The Night Before Christmas

by Scarlett Bailey

  ‘What?’ Lydia exclaimed. ‘A … what?’

  ‘See, I told you,’ Tilly said. ‘And she’s a zombie, Jake says.’

  ‘Tilly, sweetheart.’ Katy kissed the top of her daughter’s head and lifted her from Lydia’s lap into a hug. ‘Will you go and find everyone and ask them to come to dinner?’

  Tilly eyed the shadowy hallway with trepidation.

  ‘Go on, darling, they’re all in the sitting room.’ Katy went into the hallway with Tilly, switching on all the lights, and watched until the little girl had made it safely to the other adults without being kidnapped by a zombie-ghost. ‘You know I told you that the hotel was originally two semi-detached houses that we had knocked into one?’ Lydia nodded. ‘Well, they were built in 1885 by Morton Drake, a rich local landowner, for his unmarried daughters. They were in their thirties, and I suppose in those days that qualified you as a confirmed spinster.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed,’ Lydia said, with a wry smile.

  ‘They lived here, side by side, on the shores of the lake, quite happily for a time. It was just when the Lakes were becoming fashionable with the Victorians, and so quite a few tourists used to pass by, and sometimes the sisters would invite them in for tea. And then, one day, Margaret’s sister, Elizabeth, got talking with a walker, a gentleman widower from York. The short story is that Elizabeth fell in love, married and moved away, leaving Margaret all alone here. And, trust me, this place can be pretty bleak if you’ve got no one to turn to. Apparently, one spring morning, they found her body on the shores of the lake, and legend has it that she drowned herself from despair and heartbreak.’

  ‘Nice,’ Lydia said, shuddering. ‘And so they thought they’d pop her in the garden, did they? Fertilise the roses?’

  Katy looked apologetic. ‘Well, yes. It was the place she loved, and as a suicide, in those days, in this part of the world, she couldn’t be buried on consecrated ground. It’s not like there’s a gravestone or anything, more like a plinth set into the ground, mostly covered in moss. You wouldn’t know it was there, except it’s listed as a place of local interest, so we couldn’t move it. But there has never, ever been any sort of ghost story attached to the place until my stupid husband made one up and guaranteed that I would never sleep again.’ Katy bit her lip, hearing the sound of laughter and chatter approaching from the hallway.

  ‘Well, on the bright side,’ Lydia said. ‘Punters love a ghost story. The newly invented legend of Mad Molly will probably boost your bookings. You should put it on your website.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Katy asked her.

  ‘Yes, I do, along with a photo of the gravestone. Milk it for all it’s worth, I’d say. You could have paranormal weekends, the works.’

  ‘That’s actually a really good idea,’ Katy said, thoughtfully. ‘But what about my petrified children?’ Katy said. ‘It seems absurd that we tell them and tell them that ghosts don’t exist, and then ask them to believe that a strange man in a red suit comes into their bedroom once a year, knowing whether or not they’ve been naughty or good! I feel like such a hypocrite.’

  ‘You have a point,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m sure Jake will get bored of it, and Tilly will forget everything sooner or later. In the meantime, just beat your idiot husband over the head with that copper-based pan I saw in the kitchen.’

  ‘Why, what have I done?’ Jim asked, as he walked into the room, with Will close behind him. Unwrapped out of his sensible snow gear, Lydia couldn’t help but notice that Will looked even better in a red and white checked shirt, worn over a T-shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal rather impressive forearms. He smiled at her as he came in, his dark eyes meeting hers briefly before he looked away, no doubt still laughing to himself about the last, mortifying comment she had made about him.

  ‘Telling this young man here’ – Lydia put her hand on top of Jake’s head as he walked past – ‘that there is a ghost in this house. I put it to you, Jim, that you made the ghost up, because you thought it would be funny, didn’t you? Admit it!’

  ‘Well …’ Jim began, but faltered to a stop when he met Lydia’s most fearsome barrister’s glare. ‘No, Miss Grant, there is no ghost. I made it all up. I’m sorry, your honour.’

  ‘See?’ Lydia said to Tilly and Jake. ‘No ghost.’

