Christmas at Strand House

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘We’ll drink to that, then,’ Xander said.

  So they had another toast.

  ‘I don’t know that I want this to end,’ Bobbie said, ‘and there’s me with a whole new, hopefully, wonderful life to me moving on to!’

  ‘Come back,’ Lissy said. ‘Whenever you like.’

  ‘Oh, I will. I’m going to take Janey up on her idea of a fashion workshop. So book me in for that, Lissy.’

  ‘And my painting one,’ Janey said.

  ‘I’ll do the cleaning,’ Xander joked. ‘And put the rubbish out.’

  ‘You so will not!’ Lissy said. And then it occurred to her – she was definitely going ahead with this idea, no more doubts, no more what ifs. She could hardly wait to get back to Exeter now and her practice and her flat and start putting both on the market.

  The clock was creeping around to midnight. Christmas was almost over. Bobbie had rung Sam and he said he could do better than find someone to drive Bobbie to London in the morning, he’d do it himself. He also said his wife was due a few days away because she’d put up with him taxiing hither and thither the whole holiday so if it was all right with Bobbie she could sit in on the trip and then he’d only charge her half fare. Xander had been in touch with the lads who worked for him, and they, in turn, had been in touch with a couple of their rugby-playing mates so in the morning there’d be six of them going with Janey to fetch her computer and anything else she wanted to bring back to Strand House, and to sort out Janey’s husband if needs be, although Xander had said he was pretty certain that the mere sight of them would frighten the coward half to death.

  Lissy stood up. She waved an arm over the detritus of possibly the best meal she’d ever cooked and eaten.

  ‘Ready for the fireworks?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about the Boxing Night fireworks,’ Xander said. ‘Who sets them off?’

  ‘No idea,’ Lissy said. ‘Someone in one of the big villas on the headland at Livermead has been doing it for as long as I can remember. We’ve got just about the best view of them here though. Shall we grab coats?’

  It had definitely got colder as the evening had worn on and Lissy had increased the temperature of the central heating a little.

  ‘Definitely,’ Bobbie said. ‘I’ve not watched fireworks in years but, well, it’ll seem like a celebration.’ She got up and fetched her coat, handing Janey hers.

  Xander lifted Lissy’s coat from its hook and held it out for Lissy to slip her arms into. Then he, very tenderly, did up the buttons for her – such a caring, loving gesture.

  Then they all stepped outside, and Lissy pulled the door to behind them, leaving it ajar a little. They all huddled close together, arms around one another’s shoulders – Janey, Lissy, Xander and Bobbie, all in a row.

  Lissy heard the mantel clock in the dining room strike midnight, as fireworks filled the sky with colour and light and noise – every colour in the rainbow and a few more besides, and then a million, trillion gold and silver stars rained down.

  ‘What a finale to a wonderful Christmas holiday!’ Bobbie said.

  Finale? Not yet. A few, wonderful snowflakes were fluttering down now, dancing and swirling in the light from the lamppost at the end of the cul-de-sac. Money couldn’t have bought that, could it?

  Snowflakes were blowing, soft as feathers, into their hair now.

  ‘More perfect than perfect!’ Janey said. ‘Snow as well!’

  ‘My parting gift to you all,’ Lissy joked. ‘Until the next time.’

  ‘Until the next time!’ they all chorused, and Lissy knew there would be a next time now their friendship had become even stronger, unbreakable even.

  Yes, she thought, sometimes a rash decision can be the right one … for everyone.

  One Year Later…

  Bobbie

  Another year, another Christmas. This year Bobbie is on her way to Sydney where she is going to spend Christmas and New Year with Oliver and his family. They all had a wonderful time together when Bobbie got back to London after her stay at Strand House. She’d never put Oliver up for adoption which made the getting to know one another, for them, easier. Her granddaughters couldn’t get enough of looking through Bobbie’s old press cuttings, and trying on her clothes, experimenting with her make-up. Oliver’s wife was thrilled to have Bobbie for a mother-in-law, especially as Bobbie often passed on clothes she was given from shoots. They have all Skyped regularly and Bobbie feels she already knows the layout of Oliver’s house and the bedroom that she and Sebastian will share when they get there. And that was another surprise, how easy it was for her and Sebastian to slip back into what they’d had when they’d first met. All it had taken was a Facebook search and a Friend Request and now here they were, back together. Thank God for today’s technology Bobbie thinks, and says, often.

  Janey

  Janey still has to pinch herself to believe that she is living the life she has now. She is living in Xander’s house now that he is up at Strand House with Lissy. She knows it’s not for ever but it is for now and she couldn’t be happier. Felix has elected to stay with her, it seems. Xander did take him with him, but every morning Felix was back again, having let himself in through the catflap and curled himself into a purring ball beside Janey on the bed.

  Most days Janey walks over to the Port Light for coffee. She’s become good friends with Ana – best friends even – who runs it and it feels good because Janey hasn’t had a best friend before.

  As promised, Xander introduced her to his friend, James, who runs the gallery and framing business, and while it is very early days for them – and Janey is not yet divorced although that is going ahead – it is good to have him in her life.

