by Jane Linfoot
Patronising doesn’t begin to cover how she sounds. ‘Tom, a vlog can be whatever you want it to be. My followers are happy to hear my thoughts on any subject.’
‘You do know how vommy you sound?’
As Tom launches himself across the table and retches over the edge I totally get where he’s coming from. I’m wondering what he’s hiding under his hat when Libby gets up and pushes a box into my hand.
‘An iPhone?’
‘It’s already set up with all my social media accounts, so you can upload pictures too.’ She half closes one eye and her foot lands on my toes and crushes them at the same time. ‘We never know when we’ll find wifi do we? It’s easier for you to slip away than it is for me.’
Bill’s been warned – unless he wants the entire house party taking up residence in his room, he needs to keep his door firmly closed. Obviously Libby and I will have to nip in throughout the day, so I’ve given him a DO NOT DISTURB sign to hang on the door in case he needs private time. If he wants too much of that, we’re stuffed.
‘Lovely.’ It’s the latest model, I just hope I can work out how to use it.
‘You can kick off with some photos of delicious warm buns. Straight away would be good.’ She’s clapping her hands, which seems rude even for her, but the claps aren’t meant for me. ‘Right, guys. Anyone up for breakfast at Pret, in the car, NOW!’
There’s a scrape of chairs, a mass scramble for the French windows, and two seconds later Libby and I are left staring at each other, our jumpers flapping in the gale that’s blowing in from the courtyard.
Libby’s raising her eyebrows. ‘Give them what they know, works every time.’ She marches after them, and just before she closes the door she pops her head in again. ‘Enjoy the peace while it lasts, the kids coming next are seriously hard work.’
‘You mean there’s …’ I manage to strangle my worse!!!! squeak before it comes out. ‘Great,’ I say, really, really brightly, and I think I get away with it.
‘They’re allergic to everything, difficult to please and awkward with it. And they’re bilingual.’
Oh my days. ‘I’ll brace myself while I make my gingerbread men.’
‘Unless they’re egg free and gluten free, they won’t be interested. Best make them gender neutral too, their mother’s very hot on equal ops.’
And then the door bangs, and they’re gone.
When I nip into Bill’s room and look it up, the only Pret is an hour away, at the airport. Is it really mean of me to wish that while they’re there, they’ll get on a plane and fly back to where they came from? And take their even more impossible friends with them.
15.
Deep and crisp and even …
350g/12oz plain flour, plus extra for rolling out
1tsp bicarbonate of soda
2tsp ground ginger (double up to make them Oscar proof)
1tsp ground cinnamon
125g/4½oz butter
175g/6oz soft brown sugar
1 free-range egg
4tbsp golden syrup
I jotted down the bones of the recipe on a scrap of paper in Bill’s room, greased the tins, and now I’m weighing out the ingredients and adding them to the Magimix as I work. I’m not sure how many batches I’ll need to fill the tree, but I’m doubling the quantities to begin with, and I’ll see how I go after that.
It’s surprisingly fast to do. Before long I’m wiping my hands on the blue and white stripy apron I borrowed from the back of the pantry door, shaking flour out of a super-posh flour sifter, and dolloping the dough onto the honed granite worktop to knead. Seconds later I’m reaching for the rolling pin.
For a holiday let the drawers are surprisingly well equipped. I mean, who the hell has a flour sifter? I know I don’t. Now I’m on my own, I mostly do chocolate cakes for one in a mug in the microwave. They’re a lot better than they sound, so long as you eat them hot, they’re so totes delish I often have to make a second. Yummy enough to have most evenings in fact. But the kitchen in the flat is so tiny there’s barely space for me and my mug, let alone luxuries like flour sifters, so if I do bake I just hurl the flour around.
But that was then, this is now … I bought my own set of cute Christmas shaped cookie cutters just before while I was out in St Aidan. The scent of cinnamon and ginger is already warming my nose, and – okay, maybe I am getting a bit ahead of myself here, especially as these are for the tree, not for eating – but my mouth’s already watering as I anticipate the chewy crunch as I bite into the biscuits, the way the lovely gingery taste will explode on my tongue.
