The Night Before Christmas (12 page)

‘Right, I will.’ Jackson smiled. ‘I just need to …’

‘Oh, sorry, yes, of course, this is your room! Come on, Lydia.’ He picked up Lydia’s limp hand and led her away to their room. The moment the door was closed behind them, he pressed her up against it, burying his face in her neck, his hands instantly finding their way under her jumper.

‘I’ve been thinking about this all day, Lydia,’ he muttered. ‘You’re so sexy …’

‘Um.’ Lydia pushed herself off the door and slipped out from under Stephen’s hands. ‘The thing is, I said I’d help Katy with dinner. And, besides, I’ve been in this old thing all day. Let me make myself a bit more beautiful for you, and then perhaps later …?’

‘It would be impossible for you to look hotter than you do now,’ Stephen said, advancing on her again. ‘I don’t tell you enough how amazing you are, or how much I love you.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘But I do love you, Lydia. I love you very much.’

‘I love you too,’ Lydia replied, the words automatically escaping her lips before she had a moment to think about what they meant or if she were a liar. ‘But I promised I’d help Katy with dinner, so I better not let her down.’

Stephen sighed, sitting down on the bed with a sulky pout. ‘So this is payback for last night, is it? I thought you were the one who was up for a bit of sex,’ he muttered, crossing his arms.

Lydia looked at him, sitting there, slightly drunk and put out by her not putting out. As handsome, as clever and talented as he was, at that moment she could not have been further from loving him, even as a brother or a gay best friend, and the realisation made her feel sick.

‘I’ve got to go and help,’ she said, blowing him a kiss. ‘I’ll see you in a bit.’

Jackson was sitting on top of the stairs when she
came out of the room. Shaking her head, Lydia tried to pass him.

‘Did you …?’

‘Just don’t,’ Lydia said. ‘Don’t say anything else to me, Jackson. Nothing. Just leave me alone.’

‘That’s just it,’ Jackson told her as she rushed down the stairs. ‘I don’t know if I can.’

Chapter Eight

In her bid to stay away from traditional Christmas food until at least Christmas Eve, Katy had used her retro oven to bake a whole salmon in a salt and herb crust, stuffed with homemade black olive pesto, and served it with a selection of roasted root vegetables, murdered by Joanna’s own fair hand.

After making her escape from both Jackson and Stephen, Lydia, utterly confused and slightly hungover, had discovered there was nothing very much to do in the kitchen after all, and so she helped Tilly set the table in the grand dining room.

‘Sometimes,’ Tilly told her, as she lined up the knives perfectly, in the way that only a daughter of Katy would, ‘Mad Molly peers in through the window with her hair all dripping, and begs to be let back in. But you mustn’t let her come in, because if you do, she will kill you until you are dead.’

Frowning, Lydia polished the glasses as Katy had instructed her, a set for red wine, another set for white and then tumblers for water. Katy liked a lot of glasses. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Jake,’ Tilly said, suddenly rushing to draw the
heavy red velvet curtain against any possible sightings of Mad Molly.

Lydia scooped Tilly up into her arms and pulled out one of the heavy dining chairs to sit down with the little girl on her knee.

‘You know Jake is just trying to scare you, because he’s your big brother and it’s sort of in his job description, don’t you?’

Tilly stared at her as if she were an idiot. ‘Jake hasn’t got a job. He’s a
child
.’

‘What I mean is, Jake is just making up stories. There is no Mad Molly, Tilly. She’s pretend, like Rapunzel or … Cinderella.’

‘Cinderella is not pretend and neither is Mad Molly,’ Tilly said, her blue eyes solemn. ‘She’s buried in the garden!’

‘Nonsense,’ Lydia said. ‘Honestly, I’m going to talk to your mummy about this …’

‘About what?’ Katy asked, as she came in with a tray of silver-potted, decanted condiments, looking much more relaxed now that the heating was on again.

‘Jake’s told Tilly that Mad Molly is buried in the garden! No wonder the poor child comes into your room at night! You need to have a word with him, Katy.’

‘Ah,’ Katy said, setting down the salt and pepper, precisely in the centre of the table. ‘The thing is, she
is
. Well, not Mad Molly, there is no Mad Molly. But,
well, there is a Margaret Drake, who this half of the hotel was built for, and she is sort of buried in the garden, up the hill behind the house. It was her favourite spot, apparently.’ Katy smiled.

‘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. ‘He’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!’