Calling Mrs Christmas

by Carole Matthews

  Smudge and Rozzer looked at each other. ‘We just want to stay together,’ Smudge said. ‘It doesn’t matter where.’

  ‘That makes us sound gay, you cu —’

  ‘Language,’ Jim said.

  ‘We’re friends,’ Smudge reiterated. ‘Friends stay together.’

  ‘It can be a shock being back on the outside. Even if you’ve been here only a relatively short time. You both need to start thinking about it,’ Jim said.

  Smudge raised his eyes from the screen and looked at Jim. There was real fear in the depths of them. ‘I think about nothing else,’ he admitted.

  Jim had to concede to himself, he felt pretty much the same.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The minute I get home I google Carter Randall. Should have done it before. Obvs. Perhaps if I had, then I wouldn’t feel such a nolly-noddle now. Carter Randall is the owner of the Pure Pleasure beverage company. A self-made man who broke onto the global scene big-time about ten years ago with his range of alcoholic smoothies and ice lollies. To say that they have proved popular with the general public is something of an understatement. They’re in every bar you can think of. Everyone drinks Pure Pleasure smoothies. Me included. They are totally lush. But I enjoy them – or used to do – only when I was working full time because, believe me, they’re not flipping cheap. How was I to know that Carter Randall was the brains behind it all? No wonder his Christmas budget has no discernible limit.

  Then I google Tamara Randall and find out that she is, indeed, an ex-model. Of course she is. Now she also runs a global lingerie chain specialising in rather racy undies. I should have known that too. The exclusive stores Lacy Lady, distinctive for their cream and gold livery, are the favoured haunt of the A-list celebrity. The likes of Victoria Beckham and Madonna shop with Tamara. Even though she’s a mother of two, there are far too many pictures on the internet of the nearly ex Mrs Randall in nothing but her fancy knickers. I don’t even want to consider the shortcomings of my underwear in comparison.

  When I’ve finished snooping on Carter and his wife, I move on to thinking about the trip he wants to book. This needs to be special, lavish on a scale that’s beyond what I have ever experienced or am ever likely to. I set up a Pinterest board, then search and search, trawling for ideas through the websites of high-end holiday companies and interior designers, pinning up bits and pieces, jotting down notes when I come across something that catches my eye. I look at fantastically expensive Christmas sites for gift ideas. I look at hotels that have eye-watering numbers of noughts on their room rates. I’m still searching when I hear Jim’s key in the door and realise that I’ve lost hours doing this and that the outstanding Christmas-present wrapping that’s piled high in the living room is still waiting patiently for my attention.

  ‘Hey,’ I say when Jim comes into our tiny spare bedroom, filling the space.

  ‘Busy?’

  I abandon my computer searches to wind my arms round his neck. ‘I’ve had the most amazing day. I spent half of the afternoon in the biggest mansion I’ve ever seen in Little Gaddesden.’

  Jim’s eyes widen, as well they might.

  ‘I witnessed a massive domestic punch-up between two of Britain’s richest entrepreneurs and bagged myself a stonking great contract.’

  He laughs. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes. This takes Calling Mrs Christmas! to a whole new level.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘There is, however, no dinner ready,’ I confess. ‘I’ve been on the internet since I got home.’

  ‘I’ll knock up some pasta,’ Jim says. ‘Won’t take a minute. What’s this fantastic contract then?’

  ‘It’s not entirely signed and sealed yet,’ I admit, ‘but it’s for Carter Randall!’

  Jim looks at me blankly.

  ‘We met him at the Hemel Hempstead Means Business event. He’s only the owner of Pure Pleasure drinks.’

  I get another ‘Wow.’

  ‘The bloke I threw a drink over.’

  ‘Not so wow.’

  I shrug. ‘Looks as if he’s forgiven me. He’s only asked me to plan his whole Christmas and a special holiday of a lifetime for his kids.’

  ‘And how are you going to do that? You’re already stretched.’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I admit. ‘But I have to, Jim. Somehow I’ve got to do this. I know that work’s piling up, but I couldn’t ever have hoped for something as fabulous as this. It could take me to a whole new level. We’ll have to bring in the cavalry.’

  ‘Gaby’s being brilliant in helping out.’

  ‘As are you.’

  ‘I love you,’ he says. ‘I can tell that this is the first thing you’ve been really excited about in months. I don’t want to stand by and see you struggle.’

  ‘I could just do with an extra pair of hands – or two – on a casual basis.’

  Jim frowns. ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Let me think about that.’

  ‘You go and shower. I’ll put something on for dinner.’ I log off the computer.

  ‘You didn’t tell me what the bust-up was all about at the mansion. I hope you didn’t cause it.’

  In response, I punch him playfully. ‘O ye of little faith. The Randalls are getting divorced. Acrimoniously, it seems. I happened to walk in when they were in full flow.’

  Jim grimaces.