Except when I begin to roll, despite shaking the flour sifter every which way, it’s all getting a bit tacky. I whack down more flour, do a bit more kneading, then go to roll again. But this time the mix just ends up rolled around the rolling pin. Then I decide to try stuffing it into the cutters individually, but that’s hopeless too. The more I work it, the hotter I’m getting, and the stickier everything is, so I peel off my jumper. It’s a good thing I’m down to my T-shirt under the apron because the next time around it ends up in peaks, and instead of sticking to the granite it’s sticking to me, all the way up to my elbows.
Staring at my dough smeared arms, letting out a low whimper is not ideally how I’d like to be seen by anyone. So when Bill comes striding through the door, I’m cursing and diving to hide.
‘What the eff …’ Behind the kettle’s not ideal.
The stack of boxes Bill’s looking out over is huge and mismatched. He eases them down, and pushes them onto the island unit. ‘I could do with a hand if you’ve got a …’
‘Yes …?’ I’m hoping he’ll carry on but instead he’s walking around the unit and coming towards me, his face crumpling in horror.
‘Ivy, if you’re hell bent on smothering yourself in body butter, wouldn’t the bathroom be a better place?’
He’s so patronising and superior, I’m this close to throwing the rolling pin at him. I probably would if it wasn’t completely stuck to my hand.
Usually I hate being so tall I look down on people, but now I’m pulling myself up to my full height. ‘If you had any idea about baking, you’d know – I’m making gingerbread, this is a critical stage in the process.’
‘Gingerbread?’ His voice goes high with surprise. Then he bites his lip, which I wish he wouldn’t, because his teeth make my stomach feel funny. ‘And that’s why you’ve got a star cutter attached to your elbow?’ As he leans over and picks it off he gives me a man-sized burst of his body spray.
‘Fuck.’ It was bad enough before the teeth and the man scent, but somehow I screw myself back together. ‘I’m making decorations for the tree.’
He’s pulling down the corners of his mouth, but they keep twitching back up again. ‘Great idea, but you’ve got two problems –’
‘Is that all?’ I’m being ironic. From where I’m standing it feels like a lot more. And obviously I don’t need him to lecture me on what they are. I mean, who does he think he is, the effing Bake Off police?
He’s waving the star cutter at me. ‘You’ll never get perfect biscuits if you use plastic cutters.’
Still talking down. Still sounding like a complete arse. ‘Sadly Spar in St Aidan didn’t stock gold plated ones. So what should I have chosen?’ It’s one of those questions I really don’t want an answer to, but he’s going to tell me anyway.
He shrugs. ‘Stainless steel ideally.’ He flicks open a drawer, and pulls out a box and flips the lid open. ‘Like these.’
The tin I’m staring down at is filled with metal stars and hearts of all sizes, the odd angel, a few different sized snowmen, and blow me if there isn’t a whole shiny nest of gingerbread man cutters in there too. Considering the minimalism everywhere else in the castle, the drawers in the kitchen are a complete anomaly, especially the one the cutters came out of. I swear I caught a glimpse of a whole load of kiddy birthday candles and bun cases in there too, which doesn’t fit with anything. But I’ll have to work out what the
hell’s going on there later.
Bill’s carrying on. ‘And second, if you don’t chill your dough in the fridge before you begin, it gets too sticky to work with.’
I’m picking my jaw up off the floor. ‘Anything else?’
He’s glancing at the recipe and the ingredient pile. ‘I can see you’ve used flour for rolling out, so once your mix is the consistency of Playdoh the rest should work fine.’
Just when I’d closed my mouth it’s sagging again. ‘Playdoh?’
‘You do know what Playdoh is?’
‘Obviously.’ Oscar’s Playdoh machine? – totally brilliant, it’s the most fun I’ve had in an afternoon in ages, just saying. But I can’t see why child-averse Bill would have the first clue.
He’s half closing one eye. ‘You wash your hands, I’ll get the rest of this lot into the fridge and whizz up another batch.’
It’s a measure of how covered I am that by the time I’m de-clagged, he’s got a ball of dough in each hand, wrapped in clingfilm, and he’s rolling them into the fridge. Giving a completely unnecessary running commentary as he does it.
