A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall. Jane Linfoot
or since. I’ve always blamed it on the holiday thrill and too much mulled wine. We certainly haven’t clicked again here. Quite the opposite. My immediate subliminal reaction was to pick up on how up himself Will was, and that was when he was practically submerged. Which just goes to show how unreliable first impressions from seven years ago can be. And how a few timber plank walls and the warmth from burning logs can totally blur your judgement. And leave you feeling guilty for the treachery for years after, because, truly, I’m not that kind of person usually. I rarely fancy anyone. I also pride myself on being loyal and faithful and steadfast and honest, which is why I was so appalled and ashamed of myself for that afternoon.
Bill’s closing his eyes even more now and his voice has softened. ‘It’s amazing to see you again, Ivy, why did you wait so long to get back in touch?’
I manage to get over the liquid brown warmth of his gaze enough to get the words out. ‘I’m not here on a social call, Will – I mean Bill – or whoever you are.’ Hopefully that’s shown him how little I’ve thought about him since 2013. Truly, Fliss doesn’t even know about him, and I tell her all my secrets. If he or anyone else ever found out the truth I’d die of shame. ‘This is a total coincidence, one of those “small world” moments …’ I’m dying at how trite I’m sounding ‘… I’m here for this year’s Christmas rental.’
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Shit. Right. Really? Surely you can’t be, you’re a day early!’
He’s just got that air that suggests no one ever contradicts him so I force myself to stand my ground. ‘It was Mrs Johnstone-Cody who made the booking. Just so you know, she never makes mistakes, we are due today.’ Just saying. After three hundred and fifty-odd miles, I’d rather not come back tomorrow. Beautiful people stuff up too sometimes, and he has to be the one who’s wrong here.
A perplexed look crosses his face, then it’s gone. ‘Well, whatever day it is, it’s great to see you, Ivy.’ That’s the thing with super-attractive people like this – they mess up – then they move on seamlessly like nothing happened. His hand comes towards me, and I stare at it in horror for a second, then step close enough to brush the end of one dripping finger.
‘Now you’re here, how about coming in for a dip?’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Castles, hot tubs, delicious guys coming out with the most ridiculous suggestions? It’s like I dropped into an episode of Made in Chelsea. ‘Absolutely not. Thanks all the same.’ I’m up for fun, but even I draw the line at jumping into a bath with someone I’d once have had difficulty keeping my hands off. Especially when he’s still hot as …
‘Your loss, it’s wonderfully warm, the bubbles are just starting to come through.’ As he dips down and re-emerges his muscular shoulders are tanned and gleaming under the lights, and his gaze is soft yet intense. And from the one slightly closed eye, I know he’s laughing at me.
I’m from the north, my mum and dad had tiny horizons, I didn’t hit the bright lights of London until I was in my twenties, so I’m used to cracking people up with my lack of social polish and the way I say ‘bugger’ not ‘bogger’. Come to think of it, me being a hilarious northerner was probably why there was all that laughing in Chamonix. If posh people taking the piss is what I’ve come to expect, it doesn’t mean I like it. If Bill’s like the rest of George’s extended social circle he’ll be one of those entitled guys who were weaned on champagne and assume the rest of the world was too. The kind who don’t even know what a back door is, let alone how to use one. Those cheekbones are the giveaway. That accent. I know it’s wrong to judge, worse still to write people off without knowing them properly, but after the way George walked out on me, any guy with tuned-up vowels can’t be trusted.
‘I’ll take your word for that.’ It takes me a second to change the subject. ‘So what’s with the music?’
‘Feliz Navidad? It’s so much less obvious than your usual Christmas tunes.’ Even though he’s pulling a face, he still looks like perfection on a stick. ‘On repeat in an attempt to get in the festive mood.’
That’s one way of looking at it. George saw continuous repetition as lazy, and a total lack of musical creativity. But there you go, it wouldn’t work if we all liked the same. George was entitled once, but by the time he hit thirty he’d fallen on hard times, which was where I came in handy. As a temporary interim. A stepping stone. A door mat to use on his way to better places. If I needed a lesson that normal people need to stay away from rich people, George was it. The minute he got his break he left me for someone more suited to his new, moneyed life. And things went seriously downhill after George. So far down they ended in the accident.
Nowadays I put all my energy into riding a better wave, and believe me, that doesn’t include guys. Especially ones who talk like they’ve swallowed a plum and luxuriate in bubble baths in Cornish castles when they know damned well they should be leaping out of the water and sorting their guests out.
But before you think I’ve written off the whole south of England, I haven’t at all. Meeting Fliss and being welcomed into her very southern family gently opened my closed northern eyes in the best possible way and I’ll always be grateful for that. Fliss wasn’t only my bestie and my party partner and next-room neighbour at uni. She was also my social translator. She held my hand as I discovered the scary world of student London and later hauled me up into my job at Daniels.
And thinking of nicer things, one mention of the ‘f’ for ‘festive’ word, and I’m glancing up, appraising the pergola. Okay, I put my hands up, I can’t help it, it’s my job. However slick and polished the outdoor space is already, in my head I’m already up the stepladders, festooning it with fairy lights. Pink and turquoise strands hanging from the wooden poles, moving in the breeze. They would work amazingly.
‘You haven’t got around to the decorations out here yet?’ I’m stating the obvious, expecting him to say it’s his last job, and maybe to share what he’s planning.
‘Decorations?’
I’m taking in his blank stare when two things hit me.
First, even though Merwyn is standing next to me, staring at Bill even harder than I am, I’m not actually holding his lead any more. How did that happen? And second, since I moved in and braved the crackling static of that finger touch, my (early Christmas present to myself) Russell and Bromley Chelsea boots (off eBay) have been kicking up against a towel. Except now I’m looking more closely it’s not just a towel. Dropped across the top, there’s also a pair of cotton boxers.
‘Ok-a-a-a-a-y.’ My voice has gone all screechy and as the words naked hot entitled hot man of my personal dreams in a hot tub zip through my brain I’m suddenly sweating inside my fair isle. As I look at the boxers, then look at Bill, Merwyn is following my gaze. And over the tub edge I can see Bill doing the same. There are times when the only way forward is to ignore the roaring of blood pounding through your ears and simply come out and say it like it is. So I take a deep breath and press ‘go’. ‘You’re not actually wearing any clothes in there are you, Bill?’
Bill’s grin is unrepentant. No surprise there then. ‘Good call, Ivy, I am totally in the buff here, thanks for getting that one out into the open.’ On the down side, him coming clean is even more disarming than plain old arrogant. ‘In my defence, I have to say, whatever Mrs Johnstone-Cody understood, I wasn’t expecting guests until tomorrow.’
I sniff. ‘I’ll take your word for that too.’ It’s good that he’s switched back to super-pleased with himself.
‘Great.’ Nice recovery there from Bill, we both know it isn’t at all. ‘So if you’d throw me the towel and my – ahem – shorts, we can fast-forward to your welcome tour.’
It’s a relief we finally got as far as him mentioning showing me round. ‘Lovely, I’ll do that now.’
Merwyn’s giving me one of his ‘I don’t believe a word and neither should you’ looks, but I’m not going