Christmas at the Castle

by Jenny Kane

  Kit’s mouth dropped open. ‘That’s precisely how Erin describes her. How did you know?’

  ‘Told you many times, hun. Student of life, me! You can’t run a café for any length of time without being able to read people instantly. It makes me sad sometimes.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘The way people hate being thought of as clichés or stereotypes, and then do their utmost to become clichés or stereotypes.’

  Kit laughed. ‘Sometimes I wonder why you don’t write books.’

  ‘And give up this life of luxury!’ Peggy gestured around her busy café. ‘No chance. So, are you going to do what Alice wants or are you going to tell her to stuff it?’

  Taking up her soup bowl of a coffee cup, Kit sighed, ‘I’ll do it. Although I’m nervous about appearing on the romance panel, I kind of want to prove to myself that I can do it. If I annoy this Alice woman I may not get the chance.’

  ‘And you’ve finished your novel and have itchy fingers?’

  ‘That’s what Phil said!’

  Four hours later Kit had designed and emailed off sixteen different flyers, one for each of the authors taking part. She had to admit it, she was impressed by the names. This Alice may not be particularly polite, but she knew how to get the top people in. Maybe being brusque was the way to succeed?

  Not only was she blunt, but Alice was evidently efficient. Only minutes after Kit had finished and was hailing Peggy for more caffeine, a fresh email landed in her inbox.

  Kit, these flyers are excellent. We need you up here. I will pay for your flight. You can sleep in the guest lodge at Crathes Castle. All other expenses will be your own, but if you keep receipts I will see what I can do about repaying you if the festival makes a profit. There is a flight from Heathrow to Aberdeen on Monday 23rd at 7 a.m. Please confirm you will be on it. Alice.

  Gulping, Kit found herself marvelling that the word ‘please’ was included as she exhaled slowly. She hadn’t been due to fly up for another ten days.

  Before Kit had time to call Phil, a further email arrived.

  I should have said, now that Erin Spence is not involved, you will be required to host the romance panel rather than appear as a guest. I am assuming this is OK with you as you’re taking over all of Erin’s other duties. Again, please confirm ASAP. Alice.

  It hadn’t occurred to Kit that anyone would want her to be more than a guest. One of the joys of writing was that it was a safe, comfortable, and non-confrontational way of life. How on earth could Alice imagine she could host a panel that only consisted of two guests, of which she was one?

  ‘Peggy!’

  ‘Do I detect another note of panic in that bellow, your writership?’ Peggy automatically picked the jug of hot coffee back up as she headed towards Kit.

  ‘Alice only wants me to host the romance panel. I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I was already terrified about being a guest. I’m not even sure I’m brave enough to do that yet.’

  Peggy dramatically smacked her palm against her forehead in mock despair, ‘But you can, Kit. It’s you and your friend Erin on the panel, isn’t it? Just turn it into a chat between you, her, and the audience.’

  ‘Assuming Erin is still guesting, then yes.’ Kit smiled at Peggy, ‘I’m sure I was only asked to go in the first place because Erin is a nice person and we’ve always wanted an excuse to meet. Presiding over a panel, keeping the conversation going, holding a microphone; that’s something else entirely. What if I dry up?’

  Peggy’s supply of patience dried up in the face of Kit’s persistent lack of self-belief. She simply said, ‘You won’t.’

  ‘What if the audience doesn’t want to ask questions in the Q&A bit at the end? What if there is no audience? Ticket sales aren’t good, and …’

  Peggy held up her hands in surrender, ‘Alright, I get it, you’re apprehensive, but honey, you are a bloody good writer.’

  ‘But Erin is …’

  ‘Erin is equally good, but you’re good in different ways. That’s the point of a panel, isn’t it? To have different sides of the same genre represented? You’ll have different stories to tell; and if that isn’t a good starting point for your questions I don’t know what is.’

  Feeling thoroughly told off but very grateful, Kit nodded meekly. ‘Thanks, Peggy.’

