The Beachside Christmas: A hilarious feel-good Christmas romance Page 8

  ‘Your family seem lovely and I’m sure I’m not in any danger,’ I said, adopting a no-nonsense tone that was undermined by a hiccup. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Hey, I should be the one apologising, for scaring the life out of you and your pussy.’

  I shot a look at his face, but he looked genuinely repentant. Was this the same man who’d declared that turning on Christmas lights was beneath him? That Erin had said was a tosser? He seemed… nice.

  ‘He’s not my cat,’ I said, remembering how Marmite had lashed out and clawed my arm. That’s why it was sore. ‘He’d just stolen my dinner, actually. I hadn’t eaten much, and I’d had rather a lot of wine, which is why…’ I gestured at my face.

  ‘You look ravishing,’ he said, which was clearly a lie – unless he liked the madwoman look.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you until lunchtime today.’

  ‘Yah, I guess I should have called ahead,’ he said. ‘Craig actually told me to, but I wanted to fly under the radar—’

  ‘Craig?’

  ‘My cameraman, Craig Daniels.’ The other shadowy figure from last night. So, where was he, I wondered? ‘You see, the last time I did a public appearance was at a book-signing in Soho—’

  ‘You’ve written a book?’ I loosened my grip on the duvet. If Ollie Matheson was a writer, we at least had something in common.

  ‘It was an autobiography, Ollie Uncovered. Sort of a play on words, because I was in my pants on the cover.’ He gave a twinkly eye-roll. ‘Crazy, I know, to write my life story at my age, especially when I haven’t done anything magnificent or brave. But, the point is, at this book-signing someone took a swing at me for something I’d supposedly said on Twitter, and broke my jaw.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ I said. Although, hadn’t Ollie hit someone on Players? Still, two punches didn’t make a right.

  ‘She had quite a right hook,’ he conceded, adjusting his cravat. ‘Goes with the territory, unfortunately. That’s the deal when you sign up for a reality show.’

  It was too early to be having a heart-to-heart in my bedroom with a hot reality TV star, especially when I looked such a state, but I couldn’t deny I was curious about how he’d got on to the show in the first place.

  I wanted to ask, but my bladder was full to bursting, my skull was throbbing relentlessly, and my mouth was like the Sahara. ‘I need a drink,’ I said. ‘Of water, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, I left some. Here.’ Ollie bent to pick a glass off the floor by the bed, his hair flopping forward. ‘I found these in a drawer,’ he added, flicking his hair back again as he handed me a packet of aspirin with a flirty smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. The idea of him going through my house was almost as unsettling as him watching me while I slept. Where were his boundaries? Maybe he didn’t abide by the same rules as lesser mortals – ones who lived normal lives, away from the glare of cameras, in houses that weren’t the size of castles, or chateaux in France. All the same, I relinquished my grip on the duvet and took the tablets and water.

  ‘So, you wouldn’t rather be in the Maldives?’ I said when I’d finished, handing him the glass.

  He gave a charmingly apologetic grin. ‘I was in a bit of a strop when Erin called,’ he said. ‘Tattie, my so-called girlfriend, had just sold a story about me to the press, and I wasn’t in the best of moods.’ He looked suddenly crestfallen, and I guessed he must be in love with this ‘Tattie’, and wondered whether any of the females in his circle possessed an ordinary name. ‘I suddenly figured a gig like this was a step in the right direction,’ he added. He rose in an easy movement so my eyes were level with his crotch, planting his hands in his trouser pockets so the material tightened around what Erin would call his ‘package’. ‘A show about the real me, you know? To show… certain people that I’m a nice, normal guy, and persuade them I’m worth their time.’

  So, he was here to win back his girlfriend. Still, as long as he did what he’d come to do, with minimum fuss and disruption, that was all that mattered.

  ‘I need a shower,’ I said, hoisting my eyes to his face.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ He gave me a devilish grin. ‘Can I help? I’m very good with a loofah.’

  ‘I think I can manage,’ I said politely, as if he’d offered to do a spot of painting.

  His twinkly gaze lingered until my cheeks felt hotter than Venus. ‘In that case, I’ll go and tell Craig you’re awake and we’ll have breakfast together, make a plan.’

