Thursday
19th December
20.
Worth melting for …
I’d somehow pinned my hopes on a day of tree decorating for today. Realistically, if we don’t do the damned things soon, Christmas will be over and we’ll all be going home again. What I actually mind about more is that if no one wants to decorate them Bill will be proved right about us not needing seventeen trees. And I really,really,REALLYdon’t want that to happen.
But as usual, what happens instead is all my own fault. I’d been Googling Instagram opportunities in Bill’s bedroom, and came out super-excited because I’d found an evening Christmas Market down at the harbour in St Aidan on Friday. I mean, think of it – is there anything more Christmassy than market stalls, twinkly lights, delicious food, with the added twist of a backdrop of picturesque fishermen’s cottages, bobbing boats and reflections off the water? And as if that wasn’t enough – pause for a ‘squee’ at this point – there’s going to be ice skating too! I knew I’d unearthed a festive gem, but I hadn’t bargained for what Libby did next.
Before we knew it, she’d stopped Keef mid way across the room with a log basket, turned him straight round and told him to find the event organisers and negotiate a private advance-hire of the rink.
Keef waved away the Amex Centurion card Libby was pressing into his hand, pointed to a wodge of twenties in his surfie pants pocket, tapped his beads against his nose, and said leave it to him, they’d settle up later. Whatever strings or rigging ropes he had to pull, and however much he had to shell out, the end result is, first thing this morning, instead of being elbow deep in vintage baubles and ribbons we’re heading off for a spot of exclusive-use skating on the harbourside outdoor rink.
Which brings me on to the other emerging early-morning castle feature – Bill and Milo’s breakfast wars. And the winner of today’s battle was … pause for a drum roll … Milo!!! He must literally have got up before he went to bed in order to bag his place by the Aga, and stood there most of the night with an industrial sized bowlful of Scotch pancake mixture, poised to cook his drop scones.
If I’m being totally honest, when you think of Bill’s breakfasts, brought to the table from wherever he’s picked them up, delivered with at best a frown and at worst a scowl like thunder, he’s a long way behind in the race. Bill may have the edge on taste, and to be fair Milo does borrow Bill’s pinny. But Bill loses out every other way because Milo cooks in person, flapping around the kitchen with his gentle banter, self-mocking jokes, and his easy smile. Breakfast served from the heart with a radiant beam? Steaming-hot dropped pancakes, served with a choice of blueberry or apricot jam and a smile – some of us accept all three – will beat Bill’s bad moods hands down every time.
The downside is, by the time we make it to the harbour and the rink side, I’m so full of Scotch pancakes when I bend to do up the ice skating boots they give me, I’m popping my jeans. We’re sitting at a cluster of tables at the end of the rink by the skate store and refreshment caravan, watching the fairy lights swinging from the awning edge as the gentle breeze blows in off a sea tinged with deep greens and topaz blue.
I break off to get a really lovely picture of Tiff kneeling down, her tulle skirt spread out across the cobbles, lacing up Tarkie’s skating boots. I have no doubt Libby will dismiss it, but I still love the way the two of them were caught in this really sweet sibling moment.
Then I turn back to Fliss and groan at her as I do up my button. ‘This has to be why Scottish people wear kilts. I may have to sit this one out until my breakfast goes down.’
She’s planned better, and is hauling up the elasticated waistband of her leggings under her huge emerald maternity Elf jumper from last year. ‘Don’t be silly, get out there on the ice and work it off.’
I saw her looking at her phone a moment ago, so take this second to mouth at her, ‘Any news?’
From her grimace it’s not the best. ‘Rob’s pulled yet another all nighter at the office.’
‘Right.’ That’s even worse than I thought. I’m puzzled, because this seems so unlike him. ‘Do you believe him? Could heactuallyhave been working?’
The sleep deprivation circles under her eyes are even darker than usual. ‘Three times in the last week, I can’t help but think the worst.’
