by Karen Clarke
Then I phoned the bed company to check when my new bed was arriving. I couldn’t imagine Ollie Matheson slumming it on the sofa, no matter how big and squashy it was.
Chapter Seven
I spent a restless night, veering between excitement and trepidation. At 2 a.m., convinced the cottage was too ordinary to accommodate an upper-crust celebrity, I decided to look for a bigger property to rent nearby, preferably with a pool and gymnasium, and pass it off as my own. I got as far as fetching my laptop, shivering in my fleecy pyjamas, because the heating had gone off, when something Dad used to say floated into my head: Let people take you as they find you. If they don’t like it, it’s their problem, not yours.
It was hardly ground-breaking, but it brought me back to reality. If Ollie Matheson didn’t like the cottage, he could go and stay somewhere else. Maybe Doris would put him up. The thought of him in her pristine house made me smile, and I finally drifted to sleep and dreamt I was on the roof, my hands and feet wrapped in tinsel, while Sheelagh danced on the pavement below in a flashing Santa hat.
I must have forgotten to set my alarm, and woke with a jolt when I heard a door slam outside and man’s voice shout, ‘See you later.’
Barry. I needed to let him know the news before he left for work, to give him time to let everyone know about Ollie’s arrival, and do whatever else he needed to do.
I stumbled downstairs, flung my coat on over my pyjamas, and shot outside in my slippers, to see Marmite crouched on the path, eyeing something in the hedge.
‘Shoo!’ I cried, clapping my hands. ‘Go away!’ He blanked me, and I felt oddly embarrassed. ‘Please yourself,’ I muttered, stepping over him.
The snow had melted overnight, and the garden looked extra bright, like a child’s drawing that had been coloured in. For a second I savoured the fact that I was standing in my own garden, with a shiny green hedge on one side and a low, wooden fence on the other; something I couldn’t have imagined six months ago.
Shivering, I looked over to see Barry standing by his dusty Explorer on the driveway (the sort of car an ex-military man would drive?). He was wearing his long black trench coat and some army boots, his grey hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. I found myself seeing him through Doris’s eyes, and gave myself a mental shake.
Barry was gazing at his over-decorated house with something approaching awe, as if it had metamorphosed into a magic carpet. ‘I don’t know why anyone else is bothering,’ he said, and as there was no one about I assumed he was talking to me. ‘I think I’ve got it in the bag this year.’
‘It’s not over ’til it’s over,’ I said, fastening my coat and stamping my feet. On the concrete path they felt like slabs of ice, even in furry slippers.
‘Once I get the inflatable angel and the Three Wise Men in the garden, it’ll be game over.’ He was rubbing his hands and smacking his lips, as if watching a lap dancer slip money into her thong. (Possibly adulterous behaviour?) ‘You got some?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Christmas lights.’ His pale eyes flickered over me, probably assessing how likely I was to better his display, and for a split second I was tempted to pull out all the stops and create something that could be seen from outer space. Then I remembered the gingerbread house, and the Frozen theme, and knew I didn’t stand a chance. ‘Not much point, seeing as you’ll be bringing the judge on board. You’ll be exempt, see?’
The way he said ‘judge’, as if it was a competition worth thousands of pounds, or came with a contract that would catapult him into the realms of the rich and famous, was almost laughable.
‘I can still put up some lights,’ I said, stiffly. ‘I’m not bothered about winning.’
‘Everyone’s bothered about winning.’ Barry planted his feet wide and folded his arms across his barrel-like chest, and I could definitely see him, shaven-headed and tattooed, with a rifle slung over his shoulder. ‘Why do you think the others are bothering, if they don’t want to win?’
‘I’m sure they like decorating their houses for the fun of it, especially if they have children,’ I said, wishing my teeth weren’t chattering. ‘Christmas is for children, really, isn’t it?’ I didn’t really believe that for a second, but I was making a point about him being a bit juvenile.
‘Nothing childish about my display, not like some of the others,’ he said, with a rather pained expression, and I suddenly realised I hadn’t seen evidence of a family next door, and hoped I hadn’t touched on a sensitive subject.
