Hubble Bubble (38 page)
Well, nearly everyone else.
Joel murmured in his sleep. She turned and looked at him. God, he was gorgeous. He wriggled comfortably, flung his arm across her pillow and slept again as well he might, Mitzi thought with a flush of remembered pleasure.
And before he woke she’d have to lock herself in the en suite and repair some of the ravages. Where was her handbag? Oh … how had it got up there? Had she thrown it? Kicked it? Crikey …
Shivering a little from the arctic scene outside rather than the actual temperature, she grabbed Joel’s sweater from the wild abandon of clothes on the floor. It was soft and slithered over her nakedness like a hug. As a makeshift peignoir – a word, she felt, which befitted a night of such wantonness – it would do perfectly.
In the bathroom, naked again, ablutions completed, Mitzi winced at her reflection.
Living ‘Amoureuse’ may have been wonderful last night with the shadows and the champagne and the heightened passions – but nothing, nothing at all, could disguise the devastation in the morning’s stark snowy light.
Having no toothbrush, no toilet bag, no emergency supplies of Oil of Olay, Mitzi had scrubbed herself with The Faery Glen’s oatmeal soap, cleaned her teeth with a cotton bud, and rubbed away the mascara shadows with a damp forefinger. Her hair was slicked back from the shower, and in the bathroom’s unforgiving mirror every line, wrinkle and southward-slip of her body was thrown-up in exaggerated relief.
Dear God! Her bottom had cellulite on the cellulite!
She surveyed her body from every angle and shrugged. For her age and having had two children, it wasn’t bad. It was her. She would always try hard to keep it trim and moisturised but time would, naturally, take its toll. She couldn’t, and wouldn’t, go down the Tarnia-route to eternal youth. Maybe Granny Westward had some concoction she could use to hold back the years. But then again, probably not. There hadn’t been this obsession with personal vanity in Granny Westward’s day, had there?
Ah well, it was her body, it was all she’d got, and she was comfortable with it. And anyway, Joel had seemed more than satisfied with it, hadn’t he?
She grinned wickedly at her reflection.
Having darkened her eyes with kohl and a flick of mascara, and rubbed balm into her lips, she sprayed herself lightly with Opium. It had been the perfect scent for the wedding – it was probably too heavy for this morning, but it was sexier than oatmeal.
Slithering into the sweater again, Mitzi opened the bathroom door. Joel was still asleep. The bathroom activities hadn’t woken him. She’d love to use the tiny kettle and make coffee but didn’t want to disturb him. Instead, she sat on the wide windowsill and watched the snow.
The high street was unrecognisable in its new white and
silver sparkling livery. Somewhere in the distance a snow-plough was chugging, and the excited shrieks of children echoed through the silence. The church bells started to peal their chime of celebration across Hazy Hassocks. The vicar must have made it through the snow. How many of his once-a-year congregation would manage to be there this morning? Mitzi wondered, slipping and sliding their way through this fairytale landscape to give thanks for the age-old miracle.
Still, if this morning was ethereal, then last night had been sheer magic.
Joel had danced with her to ‘Witchcraft’, and they’d moved, close together, with no inhibitions. She’d felt happier than she ever had in her life. Doll and Lu had watched them dancing, and smiled hugely. And when later, in the middle of ‘Do You Believe In Magic?’, Joel had disappeared to the bar and had a whispered conversation with Otto and Boris, she’d simply assumed he was ordering more champagne.
It had been a complete surprise when he’d held out his hand and led her away from the wildlypartying bar and into The Faery Glen’s snaking, low-beamed corridors.
‘Did anyone see us go?’ he’d grinned at her.
She’d shaken her head.
‘Good.’
Still holding hands, they’d climbed the narrow, oak-panelled staircase and Joel had unlocked a door at the end of the passage.
The bedroom – white-walled, low-ceilinged, crisscrossed with dark beams and decorated in rich plum and cream – was illuminated by tiny lamps.
‘Oh!’ Mitzi had looked at the sumptuously draped four-poster bed in amazement. ‘Oh …’
‘It’s not the bridal suite,’ Joel had looked slightly worried. ‘Otto and Boris have reserved that for the happy couple if they change their minds, but it’ll do, won’t it?’
Unable to speak, Mitzi had nodded.
Joel had pulled her towards him. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to think about why you – well, why we – well, what went wrong after Lorenzo’s.’