‘Another two batches should be enough. I’ll help you make those, then while the dough’s cooling we can bring in the rest of the boxes. And afterwards we can roll and cut out together. If we’re doing the whole tree we need team work.’
Taking over? Much? Except even though he’s sticking as close to my elbow as that offending plastic star cutter as we stand by the Magimix, I’m doing a lot of the work. Actually all of the work. While all he’s doing is totally putting me off. With his breathing. And those dark chocolate eyes of his looking. Near enough for me to see his individual lashes and be jealous how thick and dark and long they are. So close, our arms keep brushing. Colliding even.
All in all it’s a bloody nightmare. And if I’m finding it all a little bit tingly, that’s definitely down to festive excitement. Nothing to do with rubbing shoulders with the kind of quality body that would make a topless Aidan Turner look mediocre.
Most probably it’s because it’s a new situation for me – I can’t ever remember cooking with a guy before. I’m not sure I ever saw George even visit any of the kitchens in the places we lived. If I wasn’t there to make meals he ate out or went hungry. And sure, I hate Bill ordering me around and being such a know-it-all smart-arse. But someone who passes the spatula and manages to produce flat pieces of clingfilm that don’t instantly twist into clingy unusable ropes? Just this once I’m not going to grumble, I’ll take the help.
Once the dough is safely made and stowed in one of the many gigantic fridges, we rush in and out of the wind unloading the Landy. I’m aching to know what we’re carrying, and determined not to ask. By the time we’ve had a few trips the pile is covering the table and Bill’s smug expression has gone up three notches.
I’m eyeing the battered boxes, bursting with curiosity. ‘Okay, I give in, tell me what they are.’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘Take a look …’
As I pull open the flaps and catch the shine and shimmer my pulse rate picks up and I let out a gasp. ‘Deccies!’ I pull open another three boxes, and they’re all brimful – baubles of all sizes and colours, no sign of packaging, just thrown in on top of each other. ‘So many, too!’
He gives a low laugh. ‘You wanted maximalism. Knock yourself out.’
I’m pulling out silvery bells and brass snowflakes, swinging Santas and tiny red glass doves – and I’m dazed. ‘But where did you get them?’
‘I plundered every charity shop in a twenty mile radius.’ He’s looking down at me, which doesn’t often happen. Through those lashes of his too. ‘They’re definitely not what you ordered – but they’re here and they’re yours.’ His eyebrow goes up. ‘If you want more, say the word. Every bauble’s different, it won’t be hard to get a match.’
I’m musing as I plunge my hand into a box and sift though the pile. ‘There are enough here to sort colour themes for different trees. Or we could go totally random.’
He’s opening more, and looking in. ‘Best of all, we’re saving the world one second-hand deccie at a time.’
I’m staring at him. ‘Did Keef say that?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, that’s what they said in the shops.’
I’m being pulled along on the wave. ‘Eclectic is good. It’s how trees used to be back in the day when people bought their decorations singly and added one or two every Christmas. Before they began buying an entire different coordinating tree’s worth every year.’ To be fair, without that whole ‘buy new and chuck away the old every year’ trend, we’d never have scooped such a big haul here.
He pulls a face. ‘You’re blinding me with festive science again. Let’s go back to gingerbread, then I’ll know where I am.’
I’m thinking about another hour of shivers, and sizing up the box pile. ‘With so many decorations maybe we could skip the gingerbread?’
He’s frowning. ‘Hell no, it’s going to be the best one. No way I’m giving up on a tree you can graze from.’
‘Great.’ It isn’t. But the faster we get on with it, the sooner it’ll be over.
By the time Fliss and the kids come back in for a late lunch, there are cooling trays piled with nutty brown gingerbread men – or should that be people? – and Bill’s taking the last batch out of the Aga. I look up from where I’m loading up the dishwasher, mostly trying to persuade Merwyn it’s not a good idea to let Bill see him licking the wooden spoons. And reminding him for future reference, however tempting and dangly they look, snaffling gingerbread people from the tree is strictly not allowed.
Fliss gets in first. ‘Nice move, Ivy, getting yourself a kitchen assistant, in a matching apron too.’ She slides Harriet off her hip into the high chair and smiles at the biscuits. ‘See, I told you you’d ace them, and you have.’
