Under The Mistletoe. Kerry Barrett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ then a key turned and the front door opened. OMG! It had to be Jonny – the golfing god himself. Melissa jumped up and hurried into the hallway.

      ‘Honey?’ I heard her say. ‘You’re home early.’

      ‘Have you been drinking again?’ said a male voice. ‘Where is everyone? ’

      ‘They had to get off. Busy women. But they loved the cakes. The caterer’s still in the kitchen. We were just…’

      ‘You invited Saffron after all.’

      ‘How did–?’

      ‘Just saw her husband down at the club. Steve said she’d be coming. Get rid of the caterer,’ he said. ‘God knows why but the bloody paparazzi have trailed me all day again. So, if you open the door – try to at least stand straight.’ Footsteps disappeared upstairs.

      Feeling a bit woozy, I hurtled into the lounge to fetch the cakestands. Then Melissa helped me carry all my stuff onto the front doorstep. She’d shoved the tin of caviar into my bag and handed me a folded cheque.

      ‘Thanks, Kimmy. This is the going rate, I reckon. Let me know if it’s not enough. Got to go. Ciao.’

      ‘But the savoury nibbles…? And I’ve written an invoice…’

      ‘I’m not fussed about the paperwork,’ she said and glanced up at the stairs again. ‘And those mini pizzas didn’t look too bad after all.’

      She slammed the front door behind me and I was left staring at the golf fountain, before noticing a long lens peer at me from the bottom of the front garden. This was awesome! I was being papped! If only I was wearing more make-up and trendier clothes. How typical that for my first appearance in Starchat I was dressed like a butcher.

      I made my first journey back to Walter’s house, strolling past the silver Bugatti and trying to ignore the photographer in muddy combat trousers. How important did I feel! Even though I walked quickly, the bloke soon caught up and grabbed one of the cakestands.

      ‘Let me help yer, love,’ he said, a cigarette drooping out of one side of his mouth. Puffy bags hung under his eyes. ‘Jonny and Melissa seem okay? Some fancy celebration was it? Yer know ‘em well?’

      ‘They seem very happy, which is all I’m prepared to say,’ I said, in my poshest voice. ‘You can quote me on that, if you like. The name’s Kimmy Jones.’

      He snorted. ‘Not unless yer provide me with some dirt.’ He thrust the cakestand back in my arms and slipped a silver card into my apron pocket. ‘Give me a ring, if yer catch anything going on. Me or someone else from the agency can be here in minutes. There’s good money in it.’

      Ew! I didn’t like him. He wasn’t what I’d expected from the paparazzi at all. Where was the cool bike, leather jacket and wavy mop of Italian black hair? With his chunky lily-white legs sticking out of stained shorts, his sweaty face and receding hairline, I wouldn’t want him shadowing me everywhere. I’d always imagined if I was famous, the paparazzi would be my friends. We’d laugh together and I’d hand them cups of tea. In the press I’d be known as ‘The Paps’ Sweetheart’.

      Not long later, I lay on my bed, apron off and bun undone. The photographer’s silver card was on my bedside table. It had an oily fingerprint on it. Ugh. Jess was out. The house was quiet. It was just me and Groucho, cocking his head and looking all cute, cos he knew it was his dinnertime. On the little table next to me was the empty blue and gold tin of caviar. How decadent was that, me eating the food of the gods in bed? Clearly I was made for the celebrity lifestyle, as not everyone could enjoy raw fish eggs.

      I gagged slightly and rushed to change the subject in my head. Now was my chance to try speaking to Walter again. I mean there were no rules, were there, that said ghosts only communicated at night? First things first though. Relaxed and calm, it was time to unfold that cheque. I took a deep breath. Fifty quid perhaps? My cakes were worth that. I squealed as my eyes scanned Melissa’s fancy writing. Surely there was some mistake? Hands shaking I reached for my phone. For a few hours’ work, I’d just earned three hundred pounds. An amount like that would blow Adam away!

Chapter 14

      ‘Take that!’ I said, not referring to Auntie Sharon’s favourite pop group. I glanced at the clock: nine already. Deborah and the prospective buyers would be here in two hours. My arms ached, my palms stung and my chest heaved up and down. Had I just had a fight with that arrogant Luke or Jess’s Ex or that obnoxious photographer outside? No. The target of my aggression was some butter and a few innocent-looking eggs.

      The reason? My lip quivered as I flexed my weapon (a silver hand whisk). It was Adam’s fault. He’d eventually answered his phone yesterday evening, after I’d spent the afternoon tidying up the house. I’d hardly stopped for breath to tell him about Melissa’s cheque and the other bookings, namely Saffron’s hen night, the cakes for Kate’s niece’s birthday and Vivian’s bridge club. His reaction? On the positive side, his first words were:

      ‘You okay then, babe? Where are you staying?’

      On the negative side? Where to start? I’d gone on to tell him about Mistletoe Mansion – you know, hot tub, fancy neighbours, micro-pig called Frazzle. He didn’t think I’d taken on board his plea for me to keep my feet on the ground; didn’t give so much as a grunt of interest when I’d babbled on about how my business was taking off.

      ‘So, when does this holiday come to an end?’ he’d muttered.

      ‘Holiday? Hardly, what with running this house, keeping it clean and tomorrow I’m showing potential buyers around as well as baking my (fake designer) socks off.’

      ‘And what happens when you move back to Luton? You still don’t get it, do you? It’s an unworkable dream. These people you’re mixing with are giving you fanciful ideas.’

      ‘Three hundred pounds, Adam – for a few hours’ work – plus half a tin of caviar!’

      A sigh whooshed down the phone. ‘Look, gotta go.’ He rang off.

      I poured the batter into the silicone moulds. These were the vanilla and strawberry ladybird cupcakes I’d promised to make Deborah. The front doorbell rang and I closed the oven door, before heading into the hallway. I pulled out my scrunchie and hoped my hair didn’t look too much of a mess.

      Eyes alert, Groucho sat under the table in the hallway, as I opened the door to… a red-nosed, shivering Terry. He wore orange and brown checked plus fours and an apricot anorak. I loved his colourful ensembles.

      ‘Not stopping long! I just came over to see how yesterday went.’ He stared at my face. ‘Did you get any Botox?’ He put Frazzle on the ground and Groucho scooted over for a sniff.

      ‘Poor Melissa,’ I said. ‘No one was impressed. When they found out the coffee morning wasn’t for charity, they all left, wrinkles intact.’ I gave him a run-down of the details.

      ‘Poor Melissa. What’s her house like?’ he asked.

      ‘There’s a massive birdcage in the lounge and the kitchen’s done out in black and gold. You should see this cabinet full of trophies. And the décor was co-ordinated down to the last thread of cotton and shelf bracket…’ On and on I went, Terry lapping up every detail. ‘Then СКАЧАТЬ