‘It was my fault. I was being stupid and I should have explained—’
‘Nothing to explain,’ Joel had bent down and kissed her gently. ‘Not now. I wasn’t too happy that night about the prospect of being interrupted by Lulu and Shay either. I’d wanted it to be special too. I guess in the lust of the moment the special bit got rather lost, but that’s men for you.’
Mitzi had curled her arms round his neck. ‘I thought you’d think I just didn’t want you.’
‘Oh, I did. For quite some time. It was your right to change your mind, of course, but I wondered what I’d done wrong. However,’ he’d kissed her again, ‘I’m a persistent sod, and I still wanted you, loved you, couldn’t just walk away and forget you, although I gave it a damn good try. So, I’m trying to make amends for my macho-crassness now.’
‘Thank you – it’s fantastic.’ Mitzi had looked around the room, and then up into his beautiful face. ‘I don’t deserve you. I – I did want it to be special that night … but there were other things as well …’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, stupid stuff like it not just being a one-off and not wanting to be hurt and—’
‘This is as real as it gets for me,’ Joel had said. ‘This is a forever commitment as far as I’m concerned. I’ve veered away from serious involvements because I didn’t want to be hurt again, either. It was a huge risk for me, too. But one I was prepared to take because I loved you so much.’
Mitzi swallowed. ‘But the age difference …? What if you wanted to have children with a new partner? What if—’
‘Life’s full of what-ifs, Mitzi. It’s also very short. If you’re given the chance of happiness, you can’t ruin it by thinking of the what-ifs. And the age difference is minimal and totally unimportant. And no, I’ve never wanted
children. And stop making excuses. I love you.’
‘I love you, too,’ she’d sighed with relief and love and sheer happiness. ‘So very much …’
He’d kissed her then, and she’d kissed him, and clothes had been shed with haste and happiness and heightened passions, and nothing mattered. Nothing mattered at all.
Vaguely, Mitzi remembered as they’d tumbled onto the four-poster’s cushiony eiderdown, she’d thought one day she’d tell him about ‘Amoureuse’. One day.
‘Good morning.’
The night’s blissful memories faded and she turned quickly from the windowsill. ‘Good morning to you, too.’
Joel was sitting up in bed, looking as all men did after a night of passion – absolutely sensational. It wasn’t fair, Mitzi thought, that women always looked wrecked while men …
‘You look gorgeous.’ He hauled himself out of bed, and padded towards her. ‘Get back into bed and I’ll make coffee. Oh – do you prefer coffee in the morning, or tea?’
‘Coffee,’ Mitzi giggled as he kissed her. ‘Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Amazing,’ Joel agreed, glancing out of the window. ‘As is that. And this …’
She ran back to the bed and tugging off the sweater, rearranged the pillows and snuggled beneath the sheets, watching him, wanting him, loving him.
The coffee was surprisingly strong and hot. They managed to drink it while cuddling together, trying not to spill any.
From somewhere deep in the depths of The Faery Glen, Otto and Boris were awake and breakfast was being prepared. The mouth-watering aroma of frying bacon wafted up through the floorboards.
‘Breakfast …’ Joel kissed her damp hair. ‘Would madam like it in bed?’
‘Absolutely,’ she grinned at him. ‘And before everyone else in the village wakes up down there and rampages up here.’
‘You’ll have to wait just a little bit longer. Anyway, the door’s locked and I’ve got both the keys. You’re now at my mercy.’
‘Oh, good … I wonder if Doll and Brett will be able to make it to the New Forest for their honeymoon. Or if we’ll be able to do the lost-and-lonely Christmas lunches, or—’
‘Plenty of time to find out about that later.’ Joel gently removed the coffee cup from her fingers. ‘And as you well know, nothing’s impossible. Not for you. Now can we prove that last night wasn’t just the result of some pagan spell you cast on me?’
‘Absolutely,’ she sighed with bliss, wrapping her body round his as he pulled her towards him and kissed her. ‘Oh, and happy Christmas.’
‘Happy Christmas, Mitzi Blessing …’
As I’ve said in my acknowledgements, HUBBLE BUBBLE was inspired by my Nan’s sorties into ‘magical cooking with natural ingredients’. This seemed to involve snatching strange, unrecognisable, growing things at first light – ‘best with the dew still on ’em, duck’ – from the hedgerows and other people’s gardens. As her eyesight was iffy, and her culinary skills practically zero, we in the family were always careful to avoid any of her ‘herbal specials’. Sadly her neighbours weren’t so wary and she became – quite rightly – known as The Herbal Poisoner of Wessex Road.