  I assumed the cameraman must have crashed out on the sofa. Brilliant. Two strange men in my house, and I’d slept soundly for nearly ten hours.

  ‘Give me twenty minutes,’ I said, and waited until he’d descended the stairs, letting my pulse rate settle, and trying not to think about the mess I’d left down there. I hadn’t even washed up or put my baking away. My mince pies would be stale.

  ‘Did that really just happen?’ I looked in the mirror and groaned. Twenty minutes wasn’t long enough. I needed a week, and several extensive beauty treatments – possibly a body lift – to turn me into the sort of female Ollie Matheson was used to hanging around with.

  Chapter Ten

  After the quickest shower of my life, I called Erin and brought her up to speed.

  ‘What the eff is wrong with him?’ she exploded, when I’d finished babbling. ‘He should have kept me in the loop. I’d organised a car for today.’

  ‘That’s your response?’ I said. ‘I think he drove up with his cameraman.’

  She made a noise like a cow in distress. ‘And what do you mean, he’s better-looking than you thought? I said you’d fancy him.’

  ‘I don’t fancy him,’ I said. ‘I’m not a teenage girl.’ I put my phone on speaker while I towelled my hair dry. ‘I was just saying, he comes across better in real life.’

  ‘Oh god, you’ve been Ollied.’

  ‘I haven’t been Ollied,’ I said, lowering my voice, even though I could hear that he was downstairs. What was he doing? I bobbed in front of the mirror and winced. I looked pale, and my eyes were pink, but at least my skin felt softer, thanks to the mud-mask, and my hair smelt of fruits-of-the-forest shampoo. ‘He seems nicer, too,’ I added, retrieving my phone. ‘I thought he’d be a total nightmare.’

  ‘Oh, Lily.’ I pictured Erin with her palm pressed to her forehead. ‘You’ve only just met him,’ she said. ‘You’ve never even seen the show.’ She sounded annoyed.

  ‘First impressions count,’ I fired back. I’d been feeling quite chipper, despite my hangover and the stubbornly clinging face mask – not to mention the peculiarity of the circumstances – and her words were like a reprimand. I hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, I was being extremely forgiving, considering I could have called the police and had Ollie Matheson arrested for breaking and entering. Well, entering without permission.

  ‘I warned you.’

  ‘Why do I need to be warned?’

  ‘Because this is what he does, Lily.’ I didn’t like the way she kept saying my name. It was a tactic teachers employed when taking a child to task. Harriet, you know that stamping on someone’s foot isn’t nice. ‘He’ll get under your skin, then he’ll move on. That’s how the show works.’

  ‘This isn’t a show,’ I said, with a disbelieving laugh. ‘And he’s not even on it any more.’

  ‘He’s been there long enough for that sort of behaviour to seem normal. And he wouldn’t have signed up in the first place, if there wasn’t something in his character that enjoyed acting up.’

  ‘Well, apart from all that, I’m not his type,’ I said. ‘I’m not thin enough, or the right shade of blonde.’

  ‘You know you’re bloody gorgeous, but that’s the point,’ she said. ‘I doubt he’s met anyone like you, which means you’ll be a challenge.’

  ‘He’s seen me at my absolute worst.’ I flashed back to myself, hunched over the toilet bowl, and cringed. ‘If that doesn’t put him off, nothing will.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you were topless when you ans
wered the door.’ A trace of laughter came back to Erin’s voice. ‘And why did you send me that weird message about string?’

  I told her about Marmite.

  ‘I wish I’d been there,’ she said, chuckling.

  I paused in the act of wriggling my underwear on. ‘I’ve just remembered, they were filming.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll get cut.’

  ‘But they can still play it back and watch it. It could end up on YouTube.’

  ‘They’re not twelve years old, Lily. It’s a job to them. And I’m sure they’ve seen plenty of hooters before.’

  ‘Not my hooters,’ I protested.

  ‘The cameraman’s probably deleted it already.’

  ‘He’s called Craig Daniels. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘They’re old friends. He left the show when Ollie did, which I imagine is why Ollie brought him.’

