Samantha Tonge - Mistletoe Mansion

‘It’s a large property. What exactly are the terms and conditions?’ asked ever-practical Jess.

The woman peeked at the cupcake before looking at another sheet of notes. Was it my imagination, or did she position her hole-punch to cover something written in red?

‘You would be expected to keep all the rooms spotless,’ she said, ‘the bedrooms with ensuites, the kitchen, receptions rooms, the Games Room and its bar. Also to maintain the gardens… Not mowing at this time of year, obviously, but keeping track of weeds, digging over the borders regularly – doing everything to keep it in tip-top shape. We’re hoping it won’t take much longer to sell – there have been a couple of bites lately, despite Christmas approaching. You would forward any post on to Mr Murphy and deal with service contractors such as the window cleaners. And, of course, show around prospective buyers and generally keep the place secure.’

‘Are we given notice to leave?’ asked Jess, whilst I returned to my fantasy of mirrored dressing tables and walk-in wardrobes.

The estate agent skimmed the piece of paper. ‘The position runs from week to week with no notice required if the property sells.’ She looked up at us. ‘It’s for one person but if you maintain the garden, Jess, I might be able to persuade Mr Murphy to let you both stay. Like I said, landlords are looking for long-term tenants, you’ll be lucky to find a place to rent for just a few weeks. So maybe this arrangement could be beneficial to both parties?’

‘It sounds great!’ I said. ‘I mean… Yes. Mistletoe Mansion seems suitable. Nothing we can’t manage, after some of our previous jobs.’

‘Which brings me to references,’ Deborah said and reached for her biro.

‘Ah, look at the state of this,’ said Jess, exchanging glances with me before she picked up the wilted, white-flowered plant. She fingered some yellow leaves, before sticking her finger in the soil.

‘Even kitchen herbs die on me.’ Deborah smiled. ‘So, ladies, references please.’ She picked up the cupcake and took a bite at…. four minutes and thirty seconds! I knew she’d give in.

‘It’s a bit awkward,’ I said, as a faint “Mmm” escaped her lips. ‘The agency we’re registered with, um, wouldn’t appreciate us moonlighting elsewhere.’

‘Tightly run, are they?’ she said, a blob of orange icing sticking to the corner of her mouth as she took another bite.

We both nodded. She was an estate agent. Pilfering staff from somewhere else wouldn’t bother her.

She gazed at me and then Jess, who was still examining the plant. She looked at her notes; took another bite of cake; moved the hole-punch. What was written down there?

‘Mice, fleas, mushrooms… Nothing much fazes you, am I right?’

‘We’re professionals,’ I said, evenly. ‘Nothing has ever made us quit a job.’ And let’s face it, what could possibly make life difficult at Mistletoe Mansion? Too many party invites from loaded neighbours?

‘Why didn’t the previous sitter see the job through to the end?’ asked Jess.

‘Oh, erm, personal circumstances.’

‘How long has it been on the market, then?’ I said.

‘About six months – it went on just after the uncle died.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Times are hard, so that’s not unusual. When could you start?’

‘Tonight,’ we both chorused.

‘Really?’ said Deborah.

‘We’re always keen to get started on a new job,’ Jess gushed and put back the plant.

‘Fair enough. If you’re sure. Just let me make a call. Delicious cupcake, by the way,’ she said, and disappeared out the back.

I eyed the hole-punch. Maybe I could just nudge it, accidentally on purpose, to see exactly what that red writing said.

‘Mushrooms in carpets?’ hissed Jess. ‘Don’t you feel just a teensy bit guilty about making all this stuff up? It’s a bit over the top. Her boss won’t be happy with her if it doesn’t work out. We’re bound to be rumbled.’

‘Look, they need a housesitter. We need somewhere to live… And we’re going to do our best to sell that place. No one’s going to lose out.’ I reached for the hole-punch. ‘And I’m sure we can persuade this Mr Murphy guy to let us stay there for Christmas week, even if it happens to sell super-quick.

‘What are you doing now?’ whispered Jess.

‘She’s hiding something; if I could just read what’s underneath.’ Carefully I pushed the hole-punch across. Scrawled in red biro, surrounded by smiley faces, it read, “ Must love Gh –”. Deborah’s heels click-clacked back into the room. Damn! I hadn’t managed to read the last word. What could it say? “Gherkins”? Perhaps “Ghosts”! A haunting could be wicked if it involved me and Adam, Whoopi Goldberg and a sexy potters’ wheel. I must have misread the writing – maybe it said “Gn” and the previous owner had a hideous collection of gnomes.

‘Well, ladies,’ Deborah said, sitting down, ‘Mr Murphy is delighted to have you on board. Normally he’d be more particular about references, but seeing as the situation is urgent he’s agreed – on the understanding that I drop by now and again, to check things are running smoothly.’

‘Awesome!’ I said. ‘I mean, that’s great. And he’ll pay our… expenses?’

‘Yes, but he’s impatient for a sale now, so he’s relying on you. So am I.’

‘We won’t let you down,’ said Jess and wiped her nose.

‘I hope not – Mr Murphy has been quite fair. He’s agreed to pay you a nominal sum to cover food. He’ll add it on to the weekly budget he gives you for cleaning materials and butcher’s bones.’

‘Bones?’ Jess and I chorused.

‘Didn’t I mention his old uncle had a dog? Mr Murphy isn’t sure what to do with it, so…’

‘He just left it there?’ said Jess. ‘What happens when there’s no sitter?’

‘Luke Butler calls in. He used to be the uncle’s handyman and has helped us maintain Mistletoe Mansion.’

Of course! “ Must like G …” That red writing had to be about a breed of dog.

‘This Luke… Is he the half-naked guy in the photo?’ said Jess.

Deborah blushed. ‘Yes. It was a very hot day. I didn’t like to ask him to put his shirt back on.’

Can’t say I blamed her. He’d looked pretty hot. Not that I’d be interested in another guy for a long time.

‘Why doesn’t he housesit?’ I asked.

‘Initially Luke moved in but didn’t… how can I put it… have the best manner when showing prospective buyers around. And I don’t think housework was his forte. So he agreed to keep an eye on the place from afar and do general maintenance until the place sold.’ A small sigh slipped from her berry red lips. ‘Have to say, he is very good with his hands…’ Jess glanced at me and I bit the insides of my cheeks, trying not to laugh.

Deborah slid over some paperwork. ‘Here’s the address, Mr Murphy’s phone number, and a comprehensive list of your duties. The house is in Badgers Chase, a private cul-de-sac. It’s very picturesque.

I glanced at the papers. Badgers Chase was on the St Albans side of Harpenden, near where Jess worked. Harpenden was a well posh village with continental cafés and fancy boutiques – the complete opposite of Luton.

‘I haven’t been to Harpenden for ages,’ I said. ‘Mum used to take us there to play on the common.’ Or rather, left us there whilst she met her fancy new man in town. Once she spotted comedian Eric Morecambe, its most famous resident. Not that celebrities impressed her. “Lucky buggers who didn’t live in the real world,” she called them.

‘The nearest bus stop is about half an hour’s walk away,’ continued Deborah. ‘It’s a very exclusive area, not far from a golf club. Isn’t Nuttall’s Garden Centre also that side of Harpenden, Jess? The one with the large bronze acorns outside?’