  ‘It wasn’t pretty.’

  Jim circles his arms around my waist and kisses me. ‘I’m glad that we don’t argue,’ he says. ‘Some couples thrive on it.’

  ‘Well, you learned very early in our relationship that I’m always right. Saves a lot of conflict.’

  He smacks me on the bottom. ‘Cheeky woman,’ he throws over his shoulder as he heads towards the bathroom.

  So while Jim has a shower, I go and open a packet of bacon, flash-fry some onions and mushrooms, and whang it all together in a tin of tomatoes. Serve with pasta and salad with the wilted bits picked out of it. Yeah, Jamie Oliver, who needs your 15-Minute Meals?

  I’m ladling it into bowls when Jim comes in, still rubbing his damp hair with a towel.

  ‘Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Quiet,’ he says. ‘For once.’

  ‘Good.’

  We both sit down at our cramped table amid the towering parcels and I get a flashback to the opulence of Carter Randall’s home. Perhaps I should be dreaming up a new style of alcoholic drink rather than trying to create the perfect Christmas if I want to make my fortune. As Jim adjusts his chair, he knocks into one of the towers and the presents topple. Quick as a flash, he catches them and we restack them in a less wobbling manner.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says.

  ‘No harm done. It’s not the ideal space really, but needs must.’

  Jim picks at his dinner, one eye still uneasily on the gifts. ‘There’s a new initiative at work,’ he says. ‘If the lads can get some work experience, they can get out on licence for a few hours or a day. Why don’t I ask Kieran and Andrew to come round tomorrow night and we can, hopefully, make a dent in this present mountain? We can pay them the minimum wage and still make a pound or two on top. They wouldn’t normally allow lads to come to the home of an officer, but I could put my case. If the governor agrees, we could have this lot done in a few hours.’

  ‘You want to bring two of the prisoners here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Now it’s my turn to reel. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘They’re good lads,’ Jim insists. ‘Just kids. I think these two do have a chance of going straight. If only someone would give them an opportunity.’

  ‘And you want to be that person?’

  ‘I do. If you agree.’

  ‘Won’t they steal all the presents? Or nick our credit cards and run up massive bills?’

  ‘They might come back when they get out and murder us in our beds,’ Jim adds, teasing. ‘But I don’t think so.’ Then he hesitates. ‘If I’ve read them right.’

  ‘And if you haven’t read them right?’


  ‘Then I will completely lose my faith in humankind.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Can’t really have that happening, can we?’ I sigh at him. ‘All right. Ask the governor if we can have them. If he says yes, then we’ll make it work somehow.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next day I work like a fiend in the morning and deliver two lots of presents to small companies on the industrial estate. Job done. One of them also asks me to organise their office party for forty staff and, gladly, I put it in the diary. I hope that Gaby can help me with that. Back at home, while I’m grabbing a sandwich two people call to ask me to source and dress their Christmas trees. Then a social club rings and asks me if I can supply Santa and two elves on Saturday afternoon for their pensioners’ Christmas party as their usual Santa is suffering from depression and can’t face going ho-ho-ho even for an hour. Quickly checking Jim’s shift rota, I say that I can. Santa sorted. Quite where I’m going to find two willing elves is another matter.

  I put my plan together for Carter Randall, remembering that expense isn’t an issue. When I think I’ve finished it and have done the best I possibly can, I call Carter’s office.

  ‘Hi, Georgina. It’s Cassie here.’

  I’ve spoken to Georgina on virtually an hourly basis while I’ve been working on it. As Carter suggested, she is the fount of all knowledge when it comes to the likes and dislikes of Carter and his family. I don’t know how I’d have done this without her.

  ‘Can I make an appointment to see Carter, please?’

  ‘He has lunchtime free today, Cassie,’ Georgina says. ‘That’s about it. He’s in Belgium for a few days, and, after that, New York.’

  ‘I better had come at lunchtime then,’ I say.

  This plan will need finalising if I’m to have a hope of getting everything into place in time. Not much point in having a fabulous Christmas set-up if you can’t actually fit it in until January, eh? I need the go-ahead and I need it now.

  ‘Last time I spoke to Carter, he did suggest that we have lunch together.’

  ‘I’ll book it at the house, if that’s all right,’ she says. I wasn’t envisaging a swanky restaurant, anyway. ‘He doesn’t have a great deal of time available.’

  ‘That’s fine. Thanks.’

  Now I feel cheeky, but it is what he said. No wonder he’s struggling to fit Christmas into his busy schedule. Perhaps he was simply being polite when he asked me to have lunch with him. Hopefully, it will be just a sandwich and then I can eat it and run.

  So, at exactly twelve o’clock, I find myself swinging into the drive of Randall Court once more. A neat buff folder containing my master plan is on the seat next to me. I can only hope that this is suitably lavish for a multimillionaire. As I make my way up to the house, I’m no less intimidated the second time around.