  ‘You’re welcome! Now, write those questions and get sorted, otherwise you’ll only dwell on it all day and get nothing else done.’

  Kit had scribbled down a few ideas when another thought hit her. For a while now she’d been writing contemporary fiction and romance under her own name, but prior to that she had written erotica under a pseudonym, Katrina Penny. Would she have to talk about that as well? Would people like it, or would there be pitchforks and burning torches outside the castle gates on her arrival?

  Knowing she was in danger of becoming irrational again, Kit picked up her mobile.

  ‘Phil. Help!’

  Chapter Three

  Sunday November 22nd

  Cameron Hunter rocked back on his desk chair and stared out across the estate grounds of Crathes Castle. From where he sat he could see the sweep of the formal gardens that huddled neatly around the foot of the sixteenth-century tower house, and on to the woodland beyond.

  He still couldn’t believe he’d managed to land a job in one of the most picturesque places in the country. On crisp winter mornings like this one, when the fallen russet leaves crunched underfoot and the evergreen leaves shone with the spidery touch of Jack Frost, it seemed madness that he’d actually hesitated before applying for the estate manager’s post.

  Returning to the pile of paperwork on his desk, Cameron’s gaze fell on a stack of ‘Christmas at the Castle Literary Festival’ flyers. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. The chance to impress his new boss and attempt a “kill or cure” technique on the ghost of his former relationship at the same time.

  Cameron often wished he’d never set eyes on Alice Warren. He hated that he couldn’t stop loving her, even when she made it clear that their time together had just been a bit of a fling.

  He thought he’d be safe taking a job back in the area now that Alice was living in Edinburgh. Yet on his very first trip into Banchory after taking the job, he’d seen her chatting to another girl outside the newsagents.

  On his return to the office, unable to stop himself, he’d found himself searching for Alice Warren on Google. Telling himself that this wasn’t stalking, but that he was merely acting in self-preservation, Cameron had discovered that his ex was running Warren Premier Events, a successful event management business in Edinburgh.

  Seconds later, he’d come up with the idea to get her to organise an event for him. That way his lingering obsession with her would either be shot stone dead and he could get on with his life, or Alice would realise she’d made a terrible mistake and that she loved him after all.

  Pushing the sleeves of his thick Aran jumper past his elbows in annoyance at himself, Cameron absent-mindedly signed three documents. Even though he knew he was behaving like a lovesick teenager, he couldn’t help but hope it would all work out.

  Contacting Alice via the Warren Premier Events website, Cameron had asked her to help for old time’s sake. Trying not to feel pathetic, he justified his actions to himself with the thought that, whatever his reasons, there could be few better places for a literary festival than in a castle at Christmas time.

  Hoisting up a large box of Christmas decorations, Cameron headed off to find a couple of gardeners, and a very long ladder. It was time to start getting the Victorian-style lanterns draped around the formal garden.

  Alice swore under her breath. She wasn’t used to being denied what she wanted during business transactions. She’d worn an extra-short skirt as well. OK, so she knew that flashing a bit of leg in such a cold climate made her request look a bit desperate, but she was still surprised when the local bookshop owner had said no.

  Honestly!
All she was asking was that he’d buy a selection of books written by all the authors coming to the festival. She wasn’t offering him any financial help, but obviously all the sales money would be his, and she wasn’t going to charge him for the stand at the castle she was proposing he sold his stock from. She was doing him a huge favour, and the chance to boost his Christmas sales. What was wrong with the man? All the city bookshops made this system work.

  Turning her Suzuki off-roader into the drive that wound its way up to Crathes Castle, Alice’s satisfied smile returned as she reflected how her flirty magic had worked so much better on the local catering companies and wine merchants. Letting her have goods on sale or return in exchange for sponsorship meant she had a boot full of champagne, red and white wine, and enough ingredients for mulled wine to keep everyone tipsy until July.

  Pulling into the staff car park, Alice was surveying the immediate grounds for any willing helpers to carry the crates of alcohol into the storeroom for her, when Cameron came out of the castle’s side door, his arms wrapped around a giant cardboard box.

