Under The Mistletoe. Kerry Barrett

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СКАЧАТЬ By the way, why all the paparazzi outside Melissa’s place? The last time they had that much attention was when Jonny made that joke about the Scottish, whilst up there playing the Open. Remember that picture of him in Starchat?’

      ‘How could I forget!’ It was of Jonny in a sporran (sexy legs or what), telling some offensive joke about Glaswegians and bagpipes. I shrugged my shoulders. Who cares why the cameras were there? All that attention was exciting.

      ‘Got to fly,’ said Terry, and picked up the pig, ‘if I want to get nine holes in, without freezing my fingers off. The weather’s decidedly chilly today. By the way, do you watch Celebrity Snippets? It’s on tomorrow at seven. There’s supposed to be new revelations about Zac Efron.’

      ‘I love that programme! Look…Why don’t you come here to watch it? We’ll have something to eat. Maybe go in the hot tub?’

      ‘Sure you young girls want me around?’

      ‘Who else can I talk to about what Melissa’s house and clothes are like? And you won’t believe how the Winsfords have landscaped their back garden. Jess isn’t interested and Groucho isn’t really one to gossip.’

      Terry grinned. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll bring my costume and something fizzy to drink.’

      I closed the door. It was awesome to finally find someone who could match my fascination for celebrities. The girls at Best Buns bakery bought the magazines to glance through at lunch, but didn’t pore over the outfits and accessories like me. Sure, they’d daydream about living like Cheryl Cole, but I actually worked on how I could achieve that by myself. A bit like Mum, my colleagues just hoped one day Mr Right would come along and simply hand them a perfect life. They didn’t even collect and categorise the magazines like me and Terry. I mean, what could be more inspiring than flicking back a few years to remember just how far your fave celeb has come?

      I dashed into the kitchen to take out and check the cupcakes. Pressing them gently, I found that each sponge sprung back exactly the right amount. So, I left them to cool whilst I prepared the topping, with butter, icing sugar and thawed out mini frozen strawberries. The icing blushed just the right shade of pink and smelt all sweet and summery, despite the time of year.

      Twenty minutes later, the cakes were iced and crowned with marzipan ladybirds. I put them in a Tupperware box, before wiping up the mess from the black and red food colouring. I didn’t want to provoke one of Jess’s hormonal rages again. It had gone ten and I pulled off my apron. It was time to check the house one last time, before Deborah got here.

      The lounge, despite Walter’s clutter, actually looked tidy. The Games Room was immaculate. So were my and Jess’s bedrooms. The bathrooms sparkled, even the doortops were dusted. I slipped into the office. Pristine. There was nothing left to do so I just had time to log onto the laptop and check Facebook.

      Oh my God! Leah’s new profile photo made her look like a vampire with that red-eye. Aw, Rosy from Best Buns had set up a fan group for her new kitten. Lucy from secondary school had invited me to do a quiz on my underwear – which would, apparently, unlock secrets about my personality. I scrolled down my homepage. Poor Becca had splashed bleach on her new trousers.

      Yet again I had something exciting to report, other than what I’d eaten for breakfast. After clicking onto my status, I typed: “KimCakes Ltd is finally taking off – orders are flying in!” The doorbell rang and I shut down the laptop.

      Groucho beat me to the hallway and barked loudly when I opened the door. Deborah wore a cream high-necked blouse, brown tailored trousers with a matching jacket and high heels with the cutest button straps. A couple in their forties stood behind her, properly wrapped up for the weather, in smart winter coats over office clothes – they had obviously taken time off work.

      ‘Hello, Kimmy,’ said Deborah, crisply, without quite looking me in the eye. Well, she must feel sheepish for failing to tell me I must love ghosts.

      ‘This is Mr and Mrs Davis,’ she said and turned back to them. ‘As I promised, this is an impressive property. Lovingly cared for and maintained, this house has everything you’re looking for – space, real character and the perfect location which is rural yet on the commuter belt. Shall we start in the Games Room?’ She pointed them to the left. As they went in, she held my elbow. ‘Watch and learn,’ she whispered. ‘In the future, you’ll show buyers around on your own.’

      ‘If I’m still here,’ I whispered. ‘Why chase after our car? Forget to tell us something, did you?’

      She fiddled with her watch. ‘Erm… yes, I’d had second thoughts and was trying to catch you up to say that maybe I should chase your references.’

      ‘Rubbish! You knew why this place was taking so long to sell. I think you were going to warn us about Mistletoe Mansion.’

      ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said and her mouth took a firm line. ‘You wanted the job, didn’t you? Looked pretty desperate, in fact. I did you a favour. It’s my neck on the line, if this place still fails to sell.’

      ‘And it could be my neck, literally, in the noose, if whatever’s in this house turns out to be a hangman.’

      ‘You said nothing fazed you – mushrooms and mice…’

      ‘That didn’t include supernatural beings! You withheld vital information.’

      ‘You weren’t exactly honest yourself. Or shall I press you for the name of the agency you work for?’

      ‘Um, no, you see, as we said–’

      ‘You get to read people pretty well in my job. I always know when someone’s lying – like so-called buyers who just want to snoop around or rival agents bullshitting about how much commission they’re on.’

      ‘Hellooo?’ called Mrs Davis.

      ‘We’ll talk later,’ said Deborah and headed into the Games Room.

      I followed her in.

      Wow. She was good. Awesome as this room was, only an estate agent could make it sound like the welcoming front room of an aristocrat’s house – a much better idea than my intention of schmoozing clients by saying that it was the perfect place to act out some bloody battle or sexy seduction from Game of Thrones (well, doesn’t everyone watch that show?).

      ‘Bedrooms, next?’ she said and I led them upstairs, disappointed to hear Deborah explain that the two rooms full of Walter’s stuff needed sorting before you could get a real sense of their space. They wouldn’t be unlocked unless the Davis’s wanted a second viewing.

      ‘You’ll adore this room,’ Deborah said to Mrs Davis, ‘it’s wonderfully feminine and lush.’ Gingerly, she pushed open the door to where I slept.

      I gasped. How did those cushions get on the floor? Why was the ceiling lampshade hanging loose? Who’d thrown my rouge onto the walls and pulled the paintings well crooked? Groucho lay in the middle of the bed, innocently licking his paws. If he was a Great Dane he might have done some of the damage but I could hardly blame a ten inch tall Jack Russell.

      ‘I, um… don’t understand,’ I muttered as the buyers raised their eyebrows.

      Deborah bit her lip. ‘Perhaps we should move along,’ she said in a stiff voice, ‘to the room once used as an office.’ We walked СКАЧАТЬ