  ‘He’s just saying that,’ Jake told Tilly, ‘so that you won’t be scared. But it is true. And she’s got maggots in her eyes.’ Tilly screamed, flinging herself into her mother’s arms.

  ‘Jake! Honestly, I despair,’ Katy said, leaving the room as the others came in, taking Tilly with her to calm her down a little.

  Lydia noticed Stephen, Alex and David laughing over something Jackson had said, and for one sickening moment, she wondered if she was the butt of their shared joked. Then she caught Jackson’s eye and remembered what he’d said to her only an hour or so ago, that he missed her and still had feelings for her. That he hadn’t just dumped her after all, but had left for a very real family emergency, and then circumstances had kept them apart. It was like the cruel twist in An Affair to Remember.

  She didn’t doubt the truth of what he said had happened, but watching him lean over and kiss Joanna on the ear, Lydia couldn’t help but wonder if the way he said he still felt about her was also true. After all, it was pretty clear, even to Joanna, that Jackson had been no angel in his past – at least when it came to women – and she certainly knew from experience that he was adept at saying exactly what a girl wanted to hear, exactly when she needed to hear it. Even after everything he’d said to her in the bedroom, the way he was behaving now towards Joanna, so affectionate, so tender, seemed very genuine too. And his feelings for at least one of them had to be a charade. Or, at the very worst, he seemed to be hedging his bets by keeping both his girlfriend and her best friend happy while he waited to see how the whole stupid mess would play out. Suddenly, it seemed like a very good idea to get ever so drunk. Again.

  By the time the bread and butter pudding had come out of the oven, Lydia had almost eaten and drunk herself into a coma, which was, she decided, probably the best state to be in, considering her circumstances. Largely silent through dinner, she had sat watching David lavish love and attention on Alex, who, now a little more relaxed, rested her head on his shoulder, smiling and laughing, as she they talked about how life would be with the baby. Stephen sat next to her, his arm resting on the back of her chair, perhaps being protective, perhaps proprietorial, but never the less making Lydia feel utterly uncomfortable.

  Katy looked flustered and tired again, juggling various dishes and culinary demands from the children, but dismissing any attempts on Lydia’s behalf to help. She disappeared for half an hour between the salmon and dessert to try and settle the kids into bed, and then got up again halfway through pudding when Tilly came back down to complain that Jake had kidnapped her best bear.

  Joanna was in her element – the only one of the girls who had changed for dinner, she looking stunning in a dark teal-green dress that set off her flame hair beautifully. With Jackson on her left and Will on her right, she was charming, vivacious and funny. All of the things Lydia simply did not have the energy to be herself.

  ‘You’re very quiet this evening, darling,’ Joanna commented, interrupting her reverie. ‘You haven’t been quite yourself since we arrived. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Lydia said, mustering a smile. ‘I shouldn’t have got drunk during the day, it always makes me dopey by the evening.’

  ‘And moody,’ Stephen said, half to himself.

  ‘Trouble in paradise?’ Joanna asked, giggling. ‘Tell you what, Lyds, you come over here and sit next to this gorgeous man for a bit, he’s perked me up marvellously.’

  Will looked uncomfortable, and Joanna leaned close to him, running her palm over his jaw. ‘Ooh, stubble. So rough and ready, and look at those strong hands. I bet you are a very masterful lover, aren’t you, Will?’

  ‘Back off, Jo,’ Lydia said, before she could stop herself. ‘H
e’s not a prize stallion, you know. Not every man alive longs to be molested by you!’

  ‘Lydia!’ Stephen admonished her, and Joanna looked stunned but sat back in her chair.

  ‘I’m just messing around,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Jo, Will.’

  ‘No bother,’ Will said uncertainly, no doubt wondering how he’d been trapped in a room full of people he didn’t know or understand. ‘Actually, I might just nip outside for a smoke.’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ Lydia said, standing up, desperate to be out of the hot, complicated, confusing room.

  ‘You don’t smoke!’ Stephen exclaimed as she headed out of the door.

  ‘I do now,’ Lydia snapped back, as she followed Will down the hall to the kitchen and out into the blissfully cool air of the lean-to. With the rickety half-rotten door propped open by some Tilly-sized wellies, it was as a good as being outside, but slightly less cold.