  She went to stay with Bobbie in London for a whole month, filling God knows how many sketchbooks with drawings and little vignettes of London scenes – both the well-documented and the unknown. Beavering away, well into the night, on the top floor of Bobbie’s mews house she painted a portrait of Bobbie and her son and his daughters, taken from a photograph Bobbie had on the mantelpiece in the dining room to say thank you for her friendship and for spoiling her something rotten during her stay.

  This Christmas, Janey has invited her old neighbours, Annie and Fred, to spend Christmas Day with her. And Guinness, of course. They’ve kept her up to date with the goings on in her old home which is now on the market as part of Janey’s divorce proceedings. Stuart has – so they told her – gone to stay with the floozy (as Fred called her) he brought home the previous Christmas. He no longer teaches at the local college. Janey no longer cares.

  James will also be joining Janey, Annie and Fred, and Guinness for Christmas lunch. Janey and James have not yet shared a bed, although Janey thinks this could all change once he has driven Annie and Fred back to Totnes when Christmas Day is over to which end she has bought a new duvet set for the bed now she is earning enough money to do so. Life can only get better.

  Lissy & Xander

  The names now come joined together, said in the same breath as bread and cheese and the Queen and her handbag, Xander likes to joke. Their daughter, Freya Claire, was born on the 22nd September, which bears out the folk theory that more babies are born nine months after Christmas than at any other time of the year.

  Lissy made Xander what was quite possibly the least romantic offer a woman could to a man and said she’d go through his accounts. She found more than a few ways where he could save money, so much so that he didn’t have to let any of his men go and has actually taken on two more. Now that he has a focus in life again – Lissy and his daughter – he is much better about getting back to people when they call about jobs they would like him to quote for. His jobs book is full. He did, however, find time to build the conservatory for Lissy, and extend what Vonny had called her library and which Lissy and Xander now call the snug.

  Lissy is yet to start running any courses at Strand House, but she will. She loves cooking even more now she has Xander and Freya Claire to cook
for. She has begun devising menus for when she takes things to a more professional level in the future. She has never known a year fly so deliciously fast before because she was more than occupied selling her flat and business in Exeter and being pregnant.

  It is Christmas Eve. Xander’s mother will be joining them for lunch tomorrow and Xander’s only sadness is that his father never got to meet his granddaughter. His mother is more than making up for his father’s loss by showering Freya Claire with love and big Lego and at least a dozen teddies.

  Lissy’s mother has softened now she has a granddaughter and will be coming, with Mark, to stay in the New Year and meet Freya Claire. Lissy hopes this will go some way to improving relations with her mother but already their phone calls are becoming more frequent and less of a strain to them both. Bobbie told Lissy that a baby changes everything, and it seems she might be right.

  ‘Déjà vu,’ Xander says as Lissy climbs into his lorry, Freya Claire in her arms. They are heading for the Christmas Tree Farm.

  Another Christmas at Strand House has begun …

  Acknowledgements

  I’ll begin by thanking Gerri Gill for her gloriously glam and feel-good Facebook posts; they lifted my spirits on the darkest days and ‘gave birth’ to Bobbie to boot! Black and white rules, Gerri!

  Marilyn Chapman is a not-yet-met-face-to-face friend but is the most supportive and encouraging of friends, nonetheless. Thanks, Maz.

  And now to the two Js – Jennie and Jan, friends of long-standing. They listen to my moans, offer advice and praise or slap my wrists, whichever is needed. Thanks, girls – my life would be the poorer without you both.

  Brixham Writers, as ever, are my anchor in a storm. Anne, Kate, John, Brenda, Margaret, Hannelore, Catherine, Ella, Michelle, Sandra, Ian, and not forgetting Carole in Spain who is always with us in spirit – you rock, one and all!

  My very grateful thanks also to Charlotte and the team at HarperCollins for giving me this publishing opportunity.

  And lastly, but by no means least, my love and thanks to my husband, Roger, who has been my personal barista and wine waiter in the making of this novel.

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  Turn the page for an exclusive extract from Summer at 23 The Strand…

  Chapter 1

  Early May

  Martha

  ‘I’ll just check your details.’ The clerk behind the desk in the tourist office on the seafront spoke without looking up. Martha, peering out from under the rim of her black straw hat, held her breath. Would the woman detect a lie? A false address? Not a fictitious name as such but not the one the world knew her by? ‘So, that’s Martha Langford? Eighteen Staplethorpe Avenue, Brighton? Right? From one seaside resort to another, eh?’

  ‘Yes to all that,’ Martha said.

  ‘Well, you’ll just love it here in Hollacombe, I’m sure. A proper little home from home is how our guests describe Number 23. Here’s the key. You’ll find your chalet is about five hundred yards to your left as you leave this office. One double bedroom, one sitting room with sofabed cum galley kitchen, one loo with basin and shower. All breakages to be paid for. No barbecues on the wooden deck, I’m afraid, because the chalets are wooden. Fire risk, and all that. To be vacated a fortnight from today by 10 a.m. to give the cleaner time to turn it all around before the next occupants. The key with the luggage-label tag on it to be posted through the letterbox here if we’re closed. Any problems—’

  ‘I’ll sort them,’ Martha interrupted. The last thing she needed was to have to come back here and, possibly, have someone else turn up at Number 23 The Strand to sort out whatever problem she might have. Just standing here, listening to the clerk reciting what she must have recited hundreds of times before, was giving her goose bumps. The sooner she got out of here the better.

