My Big Fat Christmas Wedding (28 page)

‘You and me, together, we’ll have that place sold before you can say “Mulled Wine Muffin”.’ I beamed, a chink of hope breaking through the storm clouds of my lovelife.

‘But we haven’t any experience.’

I snorted. ‘You’re joking? The way we’ve kept house for Adam and Ryan? You don’t need a CV a mile long to know how to bleach a loo or polish a mirror.’ I pointed to the window. ‘
“
Urgently required
”
’, I quoted. ‘Sounds desperate.’ I scooped my hair back into a scrunchie, unzipped my gold parka jacket and smoothed down my sequinned jumper. ‘After a few days away, the two men in our lives will be pleading with us to move back.’

‘I don’t know, Kimmy…’ Jess wiped her nose. ‘What about references? How do we explain suddenly turning up like two lost tourists?’ She stared hard at the photo and pointed to the right hand back corner of the lawn. ‘Who do you think that is?’

I screwed up my eyes and examined the topless young man with floppy chestnut hair, leaning on a spade. He certainly had his work cut out – that garden was huge.

I fixed a smile on my face and held out my hand, flat, in front of Jess’s mouth, glad she got the message but didn’t actually spit her gum into
my
palm. Then she smeared on her favourite lipgloss – homemade of course, using Vaseline and food essence. I took a deep breath and pushed open the glass door. Jess caught my eye and I winked. A tiny bubble of hope tickled the inside of my chest. This dream house was going to help me win back Adam.

Chapter 3

‘You are certainly
not
within your rights to withhold rent.’ A woman in a smart navy trouser suit, and pristine blouse, looked up from her phone and gave a stiff smile. ‘The owner has been informed of the problem and we’ll be in touch shortly,’ she said, returning to her call. ‘Pardon? You do realise we record some of these conversations…? Well, maybe you’d care more if faced with eviction!’ Calmly, the middle-aged woman put down the telephone receiver

‘Are we sure about this?’ whispered Jess and I nodded.

‘How can I help?’ asked the estate agent, in a flat voice. Her smile had shrunk as she’d clearly worked out our luggage was bargain Primark, not Prada. We set down our bags and I placed the Christmas tree and cake box on a nearby desk. The room was practically furnished with office equipment, and talk about unfestive – there wasn’t so much as one tinsel garland.

‘We’re looking for, um… somewhere to rent,’ I beamed. There was no point looking too keen, and mentioning the house straight away.

She pointed to two black swivel chairs on the other side of her desk, which was cluttered with stationery, assorted files and a wilted, white-flowered plant.

‘It’s kind of urgent.’ Understatement. I sat down and luxuriated in office’s warmth. ‘We’re currently homeless.’

The woman’s eyes glazed over and the atmosphere seemed even darker as clouds gathered outside.

‘Homeless?’ She raised her finely plucked eyebrows.

‘It’s just a blip.’ I forced a laugh, which hopefully oozed confidence as if to say “of course a deposit would be no problem”. As long as the rent was based on Monopoly prices, that is. I glanced sideways at Jess.

‘And I’m employed at the moment,’ Jess said. ‘I work at…at…’ She sneezed loudly. ‘Nuttall’s Garden Centre.’

The woman winced. Her badge said Mrs D Brown. D for Deidre? Or Dawn? Perhaps Dragon?

‘We may only need somewhere short-term,’ I said.

‘That might make things difficult,’ she said, crisply. ‘Most landlords are looking for long-term tenants.’

‘Tell me about it.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Finding somewhere to live, in between jobs, is one of the few downsides to being housesitters – like occasionally being made homeless.’

She leant forward a little.

‘I know – it’s unusual work,’ I continued, innocently. ‘Most people don’t know the half of what’s involved.’ Ahem, including myself.

‘I’m familiar with the job spec,’ she said and tapped her biro again. ‘Aren’t you rather young for such a–’

‘Responsible position?’ interrupted Jess. ‘That’s what the agency thought when they gave us our first job.’

Go Jess!

‘But they were so impressed with Jessica’s gardening skills,’ I interrupted, wondering if housesitting agencies really did exist, ‘and my… um… housekeeping experience. You should have seen our last place. Overrun with mice,’ I whispered. Well, it was true about Ryan’s pad.

Her brow smoothed out a little. ‘I bet you’ve seen some sights.’

‘Ooh yes, um, fleas under the sofa and mushrooms in the carpet.’

Plant expert Jess shot me a puzzled look, but Mrs D lapped it up.