  Lucky box. Alice couldn’t prevent the flutter of lust that rose within her. It was always the same whenever she saw Cameron, with his thick, muscular arms on display to the elbows, his tightly curled ginger hair cropped back army style, and his sturdy frame so strong and capable. She fancied him something rotten, and more – much more – but the fact he wanted more from her as well frightened her to death. And as being afraid was a sign of weakness, and powerful businesswomen did not have time for weakness in their lives, Alice had kept her feelings a secret and walked away.

  She was fairly sure she’d broken his heart, but Cameron had never actually said so, and she certainly wasn’t going to act on her lust-fuelled imagination and ask him outright. Anyway, she’d broken her own heart as well, even though he didn’t know that.

  Picking up a box of wine, Alice called across the empty car park, ‘Cameron, where do you want the festival booze? Any handy chaps around to help me unload the Jeep?’

  Whirling around, Cameron crashed the side of the lanterns box against the solid wooden door that he’d been in process of swinging shut behind him. ‘Damn it, woman, you made me jump.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just these are heavy.’ Alice fluttered her eyebrows at him, unable to stop herself from flirting in the line of duty.

  ‘And I suppose you think this box is feather-light!’ Cameron tried not to glance at Alice’s long, bare legs or ask if she was freezing as he put down his own box and took hers. ‘Over here. I’ve cleared a space in the store of the Horsemill, seeing as that’s where the festival will be mostly taking place.’

  Managing to make the words ‘Sounds sensible’ sound like ‘Thank you,’ Alice picked up another box and followed Cameron into the round stone building where once horses had walked in never-ending circles, turning the millstones that had crushed oats. Now the building housed a restaurant and seminar facility. It was the perfect place for a book festival, and once the staff had finished decorating it with traditional garlands and trees from the wood, it would be the very essence of a Scottish Christmas.

  Desperate to break the silence that hung between them, Cameron asked how the festival preparations were going.

  ‘Great. There’s one or two problems to overcome, but there always are with events like this.’

  ‘Have we sold many tickets?’

  ‘Not yet. I find it’s always last-minute with bookish things.’

  Sensing evasion, Cameron risked his blood pressure increasing and studied Alice properly, ‘My future depends on this Alice. How many tickets, roughly, have been sold for each event?’

  ‘Approximately none at all.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Keep your kilt on, Cameron. We have ages yet.’ Alice mentally crossed her fingers against the lie she was telling. ‘Literary festivals are always last minute.’

  Cameron’s forehead knotted attractively as he stared down at Alice’s shorter frame, his Scottish burr sounding gruff as he asked, ‘And the other problems?’

  ‘Local bookshop owner is being difficult and my right-hand girl has walked out on me.’

  Opening a vast cooling cupboard in which to place the champagne, Cameron said, ‘I can’t imagine John at the bookshop being difficult?’

  ‘He doesn’t run it any more. John passed it on to his nephew. Believe me, he is a very different kettle of fish.’

  Cameron grunted, ‘You mean he wants to make a profit and not a loss?’ Not giving Alice the chance to reply, he went on, ‘So you’ve upset the new bookshop guy. Nice going, Ms Warren. And presumably you’ve offended your assistant as well. Who was that, by the way?’

  Bristling from the idea that she always upset everyone when all she was doing was being businesslike, Alice bit her tongue. ‘You remember Erin Spence, aka Charlie Davies. You’ve met her loads of times.’

  ‘Have I?’

  Alice felt a flutter of uncertainty. She’d never believed Charlie when she’d said that Cameron hadn’t noticed her. Swallowing the fact that she may have done her friend a disservice, Alice persisted, ‘You remember Charlie. I lived with her in Banchory after university?’

  ‘The girl who lodged with you?’

  Alice’s pulse began to thump harder in her neck. Charlie can’t have been right about this … surely it was paranoia … ‘Come on, Cameron, stop messing around. You must remember. It was Charlie’s house, not mine. It still is.’

