Mistletoe Mansion. Samantha Tonge

      I rubbed my ear as my eyes swept over his frame. Cords and a checked shirt? That was the uniform of granddads. Except he somehow made them look fashionable, and as for his chestnut bedroom hair and half-shaven face… A frisson of something stirred in my belly. Huh? That had to be a hunger pang. I’d only just broken up with Adam. It couldn’t be anything else.

      I hauled my case over the doorstep and he watched me drag it into the ginormous hallway, unlike Adam who would have insisted on carrying it for me. His almost old-fashioned manners were one of the things that had attracted me in the beginning – the way he’d always be the first to buy a round at the pub; how he’d offer to drive, if he and his workmates went out on the razz. I took in the arrogant stance of this Luke, with his hands shoved in his pockets. Would I ever meet another bloke like Adam?

      ‘Groucho’s an unusual name,’ I said, as Jess followed me in. At least there wouldn’t be any poop-scooping up after a Great Dane. I gazed around. Oh my God. That staircase was amazing. You’d build up an awesome speed, sliding down those banisters.

      ‘Walter Carmichael – Mike Murphy’s deceased uncle, the guy who used to own this place – he bought Groucho at the turn of the millennium, the year he gave up the evil weed,’ said Luke. ‘It was his idea of a joke.’

      Groucho… Marx. Of course, that ancient comedian with a bushy moustache and eyebrows, and a fat cigar always between his lips… Must love G… So, I was right, those red scrawled notes were about the dog, but the G stood for his name, not his breed. I looked down as he cocked his head sideways. What possible harm could this Groucho cause, especially with those little grey hairs sticking out from his chin?

      ‘Does he, um, behave himself?’ I asked, as the white-tipped tail vanished around the side of the staircase.

      ‘He’s toilet-trained and doesn’t bite, if that’s what you mean,’ said Luke, staring at the flower in my hair. ‘But he’s a Jack Russell – nosy; always into everyone’s business.’

      ‘You must be Luke?’ said Jess and smiled as she closed the front door. ‘I’m Jess and this is Kimmy.’

      She held out her hand but he shoved his hands deeper into his trouser pockets, which irked me as it made me focus even more on the great things about Adam I was missing.

      ‘There’s milk, eggs and bread in the fridge. Help yourselves to anything else you find. The last housesitter quit this place in a hurry.’ He smirked. ‘The kitchen cupboards still have some food in them.’

      I set my Christmas tree down on the laminated floor, next to a mahogany coatstand, and took a good look around. The winding staircase really was well impressive, with its oak banisters and burgundy carpet. At the top it branched out, to the left and right, past several glossed white doors with gold handles, on both sides leading around to the front of the house. On the cream walls hung brass-framed paintings – I squinted – of foxhunts and deer and fishermen. All this place needed was a tinselled pine tree much bigger than mine – it would be the perfect family home to live in during the festive season.

      ‘Wow. Impressive,’ I muttered, head back as I gazed up towards the high ceiling and a waterfall effect crystal chandelier. Downstairs were more paintings and to the right, a watercolour of Mistletoe Mansion, in the far corner, above a door – perhaps that was a loo. On the same side, near the front of the house, was an open door leading to the poshest lounge. I walked over to peek in and admired the sage green armchairs and sofa, the long oak coffee table, matching dresser and mega fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a photo of a friendly-looking old couple.

      ‘Mr Carmichael liked his paintings,’ I said and came back into the hallway. Jess was still gazing at the chandelier.

      ‘Yep. Murphy’s already sold some of them off.’ Luke stared at a portrait, to the left of the lounge door. It was of an old man, serious looking apart from a twinkle in his eyes – the man from the photo on the mantelpiece.

      ‘That’s him? The uncle?’ I asked.

      He nodded and then pointed to behind the staircase. ‘Groucho’s gone to the kitchen. The patio doors in there lead onto the back garden and there’s access to the dining room which is at the back of the lounge.’

      Not really listening, I looked out of the front windows and the torrents of rain. Wind rocked the honeysuckle and the weeping willow shimmied like… like seaweed caught in a stream. Listen to me – I’d gone all high-falutin, thanks to this place. It was even more impressive than I’d expected and felt homely – kind of lived-in, not grand or imposing. Not what I’d expected for the empty house of a dead man. My chest felt lighter than it had since me and Adam split.

      ‘What’s through there?’ asked Jess, looking left to a heavy mahogany door, next to a white hallway desk.

      Luke consulted his watch. ‘See for yourselves. I’m off.’ He tugged his thumb towards the desk. ‘Murphy’s phone number’s in an envelope on there, along with other stuff like a daily “to do” list with my phone number on, and things like how to work the boiler. Also there’s the remote control to open the garage.’ He grabbed a thick jacket from the coat stand and opened the front door. An earthy, musky smell of aftershave wafted my way – so different from Adam’s favourite fragrance that smelt like clinical air freshener. ‘Just one more thing – a couple of bedrooms are locked. Don’t try to force them open.

      ‘As if we would!’ protested Jess.

      ‘They’re full of the Carmichaels’ personal stuff,’ he continued. ‘Murphy hasn’t sold much of that yet. He won’t sort through it until he has to, I reckon, when the house sells. So, just keep out.’

      No “Nice to meet you” or “Good luck, I’ll pop in tomorrow to check you’re okay.” Adam would have at least told us to lock the windows at night and taken us through a fire drill. Not that I needed a man to look out for me, but his attentive ways made me feel all fuzzy inside. After a childhood spent practically fending for myself, Adam’s caring nature had initially dazzled me.

      Whereas my initial impression of Luke was the complete opposite of considerate Adam. Whistling, the handyman upturned his collar and slammed the door as he left. Groucho appeared and after several minutes of tickling jumped up as if to say “I’ll show you the place,” but a sharp crack of thunder saw him skedaddle under the white desk. Jess picked him up and he licked her nose.

      ‘Let’s take a quick look behind that mahogany door and then find something to eat.’ She turned the handle and we went in. Wow: this was the Games Room with… I couldn’t believe it! Only what I could describe as a mahogany throne in the corner! That was it. From now on, in my head, this room would be named after my favourite show of the moment, Game of Thrones! I’d have to plait my hair to enter and create a cocktail called Sex in Westeros!

      Polished, rich brown panels covered the left and far side walls, with the rest painted racing green. In the middle stood a full size billiards table and on the right was the small, but well stocked, bar. There was lager, and cola, and a professional-looking line of spirit bottles hung in front of mirrored tiles. As the mahogany door creaked shut behind us, I tiptoed across and bent over the bar. This would be perfect for Adam, I thought, gazing at the different shaped glasses, the small sink and silver ice bucket. After a hard day at work he was often too tired to go to the pub.

      Jess pointed to a dartboard at the end of the room, fighting to keep hold of Groucho whose legs pedalled mid-air. Eventually she put him down and yapping, he ran back to the door. ‘I don’t think I’m the only one who’s hungry.’ Jess threw her gum into a small bin.

      I walked over to a window. It was almost dark now and rivers of rain down the glass warped the view. I pulled on a cord which closed the curtains.

      ‘Picture us,’ I said, ‘sipping fancy drinks, eating Pringles… And getting handyman Luke answering our every beck and call.’

      Jess pulled a face. ‘He’s hardly Lady Chatterley’s lover.’

      ‘What, our bit of rough?’ I grinned.