Page 4 of Christmas All the Way

The trouble was, Keeley could see his point but she was damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of saying so. Nor was she about to admit that she had never thought to check just how many newsletter subscribers read the emails she carefully composed every month. She folded her hands in her lap. ‘Of course.’

Apparently picking up on her ruffled feathers, Xander puffed out a long breath. ‘Look, I’m not handling this very well.’ He tapped thoughtfully on the closed lid of his laptop. ‘I prepared a whole presentation on visitor engagement and social media metrics but I’ve just had a better idea. What are you doing this weekend? Could you manage a trip into London?’

‘London?’ Keeley threw him a startled look. ‘Why?’

He reached for his coffee. ‘Have you ever heard of Delores Semple?’

She frowned, wondering if he was being deliberately obtuse in an effort to make her feel even more stupid. ‘No.’

‘She was a costume historian and visual artist who lived in London in the 1980s,’ he said. ‘Her family was descended from wealthy Huguenot weavers who had settled in Spitalfields in the 1700s, and Delores eventually inherited the family home on Folgate Street from a distant aunt. When she began to clear the house in preparation to sell it, she discovered much of the furniture dated back to the eighteenth century. In the attic, she found box after box of carefully preserved clothing. It inspired her to restore the house to the way it would have been when her ancestors first arrived and she spent the rest of her life doing exactly that. When she died, she left the house in trust as a museum.’

Keeley thinned her lips. ‘And you want me to visit, to see how it should be done.’

‘Yes,’ Xander said, then paused. ‘But that’s not the only reason I want you to see it. Apart from anything else, I think you’d love it.’

Keeley could picture it now: a rosy-cheeked young woman at the door, bobbing and curtseying as she played the role of parlour maid to the household. Perhaps the lady of the house in an upstairs room, dressed in silks and powdered to within an inch of her life. Her mood darkened a little more. It wasn’t that she had anything against actors bringing history to life in museums and stately homes, more that she didn’t feel it was something that would work at Juniper Cottage. If that was what Xander had planned, then he was going to have a fight on his hands. ‘Unfortunately, I have a friend coming to stay this weekend so I’m not free.’

If her lack of enthusiasm bothered him, he didn’t show it. ‘One day next week, then. I can arrange an early visit, before the doors open to the public, so you can have a good look round.’

She was tempted to decline again, but knew it would seem uncooperative. Perhaps it was better to agree and get it out of the way. That way she’d have a better idea of how much of a battle lay ahead. ‘I’m free on Tuesday,’ she said. ‘Where in London do you want to meet?’

He grinned, subjecting her to another flash of dimples. ‘Liverpool Street station – the house is only a few minutes’ walk from there. Shall we say nine o’clock?’

She nodded before she could change her mind. ‘Okay.’

‘Amazing,’ he said. ‘Oh, and one other thing. Would you mind very much not looking up Delores or the house? I want you to come to the experience fresh, without any preconceptions.’

Keeley frowned, because researching Delores Semple was the first thing she’d intended to do once Xander had gone. ‘Okay, if that’s what you want.’ She sat back, wondering what he’d been planning to say before he changed his approach. ‘Is there anything you want to share about Juniper Cottage?’

‘Not at this stage,’ he said, and drained his coffee. ‘It wouldn’t achieve anything.’

She was tempted to point out that his visit had not achieved much either but held her tongue. The last thing she wanted was to goad him into delivering the threatened presentation. ‘Well, I’m glad you enjoyed the gardens, at least.’

Xander raised his eyebrows, and once again, Keeley was left with the impression he knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘I’m sure you have a million things to do so I’ll let you get back to your day,’ he said, rising to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘Thanks for your time, Dr Cotterill.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said, grasping his outstretched fingers with her own. ‘See you next week.’

Slotting his laptop into his rucksack once more, he smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘There is nothing at all like Christmas to gladden the heart.’

Broadstairs House, ELIZA NORTON

The journey from Upper Benbridge to Freezy Tye should have taken Grace just under forty minutes but she had reckoned without the Friday evening traffic. An accident on the A12 had caused chaos around Chelmsford and every back road Grace took to avoid the gridlock seemed to be full of other drivers who’d had the same idea. It didn’t help that a sudden thunderstorm had broken almost as soon as she’d got free of the jam. The torrential downpour had made the narrow country roads even more tricky to navigate than usual, with the windscreen wipers doing little to clear her view, and she’d encountered a flash flood that had forced her to find a different route. Throughout, the rumbling thunder had been close enough to rattle the windows of the car, making her wince. By the time she eventually eased through the gates leading to Keeley’s charmingly tumbledown, peppermint-green-walled cottage, more than three hours after setting off, she felt as though she’d crawled over the finish line of an assault course. She really hoped Keeley had wine.

‘Come in,’ her friend cried, flinging open the front door to greet Grace as she splashed across the sodden gravel with her overnight bag. ‘Has it been a total bugger of a journey?’

‘You could say that,’ Grace said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I was meant to be here by six o’clock and now it’s almost nine. Sorry I’m so late.’

Keeley took the supermarket carrier bag from her and ushered her across the doorstep. ‘It’s hardly your fault. And you’re here now, that’s all that matters. I’ve got a lasagne in the oven and a decent Chablis on ice.’

‘You’re a lifesaver,’ Grace said gratefully, dropping her overnight bag to the flagstones. With a weary sigh, she reached out to embrace her friend. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

In seconds, she was wrapped in the warmth of Keeley’s arms, closing her eyes to breathe in her familiar perfume even as strands of her blonde bob tickled her nose. The stress of the journey fell away and she felt somewhat restored as they broke apart to smile at one another. ‘Tea first?’ Keeley asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Or shall we go straight to the good stuff?’

Grace thought wistfully of the carrier bag she’d lugged in from the car, which Keeley had placed on the floor in the hallway, stuffed full of goodies that ranged from Twiglets and Greek olives to mince pies and Bailey’s. But the humidity that the storm had done nothing to dispel meant that her T-shirt was clinging to her back and her fringe was stuck to her forehead; what she craved now was a chilled glass of something crisp and classy. ‘Wine, please.’