A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall. Jane Linfoot

in his cheeks. ‘There are trolleys further along … for carrying the trees.’ His eyes are mocking. ‘And a machine that pulls the branches into a net to make them neat for travelling. So they’re easy to carry and they’ll fit in the pick up.’

      ‘Know it all.’ And damn. For every part of this. But mostly for what the slices in his cheeks are doing to my stomach. It’s not that I’m usually bossy but he seems to have forgotten who’s in trouble here. ‘Well what are you waiting for? Get a trolley then.’

       6.

       If in doubt,

       add glitter

      ‘I thought Christmas was meant to be about the people?’

      This is Bill, later on Friday. And, yes, I am talking to him again after the tree toppling fiasco, but only because if I want to get this show on the road, I have to.

      Finding a well equipped laundry room next to the enormous pantry helped. And while my puddle soaked clothes were being washed and dried I found a stripy blue apron, a whisk and a frying pan. After inhaling a stack of pancakes dripping with warm maple syrup I was back in the game but this time with a whole new strategy – in future I will not be taking shit from castle personnel.

      So we have a castle hallway stacked with trees in nets, and we’re now in the coach house checking the pile of furniture that I’ve spent the last couple of hours sorting out to take over to the castle. And I’m half way to thinking, so long as I keep Bill very firmly in his place (and out of my head) I might just be able to pull this off.

      I’m looking up at him from the leather armchair I’m testing out. ‘Of course it’s about the people – any people who sit in this seat will be super-comfy.’

      He gives me an exasperated look. ‘But surely what matters is the company not the trappings?’

      I can’t let that opportunity pass, so I round on him. ‘In which case, why are you spending your Christmas at work with strangers?’

      That question turns his pissed off expression even darker. ‘Christmas is a write off for me this year, I don’t care what I do.’

      Of course, we’ve ruined his Christmas being demanding and having a party that includes nine kids instead of a minibus full of stags. How did I not get that before? After jumping in with both feet last time, I’m feeling my way with this. ‘So Gemma won’t be here then?’ For everyone’s sakes, given what hard work she was back in the day, I’m desperate he’s not going to say she will.

      ‘Gemma’s off on a winter holiday.’

      I suppose it’s pointless both of them having to lie low at the castle looking after a yawny Christmas let. Us writing off his Christmas probably explains his attitude, but he’s the one who chose to do it.

      ‘My dad will be around though.’ There’s that twist of his lips again. ‘So long as I let him out of his tower.’

      My mouth drops open. ‘You keep your dad in a …?’ Then I see from the glint in his eyes – of course he bloody doesn’t. I’m kicking myself for being so gullible. This has to be him breaking the news of another guest in what’s getting to be a very overcrowded castle. ‘Someone else we’ll be sharing the toaster with?’ And shit to that thought.

      ‘Nope, for once you’re wrong. He usually eats breakfast in his pyjamas, in his motor home beyond the coach house.’

      ‘Camping? In winter? IN THE GROUNDS?’ This place just keeps on giving. I mean, why the hell is he not at Downton Abbey or whatever their stately pile’s called? This quest for the simple life is all the fault of a certain Duke, abandoning his palace and decamping to a farm cottage next door to Sandringham. Take it from me, I shared a teensy bedsit with George once, after the first couple of days, the novelty of waking up where you can reach the kitchen sink to put the kettle on from the bed is less than thrilling.

      Bill’s laying down the reassurances. ‘It’s warm in his motor home, and handy – he helps out here too.’

      ‘Well, that sounds as if it’s going to be fabulous for all of us.’ Not. It’s yet another eccentricity to hide from Libby.

      Bill nods at the heap of furniture and boxes that I’ve piled up by the door. ‘I’ll get him to bring this lot over to the house first thing tomorrow, then we can get it into place.’

      ‘That sounds like a plan.’ Anyone else, I’d feel guilty for my mean thoughts, but this may not be the worst news.

      A text came through from Fliss when I was in Bill’s shower earlier – obviously I wasn’t going to let an opportunity like that pass me by, me not traipsing mud from the car park all the way upstairs was the perfect opening for me to get into Bill’s bathroom. Except I still have no further idea what he’s smelling of. However spartan the rest of the place is, his man-perfume shelf is rammed. If I’d even begun to work my way through them trying them out I’d have had total nose confusion. I didn’t just make it up, that is a real thing, the Daniels’ girls on perfume talk about it all the time. But sadly I’m still without my hot tip for my notebook.

      According to Fliss’s text, Libby is so stoked at the idea of her own handyman there’s a good chance that will totally make up for the lack of deep pile carpet. If Bill’s dad is going to be knocking around the wood baskets too it’s going to be double the fun. Especially if their shared gene pool means he’s equally decorative.

      As for the butler shots I know she’ll be setting her heart on, more mature might be better still, so I may as well test the ground. ‘So how does your dad feel about dressing up?’

      The cloud that passes across Bill’s face says it’s an instant thumbs down. ‘Sorry, but there’s only room for one Santa in St Aidan. Gary from the jingle bells pony cart gets very cross about imposters.’

      Weird, but fine, Santa was way off what I’m after anyway. ‘We definitely don’t want to upset any locals.’ As he didn’t dismiss it entirely it’s worth another try. ‘But if red coats are out, an evening suit might work?’

      His voice shoots up. ‘If you knew my dad, you would not be asking that. Don’t catch me, don’t change me free spirits don’t dress to order, he’s all about wild hearts and the open road.’ He takes a second to blow out his cheeks. ‘If you want a guy in a tux, you’ll have to sweet talk me.’

      I ignore that my toes just turned to hot syrup. ‘That’s not a thing I’ll be doing any time soon.’

      ‘Great, well in that case, let’s look at this lot.’ He’s scowling at my accessorising heap. ‘I simply can’t see how shitloads of superfluous ornamentation are going to give anyone a great time.’

      Which goes to show how very wrong first impressions can be. He was such a happy guy all those years ago by that alpine fire, there was no sign whatsoever he’d turn out this grumpy. Me not getting what my most secret inner self wished for back then saved me from the hugest heap of trouble. All I can think is that over the years, having him all to myself in my head, I must have gradually changed him, whittled him into someone else entirely. I’ve somehow built him into someone very different from the guy himself. It was bound to happen. That’s the trouble with fantasies, when you give them free rein they travel a long way from their real life counterparts. They never talk back either. Which is possibly why having too many of the damn things isn’t ideal.

      I’m going to have to put him right on that all-encompassing comment though. ‘If you create the most magical setting imaginable, those all-important people enjoy it so much more.’