  ‘Of course, this could be the last season this particular chalet is let because it’s up for sale,’ the clerk said as though Martha hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s owned by the local authority at present, as are a couple of others and they need to cut costs, so they’re up for sale too. The others are privately owned by locals who keep them for their own use at weekends and in the school holidays, although some do rent them out to holidaymakers. There’s not been a lot of interest in Number 23 so far but it’s early in the season. Any questions?’ The clerk cocked her head to one side questioningly.

  ‘Can’t think of any,’ Martha said, perhaps a bit too sharply, which is what happens when one’s nerves are on end. She didn’t want to be rude but she had to go.

  Well, Martha thought, as she closed the door of the chalet behind her, what a lovely surprise. She’d glanced at the photos on the website when she’d booked, of course, but she hadn’t studied it in much detail. It was bigger than she’d been expecting – more ski chalet than beach hut, perhaps a bit boutique hotel – and just as the lady in the tourist office had said, a little home from home. And so very clean. A nest. Martha felt the welcome of it wrap around her, warm her. The boarded walls were painted a soft shade of yellow, like vanilla custard, with a frieze of stencilled scallop shells in deep turquoise where the walls met the ceiling. Pretty, cotton curtains with blue and yellow sailboats hung at the windows in the double bedroom and living room. The cream, linen-covered sofabed was piled with large and squashy cushions in various shades of yellow and blue, and two small but matching armchairs had biscuit-coloured fleece throws draped over the arms, for colder days perhaps. The duvet on the double bed, covered in a turquoise, jacquard-style pattern, was thick and sumptuous, and the pillows large, plump and inviting.

  ‘All very Eastern Seaboard,’ Martha said out loud. ‘I love it.’

  Some of the tension she’d been carrying with her was beginning to seep away. Yes, she’d made the right decision coming here. It was as though this chalet had been waiting for her. She patted the duvet, her hand almost disappearing in its sumptuousness.

  ‘And I could lie down on you right now,’ she laughed, surprising herself with that laugh because she hadn’t laughed for weeks now. But she couldn’t flop down on it just yet. Martha drew her breath in and then let it all out again slowly, her shoulders dropping as she physically relaxed. Yes, it felt good here. It would give her space and time to rethink what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. But first, she just had to do something with her hair.

  Martha had never done a home hair dye before. Ever since she’d been eleven years old and at stage school, her naturally blonde hair had always been professionally cut and coloured. And, of course, for filming she’d often worn wigs. It felt strange, but empowering, to be choosing a new hair colour without others calling the shots. So she’d chosen red; a sort of rosehip red with a bit of gloss to it to cover her natural blonde. The basin in the bijou bathroom – small but perfectly appointed the brochure had said, and so it was – looked as though a murder had been committed as Martha rinsed her hair one last time. Now to dry it. And then cut it. She pulled her hair high over her head and, with eyes closed, chopped straight across. When she opened her eyes again she had about eighteen inches of ponytail in her hand. Shaking her head to loosen her hair, she braved the mirror.

  Not bad. Not bad at all. Next came the coloured contact lens
es. Martha’s eyes were the palest blue, bordering on turquoise, but she reckoned a redhead might have green eyes. So in went the onyx contacts.

  ‘I hardly recognise myself,’ Martha said, in a Scottish accent, light years away from her true Home Counties way of speaking. But that was the advantage of being an actress. She could become anyone from anywhere. And she had. Many, many, times. From stage work to period TV dramas, through a six-month stint on a ‘soap’, to Hollywood. But there was a downside – over the years so many other people had pulled her strings, as it were. So many that she felt she had almost lost the essence of who she was inside. Almost.

  Her agent, Ralph Newcombe, had been furious when she’d decided to turn her back on it all.

  ‘You cannot be serious!’ he’d raged at her in his office that smelled of whisky and cigarettes, making Martha gag. Or rather making Serena Ross, as she was known to the world, gag. ‘You are making me look an utter fool pulling out of this! I’ve worked my backside off getting you, not the lead role admittedly, but a not insignificant role in a Tom Marchant film. Bets were on that you’d get Best Supporting Actress at the Oscars. And you pull this stunt! I’ll be surprised if you ever work again!’

  That night, Martha had gone back to the flat the film company had provided and cried and cried and cried. No need for glycerine on her bottom lashes to bring on the tears. And then she’d called Tom and told him she wouldn’t be coming back to the set. She’d been flattered by his attention, even though she’d known he was married with two small children – as did the rest of the world. Sitting close to him on breaks, sharing a burger or a salad, a frisson of excitement had fizzed through her. His invite to dinner after the day’s filming had been tempting. So she’d gone. Just dinner, he’d said. And it had been. Although if she were honest with herself it wouldn’t have taken much for their feelings to run over – perhaps not this time they had dinner, but definitely the next. Tom had felt it too.