Before I could speak again, the door flew open and Sheelagh appeared in a fire-engine-red sweater, clutching several books.
‘’Morning!’ she called, tugging at her black leggings. ‘Bitter, isn’t it?’ Her orange lipstick clashed with her jumper, and her blusher was a bit ‘pantomime dame’, but her smile was warm. ‘Shame the snow’s gone, but apparently it’s coming back.’ She said it fondly, as though expecting a much-loved relative. ‘I do love the snow.’
‘Me too,’ I said, relieved that Barry had moved back to his car, a sullen set to his jaw. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ve booked someone. A celebrity. Like I promised.’ I hadn’t meant to say the last bit – it sounded too much like I was seeking their approval – but the effect on Barry was startling.
He swung round, smiling broadly, revealing a set of greyish, uneven teeth. ‘Good girl!’ he boomed. ‘Who is it?’
Oh jeepers… ‘Well, you might not have heard of him,’ I warned. It was probably best not to get their hopes up too much. ‘He’s called Ollie Matheson, and he’s from a show called—’
‘PLAYERS!’ Sheelagh’s screech could have stopped traffic, and she dropped the books she’d been holding to clutch at her curls. ‘Oh my days, I love that show!’
Barry’s unkempt eyebrows bristled together. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘I record it and watch it before I go to school,’ said Sheelagh, stooping to pick up her books. I couldn’t help noticing one was titled The Other Woman while another asked If Running Away isn’t the Answer, What is?
Maybe Doris was on to something. It looked like Sheelagh might be too.
‘School?’ I said, pretending I hadn’t noticed the books.
‘I’m a dinner lady at Nightingale Primary,’ Sheelagh said, tucking them back under her squashy arm. ‘They have lovely food there, proper school dinners.’
I smiled. ‘It was packed lunches only at the school where I worked, and there was quite a variety, not all of it very healthy—’
‘So, which one is it?’ Sheelagh butted in, cheeks wobbling with excitement. ‘Please tell me it’s Francis DeVere.’ She mimed swooning, and Barry made a sound like humph. ‘Or Sebastian Dooley-McBride.’ Her eyes popped open. ‘He’s such an old-fashioned gentleman, and he plays the flute like a dream. He’s a horse whisperer too,’ she went on, her face soft with affection, ‘and a qualified surgeon. He’s leaving the show at the end of the year, because he wants to go to a disaster zone and help the refugees.’
‘That’s… impressive.’ Not what I’d have expected of a reality star.
‘Unless he accepts an offer he had, to appear in a Hollywood movie with Ryan Gosling.’
‘Wow.’ I was quite keen to meet Sebastian Dooley-McBride myself, and almost dreading revealing the truth.
‘Oh, no!’ Sheelagh’s features hardened. ‘It’s Quincy Cuttlingtonson, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I’m going to tell him exactly what I thought of him cheating at water polo, and getting his brother’s fiancée into trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Let’s just say it involved a baby.’
‘He got his brother’s fiancée pregnant?’ Players sounded far more gripping than I’d imagined.
‘No, no, nothing like that.’ Sheelagh gave a mirthless laugh. ‘He shopped her to the police for diamond-smuggling.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘She was carrying her brother’s child,’ Sheelagh said in a ‘keep up’ tone of
voice.
‘She was pregnant by her brother?’
Barry made a choking noise.
‘What? Of course not.’ Sheelagh boggled at me. ‘She was carrying her nephew as she came through customs,’ she clarified. ‘The diamonds were hidden in his nappy.’
I digested this in silence. ‘All the more reason to arrest her, I would have thought.’ What was I saying? ‘Anyway, it’s none of those,’ I said, teeth rattling with the cold. ‘It’s… it’s Ollie Matheson.’
‘Oh, I love him!’ Sheelagh’s face brightened. ‘He got a raw deal, being kicked off the show, poor fellow. I’ll tell him so, too. Ooh, I can’t wait!’ She turned to Barry, who looked a lot less thrilled than his wife, though I couldn’t work out whether it was because he’d discovered her secret love of Players, or because he’d never heard of Ollie Matheson. ‘So much for your theory that Lily was all talk,’ she said to him, cheerfully. ‘She clearly hasn’t got better things to do.’ She swept us a beam, seeing it as a compliment, while Barry neatly avoided my gaze altogether. ‘Aren’t you going to thank her?’