  For a moment or two, Will and Lydia stood there in silence, their breath frosting in the air, saying nothing.

  ‘Is now a good time to tell you I don’t smoke, either?’ Will said.

  Lydia looked at him in surprise, and smiled. ‘You poor thing,’ she said. ‘You get coerced up here to fix a boiler, then snowed in and forced to have dinner with a load of … of …’

  ‘Offcomers,’ Will finished for her, as if that was more than enough of a insult to sum up the horror he’d been forced to endure.

  ‘Offcomers?’ Lydia asked him.

  ‘Not from round here.’ He nodded, a hint of that intriguing smile playing on his lips. ‘Moaning southerners who can’t change a plug, let alone fix a boiler.’

  ‘We’re not all like that, you know,’ Lydia told him, wrapping her arms around herself, against the cold. Thinking she could at least change a plug if absolutely forced to do so. ‘Bloody hell, you poor man – you must have thought you’d walked into some nightmare version of a Richard Curtis film.’

  ‘Who? Anyway, I wouldn’t know, I avoid going south of Manchester,’ Will said, but he was smiling. ‘That lot are southern enough for me.’ He looked up at the crystal clear sky studded with stars, relaxing against the doorframe and taking a deep breath of cool air. ‘I tell you what, though, Jim should have got me to do the renovations on this place. Whatever half-arsed London outfit he got to come up here has made a right hash of it, and I bet they charged him double what I would have.’

  ‘But you’re a plumber, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and an electrician and a plasterer. My dad made me qualify in all of them. Helps when you run a building company.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a builder,’ Lydia said. ‘So what do you build?’

  ‘What do you want me to build?’ He looked at her, raising one winged eyebrow.

  Lydia laughed. ‘Well, I never knew it until I came here, but I really, really need a house with a turret or two for me to moon about in while I wait for my prince to come. Maybe even an entire castle, with ramparts and a moat – yes, I’d like to have a drawbridge to pull up – can you do that?’

  ‘Well, I can do it, but I probably wouldn’t.’ Will laughed. ‘For me, a house has got be part of its surroundings, sort of grow out of them, you know, like something organic. If I was going to build from scratch, I’d look at the plot, the landscape and the materials I can source locally. My dream house would look as if it has always been there, even before men needed houses.’ Will glanced at her, looking a little embarrassed and perhaps even surprised at saying so much in one go. ‘Mostly, these days, I rebuild and renovate. I love old buildings, love the history and care that went into them. So since I took over the business, I’ve specialised in bringing places like this back to their former glory, but fit for the modern world.’ He reached out and caressed the rough wall of the house with his long fingers. ‘Take this place, it’s a perfect Victorian gothic romance made out of rugged Cumbrian slate. It’s unique to this area, to this very spot. It couldn’t have been built anywhere else. And that makes it beautiful and rare.’ He traced lightly and lovingly over the layer upon layer of greenish-grey stone. ‘This slate is so pure, so rough and wild, like the mountains it comes from – and it’s been forced into this mad wedding cake of a house. It’s brilliant. This is one house where turrets are exactly right!’

  ‘You’re more than a builder,’ she accused him with a smile. ‘You’re an artisan.’

  ‘If you say so!’ He laughed out loud with sheer delight, and Lydia couldn’t help but join in with him, finding his pleasure in the building contagious.

  Will smiled as his eyes met hers, and Lydia returned his look with warmth, caught up with his enthusiasm. He had a musical voice, and like a balm, it soothed Lydia and slowed her beating heart as she listened to him talk about something as real as bricks and mortar, finding it utterly refreshing to meet someone who was obsessed and passionate about something other than themselves, or the latest cause.

  ‘Whatever cowboy Jim got in knew nothing about how this house should have been renovated, the layout, the colours, the paper. All of those things are mostly from completely the wrong period, typical London types trying to make everything Georgian because that’s what the suits like. It might look pretty enough, but it’s totally wrong for this old girl. Still, the money’s spent now. Perhaps Jim will let me do the rest and save himself a few bob.’ There was perhaps a minute’s silence as they both gazed into the now still and silent night, the snow having ceased, for now at least.

  ‘I’m sorry I said you were a bit of a shag,’ Lydia said suddenly. ‘I was quite drunk and it was very rude.’

