a relief we’re so far away from reality. However much he once tied my libido up in knots all those years ago, we’re talking financiers here. This one’s so superior he assumes he knows my marital status better than I do. I hope Merwyn’s taking this in so I can check back with him later, because I’m struggling to believe it’s happening.
‘Last time I checked, I didn’t have a husband – not as far as I know.’
‘When was that?’
‘Five seconds ago.’
One eyebrow shoots up. ‘Well, how good is that? Huge congratulations, Ivy Starforth, on not being married.’
I’m momentarily putting aside how surreal this is. He seemed so convinced about my husband. As for me, I’m not proud of that afternoon we spent alone at the chalet. In fact I’ve managed to lock it away in the filing cabinet in my memory bank that’s got a huge notice on telling me never to open it again. It’s not that anything awful happened, because it didn’t. At least not in real life, anyway. It might have in my head occasionally afterwards – maybe a few thousand times – simply because ever after that holiday, whenever the going got tough it was useful to use him as my go-to, cardboard cut-out, idealised fantasy man. But that’s the whole point about out-of-reach dreams – they’re what you use to get you through, you have them safe in the knowledge that they aren’t real and never will be. You certainly never expect to be embarrassed by barrelling into them head on in out of the way Cornwall, for goodness sake.
But there we were in Chamonix. George got some last minute session work and had to rebook his flight. Will had turned up early too while everyone else was working all the way to the end of Friday. Which left him and I chatting as we waited for the others to arrive. That’s all we did. But somehow he was so laid back and all over nice, not to mention the hot part, it left me wishing like hell that this could be the guy I was with rather than the one who was currently winging his way through the air on the FlyBe jet for the winter holiday of a lifetime he’d persuaded me we couldn’t miss out on. Which, as was usual with George, I ended up not enjoying very much in the end.
Getting trapped in a few hours of domestic fantasy never happened to me before or since. I’ve always blamed it on the holiday thrill and too much mulled wine. We certainly haven’t clicked again here. Quite the opposite. My immediate subliminal reaction was to pick up on how up himself Will was, and that was when he was practically submerged. Which just goes to show how unreliable first impressions from seven years ago can be. And how a few timber plank walls and the warmth from burning logs can totally blur your judgement. And leave you feeling guilty for the treachery for years after, because, truly, I’m not that kind of person usually. I rarely fancy anyone. I also pride myself on being loyal and faithful and steadfast and honest, which is why I was so appalled and ashamed of myself for that afternoon.
Bill’s closing his eyes even more now and his voice has softened. ‘It’s amazing to see you again, Ivy, why did you wait so long to get back in touch?’
I manage to get over the liquid brown warmth of his gaze enough to get the words out. ‘I’m not here on a social call, Will – I mean Bill – or whoever you are.’ Hopefully that’s shown him how little I’ve thought about him since 2013. Truly, Fliss doesn’t even know about him, and I tell her all my secrets. If he or anyone else ever found out the truth I’d die of shame. ‘This is a total coincidence, one of those “small world” moments …’ I’m dying at how trite I’m sounding ‘… I’m here for this year’s Christmas rental.’
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Shit. Right. Really? Surely you can’t be, you’re a day early!’
He’s just got that air that suggests no one ever contradicts him so I force myself to stand my ground. ‘It was Mrs Johnstone-Cody who made the booking. Just so you know, she never makes mistakes, we are due today.’ Just saying. After three hundred and fifty-odd miles, I’d rather not come back tomorrow. Beautiful people stuff up too sometimes, and he has to be the one who’s wrong here.
A perplexed look crosses his face, then it’s gone. ‘Well, whatever day it is, it’s great to see you, Ivy.’ That’s the thing with super-attractive people like this – they mess up – then they move on seamlessly like nothing happened. His hand comes towards me, and I stare at it in horror for a second, then step close enough to brush the end of one dripping finger.
‘Now you’re here, how about coming in for a dip?’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Castles, hot tubs, delicious guys coming out with the most ridiculous suggestions? It’s like I dropped into an episode of Made in Chelsea. ‘Absolutely not. Thanks all the same.’ I’m up for fun, but even I draw the line at jumping into a bath with someone I’d once have had difficulty keeping my hands off. Especially when he’s still hot as …
‘Your loss, it’s wonderfully warm, the bubbles are just starting to come through.’ As he dips down and re-emerges his muscular shoulders are tanned and gleaming under the lights, and his gaze is soft yet intense. And from the one slightly closed eye, I know he’s laughing at me.
I’m from the north, my mum and dad had tiny horizons, I didn’t hit the bright lights of London until I was in my twenties, so I’m used to cracking people up with my lack of social polish and the way I say ‘bugger’ not ‘bogger’. Come to think of it, me being a hilarious northerner was probably why there was all that laughing in Chamonix. If posh people taking the piss is what I’ve come to expect, it doesn’t mean I like it. If Bill’s like the rest of George’s extended social circle he’ll be one of those entitled guys who were weaned on champagne and assume the rest of the world was too. The kind who don’t even know what a back door is, let alone how to use one. Those cheekbones are the giveaway. That accent. I know it’s wrong to judge, worse still to write people off without knowing them properly, but after the way George walked out on me, any guy with tuned-up vowels can’t be trusted.
‘I’ll take your word for that.’ It takes me a second to change the subject. ‘So what’s with the music?’
‘Feliz Navidad? It’s so much less obvious than your usual Christmas tunes.’ Even though he’s pulling a face, he still looks like perfection on a stick. ‘On repeat in an attempt to get in the festive mood.’
That’s one way of looking at it. George saw continuous repetition as lazy, and a total lack of musical creativity. But there you go, it wouldn’t work if we all liked the same. George was entitled once, but by the time he hit thirty he’d fallen on hard times, which was where I came in handy. As a temporary interim. A stepping stone. A door mat to use on his way to better places. If I needed a lesson that normal people need to stay away from rich people, George was it. The minute he got his break he left me for someone more suited to his new, moneyed life. And things went seriously downhill after George. So far down they ended in the accident.
Nowadays I put all my energy into riding a better wave, and believe me, that doesn’t include guys. Especially ones who talk like they’ve swallowed a plum and luxuriate in bubble baths in Cornish castles when they know damned well they should be leaping out of the water and sorting their guests out.
But before you think I’ve written off the whole south of England, I haven’t at all. Meeting Fliss and being welcomed into her very southern family gently opened my closed northern eyes in the best possible way and I’ll always be grateful for that. Fliss wasn’t only my bestie and my party partner and next-room neighbour at uni. She was also my social translator. She held my hand as I discovered the scary world of student London and later hauled me up into my job at Daniels.
And