I sigh because I know how bad I felt when George left. But mostly that was because he dodged saying goodbye and left me hanging for days and I didn’t know where he was. When I actually found out he’d landed a mega bucks gig in another continent, no longer needed me, but couldn’t face telling me, it came as a relief. But Fliss has so much more at stake. I just had one loser of a boyfriend, she’s got the children and this is her soulmate we’re talking about. And I know, every day the doubts are getting bigger. It’s staring us in the face, we just can’t bring ourselves to believe it. Nothing’s going to make her feel better, but at least it might take her mind off it.
‘Go and skate, I’ll look after Harriet and Merwyn while you and Oscar have a go.’ I know what I’m doing here, Harriet’s in her pushchair, currently sleeping off her own pancake stack. And I’m due a rest. I’ve already made my contribution to today’s Instagram effort by handing out Libby’s label stripy scarves for product placement and to make everyone look colourful against the picturesque backdrop of the harbourside cottages. Coaxing the Edmunson-Twiglets into her hats instead of theirs was as exhausting as it sounds. I mean, one trapper hat is effective, four home-made, crocheted and matching is too much of a good thing. Drab brown may be very up and coming in theory, but it’s still not bringing in the likes yet on Insta.
Fliss is looking over the barrier to where Brian, Bede, Taj and Slater are already zooming around the ice, their assorted rainbow and palm-tree print trousers flapping as they lean into the corners. ‘I thought this was private, what the hell aretheydoing here?’
I have to laugh. ‘Libby’s hired Keef’s mates in as crowd extras to fill the rink for the pictures.’ I let out a sigh. ‘You have to hand it to Libby, she’s phenomenal at nailing the details. She even got them all to turn up in Santa hats and their #TeamChristmas castle sweatshirts.’
Fliss is looking over to where Libby’s marching around, ordering everyone onto the ice. ‘She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it much though does she?’
I give a shrug. ‘A Christmas production as big as this is a serious business.’ I wrinkle my nose at Fliss as I pull my chair closer to the see-through part of the barrier and push her and Oscar off towards the ice. ‘If you think about it, Madonna doesn’t smile much either.’ I suspect Libby would take the comparison as a compliment.
Not that I’m being critical, but apart from Miranda and Ambrose, and Milo who I suspect is sunny, upbeat and bounding like a puppy even on his darkest days, I don’t think anyone’s actually having a good time. Sure, we had half an hour yesterday evening with the lights dimmed and tea lights glimmering against the velvety darkness of the windows, sitting in front of the orange glow of log embers, but with Libby always rushing in and out on various missions, it wasn’t exactly relaxing.
And the kids have taken a tower alcove for each family, and get holed up in there. Tiff and Tansy seem to mostly film each other on their phones doing earnest pieces to camera, while Tom disappears inside his coat with his laptop and headphones.
In the other tower, Willow always supervises her crew, and they all talk in Spanish and play Evopolio, which in case you don’t know – I certainly didn’t – is a kind of Bolivian Monopoly, only better. All while burning their own cleansing candles. Whoop di do. The only times they lapse into English they seem to be saying what a shame it is they aren’t actually in South America this year.
And whatever I was saying about Miranda and Ambrose being happy, as Miranda pulls up a chair next to mine, and thuds down onto it with a long groan, I’m having a rethink on that.
‘Everything okay there?’
She takes a last drag on her roll up, stubs out the end on the bottom of her sparkly boot, then blows out a cloud of smoke that disappears into the air as it drifts towards the inky water beyond the harbour quayside. When her blue eyes flash towards me, they’re troubled. ‘Actually, I’m totally pissed off. Yesterday Ambrose completely failed to do something as simple as turning a key to unlock the door he’d just bolted himself. And now he’s in a major sulk because he’s here and shivering rather than at the castle in the hot tub.’ Her nostrils flare. ‘To be honest, I could do without the drama.’
