actually looking for someone … I glance at the paper … called Bill. Not that I’m ageist, but aren’t most castle caretakers as old and decrepit as the buildings themselves? I’m mentally preparing myself to fall over someone stooped, white haired and wrinkly at any moment. Or maybe I’ve been watching too many Disney films.
After a full day of driving I know Merwyn’s enjoying the walk, and I know castles ramble, but I hadn’t expected it to be quite so far between the front door and the back. The terraced house I grew up in had its front door on the side, and its back door round the corner only a few feet away. My dad used to joke that if he chose his spot carefully he could answer both doors at the same time. Although if this place boasts that it sleeps twenty-five in ten glorious bedrooms, they have to fit in somewhere.
As we make our way further, the moon is washing the lawns with pale grey light, and the shrubbery is casting long shadows around the edges – I don’t think I’ve ever seen moon shadows before. And over the sound of Merwyn’s snuffles and the buffeting of the wind I’m catching a few notes of music. It’s funny how little you need to hear before you can pick out a tune. It takes about a second to know it’s that song where they repeat ‘Happy Christmas’ in Spanish over and over again, and end with the words ‘bottom of your h-e-a-r-t’.
My ex, George, had it down as the most maddening Christmas song ever, and after five years with him I found myself thinking the same. As you do. It’s certainly not the kind of song I’d expect anyone like Bill to listen to. He’d be way more likely to go for Frank Sinatra. Or Eartha Kitt singing Santa Baby. I only hope this Bill hasn’t gone out after we’ve come so far. As we get closer to the end of the wall we’re following the music gets louder and there are prickles of annoyance stinging the back of my neck.
And then we turn the corner, and as I take in the wide courtyard, its beautifully laid stone flags flooded with the kind of soft yet brilliant light that comes from expensive designer spots, my jaw sags. There are carved stone benches around the edge, hewn oak posts and pergolas, and in the centre of it all there’s the biggest hot tub I’ve ever seen. And lounging in the corner behind the steam clouds, muscular arms outstretched along the tub sides, there’s a guy. And even through the soft focus of the mist I can tell there isn’t going to be an ancient wrinkle anywhere in sight.
Phwoar. On second glances make that P-H-W-O-A-R.
Thank Christmas those completely uncharacteristic thoughts didn’t get as far as my mouth. It’s just, even though I work in high end retail, I don’t bump into beautiful, sexy, dark-eyed tousled-hair, stubble and cheekbones every day. More to the point, now it is laid this bare in front of me, my alarm bells couldn’t be clanging any louder. It’s great to look at raw power and beauty for a few seconds, in the way you’d enjoy watching a tiger from behind a barrier wall, a moat or two and a thick sheet of safety glass. But you totally wouldn’t want to meet it head on in the wild.
He’s shaking back his hair, rubbing the water out of his eyes, then his brows knit into a puzzled frown. ‘Hi, can I help you?’
My mouth’s still hanging open. ‘I seriously doubt it, unless you can tell me where Bill is.’
As his frown softens his flinty eyes soften too. ‘It must be your lucky day … I’m Bill …’
Then as his low laugh hits my ears and his eyes lock with mine my heart stops because this isn’t just a random hot guy swishing about in the waves – this is one I know.
Oh crap.
I swallow hard and slam my mouth closed just in time to stop my lurching stomach from escaping to turn cartwheels across the stone pavers. The hair might be longer, the face more worn, and initially I was thrown because I’ve never seen him naked before. But of all the guys I could do with never meeting again … in the world … ever … this is the one. If I’m honest it’s a long story I hadn’t ever expected to confront again …
Chamonix, January 2013. My one and only time skiing with George, sharing a ski lodge with his friends and friends of friends. Or more accurately, me spending shedloads I could not afford, then doing everything not to ski. Riding the lifts, trying the hot chocolate in every cafe, but mostly tucked up by the log fire reading, while the rest of them did the kind of moves out on the slopes that made me question why they weren’t all in the Olympic squad.
George and I were a few months into living together, he was just starting to break out with the kind of dick head behaviour he’d kept hidden up until then. And all of it given a worse twist when I took an early flight, knocked on the chalet door and it was opened by this hunk in socks called Will … the guy in the hot tub here … eeeeeek … who … well … you know those moments when your insides totally leave your body because you fancy someone so much?
We had this delicious time making the fire together before the rest of the party arrived. However cosy and picturesque you think checked wool sofas, sheepskin covered floors and pine clad walls with a view of distant snow covered mountains could be, times it by a hundred and then you’ll get the idea of how blissful it was.
But I was with George, and I hate people who cheat. So obviously I had to hide what was simply a very bad case of totally misplaced attraction. But my body had other ideas. The whole ten days I kept catching myself arching my back, maxing out my ‘open and available’ body language when I didn’t mean anything of the kind. Truly, those super-thin Merino wool base layers did nothing to hide my horribly big boobs, I was practically pushing my nipples into this poor guy Will’s face non-stop.
And then there was the laughing. That was the other unfortunate thing – we got jokes no one else did and cracked each other up the whole time. I put the whole thing down to that glass of free fizz I had on the plane that got me off on the wrong foot.
But now, looking at him in the hot tub all these years later, this guy Will has moved on from the past so far he’s actually changed his name to Bill. It wasn’t as if we knew each other well, we were simply accidental chalet mates for a really short time. Considering I look so very different – and so much worse – with my new hairstyle and what it’s hiding, the fact there was so much drinking he’ll most probably have the same alcoholic amnesia I do, and seeing that I didn’t even figure on his radar in the first place – I’m guessing he’ll have no idea who I am at all today.
All I have to do is stop my heart from clattering louder than skis being banged together and we’ll be back to how we were – me accidentally letting out a misplaced gasp at some tanned pecs through the steam. And then we’ll move on.
I clear my throat, desperately try to reconnect with my dignity so I can take this back to a more businesslike place. ‘So let me introduce myself properly, Bill, I’m …’
The crinkles at the corners of Bill’s eyes in the tub are unnervingly familiar as he raises his hand and cuts me off. ‘Hold it there, you don’t need to tell me, there can only ever be one Ivy Starforth.’ His lips twist. ‘You do remember me, right? I’m Will Markham, we met in Chamonix …’
I take a moment to let my stomach hit the floor and bounce back into place again. Then I try to minimise the damage. ‘Yes, but you’re the one who’s being confusing here – I once knew a dry, much more dressed, banker called Will. And now I’m faced with a very damp Bill outside a castle – what’s that about?’
‘People called me that when I moved to Cornwall.’ He gives a sniff. ‘And is your husband with you too?’
I’m struggling to keep up here. ‘Excuse