‘Thanks,’ he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. ‘And he’ll be available on the thirteenth?’
‘He will.’ I debated telling them the rest, but Sheelagh, hugging her books to her bosom now, was growing agitated.
‘Will we get to talk to him properly after he’s switched on the lights and everything?’ she queried. ‘I mean, will that be allowed? Because I’ve a friend who lives in Poole, and she tried to get an autograph when those children’s TV presenters The Giggle Sisters turned on the lights last year, but they were whisked away in a chauffeur-driven car. Brenda swore that one of them gave her the finger as they drove past.’
‘You’ll get to talk to him,’ I promised, trying not to laugh. Tell them Ollie’s staying with you. But, for some reason, I couldn’t. I hadn’t come to terms with it myself, and I had a feeling that Sheelagh might burst a blood vessel if I told her. And that Barry might go further, and erect an actual stable in his garage, depicting the birth of Jesus, if there was a chance it would influence the judge. Oh fudge. Why had I moved to Shipley?
‘Well, that’s just marvellous!’ Sheelagh’s face collapsed into a smile. ‘I can’t wait to tell everyone.’
‘It’ll be in the press,’ I said. ‘And his agent will be liaising with the local authority.’
Barry wrenched open the door of his car as though expecting to find a fugitive hiding inside, then turned to salute me with a hint of respect. I felt ridiculously gratified – as if my whole reason for existing depended on pleasing Barry Lambert: ex-military and probable love-rat.
‘Thanks again, Lily,’ said Sheelagh. ‘You’ve already turned out to be a million times better than Isabel Sinclair.’
‘Oh. Well, thank you.’ I couldn’t help basking in her approval. ‘Happy to do my bit.’
‘It’s more than a bit,’ she said, sincerely. ‘It means a lot that you’ve helped.’
Flushed now, with embarrassed pleasure, I said, ‘I’d better go and get dressed.’
‘Don’t forget to pop up and have a proper chat with Jill Edwards.’ Sheelagh gave a persuasive smile that made her eyes disappear. ‘I’m sure you’d be a great asset to that school.’
Not this again. ‘I’m committed to getting my novel written,’ I said, as I backed up the path. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
I’d left the door open and it was frigid inside the cottage. I kept my coat on while I made some toast and coffee, but I could only manage a couple of mouthfuls, because I kept thinking about Ollie Matheson turning up and invading my space.
I might have been feeling lonely the day before, but only because I hadn’t had a chance to properly settle in. Could I cope with a total stranger being thrust into my life? Someone undoubtedly high maintenance. My instinct was a resounding ‘no’. For a second, I considered calling Erin and telling her to cancel his visit, or at least find somewhere else for him to stay. But it had gone too far, and I’d just told Barry and Sheelagh he was coming.
With a groan of despair, I threw my toast in the bin and surveyed my surroundings. The cottage was clean and tidy, so I had nothing to worry about there, but there was something missing. I hadn’t lived in it long enough to make it my own.
Perhaps if I put up the Christmas tree and decorations, it would make the place more homely, and I could bake some mince pies, which would create a welcoming aroma – once I’d bought the ingredients. In fact, I needed to do a big shop. There was barely anything in the cupboards.
I remembered something else. Hadn’t Erin mentioned a cameraman, to film Ollie’s visit? Where would he be staying?
I tried to call her, but there was no reply, so I fired off a text:
‘What about the cameraman?’
‘What about him?’
she texted back.
Where’s he staying?’
‘Don’t you have a sofa? LOL!!’
We always wrote LOL ironically, as we didn’t approve of people who ‘laughed out loud’ in messages, but I couldn’t raise a smile. She was joking, surely?
‘You are joking?’
‘Nope. You’ll need a chaperone around Ollie, as you’re bound to fancy him, and the cameraman’s a good guy, one of the best.’
