Under The Mistletoe: Mistletoe Mansion / The Mince Pie Mix-Up / Baby It's Cold Outside

‘What would I say? Word would get back to my boss. If anyone got to hear I thought a ghost was in one of my properties, my reputation would be in tatters.’ She took a mouthful of sponge. ‘That reminds me. Mr Murphy’s down here on business the day after tomorrow – said he’d drop by here in the morning. So it goes without saying…’

‘I know. I’ll make sure everything’s spotless and hope no astral being messes it up.’ I’d have to do an early tidy up on Thursday morning, as Terry would be around the night before for telly. Walter would be pleased to have his nephew visit.

Deborah licked strawberry buttercream icing from her top lip. ‘Mmm.’ She sighed and slipped off her shoes. ‘Do I really have to give the rest to the children?’

I grinned. Perhaps the viewing wasn’t so bad I thought, taking another mouthful. There’d be others. I was determined to get this place sold.

‘So what exactly have you told Mr Murphy?’ I asked.

‘The same excuse I gave you – that times are hard and that pre-Christmas is a notoriously bad time for the market. I suggested he should lower the price if he wants a quick sale. He said another agency had told him the same – that’s his way of letting me know he might take his business elsewhere.’

‘But you found him housesitters!’

‘For the commission on a place this size, any agency would do the same, whether he’s friends with the boss or not. You and Jess… Are you definitely staying? You won’t run off in the middle of the night?’

‘No.’ I wanted to help Walter. In any case, what choice did I have? Adam was no nearer to taking me back and more importantly, pregnant Jess needed stability for at least a few more days.

A sudden rapping on glass came from the kitchen. Deborah looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get going – appointments to keep, piles of paperwork to plod through…’

‘I’ll just get you the rest of those cupcakes. Come round again and I’ll make you those toffee teddy bear ones I mentioned, with peanut butter icing.’ I grinned. ‘For the kids, of course.’

The knocking became more frantic and whilst Deborah slipped on her shoes and went out of the front of the lounge, I dashed to the door at the back, almost skidding around the corner into the kitchen. Outside stood Melissa, leaning against the patio doors – hair bedraggled, black, gold-trimmed velour tracksuit grass-stained. Perhaps she and Jonny had, ahem, sunk a few holes on their mini golf course. I opened the patio doors and a gush of cold air breezed in. A little unsteady, she held out a jar of black olives.

‘Hello, darling,’ she mumbled. ‘You left these behind, yesterday.’

I sniffed. That was some “perfume”. I recognised the alcoholic bite to it straightaway. It was from the same range as Mum’s – let’s call that Eau de Cider. Melissa’s smelt slightly classier – Eau de Prosecco, perhaps. The golfer’s wife half-smiled, then promptly tripped over the patio frame. The olive jar and England’s number one birdie – appropriately – went flying.

Chapter 15 (#ulink_3fede0f3-07f3-570a-a9cb-241edfaf56dc)

‘Don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute,’ I hissed to Melissa, as she got to her knees and clung to a stool. I grabbed some ladybird cupcakes, put them in a Tupperware box and carried it in to the hall where Deborah was waiting.

‘Everything all right?’ said Deborah and undid her umbrella. ‘What was that crash? Did you know there’s a load of photographers at the end of the drive?’

‘They’re always hanging around Badgers Chase, what with the Winsfords living here.’

‘Imagine living your life in the spotlight, like that.’ Deborah shuddered. ‘Right, well, I’ll be in touch,’ she said and took the box. ‘Thanks for these and, um, I hope things settle down here, for everyone’s sake.’

As soon as the front door was closed I hurried back to the kitchen. Melissa was searching through the fridge. Luckily the jar of olives hadn’t smashed and I picked it up.

Melissa shook her head. ‘What is wrong with you people? This fridge is full of food. Where’s the champagne?’

‘How about a coffee?’ I said. ‘And a cute ladybird cupcake?’

She sniffed. ‘Okay. Don’t normally drink at lunchtime, anyway. It’s those bloody parasites with their cameras outside, every lens focused on my window. It’s like I’m some little metal duck on a funfair shooting range. Every time I move they’re ready to pop their corks.’ Her usual velvety voice had hardened.

