Kerry Barrett - Under The Mistletoe

‘Do you want me to stay for a while, Melissa?’ said Sandra in a soft voice as she stopped by us, holding her case. She’d taken off her coat to reveal a pastel skirt and smart magnolia blouse. ‘Don’t you worry about those ladies. They wouldn’t know a favour if it pinched them on the bottom.’

‘No. Honestly. But perhaps you could come round later in the week to do my nails. Your cheque…’ Melissa muttered, words slightly slurring now.

‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Sandra squeezed Melissa’s shoulder. ‘We’ll sort that out next time. I’ll show myself out.’ She disappeared into the hallway and the front door opened and closed.

‘She seems nice,’ I said.

Melissa topped up our glasses. ‘My manicure sessions are a godsend. Sandra always has really good advice. She’s shown me this facial exercise routine that’s supposed to produce results better than a facelift. And once I opened a bottle of champagne for lunch whilst she was here to celebrate sales of my DVD. I’d forgotten I was supposed to drive to meet Jonny in Harpenden for some fundraiser. Sandra insisted on giving me a lift there and wouldn’t let me order a taxi.’ She took a large sip. ‘What a wasted opportunity. Those women don’t know how to make the best of themselves.’ Her words were less velvety and strands of hair had slipped out of her chignon. ‘And we never got to try your savoury nibbles. I’ll keep them if you like. Jonny’s agent’s visiting tonight.’

‘Really?’ That sounded important. I wouldn’t want to let Melissa down. Not after the humiliation she’d faced this morning. ‘Um… I’m better at baking cakes than making canapés. Honestly. I’m sure he’d prefer some of your home cooking.’

She giggled. ‘Darling, Jonny didn’t marry me because I know how to hold a whisk. We eat out a lot and if people come to dinner, I get in caterers. Just tell me how to heat them up. In fact, why don’t you come back later and–’

‘I was thinking the, um, prawns looked a bit off.’

‘But you were going to serve them to the ladies.’ Melissa looked at me sideways, then got up and wended her way into the kitchen. I followed. She yanked open the fridge door and lifted the foil on a platter of mini hot dogs. Her eyes narrowed. ‘They all look exactly the same – more factory-produced than handmade.’ She slammed the door and hiccoughed. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I… I thought you only wanted cakes. When you mentioned at the last minute about savoury nibbles , I panicked and…’

‘Bought them?’ Melissa shrugged. ‘I hope you used that new deli in town.’

I swallowed hard. ‘They came from BargainMarket.’

‘Oh, BargainMarket, yes well…’ She gasped. ‘BargainMarket! I wouldn’t feed a dog from there. Wasn’t it recently investigated by the Health and Safety Watchdog?’ She glared at me for a few seconds before her eyes twinkled and she laughed. ‘Can you imagine Vivian’s face if she knew?’ she spluttered. ‘And as for Saffron, she’d die at the levels of salt and unsaturated fat. And no doubt squillions of Denise’s patients have lost their lives to cheap, mass-produced savoury snacks!’

‘I have tarted them up,’ I said and chuckled. ‘I think we’d have got away with it.’

‘Good thing I didn’t waste my caviar on them.’ Melissa glanced at me. ‘Although it does need eating up. Ever tried it?’

I shook my head.

She opened the fridge door, took out the tin and fetched a teaspoon. ‘Wish I had some crackers,’ she said, and prised off the lid.

‘I’ve got tubes of Pringles,’ I said and rummaged in one of my bags. With a flourish I dragged a tube out, opened it up and set it on the table top.

‘Pringles?’ Melissa giggled. ‘Why not? Hold one out.’ She spooned a teaspoon of dark grey pearly eggs onto it.

I stared at the crisp for a moment.

‘Go on,’ she soothed.

Deep breath. Mouth open… Mmm. The smooth pearls burst on my tongue and tasted like a breath of sea air, just before the cheesy aftertaste of the Pringle kicked in.