  Frowning as if trying to recall the girl they’d passed in their hurry to get to bed, Cameron asked, ‘Was she blonde?’

  ‘Cameron! That’s appalling. How can you have forgotten Charlie? She was lovely to you. She made us breakfast and coffee, and you chatted over the kitchen table while you waited for me to get ready to go out lots of times.’

  Stacking the champagne bottles into the fridge, Cameron paused, ‘Oh yeah, the writer woman. She was alright. Very generous when slicing a cake.’

  ‘Is that really all you remember about my best friend?’ Alice spoke so quietly that Cameron turned to look at her.

  ‘How do you expect me to remember anything about anyone else when you’re around?’

  Chapter Four

  Sunday November 22nd

  Ignoring the voice at the back of her head repeating that it was a mistake to have accepted Cameron’s invitation, Alice slipped her knee-length boots on and brushed down her short skirt.

  When Cameron had tentatively asked Alice to join him for a drink, he’d insisted it was to discuss the festival arrangements. He’d sworn he had no other agenda, and that he badly wanted them to be able to leave the past behind them and become friends.

  Feeling more than a little guilty that she’d been so wrong about Charlie’s perception of her time with the Scotsman, Alice had agreed. She wanted to tell Cameron how they’d hurt Charlie without meaning to, and ask if he could think of ways to make amends.

  Deep down, Alice also wanted to tell Cameron how she felt about him. But that wasn’t going to happen, ever. The last thing her career needed was a man messing things up and making demands on her time. Of course, there were compensations, Alice’s mind briefly pictured Cameron’s fit body as he stood showering in Charlie’s bathroom, but she wiped the image from her mind. Those sorts of daydreams would get her nowhere.

  Straightening the collar of her blouse under her cardigan, Alice gave her reflection a nod of approval. She didn’t look as if too much effort had been made, but at the same time showed she had some pride in her appearance.

  Locking the hotel door behind her, Alice headed down the stairs of the Bonnie Bide Hotel to the foyer, where she knew Cameron would be already be waiting for her.

  ‘You’re not late!’

  Alice tried not to let herself melt in the face of an off-duty Cameron in clean black denims and a white shirt, which was open enough at the neck to hint at the muscular torso beneath. I am not going to allow myself to love him. I have a business to run. I am a woman in control.


  ‘As if I’d be late!’

  Cameron held out his arm and Alice took it.

  Charlie hugged her arms around her duffel coat as the sharp evening breeze cut along the High Street. After an unproductive day, in which she had spent more time going over her last conversation with Alice in her head than writing, Charlie had come to the conclusion that she’d never get anything done if she didn’t clear the air. So she’d turned the computer off and decided to go to the hotel to see if Alice was free to talk.

  It didn’t matter that it was Alice who should be the one apologising; Charlie knew that wouldn’t happen. Alice never said sorry. It was one of the things you accepted about her early on. As Charlie walked to Alice’s hotel she thought about sending a text or an email, but there was always the chance that her words could be taken out of context and make things even worse.

  Lost in thoughts about what she was going to say, determined to make Alice see her point of view for once, Charlie studied the pavement as she walked, not looking up until she was outside the Bonnie Bide.

  She was about to turn up the stone steps, when she froze on the spot.

  Walking down the opposite side of the wide hotel steps, arm in arm, were Alice and Cameron, both grinning as if they’d been laughing at something.

  Nausea rose in Charlie’s throat, and with the uncomfortable sensation that they’d been laughing at her expense, she spun on her toes and walked home far faster than she had left it.

  Chapter Five

  Monday 23rd November

  Gwen Pickering sat on her granddaughter’s sofa and regarded her carefully. ‘Right then, Lottie my girl, tell me why I’ve had a phone call from that Alice asking me to help out with the festival because you aren’t doing it anymore?’

  By way of reply, Charlie’s arm pointed to her desk in the corner of the room where her laptop rested.

  Gwen looked stern. ‘Don’t give me any twaddle about needing to finish a book. You’re always busy, and busy people are the best for getting things done.’