I put the kettle on, as she sat down at the breakfast island. ‘Must be great, though, having your face in all those magazines? And it’s well good publicity for your DVDs.’ I sighed. ‘I wish the paparazzi were interested in me.’

Melissa snorted. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. One of the first ever photos they printed of me was taken when I popped out to the shops, without any make-up.’ She took a cupcake and picked off the marzipan ladybird. ‘Even if I’m only off to the gym, I always have to make an effort – hair sprayed, clothes ironed, polished nails perfectly filed…’

‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’ I poured out the drinks.’ You set high standards, living like a princess…’

‘Yes, all on my own most of the time, like Rapunzel – except no one’s going to rescue me from my tower. And knowing my luck, if some saviour climbed up my hair, the extensions would break and they’d fall to their death.’

Melissa wore extensions? That had to be the best kept celebrity secret of the year!

‘I love children,’ she said softly, and gazed at the ladybird before biting its head off.

Wow! Another exclusive? Was Melissa Winsford trying to get up the duff?

‘Jonny wants us to wait before we have any,’ she said, with no further prompting, ‘until his career is more established.’ She lifted the chunky mug to her lips and sipped, before pulling a face. ‘I didn’t know you could still buy instant coffee in Harpenden.’

‘I don’t get it,’ I said, ignoring the jibe. ‘Isn’t Jonny’s career already well underway?’

Her cheeks tinged pink. ‘He’s already got a son, Eddie… Maybe he doesn’t want to make babies with the second Mrs Winsford.’ She glanced down at her clothes. ‘Mind you, can’t say I’d blame him, the way I look at the moment.’

‘Climb over the fence, did you?’ I grinned.

She groaned. ‘One of the paparazzi shouted out to me, just as I fell over the top of it. They must have broken all the rules and gone onto our drive. I was only trying to avoid them, but they’ll probably make up some story about me taking a roll in the grass with… with that whistling friend of yours.’

‘Luke? The huffy handyman?’

‘You don’t like him? With well-cut clothes he could be pretty hot, along with the right moisturiser and tweezing. What he needs is a man-over.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, trying not to think of his deep moss green eyes and the way his mouth twitched at one corner when he made a joke. Or the top of his boxer shorts sitting invitingly low on his flat waist, yesterday morning after he’d stayed over…

‘Or else they’ll make out you’re my lesbian lover,’ she said and nibbled her cake.

Just imagine that headline! “Double Birdie for Kimmy and Melissa. Indignant Jonny and Adam say their Exes had Always Been a Few Strokes Under Par.”

‘I could cause a diversion, if you like?’ I said. ‘We could swap clothes. I’ll distract them whilst you could go back the way you came.’

‘That’s sweet but I’m not sure you could pull it off. It’s taken me years to develop my taut bum. You’d stretch these tracksuit bottoms. They cost a fortune.’

How come I didn’t feel offended by her unintentional insults? Probably because they were just that – she was too wrapped up in her own problems to think her remarks through.

‘We’ve got more or less the same colour hair,’ I insisted, ‘and we’re about the same height. I’ve got some big bug sunglasses, like Victoria Beckham’s. It’ll be fun!’

‘Your bingo wings might give you away.’

Melissa clearly had an expert eye as she’d been able to spot them through my winter clothes.

‘No one will notice them under your tracksuit top,’ I said. ‘Plus it’s spitting with rain. I’ll hide under an umbrella.’

She took another mouthful of sponge, chewed slowly and actually swallowed it for once. ‘Okay,’ she said, her smooth tones returning. ‘Just don’t talk to them. Your Luton twang would be an absolute giveaway. But have you got anything else I can change into? No offence, but those skin-tight leggings are very last season – and not terribly flattering, even with my pins.’

‘So why are so many photographers here, today?’ I asked.

She shrugged. ‘Probably some tart has made up some kiss ‘n’ tell story about Jonny. There’s no major championship for a while, so they’re looking for personal, newsworthy stuff. One of those slimy bastards did shout out something about a mystery blonde.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s all so clichéd. And amazing how many of those bimbos go quiet when you threaten legal action.’