  Going off on a tangent, I flipped through the clothes in my wardrobe. ‘I’ve no idea what to wear.’ I studied the array of dresses, skirts and cardigans I’d worn for teaching. There were some jeans and T-shirts, and baggy sweatshirts – my ‘casual-wear’ – and a couple of ‘best’ outfits, comprising a floral jumpsuit and a strappy low-cut dress, neither of which were suitable for eating breakfast with Ollie Matheson.

  At the thought of breakfast, I felt suddenly ravenous.

  ‘Why are you looking for something special to wear?’ Erin’s voice dripped suspicion. ‘What’s wrong with your usual clothes?’

  ‘Nothing, I just… need some new ones.’ I’d never mastered the art of on-trend dressing like Erin had. She could carry off cuffed skinny jeans with lace-up shoes, or mid-calf culottes, which would have looked tragic on me. ‘It’s fine, I’ve found something.’ I settled on one of my nicer dresses; knee-length with long sleeves, and little blue flowers on a black background.

  ‘It’s for him, isn’t it?’

  ‘Erin, give me some credit.’ I was starting to wish I hadn’t called her. ‘Even if I was looking, I’d never fall for someone based on their appearance.’

  ‘You’re vulnerable,’ she persisted. ‘I’d love you to meet someone new, but he’s not the one.’

  ‘What do you mean, I’m vulnerable?’ I put the phone back on speaker while I shimmied into my dress. I needed some thick black tights to hide my hairy shins, and pulled a pair out of the chest of drawers and tugged them on. ‘Erin?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, rather huffily.

  ‘It was clearly something.’ I plucked out a cornflower-blue cardigan that matched the flowers on my dress. ‘Erin?’

  ‘Just that since your dad died—’

  ‘Erin, don’t.’ I snatched up the phone again. ‘This has nothing to do with Dad.’ I couldn’t believe she was still pursuing her ridiculous theory that Dad’s death had been the reason I’d fallen for Max in the first place; something about my judgement being off, and me rushing into it because I wanted to feel happy again. ‘And, anyway, Ollie’s in love with someone else.’

  To my relief, she let it drop. ‘Tattie Granger?’ She snorted. ‘I doubt it, after how she’s treated him.’

  ‘Well, he seemed to think coming here and doing this one-off show might win her back.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Well, not exactly—’

  ‘You seem to have had a good chat, considering he’s been there less than twenty-four hours, and you were asleep for most of it.’

  Before I could work out her tone, Ollie’s voice drifted up the stairs. ‘Miss Ambrose, do you have any goose fat?’

  Goose fat? ‘Erin, I’ve got to go, he’s calling me.’

  ‘Lily, wait, I—’

  ‘I’ll call you later.’ Pulling on my cardigan, I left the bedroom and jogged downstairs, reminding myself I had no need to feel bad or apologise to my guest for the mess. If Ollie had turned up when he was supposed to, the Christmas tree would have been properly decorated, and my baking wouldn’t have been ruined.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ he called.

  Obviously. I wouldn’t keep goose fat in the hall. Not that I had any. Goose fat didn’t feature in my life, any more than partridges normally did. ‘On my way,’ I called back, wondering where the cameraman had got to.

  I peered round the living-room door, expecting to see him snoring on the sofa, a blush rising as I imagined explaining my behaviour the night before… but the room was empty.

  Too empty.

  Where were the baubles and decorations I’d left scattered about? My eyes travelled round. They were on the tree, that’s where. It was in the corner, and no longer looked like something I’d pulled out of a canal. In fact, it looked rather magnificent, even if the top was squashed against the ceiling, leaving no room for an angel.

  My mind raced back. Had I done this in the night? A creative sleepwalking session? Impossible. Even sober, I’d never have managed such a coherent scheme of red, gold and green, or managed to evenly entwine the softly glowing lights around the branches. As my eyes surfed the rest of the room, I noticed my snow globe positioned next to my favourite family photo on the mantelpiece, and a garland decorated with holly leaves and red poinsettia flowers draped around the fireplace. The few Christmas cards I’d brought from home were hanging on the wall on a strip of ribbon, and there was a wooden candle bridge on the windowsill, with battery-powered bulbs for flames.

  ‘Hey, you look scrumptious, that colour really suits you.’ Ollie eased past me into the room, which immediately shrank in size, and gave me an appraising look that made my blood rise. ‘What do you think?’