  Will chuckled. ‘It’s better than saying I’m a right gowk, I s’pose.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Lydia asked him.

  ‘Ugly bloke,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘It’s practically like another language,’ Lydia said, laughing.

  ‘Ah, not so much, these days. You still hear the dialect round and about now and then, among the old folk, but mostly I just trot it out to impress pretty girls or baffle the tourists.’

  Lydia was still trying to decide if Will was flirting with her when they were interrupted.

  ‘There you are!’ Joanna appeared in the doorway, with a bottle of wine in her hand. ‘What are you two doing out here? Sorry, Will, I need a quick word with Lyds, is that okay?’

  Will raised his eyebrows at Lydia, in commiseration, and taking a deep breath made his way back into the house.

  ‘Darling, please tell me what’s wrong?’ Joanna asked her. ‘Why did you get so uppity with me before? I was just being me … you of all people know what I’m like. I’m just having a bit of fun with Will, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, I do, I know, it’s just …’ Lydia faltered to a stop. ‘Jo-Jo, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong me.’

  ‘I think I do,’ Joanna said, her expression still and serious.

  ‘You do?’ Lydia caught her breath, guiltily.

  ‘You’re not sure if you want to marry Stephen, are you?’ Joanna asked her, more dismayed than Lydia would have expected. ‘He’s got the ring, and the pressure’s on, and now you’re not sure about it. I should have spotted it sooner, but I was too busy being all loved up. I’m sorry, Lydia, I got all caught up in my own excitement, I should have seen what was going on with you. You know you don’t have to say yes, don’t you?’

  Lydia didn’t speak. After all, Joanna was mostly right. Only, she wasn’t just sure that she didn’t want to marry Stephen, she was now quite certain that she couldn’t stay in a relationship with him at all, no matter how much she cared about him. How could she, after what had happened? After Jackson had kissed her just a few hours earlier and told her he still had feelings for her? It didn’t matter that she didn’t know if she still had feelings for him, or if he even meant what he’d said. What mattered was that the moment she’d recklessly kissed Jackson back, she knew she didn’t feel the way she ought to about Stephen. If you were meant to marry a man, you simply wouldn’t kiss another one, no matter who he was.


  And yet here they were, right on the brink of Christmas, Christmas, the one day of the year Lydia had always longed to be perfect, just as it was for those few precious years before her parents split up. When she was a very little girl and her mum used to read her The Night Before Christmas as she tried to settle down to get some sleep, eventually drifting off dreaming of hearing sleigh bells sounding somewhere in the sky. But since her father had moved out and both of her parents had remarried, that perfect time had never come again. All the to-ing and fro-ing, all the back and forth between houses, one incomplete miserable Christmas lunch followed by another, always with something missing.

  Lydia had thought that this year she’d cracked it; this year, in the perfect place with the perfect people, she’d feel again the way she had used to about this time of year that meant so much to her. How naïve, she thought bitterly; she should have known that was impossible. Even here, with her very best friends, amid the beautiful snowy landscape and in the house that looked like a wedding cake, there was still something missing.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Joanna asked her.

  ‘What can I do?’ Lydia asked desperately. ‘It’s Christmas in a couple of days, everyone’s stuck here because of the snow. I can’t say or do anything now, I’d ruin everything.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, but what if he proposes in front of all of us and you have to say no? Or what if you wait until you are back in London and then you break up? He’ll know all this was just you pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t.’ Joanna shivered, pulling Lydia back into the relative warmth of the kitchen, and sloshing two large slugs of wine into a pair of mugs, before handing one to Lydia. ‘Sometimes I think it’s better to know the truth, even if it’s painful, rather than find out later that you were the last to know, do you know what I mean?’

  Lydia looked at her old friend, who was trying so hard to help her. If there was ever a moment to tell her the truth about Jackson, then this was it. She steeled herself for the fallout.

  But Joanna interrupted her gathering bravado. ‘The thing is, Lyds, I will be there for you, I promise, however you decide to handle things. But please, be nice to Jackson. It’s so important to me that he likes my friends and that you like him, because, you know, if you don’t like him, I won’t be able to marry him.’