When Bill doesn’t leap in to put her right, I send her a grin. ‘It’s all in the chilling. We’re onto icing next.’
Then I take in Bill’s wince as he looks over at Harriet. ‘Bill, they’re kids, they’re here, they won’t be leaving for another two weeks. Just get over yourself!’
Strangely he doesn’t reply, he just blinks.
Fliss pulls a face at me, then she lets out a sigh. ‘If all my hands weren’t spoken for, I’d offer to help.’
I’m explaining for Bill’s benefit, and moving this on now I’ve said my piece. ‘I’m shortbread queen, Fliss is empress of the piping bag.’
Fliss joins in. ‘Not quite. That was in my life BK.’
Bill’s eyes narrow. ‘B what?’
‘Before kids. These days I’m the empress of disarray, swirly icing is a dim and distant memory.’
‘Awww, it’s not that bad, sweetie.’ Except we both know most days it’s worse. She’s already extended her maternity leave twice and neither of us know how the hell she’s going to get back to Daniels in the New Year. Then as I stare at Bill I’m suddenly remembering what I forgot. ‘You do have a piping bag?’
‘Do bears poop in forests?’ Bill’s raising an eyebrow at me. When Oscar overhears, breaks into peals of laughter and starts careering round the kitchen whooping about poop, however much I tell him not to, Bill’s wincing again. ‘All the icing equipment’s in the drawers below the cutters.’ Which sounds like yet more culinary maximalism. Whoever removed every last object from the castle must have overlooked the kitchen.
Fliss is staring at Bill. ‘You seem like a natural with the small ones, how about you clown around while I whizz up some icing?’
I don’t know where the hell she’s got that idea from. It might sound mean, but I’d rather he left us to it. Him scowling every time the kids make a squeak is frankly a bit of a downer.
‘Don’t you have work to do … figures to go through … stuff to distil?’ I’m hurling in every last option in the hope he’ll get the hell out of here. Obviously I’m super-grateful for him saving me with his expertise earlier, but now we’re m
oving on.
‘What with all the fires to keep going and bakers who need unsticking …’ He’s frowning. ‘With everyone arriving, you’re my priority now.’
Wrong answer. Damn.
Fliss is sounding brighter than I’ve heard her for ages. ‘So does that mean you’d be up for five minutes playing with Oscar?’
If she’d offered him a hand grenade to play with he couldn’t look any more horrified. I had no idea she’d be in there so fast, so I’m stepping in for every reason. ‘As kids go Oscar and Harriet are hardly a beginner’s ride, they’d probably leave Bill for dead before we had the icing sugar weighed.’ I let out a sigh. ‘You do the icing, Fliss, this one’s mine.’
16.
The more the merrier …
By the time Libby and the kids get back from wherever they’ve been Fliss has gone off to bed with her two, and Merwyn and I have already had our late night walk.
I say wherever they’ve been – but thanks to my new phone being hooked up to all Libby’s and her family’s accounts, I’ve been following them and their patchwork of posts across the county. Most of them tucked into mac cheese for breakfast at Pret, then had fun watching planes before going back to Pret again for more of the same. They then went on to the cinema complex in Falmouth to watch Frozen 2 (again), eat every flavour of Krispy Kreme donut going and buy popcorn from a real live human pop corn dispenser. Quite a few times. Then they called in at Maccie D’s.
Obviously these activities weren’t aspirational enough to make it onto Libby’s feed. She mainly put up floury baking-in-progress shots with arty out-of-focus fairy lights from the castle kitchen that I’d sent her. Then a fast forward video clip of gingerbread people being hung on the tree with the sound of Feliz Navidad in the background, occasionally panning out to Oscar and Harriet watching, completely enraptured.
Fliss should enjoy it while she can. Who knew the wonder of Christmas ran out at such an early age these days? If Libby’s kids are anything to go by, it’s all over by the time they’re four. Although as far as captivation with tree decorating went, obviously we didn’t load the bit where Oscar helped himself to a gingerbread man then pebble dashed the French windows and a large area of the island unit as he spat it out. But at least from now on he won’t be helping himself. And thank Christmas Bill wasn’t around to see that bit either.