‘And the house before that had been well trashed,’ I continued.

‘What happened?’ The estate agent put down her biro, no longer sounding as if we were a nuisance.

‘The previous sitter had, erm, secretly arranged a party and advertised it on Facebook,’ said Jess. ‘People stubbed cigarettes out on the walls and broke toilet seats. Personally I think those social networking sites are a danger to society.’

Her last sentence was in no way a lie – Jess didn’t even have a Facebook account. I kept quiet about my four hundred and sixty-three Facebook friends and the group I once formed, “Ashton Kutcher for President”. That reminded me, I hadn’t got Adam’s laptop to borrow now, which was just as well – I wouldn’t know whether to change my relationship status to single or simply post that Adam and I were… had… Oh God, eyes going all blurry again, must switch subjects in my head.

Ow! Jess had kicked me hard. She was busy playing garden doctor.

‘… and don’t prune them until next month, Deborah,’ she was saying, ‘otherwise you’ll get fewer flowers next year.’

Ooh, they were on first name terms already. “Deborah” straightened a pile of paperwork and stared at us.

‘I’m curious,’ she said. ‘There’s no money in housesitting; it’s normally a job for retired people who simply fancy a change of scene.’

‘The agency does insist we get paid a nominal fee,’ I said, not catching her eye. ‘Just enough to cover food. They tell clients it’s worth it to get in people they can trust.’

‘Kimberley’s trying to set up her own business, you see,’ interrupted Jess. ‘Making cakes. Housesitting gives her the free time she needs. And the smell of home cooking always helps sell those properties we look after which are on the market.’

‘True – everyone loves cake.’ Deborah smiled and sucked the end of her pen for a moment.

‘What’s your favourite flavour?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know, um…’

‘How about Madagascan vanilla cakes, with strawberry buttercream icing and marzipan ladybirds?’ I said, spying a photo of two little girls on her desk. ‘Or I make a mean peanut topping, decorated with toffee teddy bears. Plus currently I’m celebrating the festive season – how about figgy pudding scones? I could drop some in.’

‘No! I couldn’t…’

‘It would be my pleasure, Deborah.’

‘Well, those ladybirds do sound rather sweet.’

I jumped up to fetch my Tupperware box and removed the lid as I sat down again. Sheer ecstasy. The aroma of cranberry and orange wafted into the air. It was like a heady hit of happy pills. I took one out and placed it on her desk. Even I had to admit it looked fab, with the pretty sunset-coloured buttercream icing generously swirled on top. I’d give her five minutes tops before she succumbed.

Jess fiddled with her bracelet and I held my breath whilst the estate agent got up. She pulled out the top drawer of her grey metal filing cabinet, and after flicking through several files, drew one out.

‘As it happens,’ she said, ‘I might be able to help.’

I fought the urge to glance over to the advert in the window.

She sat down again and took off her jacket.

‘Love the shoes,’ I said, cocking my head under the table. ‘Designer?’

‘Erm no… but thanks.’ For the first time she smiled properly with her eyes, then slid a photo of that house across her desk. At the top it said Mistletoe Mansion. ‘We don’t usually handle housesitting jobs, but the client, Mr Murphy, is a friend of the boss. His uncle died and left him this outstanding property. He lives up north, in Manchester, so my boss said we’d handle everything to do with the sale. But we’ve had trouble, finding reliable people to look after this place until it’s sold.’

Yay! My plan was working! Here was to a festive season spent enjoying hot tubs and playing billiards. I swallowed. Christmas without Adam? It just didn’t seem real. Jess kicked me again and with a jolt I focused again on the photo.

‘It’s a large property. What exactly are the terms and conditions?’ asked ever-practical Jess.

The woman peeked at the cupcake before looking at another sheet of notes. Was it my imagination, or did she position her hole-punch to cover something written in red?

‘You would be expected to keep all the rooms spotless,’ she said, ‘the bedrooms with ensuites, the kitchen, receptions rooms, the Games Room and its bar. Also to maintain the gardens… Not mowing at this time of year, obviously, but keeping track of weeds, digging over the borders regularly – doing everything to keep it in tip-top shape. We’re hoping it won’t take much longer to sell – there have been a couple of bites lately, despite Christmas approaching. You would forward any post on to Mr Murphy and deal with service contractors such as the window cleaners. And, of course, show around prospective buyers and generally keep the place secure.’

‘Are we given notice to leave?’ asked Jess, whilst I returned to my fantasy of mirrored dressing tables and walk-in wardrobes.

