A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall. Jane Linfoot
and see it’s already past ten. ‘It’s lovely to find loaded people in the country really do start work half way through the morning.’
Bill shakes his head then strides out through the hallway and towards the back door. ‘Speak for yourself, some of us have been up since five bottling and dispatching gin.’
‘Yeah right, and I’m a Cornish man.’ Apart from the bullshit, I have to put him right here. ‘Sorry to challenge your view of stereotypes, but not everyone in London is totally obsessed with designer gin.’ When our Daniels’ stylist team voted four years running to have our winter party at an après ski venue, gin palaces weren’t even in the running. We can all personally vouch for the awfulness of a gluwein hangover, but we still go back again and again simply because the memory of drinking it is so warm and cosy.
Bill’s swinging a bunch of keys in his hand and as we go through the hot tub courtyard and around the side of the castle he’s talking over his shoulder. ‘Most people prefer to go in through the front entrance for maximum effect, I take it you won’t mind conforming to that stereotype?’
I’d sort out an equally snarky response. But by the time I catch him up the gigantic front door is already swinging open.
‘Come in, and welcome.’ Lucky for both of us, he’s slipped into ‘castle guide’ mode. ‘Guests usually leave the main door unlocked, and use the key code on the inner door of the porch.’
As he holds the doors open for me I do a big jump to get past him as fast as I can and move through into a huge hallway with a bumpy stone floor and a staircase so huge and chunky that it appears to be hewn from entire trees. For a fleeting moment I’m surprised the giant Christmas tree isn’t here yet, but then we are a day earlier than he expected so I move on to other thoughts. Like how I can’t begin to imagine the size of the chandeliers with a space this enormous. But when I look up to check them out, instead of a cascade of glistening crystal there’s a cluster of large bare hanging light bulbs with glowing yellow filaments, and a tangle of wires looping around above them.
‘I see the light fittings are on-trend rather than traditional.’ Despite half choking with the shock of it being so different from the image in my head I’m trying to see them through Libby’s eyes – and failing. It’s all so much rougher than I was expecting – somehow I hadn’t expected the inside walls to be the same stone as the outside ones.
Bill nods. ‘The electricians went for low impact, low energy solutions throughout.’
At least the shock of what’s here – or what isn’t – is taking my mind off the shadows of his jawline and the women in the perfume ad. Whatever it was I reacted to in Chamonix, he hasn’t lost it, more’s the pity. It doesn’t feel like the right moment to ask where the sumptuous wallpaper is. Even plaster on the walls would have been good. I’m desperately crossing my fingers for a more ‘cosy’ feel in the next room.
‘Come through and see the chill out areas …’
As I look at the back of Bill’s Barbour there’s a niggle of doubt at how wrong that sounds so I’m trying desperately to think back to the pictures Libby sent me. For now I can’t remember any more than the gorgeous outside shots, then close ups of things like cushions and pillow tassels, candlesticks and corners of picture frames. Then Bill steps out of the way and reveals acres more stone flags and rocky walls, and a space like a gallery with some angular leather sofas, a couple of coffee tables, a square alcove off and, if welded steel is your thing, a rather beautiful side console unit. And it’s so pared back, there’s still no clues at all about the guy himself.
He leads the way and I follow him through to more gallery space. Then he turns and says, ‘Okay, that’s your lot, if we go on up to the first floor, I’ll show you the bedrooms.’
Looking around the bedrooms with a ‘perfume ad of the year’ model and the body I’ve personally hijacked to inhabit my secret dreams all these years was the bit I was expecting to feel really wobbly about. Frankly, I was hoping to put it off for longer, but there’s a more immediate worry. ‘But what about the rest of the reception rooms?’
He smiles. ‘People are always fooled, the usable space inside castles isn’t that big. At least it means we can crank up the heating and beat the draughts.’
That glimmer of good news about the inside temperatures hasn’t stopped my heart plummeting. ‘What?’
‘Cockle Shell Castle was built as a folly. It’s impressive from the outside but it’s not meant for housing battalions.’
Or large house parties from London, even? ‘Just show me what there is.’ As for where the hell the library and the dining room are, I can only hope they’re upstairs too.
When he opens the doors to four first floor bedrooms, it’s less of a shock to find the same emptiness as down below – simple beds, shower rooms and not much else. Calling it stylish would be going too far, but somehow I’m past making comments. By the time we’re coming down from a higher floor the same as the first, but with lower ceilings, I’m getting my brain into gear. The number of bedrooms is right if I add in the ones on my staircase, but the rest couldn’t be more wrong. Libby was hoping for a house stuffed with two weeks’ worth of opulent photo opportunities. More importantly, so was I. With what there is here, even adding in a present mountain, once I’ve done the stone wall and window photos we’ll be just about done.
Worse, now Bill’s staring at me. ‘You’re very quiet?’ It’s a question not a statement.
To be honest I’m shocked he’s noticed. ‘It’s not very festive for a Christmas let.’ I try again. ‘It’s very basic and bare.’
‘Right.’
‘I mean, you are aware how much she’s paying for this?’ It was a well-leaked secret, so everybody else does. I know Libby thought it was a steal, but to ordinary mortals like Fliss and me it was an eye-wateringly massive amount. When Fliss stretched for her mortgage she didn’t factor in two babies, and I’m equally broke. Signing an extended lease in an area a lot further upmarket than my means was all about pleasing George. And more fool me for doing that.
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.