Swear words filled my head, but all that came out was ‘Fart!’ So I had to house a sweaty cameraman, as well as Ollie Matheson? I hadn’t signed up for this. I’d tried to do a favour for my neighbours, and it was snowballing out of control. And what did Erin mean, I was bound to fancy Ollie? Apart from anything, she knew I was off men, and I’d never be attracted to someone from a reality show. What was she thinking?
As I stormed into the hallway to unpack the Christmas tree, with a sense of things slipping from my grasp, I wondered whether Erin knew me at all.
Chapter Eight
After a quick shower, I threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt and drove to the nearest supermarket, where I found myself tossing duck pâté, Earl Grey tea, macaroons, quail’s eggs and smoked salmon into my trolley, and asking at the meat counter whether they had any grouse.
So much for letting Ollie Matheson take me as he found me.
‘There’s some kangaroo steaks in the freezer section,’ the girl behind the counter said. ‘It’s a new range. There’s alligator too.’
I’d never cooked a reptile before, and didn’t fancy starting now. ‘It’s OK, I’ll take a couple of partridges instead.’ What if he only ate fish, or was a vegetarian?
Ambushed by a surge of panic, I dashed to the fish counter and bought a turbot and some mackerel, then picked out the most exotic vegetables I could find. I could always google how to cook a Jerusalem artichoke.
In the drinks’ aisle, I started checking out vintage champagne, wondering whether Ollie would prefer cocktails and, if so, how I could learn to make them. Snapping back to my senses, I settled on a bottle of £5.99 red wine, put back the macaroons and Earl Grey tea and threw a packet of crumpets into the trolley, along with some bacon and a jar of coffee, and the ingredients to make mince pies.
Maybe Ollie Matheson will appreciate my homemade pastry.
With that thought, something inside me unclenched. Maybe I should embrace the situation, instead of getting worked up. OK, so it was completely random, and if I had to entertain a celebrity at home I’d have preferred a female, but nothing like this was likely to happen again, and it might even be fun. Hadn’t I wanted a total change? Wasn’t that why I’d moved to Shipley? I might even get some material for my novel.
Returning to the drinks’ aisle to get some vintage champagne, I decided to scrap my gothic mystery and write something contemporary instead. A satire, perhaps, on the fickle world of reality television. Ollie would have plenty of anecdotes, and might even give me a quote for the cover, in return for my hospitality.
‘That’ll be ninety-eight pounds forty,’ said the assistant, looking sideways at my shopping, which she’d thrust down the conveyor belt with unnecessar
y force. ‘Looks like you’ve got royalty coming to stay.’
‘Something like that.’ I was ashamed to feel a treacherous thrill. Ollie Matheson was hardly royalty, even if he had attended the same school as princes William and Harry.
Perhaps he’d met them! He was a couple of years younger than Prince Harry, but must have been there at the same time. I’d had a little crush on Harry, which Max had been jealous of, criticising him whenever he appeared in the press, as if there was a possibility he might rock up at the school one day and sweep me off my feet.
Back at the cottage, I put away my shopping, put some washing in the machine, and spent the afternoon cleaning the already clean cottage to work off my nervous energy, before baking enough mince pies to feed the whole of Shipley. I also made a fruit cake soaked in brandy, and a couple of apple pies, snacking on dried fruit while I worked. I sang along to a medley of Christmas songs on an old radio I’d brought from Mum’s, and by the time I’d finished, the cottage was warmly fragrant with baking smells, and I was pleasantly tipsy on half a bottle of red wine. Outside the window, darkness had fallen, punctuated with brightness and colour from the Christmas displays. I looked out for a moment, enjoying the twinkling lanterns gilding the branches of the tree in the garden opposite, and the flashing ‘Happy Christmas’ sign on the gate.
My new home! I sighed happily as I liberally dusted the mince pies with icing sugar, and poured some more wine.
‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, tra-la-la-la-laaaaaaaa la-la-LA-LAAAA!’ I warbled, grabbing my glass as I danced into the hallway, where I screamed with fright as a pair of gleaming orbs appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Marmite, you… beast,’ I shrieked, clutching my chest as the cat sauntered down, sleek as a panther. ‘What are you doing here?’
