can have at least some kind of happy Christmas. And then something worse hits me and lets me find my voice.
‘So you’ll be in the house too? Cooking your porridge, lounging on the sofas, plunging in the hot tub with not nearly enough clothes on. It isn’t an exclusive let at all is it?’
He’s blowing out his cheeks. ‘It’s more of an Airbnb model than a proper let. I like to be here to make sure things don’t get out of hand. But mostly I’m here so when there are problems, I’m on the spot to sort them out.’
‘Problems …?’ The word hangs between us.
Bill shrugs. ‘An ancient building is like an old car – full of character and idiosyncrasies, it might run for years with no trouble. On the other hand, it might not. And I’m here for those times.’
Oh fuck. ‘So not only has Libby rented a castle that’s only slightly more comfortable than a multi-storey car park, now it’s a car park whose barrier is liable to stick!’ Suddenly the lack of squishy furniture and Christmas deccies seems like the least of our difficulties.
Bill’s looking impassive. ‘If you need gin to bring you round, you only have to say the word?’
I know I shouldn’t be losing it, and I don’t usually, but just this once, I can’t help it.
‘I’ll take fairy lights or pine trees or four posters or candles. Even Santa on his effing sleigh would be really useful. But for the last and FINAL time, I don’t want any of your SODDING GIN!’ It comes out really loud, and it echoes round the castle walls and bounces back up off the floor, then resonates off the ceiling. Then I collect myself. And when my voice starts again, I’m back to talking quietly. ‘Thanks all the same. Drinking myself under the table isn’t going to help anyone here. Merwyn and I are going to go for a walk. Unless there’s anything else you have to add, we’ll talk to you more about this when we get back.’
For once Merwyn is a little star. One twitch on his lead and he’s marching in step beside me out into the hall. I have no idea why I’m almost crying here. I take a moment to make sure my hat is pulled down past my eyebrows to avoid the horror of it blowing off, and I’m heaving open the front door when I hear Bill’s cough.
‘There is one last thing …’
Surely there can’t be. ‘And …?’
‘We don’t accept dogs.’
Of all the bombshells so far, for me personally this is the worst. I stop for long enough to roll my eyes at Merwyn and to mutter You absolute effing arsehole under my breath. Whatever I said about ‘Made in sodding Chelsea’ types, I wasn’t expecting this. It was obviously too much to expect he’d make allowances for knowing me. But if he wants a fight, I’m happy to give him one.
Then we stride on outside, the salty sting of the wind hits my cheeks and the humungous castle door slams behind us. And a few seconds later we’re out on the beach.
‘Is everything okay?’
By the time we next see Bill, Merwyn and I have been blown all the way to St Aidan and all the way back again. Thanks to a well-timed snack rescue in St Aidan and the kind of planning you can only do when you’re half running, half falling along the sand, we’re now curled up back in the kitchen feeling more collected than before. So instead of yelling THERE’S NO FURNITURE OR COMFORT OR INTERNET OR DECCIES OR DOGS, HOW THE HELL CAN ANYTHING BE OKAY? I just sniff and stay completely silent.
It was a bracing walk, with the wind smashing into our faces, so I have to admit it’s way cosier watching the cobalt blue sea dissolving into wiggles of white foam rolling up the beach from the comfort of the sofa in my case, with a frothy hot chocolate. Or in Merwyn’s case, from his Christmas Tree rug with the pompom edge, on the polished wood plank floor.
Bill’s taken off his Barbour and is resting a denim-shirted shoulder on the wall as he studies us. ‘You seemed a little bit over-wrought before, that’s all.’
Over-WROUGHT????!!! So like a guy to imply it’s the woman who’s being unreasonable when he’s the one who’s responsible for every aspect of the panic. I make my voice airy, because there’s only going to be one winner here. ‘St Aidan was pretty, thanks for the recommendation.’
Not that Bill can take any of the credit, but there were the cutest white painted cottages with grey slate roofs stacked up the hillside, narrow cobbled alleyways winding up between the buildings, postage-stamp sized views of the jewel-like sea, and brightly coloured boats bobbing in the harbour.
‘It was very Christmassy too.’ We even saw a pony and trap, driven by Santa and an elf, its bells jingling as it sped off around the bay. Every shop window was festooned with decorations, and there was a wedding shop with snowy lace dresses, trails of frosted ivy and the kind of twinkly ice-chip fairy lights that take your breath away. Not that I’ll ever be needing a shop like that myself, but I couldn’t help but sigh at the prettiness.
But Bill must know that there are outdoor Christmas trees every few yards around the harbour and all the way up into the town too. Despite his ‘decoratively significant’ two week let, for some reason he hasn’t felt inclined to follow that festive lead.
He tilts his head on one side. ‘So, did you call in anywhere?’
‘We popped in the Hungry Shark, it’s dog friendly, and it has free wifi.’ I stare at him pointedly. ‘Just saying. It is possible to find both only a mile down the beach.’ I also discovered they do mince pie muffins to die for, and I had two, but given who he is and what he’s not done, not to mention his ‘don’t give a damn’ attitude, that’s one tip I won’t be passing on.
He nods. ‘The hot apple punch there is good, you should try that next time.’ His eyes go just a little bit darker as they narrow. ‘I can’t promise it tastes half as good as those vin chaud cocktails we drank in Chamonix, but I reckon they must have had magic mountain dust sprinkled in them.’
I don’t even have to think hard to bring back the heady mix of warm cinnamon, Cointreau and mandarin, but I’d never tell him that. I’d also rather not let him know that I’d be a lot more comfortable if he wasn’t dragging things up from so long ago. I mean, I thought women were the ones who nailed every detail of distant memories. It’s quite a shock when a guy pulls one out. ‘Probably all down to those rose tinted holiday ski goggles you were wearing.’
He lets out a low laugh. ‘As I remember, you were wearing those too.’
‘No, mine were definitely genuine, see it like it is, bog-standard Raybans.’ Jeez, I need to move this on. But I’m not going to tell him I had two of the punches he mentioned, or who knows where he’ll take that to.
I was trying to pluck up the courage to send Fliss the ‘Houston, we have a problem’