A screech of wheels cut through our conversation, then a key turned and the front door opened. OMG! It had to be Jonny – the golfing god himself. Melissa jumped up and hurried into the hallway.

‘Honey?’ I heard her say. ‘You’re home early.’

‘Have you been drinking again?’ said a male voice. ‘Where is everyone? ’

‘They had to get off. Busy women. But they loved the cakes. The caterer’s still in the kitchen. We were just…’

‘You invited Saffron after all.’

‘How did–?’

‘Just saw her husband down at the club. Steve said she’d be coming. Get rid of the caterer,’ he said. ‘God knows why but the bloody paparazzi have trailed me all day again. So, if you open the door – try to at least stand straight.’ Footsteps disappeared upstairs.

Feeling a bit woozy, I hurtled into the lounge to fetch the cakestands. Then Melissa helped me carry all my stuff onto the front doorstep. She’d shoved the tin of caviar into my bag and handed me a folded cheque.

‘Thanks, Kimmy. This is the going rate, I reckon. Let me know if it’s not enough. Got to go. Ciao.’

‘But the savoury nibbles…? And I’ve written an invoice…’

‘I’m not fussed about the paperwork,’ she said and glanced up at the stairs again. ‘And those mini pizzas didn’t look too bad after all.’

She slammed the front door behind me and I was left staring at the golf fountain, before noticing a long lens peer at me from the bottom of the front garden. This was awesome! I was being papped! If only I was wearing more make-up and trendier clothes. How typical that for my first appearance in Starchat I was dressed like a butcher.

I made my first journey back to Walter’s house, strolling past the silver Bugatti and trying to ignore the photographer in muddy combat trousers. How important did I feel! Even though I walked quickly, the bloke soon caught up and grabbed one of the cakestands.

‘Let me help yer, love,’ he said, a cigarette drooping out of one side of his mouth. Puffy bags hung under his eyes. ‘Jonny and Melissa seem okay? Some fancy celebration was it? Yer know ‘em well?’

‘They seem very happy, which is all I’m prepared to say,’ I said, in my poshest voice. ‘You can quote me on that, if you like. The name’s Kimmy Jones.’

He snorted. ‘Not unless yer provide me with some dirt.’ He thrust the cakestand back in my arms and slipped a silver card into my apron pocket. ‘Give me a ring, if yer catch anything going on. Me or someone else from the agency can be here in minutes. There’s good money in it.’

Ew! I didn’t like him. He wasn’t what I’d expected from the paparazzi at all. Where was the cool bike, leather jacket and wavy mop of Italian black hair? With his chunky lily-white legs sticking out of stained shorts, his sweaty face and receding hairline, I wouldn’t want him shadowing me everywhere. I’d always imagined if I was famous, the paparazzi would be my friends. We’d laugh together and I’d hand them cups of tea. In the press I’d be known as ‘The Paps’ Sweetheart’.

Not long later, I lay on my bed, apron off and bun undone. The photographer’s silver card was on my bedside table. It had an oily fingerprint on it. Ugh. Jess was out. The house was quiet. It was just me and Groucho, cocking his head and looking all cute, cos he knew it was his dinnertime. On the little table next to me was the empty blue and gold tin of caviar. How decadent was that, me eating the food of the gods in bed? Clearly I was made for the celebrity lifestyle, as not everyone could enjoy raw fish eggs.

I gagged slightly and rushed to change the subject in my head. Now was my chance to try speaking to Walter again. I mean there were no rules, were there, that said ghosts only communicated at night? First things first though. Relaxed and calm, it was time to unfold that cheque. I took a deep breath. Fifty quid perhaps? My cakes were worth that. I squealed as my eyes scanned Melissa’s fancy writing. Surely there was some mistake? Hands shaking I reached for my phone. For a few hours’ work, I’d just earned three hundred pounds. An amount like that would blow Adam away!