I’ve known Miranda years, ever since Fliss and I were art students at St Martins in London and we used to go to stay with her in her flat in Brighton. As a mum she’s a bit off-the-wall, if only because ever since their dad died when Fliss was ten she’s been a stalwart mum, but as Fliss always says, she’s gone through her men like a dose of salts. But other than the revolving-door guys, she’s always the same – generous and warm, laid back, welcoming and fun, easy to be with, and we all love her to bits. I take it from the bare third finger on her left hand that’s dangling over Ambrose’s bronzed shoulder, and his absence from the guest list, that he’s a relatively new addition.
Her love life was going through such a turbulent patch when Fliss and Rob were getting married, in the run-up to the wedding they gave up trying for a definite name, and just put Mother of the Bride’s plus one on the table plan. Whoever it was she brought – none of us are that good pinpointing names, except Libby who writes everything down which takes the pressure off everyone else, including Miranda, because they know they can always check in her archives – the first and last time Fliss met that one was when he turned up on her wedding photographs and the top table.
Miranda’s beaming. ‘Of course we don’t mind, we’ll help won’t we?’
Judging from his white knuckles on the tub side, this time Ambie’s ready for the nudge she’s about to give him. He grins at her. ‘When we’re not in here, we will.’
Miranda’s locked her gaze elsewhere. ‘He’s joking, Bill.’ Her laugh is low and chesty. ‘I’m an artist, I’m very creative, I don’t mind rolling up my sleeves.’
Ambrose’s laugh is a low echo. ‘You can say that again.’
‘Not appropriate, Ambie.’ There’s a throaty peel of laughter and a gigantic wall of water splashing over the stone flags as Miranda shoulders Ambie off the tub shelf and he disappears below the waves. As Ambie splutters his way back to the surface, Bill is still getting the benefit of her cherubic full-beam smile with an extra dose of static crackle. ‘Did you see that, Bill, that’s what happens to men who don’t behave.’ Miranda folds her arms across her chest squeezing her more than ample bazumbas and cleavage into view above the waterline. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t let you down.’
You only need to see the look on Bill’s face to read the writing in his invisible thought bubble.
FUCK!!! FUCK!!! and WHAT THE FUCK?!!! There might also be a teensy whimpering Get me out of here! too.
‘Okay, Bill?’ As I give him a nudge, he comes to and gives a cough.
‘So, just to be clear, there’s no smoking in the castle, the courtyard, or the car parking areas.’ The furrows in his brow deepen as he eyes her tobacco tin and Rizla papers next to the towel. ‘Or the coach house … or the distillery.’
I’m beaming to cover my own WTF? ‘And thanks, Bill, for that lovely welcome.’
Miranda’s still twinkling at him. ‘But roll ups will be fine, won’t they? Because they don’t actually count as cigarettes?’
He hasn’t even flinched. ‘Roll ups are banned too. And any tab ends go in the sand buckets by the doors, we don’t want you dropping them around the grounds or on the sand.’
Miranda’s winking at him in mock horror. ‘What, you own the beach now?’ She’s such a tease.
Bill’s not seeing the funny side. ‘It is with the castle, yes, but we do let people walk on it. But not if they drop cigarette ends.’
She’s completely unbothered. ‘I eat little boys like you for breakfast, Bill!’ There’s another chortle. ‘But I’ll let you off today. And you can tell whoever is king of your very lovely castle that we’ll behave impeccably.’
Bill carries on as if he hasn’t heard. ‘No horseplay in the hot tub either. If we get ice on the courtyard, the hot tub will be emptied. Immediately. And just out of interest, for the record, are you wearing swimsuits in there?’
I put my hand over my mouth and hiss ‘hypocrite’ at him under my breath.
‘Bill, you are such a spoilsport.’ From the sparkle in her eyes, Miranda is loving this. ‘Skinny dipping in the hot tub is my favourite Christmas thing.’
Bill’s completely cool. ‘In which case, you’ll have to find a different hot tub somewhere else. This one is only available for non-naked guests.’
‘Fine, no need to get your Speedos in a twist.’ It’s rare for Miranda to look like she’s beaten. But behind the steam clouds, beyond the two angry red circles on her cheeks, she’s as deflated as a popped balloon because she’s offered Bill her palmful of goodies and he’s flatly refused to eat out of it. And I’ve never heard her sound snappy before. She’s holding her hand out. ‘I take it you provide endless supplies of fluffy towels? In which case, please would you get us some. Unless you’d rather we came inside as we are?’
At which point, my hopes for Christmas take another nose dive.
All out war between Bill and Miranda won’t be pretty. It wasn’t even on my list of stuff to worry about. But realistically, if Bill’s taken five minutes to fall out with Miranda who is easy, what the hell is going to happen when Libby’s sleigh slides into town?
Saturday
14th December
With everything there is to do in the castle, and Libby arriving tomorrow evening – pause for a silent scream at that – when I wake up early on Saturday morning there’s so much adrenalin pounding through my system it’s impossible to stay in bed. As I get dressed Merwyn is giving me his ‘just no, totally no’ look from the comfort of his squishy red velvet sleeping cushion. He is obviously bullshitting because even though I set off without him he still reaches the bottom of the stairs before I do. We’re even more wide awake after our scamper along the beach by phone-light. The wind is icy, but the sound of the waves pounding and the frothy water rushing up over the sand and onto our feet seems so much louder in the dark than it does in the day.
Whatever Bill claimed about his dad’s breakfast habits, when we get back to the kitchen the toasters are full and there’s a tall man in orange woven Aztec joggers watching toast on the Aga top too. Then as he turns to grin at me his smile is a livelier, more lived-in version of Bill’s, and I get the full effect of his long straggly hair and the two dangling beaded braids that swing around as he moves his head.
He’s straight in with the introductions. ‘Hi, I’m Keith, better known as Keef the reef, or Bill’s dad. And these …’ He waves a hand at the crowd around the table who look like they all shopped at the same place as him when they bought their clothes thirty years ago. ‘… are Rip, Brian, Bede, Taj and Slater, my crewmates from the Surf ’til we die club.’
I’m blinking at silver ponytails and grey grizzly beards of all lengths from stubble to full and bushy,