  In the nick of time I realised he was referring to the room and not my choice of cardigan. ‘Where did all this stuff come from?’

  ‘Well, most of it was in bags so you must have bought it, and I found some drawing pins in a really handy drawer in your kitchen.’ His eyes heated up. ‘I did bring some mistletoe with me, but I left it in the car. You never know when you might need it.’

  ‘I carry paracetamol for the same reason,’ I said, trying not to look at his lips.

  ‘Super,’ he said with a slightly puzzled smile.

  ‘The tree looks amazing.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you’d missed out the middle section.’ He lifted a brow, as if that had been the only thing wrong with the scene that must have greeted him.

  ‘You did all this by yourself?’ I stared, unable to get over how pretty and perfect the room looked.

  ‘Yah, is that OK?’ His brow contracted. ‘It’s just that I got a bit bored around dawn, plus it was pretty damn cold up there and I couldn’t find any spare blankets, so I thought I’d nip down and I saw all the stuff you’d left out...’ He brandished an arm. ‘Prissy and I used to decorate the tree in the drawing room when we were tiddlers.’ He sounded nostalgic. ‘It’s like riding a bike, I suppose. Haven’t done anything like it for yonks, but it all came flooding back. Rather relaxing, actually.’

  ‘Well… thank you,’ I said, trying to imagine him as a child with his sister, in their stately home, fixing gold-plated trinkets to a gigantic tree. ‘I’m sorry it’s not real, I sort of had to buy it.’

  I imagined Erin asking why I was apologising. I’d do the same with any guest, I argued in my head. Everyone knows a real tree is better than a fake one.

  ‘Oh, I love a fake tree.’ Ollie tilted his head to admire his efforts. ‘I’m actually allergic to the scent of pine, so a real one would have been a no-no.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ My voice was dangerously close to effusive. ‘Me too!’ What? ‘Well, it’s not an allergy as such, more that I’m allergic to hoovering up pine needles.’ What was I talking about? ‘So, goose fat?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Ollie perched his nicely moulded bottom on the arm of the sofa and folded his arms across his chest. Our faces were almost level, and I couldn’t help noticing tiny dark flecks around his irises. ‘I found some rashers in the fridge, and thought it would be totally retro to have bacon sarnies.’

  ‘
Right.’ Looking at him felt dangerous – like staring into the sun – so I ripped my gaze away and fixed it through the window, where the sky had forgotten it was winter and had turned a vivid blue. ‘I don’t cook bacon in goose fat, I tend to grill it.’

  Ollie let out a guffaw. ‘Oh, the way you said that, with your eyebrows scrunched, it was like you were talking in code.’ He adopted a stern expression and flicked his eyes from side to side. ‘Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once.’ His French accent was impeccable. ‘I used to love ’Allo, ’Allo.’

  My breath caught for the second time that morning.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My dad loved that show, too,’ I said.

  His expression changed, as he picked up on the past tense. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ Plastering on an answering smile, I clapped my hands as though assembling a class. ‘Now, where’s this cameraman of yours?’ I scoured the room, pretending to look under the coffee table. ‘Unless he’s very tiny, I can’t see him anywhere.’

  ‘He’s very tiny indeed,’ Ollie said, catching on. ‘Practically Lego-sized.’ Swinging round to look at the window, he lightly touched my arm. ‘Look, I think he’s behind the curtain.’

  I snorted inelegantly, feeling my nerve-endings tingle where his fingers had rested. ‘Seriously, where is he?’

  ‘You read a lot,’ Ollie said, crossing to the bookshelf and pulling out my favourite Bill Bryson and flipping through it. ‘I must send you a copy of my autobiography, though there’s quite a lot in there about my, ah, sex life.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘I’ve been told it’s pretty hot stuff.’

  I squashed an image of him, naked on my bed. ‘Your cameraman?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, he hasn’t read it. Not his cup of tea. Prefers to read a camera manual.’

  ‘I meant, where is he?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Ollie slid the book back on the shelf, and picked several satsumas from a bowl I’d placed on the coffee table. ‘He insisted on sleeping in the car,’ he said, juggling with the fruit.