The estate agent skimmed the piece of paper. ‘The position runs from week to week with no notice required if the property sells.’ She looked up at us. ‘It’s for one person but if you maintain the garden, Jess, I might be able to persuade Mr Murphy to let you both stay. Like I said, landlords are looking for long-term tenants, you’ll be lucky to find a place to rent for just a few weeks. So maybe this arrangement could be beneficial to both parties?’

‘It sounds great!’ I said. ‘I mean… Yes. Mistletoe Mansion seems suitable. Nothing we can’t manage, after some of our previous jobs.’

‘Which brings me to references,’ Deborah said and reached for her biro.

‘Ah, look at the state of this,’ said Jess, exchanging glances with me before she picked up the wilted, white-flowered plant. She fingered some yellow leaves, before sticking her finger in the soil.

‘Even kitchen herbs die on me.’ Deborah smiled. ‘So, ladies, references please.’ She picked up the cupcake and took a bite at…. four minutes and thirty seconds! I knew she’d give in.

‘It’s a bit awkward,’ I said, as a faint “Mmm” escaped her lips. ‘The agency we’re registered with, um, wouldn’t appreciate us moonlighting elsewhere.’

‘Tightly run, are they?’ she said, a blob of orange icing sticking to the corner of her mouth as she took another bite.

We both nodded. She was an estate agent. Pilfering staff from somewhere else wouldn’t bother her.

She gazed at me and then Jess, who was still examining the plant. She looked at her notes; took another bite of cake; moved the hole-punch. What
was
written down there?

‘Mice, fleas, mushrooms… Nothing much fazes you, am I right?’

‘We’re professionals,’ I said, evenly. ‘Nothing has ever made us quit a job.’ And let’s face it, what could possibly make life difficult at Mistletoe Mansion? Too many party invites from loaded neighbours?

‘Why didn’t the previous sitter see the job through to the end?’ asked Jess.

‘Oh, erm, personal circumstances.’

‘How long has it been on the market, then?’ I said.

‘About six months – it went on just after the uncle died.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Times are hard, so that’s not unusual. When could you start?’

‘Tonight,’ we both chorused.

‘Really?’ said Deborah.

‘We’re always keen to get started on a new job,’ Jess gushed and put back the plant.

‘Fair enough. If you’re sure. Just let me make a call. Delicious cupcake, by the way,’ she said, and disappeared out the back.

I eyed the hole-punch. Maybe I could just nudge it, accidentally on purpose, to see exactly what that red writing said.

‘Mushrooms in carpets?’ hissed Jess. ‘Don’t you feel just a teensy bit guilty about making all this stuff up? It’s a bit over the top. Her boss won’t be happy with her if it doesn’t work out. We’re bound to be rumbled.’

‘Look, they need a housesitter. We need somewhere to live… And we’re going to do our best to sell that place. No one’s going to lose out.’ I reached for the hole-punch. ‘And I’m sure we can persuade this Mr Murphy guy to let us stay there for Christmas week, even if it happens to sell super-quick.

‘What are you doing now?’ whispered Jess.

‘She’s hiding something; if I could just read what’s underneath.’ Carefully I pushed the hole-punch across. Scrawled in red biro, surrounded by smiley faces, it read, “
Must love Gh
–”. Deborah’s heels click-clacked back into the room. Damn! I hadn’t managed to read the last word. What could it say? “Gherkins”? Perhaps “Ghosts”! A haunting could be wicked if it involved me and Adam, Whoopi Goldberg and a sexy potters’ wheel. I must have misread the writing – maybe it said “Gn” and the previous owner had a hideous collection of gnomes.

‘Well, ladies,’ Deborah said, sitting down, ‘Mr Murphy is delighted to have you on board. Normally he’d be more particular about references, but seeing as the situation is urgent he’s agreed – on the understanding that I drop by now and again, to check things are running smoothly.’

‘Awesome!’ I said. ‘I mean, that’s great. And he’ll pay our… expenses?’

‘Yes, but he’s impatient for a sale now, so he’s relying on you. So am I.’

‘We won’t let you down,’ said Jess and wiped her nose.

‘I hope not – Mr Murphy has been quite fair. He’s agreed to pay you a nominal sum to cover food. He’ll add it on to the weekly budget he gives you for cleaning materials and butcher’s bones.’

‘Bones?’ Jess and I chorused.

‘Didn’t I mention his old uncle had a dog? Mr Murphy isn’t sure what to do with it, so…’

‘He just left it there?’ said Jess. ‘What happens when there’s no sitter?’