Kerry Barrett - Under The Mistletoe

After a few minutes, a voice shouted, ‘Kimmy? You in the bathroom?’

Legs feeling wobbly, I pushed open the ensuite door and there Luke stood, by Lily’s bed, chestnut hair all tousled. Slowly I left the bathroom.

I looked around. ‘Was it, um, the oven? Have you put out the fire?’

‘This your idea of a joke?’ His lips pursed. ‘It’s not my job to play your silly games. My Murphy pays me to do handy work. That’s all. I’ve got another job to get to.’

‘Games?’

‘Smoke, an intruder, sounds of a blowing gale…? What next? Voices coming out of the telly?Crockery moving on its own?’ He shook his head. ‘And as for your door being locked…’

‘I could have been burnt to death!’

He laughed. ‘I know it’s a boring job, minding the house, but really – if you need company, go visit Terry next door, he’s a sound bloke. I’m flattered, don’t get me wrong, but…’

‘You think I fancy you?’ My top lip curled. Who the hell did he think he was?

He folded his arms. ‘Why else would you pretend the shower was broken? Ply me with cupcakes? Ask me to come back and put out some imaginary fire?’

‘That dripping kept me awake all last night!’

‘All the showerhead needed was a good clean. Any idiot could see that.’

‘Well, for your information, I’m not romantically available,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘That photo you spotted is of–’

‘Adam?’ he smirked.

‘Yes. My boyfriend… well my Ex… But we’re getting back together and I’m not looking for a replacement and even if I was, you would hardly be–’ I stopped. Did someone just scream?

This whole cul-de-sac was bloody bonkers, what with shagging on Bugattis and smoke under doors; what with dogs that didn’t understand pooch jumpers were the in-thing and big-headed handymen who thought a leaky shower was an excuse for seduction. Luke eyed me for a second, as if he might say something else, but instead charged downstairs. I followed. There was another bloodcurdling scream and we legged it onto the drive.

Chapter 8

‘This is a matter of life and death!’ screeched a female voice. ‘You can’t do this!’

OMG! My recent scary experience forgotten, I instantly recognised the back of that beautifully coiffured head. Melissa Winsford stood on the pavement at the bottom of Walter’s drive, shouting into a phone, wearing the shortest, tightest blue dress, which showed off every inch of her size six legs, plus a tailored black leather jacket and what looked like a real crocodile skin handbag. The sunglasses (totes unnecessary) had a Chanel C on the side. I could tell that, under the flesh-coloured tights, her caramel tan was perfect, with no streaks or blotches of orange – unlike my legs, which had the odd razor cut and patch of stubble. On the pavement just behind her, I stood panting, next to Luke. We’d practically sprinted the length of the drive.

‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll spread the word – make sure you never work south of Watford again!’

She stuffed the phone into her bag and something like a sob escaped her lips. Maybe her doctor had misdiagnosed some fatal illness. Or her accountant had fiddled the books.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked and subtly tried to brush flour off my jeans. Pity I hadn’t had time this morning to re-straighten my hair.

She jumped and turned around. ‘How long have you two been there? Do tell your editor that there’s nothing to report and if you’ve taken any photos, darling,’ she said to me in a more velvety voice, ‘delete them and I’ll provide you with some shots that’ll really sell.’ She unzipped her leather jacket and subtly pushed out her double D cups. What a pro!

‘We’re not the press. I’m Luke. Last month I unblocked your upstairs loo, as a favour to Mr Winsford. He saw me mending Mr Carmichael’s roof.’

‘How nice for you, darling.’ She stopped posing, whilst I chuckled as she visibly shuddered at his cords. If only I’d thought to grab Groucho, complete with his new glitter-trimmed sweater. ‘Are you the cleaner?’ she asked me. ‘I’d have thought they’d have sold this place by now.’

‘No, I’m…’ My cheeks flamed up and I felt toasty warm, despite being out in the arctic air without a coat. What was my name, again? Deep breath, in and out… Pull yourself together. ‘I’m Kimmy. The housesitter. Can I just say, what a fan I am, Melissa? Is it okay to call you that? I follow all your fashion tips in Starchat . Did…’

She held up a hand. ‘Cute. Drop by my place later; the housekeeper will give you a signed photo.’

‘We thought you were in trouble,’ said Luke, a long blade of grass now in between his teeth. ‘Obviously we needn’t have bothered dropping everything to run to your side.’

She fished in her handbag and pulled out a crisp twenty pound note. ‘That’s for your time.’ Luke shook his head and, whistling, strode back up the drive. ‘Is he gay?’ she whispered. ‘He’s certainly got the body for it. And with some top products he could have great hair. Although his whistling would give me a headache… Why can’t he just wear an iPod like any normal person?’ She passed me the twenty, instead. ‘You take it.’

‘Um, thanks!’ I just couldn’t turn down the chance to hold a banknote that had once belonged to someone famous.

Melissa still wore her glasses. Maybe her eyes were red and swollen. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I asked softly. ‘That phone call… I couldn’t help hearing…’

She removed her glasses. Were those false eyelashes? And tattooed eyebrows were so cool.

‘Have you ever been let down badly, Kimmy?’

‘Yes, there was that time–’

‘Hurts, doesn’t it,’ she continued. ‘It was going to be one of the most important days of my life.’

‘What was? I hid my hands behind my back, wishing I’d redone the nail varnish before breakfast.

‘I’m having a little get-together this week, for some of the golf wives from the local club. Nothing flash – not like the parties I have with the national birdies. But still – I want to make an effort. Jonny and I have lived here for over a year now, and… I don’t feel like I know them much at all.’ Her smile nearly blinded me as the winter sun caught her Osmond white teeth. ‘Not that I’m bothered, you understand, I’m a busy woman.But the golf on a local level, the social life, it’s still important to Jonny…’

Really? If the tabloids were right, her husband spent most of his time abroad, or in Woburn or London. Perhaps she got lonely out here in the sticks, where the theatre was hardly West End and the common was no Hyde Park. Although Harpenden was only half an hour away on the train from the capital, not that I expect she ever took public transport.

‘I’ve pretended it’s a fundraiser,’ she continued, ‘told them to bring their cheque books. But the real reason, the real surprise…’ She clapped her hands. ‘I’ve arranged for them to all have Botox! A few injections and I’ll be their new best friend.’

‘But I thought you hadn’t had anything done… In all your interviews you say…’

She gave a bright laugh. ‘Some of these ladies are older than me – it’s a favour to them. It goes without saying, I don’t need it yet.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Okay, maybe I’ve had it done once,’ she said and gave another small laugh, ‘as an experiment, nothing more.’

But she’d only just turned thirty! I gazed at her rosebud lips. Maybe she also had fillers and collagen; perhaps dermabrasion or a chemical peel. I studied her face with interest. Reading the gossip magazines practically qualified me to carry out most procedures.