  I pull up, ring the doorbell, wait an aeon and, again, am eventually let into the mansion by Georgina. We’re friends enough now that she kisses my cheek warmly. This time Carter is quick to greet me and there’s no background shouting from Tamara. Hopefully, the absence of the fancy Bentley indicates that she’s not visiting today.

  ‘So glad you could come,’ Carter says. ‘You’ve been very quick in organising this.’

  ‘Speed is of the essence,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not long until Christmas.’ I have a degree in stating the bleeding obvious. Never before have I marked off the days on my calendar so fastidiously. ‘If you’re happy with my suggestions, I need to get all this in place.’

  ‘I’ve asked Hettie to serve lunch in the garden room,’ Carter says. ‘I hope you’re not vegetarian.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that! Let’s go straight through.’

  He tucks his hand under my elbow, steering me out of the hall into a light and spacious room that overlooks the grounds.

  ‘This is lovely.’

  The large table is all ready for just the two of us and Carter pulls out my seat for me. On the table is a platter of antipasti – salami, Parma ham, artichokes, olives, cherry tomatoes, roasted red peppers – and a basket of ciabatta.

  ‘A glass of something sparkling?’ Carter asks.

  ‘Just a small one. I’m driving.’

  He splashes some pink champagne into a glass for me, lifts his own and toasts me. ‘To Christmas,’ he says.

  ‘To Christmas,’ I echo. ‘Shall I go through my plan as we eat?’

  ‘Please do.’

  He offers me the servers and I transfer some of the meats to my plate in as delicate a manner as I can manage. While Carter tucks in, I jump straight into my plan.

  ‘For your trip with the children, I thought Lapland. Home of Father Christmas.’

  ‘Fabulous,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t I think of it? I’m sure the kids would love that.’

  ‘Georgina told me that they’ve never been before.’ Good old Georgina. I make a mental note to buy her a gift for her help. ‘I’ve found a great wilderness lodge in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by forests. Nothing too basic though. It looks beautiful and has all mod cons. Centrally heated, own chef, hot tub. I can organise a variety of activities from there. Dog-sledding, snowmobiling, whatever you and the children would like.’

  ‘Oh, sounds wonderful,’ Carter enthuses, making me feel as if I’m the most clever Christmas planner ever.

  ‘I’ve tentatively reserved it, subject to your approval. The only thing I’m struggling with is flights.’

  ‘Book a private jet,’ Carter says without hesitation. ‘I’ll ask Georgina to give you the name of the company we normally use.’

  Right. OK. Private jet. Why didn’t I think of that? Carter Randall is hardly going to travel Ryanair, is he?

  ‘I thought a night in the Icehotel would be fun too.’

  ‘Great idea. I’ve always wanted to go there, see the northern lights.’

  Not sure that I can book those to order, but I’m thinking that I’d better give it a go.

  ‘These are the rough costings.’

  I push the piece of paper across the table and try to dip some ciabatta in olive oil in a nonchalant manner while simultaneously concentrating on judging his reaction. It really is an extraordinary amount of money by anyone’s standards.

  Carter doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘That’s fine.’

  Thank goodness for that. ‘Now the plans for the house and Christmas at home?’

  ‘Really, do whatever you want to,’ Carter says. ‘I’m clueless.’

  ‘I thought a bright and fun colour scheme for the children.’

  ‘Perfect.’ It’s clear that he doesn’t want to be troubled by the detail. He wants it to be fabulous and is happy to foot the bill. End of.

  ‘There’ll need to be a party in the run-up to Christmas. A big one. Georgina will give you the names of the usual guests.’

  ‘Right.’ Hadn’t bargained on that one.

  ‘And we’ll need a chef for Christmas Day and Boxing Day. Hettie doesn’t work then.’

  A chef. Of course. I’ll give Nigella a ring, see if she’s busy. I jot it down in my notepad. ‘There’ll just be the three of you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carter says with a sigh. ‘That’ll be pretty glum, won’t it?’

  I could probably rent them some friends if he wants that too.

  ‘When she’s not here, they miss their mother,’ Carter says. ‘We try to pretend that the children are adaptable, joke that they’re just like the rest of their friends now with divorcing parents. But it’s hurting them.’

  ‘Kids do cope,’ I say.

  I think of my own absent father – gone at such an early age that I can’t even remember him – and how Gaby had to step into my mum’s place because my own mother was terminally incapable of parenting us. Carter’s kids might be shuffled between two mansions but, from what I’ve seen, they don’t seem to be having it too rough.

  ‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘I’m sure they do. They’re away at school all week and they love Tamara’s new home in London. It’s just
that I see them only every other weekend. That’s not right, is it?’

  I choose not to comment.

  ‘I wanted them to have a stable background, as I did. My parents have been married for fifty years and are still going strong. They still hold hands and live for each other. Tamara and I barely managed a decade.’

  ‘That could be considered long term by many standards.’