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

‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,’ I said.

Melissa half-smiled. ‘You really do read all the magazines. Yes. As soon as I saw that yellow Tiffany diamond on Audrey Hepburn, normal diamonds never quite looked the same. Put it on. Flaunt it at those cameras.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Look after it for me.’

Wow. This rock was worth more than… than the average semi in Luton. I curled my fingers tight so that it couldn’t possibly fall off. Melissa glanced sideways at me.

I grinned. ‘Worried I’ll run off?’

‘Like to see you try, with all the paparazzi’s motorbikes waiting outside!’ She smiled. ‘See you soon. Ciao.’

I left the kitchen for the hallway, shoulders back, head high. Now I felt like a real celebrity – special, different, somehow taller. I put on her trainers (ooh, weird sole, they looked like those fancy weight loss ones), grabbed my big bug sunglasses from the kitchen table, picked up a magazine from the hallway table and stepped out of the front door. I hoped no one saw me briefly stumble. In the weird trainers, I felt like I was walking on a wobble board. Plus it was hard to resist the urge to pull down the tracksuit bottoms. They’d wedged right up in between my legs. I held my lips in a “blowing up a balloon” position, in the hope that they’d look more plump.

‘Melissa! Woo hoo! Over ‘ere love! We thought we saw you leg it to your neighbour’s a while back.’

‘Yo! Melissa!’ yelled a man’s voice. ‘Look up, love! Give us a nice smile! Where’s Jonny?’

Sexy walk? Check. Flaunting ring? Check. Superior celebrity expression on face? Hmm, perhaps I should lose the balloon lips. Even though it had virtually stopped raining, I put up my umbrella and ducked underneath. Yikes, if only Melissa had been wearing a coat, it was freezing. And to match the winter temperatures, I must have looked extremely cool, as I sashayed down the drive, as if on a red carpet, approaching the clicking cameras and shouts. So what if they didn’t know who I really was? At least I might finally get my picture in Infamous.

Talking of which, I held the magazine over my modest B cup chest. The sound of snapping shutters and pong of cigarette smoke overwhelmed me as I turned left. The Winsfords’ place wasn’t far but with these men crowding around, poking their lenses under my nose, the short walk began to feel like a marathon.

‘Give us a quote, Melissa. Anything. Come on, love, then we’ll leave yer alone.’

‘Why don’t you take off those glasses?’ called a voice.

‘Or get out those tits,’ sniggered someone else.

I pulled the umbrella down further, like a shield. Mustn’t perspire in Melissa’s top. Mustn’t trip. Mustn’t talk. MUSTN’T LOSE RING. Hey, so far I was doing pretty good.

‘Stuck-up bitch,’ someone muttered.

‘You look a bit rough,’ said a nearby voice. I glanced to my right and spotted muddy combat trousers. It was the photographer who’d given me his silver card.

‘Understandable, though,’ he continued. ‘All this talk of Jonny fooling around with another blonde. Likes playing twosomes away, doesn’t he? Everyone knows golfers are the new footballers. Do yer trust him or is yer marriage under par?’

Melissa had been right. This was all about another false kiss ‘n’ tell.

‘Don’t you worry about letting yerself go though, love,’ he continued. ‘I think it’s admirable that yer happy to put on some weight – you were a lot slimmer the last time I saw you this close.’ He blew smoke in my face. ‘In fact, yer arse looks almost big enough to pinch. If it goes to print, it might inspire yer to get into shape before the big tournaments kick off, in the spring. Can’t have the cute little American golfing Wags seeing yer look less like a petite birdie and more like an albatross.’

Cheeks flaming, I quickened my pace but a couple of men appeared from nowhere, on the pavement in front. I dodged them and put my head down further, praying I wouldn’t fall off the kerb or walk into a lamppost.

‘What’s yer problem, love? All we want is one good shot.’

‘We’re starving – got any posh nosh?’

‘Show us a bit of cleavage. Where’s your sense of fun?’

Ignoring the insults, I pushed forward, heart racing. One of the quieter photographers growled at the men to move out of my way and pushed me gently onto Melissa’s drive. ‘Haven’t you got daughters or sisters?’ I heard him mutter to the others and then something about how they should be ashamed. Gratefully, I charged towards the house. Being trailed by the paparazzi hadn’t lived up to my fantasy at all.

At the garage I dropped my umbrella and hurried up to the front door. A funny noise came from around the left of the house. I crept around to the side. There it was again. Was that a sob? I walked down to the back garden, past the kitchen, at last (was I really saying that?) out of sight of the cameras.

‘Melissa?’

Head in hands, she sat on the grass, next to an upturned wheelie bin.

‘What’s wrong?’ I threw down the magazine and took off my sunglasses. ‘Vandals? Foxes?’

She looked up at me. ‘No. Another kind of vermin.’

My brow furrowed. ‘I don’t think rats are strong enough to–’

‘Those bastard photographers have gone through my bins. Usually they wait until dark.’ She bit her lip. ‘They must have got a whiff of a really juicy story out there if they’re this desperate.’ She gazed around at the mess. ‘Jonny will go mad.’

‘But what are they hoping to find?’ I stared at the cardboard boxes and crumpled kitchen roll. ‘Don’t you shred the important stuff?’

‘Yes. Anything with our personal details on and all the post, of course. But…’ She sniffed again. ‘I’ve a nasty feeling I threw some empty tablet boxes in here yesterday. Jonny’s on prescription drugs for a bad back. He hates the press finding out anything that might hint he’s not on form.’

‘Come on. Let’s tidy up,’ I said and swallowed. Poor Melissa. ‘Maybe they’re still amongst all this rubbish.’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve already looked. He’ll go ballistic if news creeps out. Also, I… I threw out a pregnancy magazine I couldn’t resist buying last month.’ She sighed. ‘At least they left the bottle bin alone. Last month some story surfaced about how many bottles of champagne we drank a week. Jonny didn’t speak to me for two days. Said it reflected badly on his wholesome, healthy golfer image and made him look unprofessional. He could hardly say it was me drinking all that fizz.’