The recipes included in HUBBLE BUBBLE are all based on dishes from my Nan’s collection – but have been heavily fictionalised to fit into my story and will definitely make you VERY ILL INDEED – they are not real recipes or real magic. Make and eat them at your peril!!! You have been warned …
If you enjoyed
Hubble Bubble,
read on for a taste of Christina Jones’s new book,
Fiddlesticks,
coming soon from Piatkus …
‘I still can’t believe you’re doing this. You must be mad. Even if you didn’t want to leave with your Mum and Dad, you’ve still got millions of choices. You could travel the world, move to London, live by the sea – you could do, well,
anything.
Anything rather than this.’
‘There’s still time to change your mind, you know. We don’t want you to go. We’ll miss you. Why don’t you stay here, get a nice little flat in Market Street – which is handy for all the nightlife and getting to work and for shopping—’
‘Shopping! I bet you haven’t even thought about shopping! What on earth are you going to do about shopping? There won’t be any shops, or wine bars, or clubs, or well, anything, will there?’
‘And hairdressers! Amber, have you even considered not having a hairdresser? You won’t be able to get your artlessly casual Kate Winslet tousle with the blonde streaks and highlights and lowlights done in some hick-stick place, will you? If there is a hairdresser – which I doubt – it’ll be someone called Cynthia who still does perms and mullets and uses hood dryers!’
‘And work? Have you actually thought about where you’ll work? It’ll be all farming and wellies and mud and cack. You won’t be able to sign on with an agency and pick and choose your office jobs there. You’ll probably end up serving in the village post office – if they’ve got one and
then only if you’re very lucky and the postmistress hasn’t got several hundred inbred relations waiting in line to grab the opportunity.’
‘Or mucking out pigs.’
‘Or driving a tractor.’
‘Exactly. Listen to us, Amber. We’re your closest friends. We’ve got your best interests at heart. You’re only twenty-seven, and you’re a townie girl through and through. Listen to what we’re telling you. Who, in their right mind, would choose to leave town and go and bury themselves in some Godforsaken village when they’ve got everything they need right here on their doorstep?’
‘Anyway, what do you know about actually living in the
country?
I mean, the country’s fine for – well – looking at, but no one wants to live there, do they?’
‘Amber does.’
‘Amber’s completely barking, then.’
Amber laughed and rather unsteadily raised her umpteenth glass of Chenin Blanc. ‘Nice to know I’ve got the wholehearted support of my dearest friends. But seriously, this is what I want to do. I’m really looking forward to it.’
They all stared at her.
‘This place? Is it scarily remote? Like Wales or Cornwall?’
Amber drained her glass. ‘I’ve never been there, remember? But it’s in Berkshire. Almost civilised. They have huge towns like Reading and Newbury and Bracknell and Ascot and—’
‘Berkshire … Is that close to London?’
‘Close-ish.’
‘Oh well, maybe it won’t be
too
bad then. And is it near Reading and Newbury and wherever else you just said?’
‘Not that close, no. The nearest places are called – um – Winterbrook and Hazy Hassocks and – oh, yes – Bagley-cum-Russett.’
‘Dear God!’
‘When are you going?’
‘Next week.’
‘And you’re going to be living with someone you’ve never met? Some mad old bat?’
‘My Gran’s best friend from when they were children, yes. She wrote to us when Gran died. We’ve been in touch ever since. And I’m only going as a lodger – not as some sad Jane Austen type companion.’
‘Jesus, Amber. You’re really going to live with a wrinkly, in a village, with no job, no shops – and no men?’
‘After Jamie the last bit will come as something of a blessing.’ Amber continued to grin. ‘I’ve had enough of two-timing, spineless, commitment-phobic men to last a lifetime. In fact, it’s one of the main reasons I’m going.’
They all pulled sympathetic faces. Jamie had broken Amber’s heart, everyone knew that, but was that really any reason for her to up sticks and bury herself in the middle of nowhere with some very, very old lady she’d never met?
Normal women would make do with getting roaring drunk and then indulging in a bit of retail therapy before dusting off their stilt-heels and finding another, far better, man.
‘I’ll give you a month at the most. Then you’ll be back.’
‘A week. She won’t last more than a week.’