pile and comes to a sudden halt by the table.
‘What’s this? You’ve done breakfast baking already?’
I’m nodding. ‘This must be another batch from whichever of Bill’s talented friends is the mystery baker?’ I give Bill a searching stare.
His eyes flash open. ‘Yeah … right. Another delivery from the Super Surfer Home Bakery.’
Which is a lot less hilarious than the twist of his smile suggests. In fact I can’t see the funny side of that at all, but whatever.
Milo punches the air. ‘Aw shucks, I was going to make Irish soda bread too, I got a special recipe from Los Angeles.’
Bill raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m no expert, but aren’t you confusing your culinary credentials there?’
‘Worldwide fusion is very current, they’re huge on sourdough in LA now.’ Milo’s overlooking how much of an arse Bill’s sounding, flashing me a wide smile, and going in for the argument.
I’m waving my muffin trying to diffuse the testosterone cloud. ‘For what it’s worth, these have got currants in.’
Milo grins at me. ‘That’s a completely different kind of current.’
Bill’s really channelling his Mr Superior this morning. ‘They’re actually raisins.’
Milo’s sounding less conciliatory, more like he’s decided the opposition’s talking too much bollocks to bother about. ‘It’s all good, I’ll do my soda bread for lunch instead then.’
At which point Fliss and the kids come in, then Willow and co., so I ignore Bill’s even deeper frown, wave at the table and put on my extra bright voice. ‘Everyone help yourselves to muffins.’
As far as the Twiglets go, if I’d offered them donkey droppings I’d have got a better reaction. They do a group face pull, then a co-joined shudder and finish with a perfectly choreographed head shake.
Willow’s almost transparent, in the palest green silk wrap. ‘Thanks all the same, Ivy, but it’s important we get our fuel from more natural sources, especially in the morning.’
‘Great, lovely.’ I’m nodding, but at the same time I’d hate to be one of her kids. I mean, what can be more natural to eat than cake? And I can’t help thinking if she ate a tray of muffins she might have more colour. Whenever I’ve seen pictures of those ridiculously pretty plates full of edible flowers and three calories I’ve always asked myself who the hell would ever order one, let alone subsist on them. But I bet they’d suit Willow down to the last petal.
Her forehead furrows and she pulls her arms across her chest and stares around the room. ‘Oh my, I’m picking up on a lot of negative energy in here, as soon as we’ve had breakfast I’ll bring down a cleansing candle.’
As Fliss looks at me, she’s holding in her smile. ‘See, very spiritualandintuitive.’
I hiss at her under my breath. ‘And definitely a pansy eater.’ I glance round at Bill and Milo on the stools by the island, looking daggers at each other. ‘You don’t have to be the psychic chef to pick up the bad vibes in this kitchen, you just need eyes.’
Then Tiff, Tansy and Tarkie shuffle in, which reminds me I need to grab some pictures before the Christmas muffins disappear. As photo opportunities go, this one’s a gift. When the kids’ mouths are crammed with muffin it’s impossible to tell they’re scowling not smiling. So, watched by a row of solemn Twiglets over the top of their bowlfuls of gluten free Morning Zen cereal, covered in macadamia milk, I get enough ‘happy kids stuffing their faces with delicious Christmassy breakfast’ shots against a blurry backdrop of fairy lights and gingerbread on the tree to keep Libby going until mid morning at least.
