Jane Linfoot - A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall

Bill’s coming over super-arrogant now which is a sure sign he’s on the defensive. ‘Obviously I know the price, I took the booking.’

I’m going to have to spell it out. ‘Well, minimalism used to be great, but in London we came out the other side of the “empty” tunnel and maximalism rules now. For this kind of money we expected spaces rammed with gorgeous stuff.’

‘Really.’ This time it’s a statement, not a question. ‘Well, wherever you are on your style cycle, what we offer is accommodation for stag celebrations, and they’re usually delighted with what’s here – no neighbours to annoy, plenty of space to party, very little to break. And then there’s the gin too. Wherever you stand on gin, the stags never turn it down. The castle suits them down to the ground. Which to be fair is where most of them end up.’

I ignore that he’s banging on about gin again, and brace myself to break the news. ‘We booked for a Christmas house party in palatial surroundings, decorated to the hilt with festive bling.’ Whatever he says, I know that because I’ve seen the place settings in pictures.

He lets out a breath. ‘Christmas crackers. Someone called Nathan messaged, there was no specific request for decorations at the time of booking.’

It can’t go without comment. ‘So you just thought you’d take the frankly humungous amount of money and run?’

‘Not entirely.’ From the way he’s shuffling from foot to foot, I’ve hit a nerve.

One thing’s still puzzling me. ‘I mean, where the hell’s the wallpaper?’ It was definitely on the pictures Libby put up on our secret Pinterest page, I’ve been flicking through them non stop since they arrived. Of course! How could I be so dense? I get out my phone to check them, then groan as I realise my mistake. ‘Where’s this signal hot spot you were talking about? And I need the internet password, please?’

‘You don’t get it do you, Ivy?’

I ignore the way my tummy flips as he turns to me, because I’m boiling inside on Libby’s behalf. ‘Get what?’

If Bill wasn’t so unconcerned, I’d swear that was an exasperated head shake. ‘The whole castle is an internet-free zone, that’s one of its biggest selling points.’

Holy crap. ‘There’s no wifi ANYWHERE ?’

‘Guests love the freedom an enforced break gives them. With walls this thick wifi wouldn’t be practical anyway.’

I’m trying to get my head around this. ‘There must have been a mix up, there can’t be any other Cockle Shell Castles, can there?’

Bill’s eyes are flinty. ‘I thought you said Mrs Johnstone-Cody didn’t make errors?’

‘But if she had …?’

He sighs. ‘There’s a rather bijou Cockle Shell Hideaway up the coast from Port Isaac. Decorated to the nines and then some. But they’re such different places, you’d never confuse them.’

Not so you’d think. But I’m imagining Libby doing her two second check before she booked and leaping on the first gorgeous pictures she came across. If the words Cockle Shell and Cornwall were enough to confuse Google Images, what hope did Libby have? She’d be dizzy with the coup she was pulling off, and probably doing ten other jobs at the same time too. Maybe if she’d been multi-tasking less she’d have jumped to less wrong conclusions.

‘Well, we’re here now. This is the one Mrs Nathan Johnstone-Cody booked.’ The hot tub’s swanky. And the outside’s spectacular, even if the inside isn’t, so I might as well think positive thoughts. Christmas dinner out on the front lawn might work. At least that way even if the turkey was cold we’d still get some awesome shots against the castle facade. Which reminds me …

‘We haven’t seen the kitchen yet?’ I round on Bill expectantly, and Merwyn does too. For a small dog he’s got a remarkably large vocabulary. Admittedly it’s mostly food based.

‘We have seen the kitchen.’ Bill’s face creases into a two second laugh. And then when I don’t join in his smile fades to puzzlement again.

I know he’s wrong on this one. ‘We definitely haven’t.’

His face splits into a grin as he tries again. ‘Where do you think you ate breakfast?’

Oh my days. For all the reasons. ‘But that can’t be the kitchen, you said that was your kitchen. Where’s the proper kitchen?’

He’s staring at me now. ‘No, there’s definitely only the one kitchen. Stags don’t often eat in, but when they do, that’s definitely the only place they do it.’

‘You are joking me?’

He’s staring at me like I’m the one who’s being dense here. ‘Think about it, I’d hardly have all those chairs around the table just for me would I?’

‘B-b-b-but …’ I’m so shocked, I’m having trouble breathing. I know this isn’t completely my disaster. But I’m invested, I’m here. And way worse, I’m the one who’s going to have to break this to Fliss and Libby. And then try to sort it out as best I can so twenty people 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.