Mistletoe Mansion. Samantha Tonge

me about it.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Finding somewhere to live, in between jobs, is one of the few downsides to being housesitters – like occasionally being made homeless.’

      She leant forward a little.

      ‘I know – it’s unusual work,’ I continued, innocently. ‘Most people don’t know the half of what’s involved.’ Ahem, including myself.

      ‘I’m familiar with the job spec,’ she said and tapped her biro again. ‘Aren’t you rather young for such a–’

      ‘Responsible position?’ interrupted Jess. ‘That’s what the agency thought when they gave us our first job.’

      Go Jess!

      ‘But they were so impressed with Jessica’s gardening skills,’ I interrupted, wondering if housesitting agencies really did exist, ‘and my… um… housekeeping experience. You should have seen our last place. Overrun with mice,’ I whispered. Well, it was true about Ryan’s pad.

      Her brow smoothed out a little. ‘I bet you’ve seen some sights.’

      ‘Ooh yes, um, fleas under the sofa and mushrooms in the carpet.’

      Plant expert Jess shot me a puzzled look, but Mrs D lapped it up.

      ‘And the house before that had been well trashed,’ I continued.

      ‘What happened?’ The estate agent put down her biro, no longer sounding as if we were a nuisance.

      ‘The previous sitter had, erm, secretly arranged a party and advertised it on Facebook,’ said Jess. ‘People stubbed cigarettes out on the walls and broke toilet seats. Personally I think those social networking sites are a danger to society.’

      Her last sentence was in no way a lie – Jess didn’t even have a Facebook account. I kept quiet about my four hundred and sixty-three Facebook friends and the group I once formed, “Ashton Kutcher for President”. That reminded me, I hadn’t got Adam’s laptop to borrow now, which was just as well – I wouldn’t know whether to change my relationship status to single or simply post that Adam and I were… had… Oh God, eyes going all blurry again, must switch subjects in my head.

      Ow! Jess had kicked me hard. She was busy playing garden doctor.

      ‘… and don’t prune them until next month, Deborah,’ she was saying, ‘otherwise you’ll get fewer flowers next year.’

      Ooh, they were on first name terms already. “Deborah” straightened a pile of paperwork and stared at us.

      ‘I’m curious,’ she said. ‘There’s no money in housesitting; it’s normally a job for retired people who simply fancy a change of scene.’

      ‘The agency does insist we get paid a nominal fee,’ I said, not catching her eye. ‘Just enough to cover food. They tell clients it’s worth it to get in people they can trust.’

      ‘Kimberley’s trying to set up her own business, you see,’ interrupted Jess. ‘Making cakes. Housesitting gives her the free time she needs. And the smell of home cooking always helps sell those properties we look after which are on the market.’

      ‘True – everyone loves cake.’ Deborah smiled and sucked the end of her pen for a moment.

      ‘What’s your favourite flavour?’ I asked.

      ‘I don’t know, um…’

      ‘How about Madagascan vanilla cakes, with strawberry buttercream icing and marzipan ladybirds?’ I said, spying a photo of two little girls on her desk. ‘Or I make a mean peanut topping, decorated with toffee teddy bears. Plus currently I’m celebrating the festive season – how about figgy pudding scones? I could drop some in.’

      ‘No! I couldn’t…’

      ‘It would be my pleasure, Deborah.’

      ‘Well, those ladybirds do sound rather sweet.’

      I jumped up to fetch my Tupperware box and removed the lid as I sat down again. Sheer ecstasy. The aroma of cranberry and orange wafted into the air. It was like a heady hit of happy pills. I took one out and placed it on her desk. Even I had to admit it looked fab, with the pretty sunset-coloured buttercream icing generously swirled on top. I’d give her five minutes tops before she succumbed.

      Jess fiddled with her bracelet and I held my breath whilst the estate agent got up. She pulled out the top drawer of her grey metal filing cabinet, and after flicking through several files, drew one out.

      ‘As it happens,’ she said, ‘I might be able to help.’

      I fought the urge to glance over to the advert in the window.

      She sat down again and took off her jacket.

      ‘Love the shoes,’ I said, cocking my head under the table. ‘Designer?’

      ‘Erm no… but thanks.’ For the first time she smiled properly with her eyes, then slid a photo of that house across her desk. At the top it said Mistletoe Mansion. ‘We don’t usually handle housesitting jobs, but the client, Mr Murphy, is a friend of the boss. His uncle died and left him this outstanding property. He lives up north, in Manchester, so my boss said we’d handle everything to do with the sale. But we’ve had trouble, finding reliable people to look after this place until it’s sold.’

      Yay! My plan was working! Here was to a festive season spent enjoying hot tubs and playing billiards. I swallowed. Christmas without Adam? It just didn’t seem real. Jess kicked me again and with a jolt I focused again on the photo.

      ‘It’s a large property. What exactly are the terms and conditions?’ asked ever-practical Jess.

      The woman peeked at the cupcake before looking at another sheet of notes. Was it my imagination, or did she position her hole-punch to cover something written in red?

      ‘You would be expected to keep all the rooms spotless,’ she said, ‘the bedrooms with ensuites, the kitchen, receptions rooms, the Games Room and its bar. Also to maintain the gardens… Not mowing at this time of year, obviously, but keeping track of weeds, digging over the borders regularly – doing everything to keep it in tip-top shape. We’re hoping it won’t take much longer to sell – there have been a couple of bites lately, despite Christmas approaching. You would forward any post on to Mr Murphy and deal with service contractors such as the window cleaners. And, of course, show around prospective buyers and generally keep the place secure.’

      ‘Are we given notice to leave?’ asked Jess, whilst I returned to my fantasy of mirrored dressing tables and walk-in wardrobes.

      The estate agent skimmed the piece of paper. ‘The position runs from week to week with no notice required if the property sells.’ She looked up at us. ‘It’s for one person but if you maintain the garden, Jess, I might be able to persuade Mr Murphy to let you both stay. Like I said, landlords are looking for long-term tenants, you’ll be lucky to find a place to rent for just a few weeks. So maybe this arrangement could be beneficial to both parties?’

      ‘It sounds great!’ I said. ‘I mean… Yes. Mistletoe Mansion seems suitable. Nothing we can’t manage, after some of our previous jobs.’

      ‘Which brings me to references,’ Deborah said and reached for her biro.

      ‘Ah, look at the state of this,’ said Jess, exchanging glances with me before she picked up the wilted, white-flowered plant. She fingered some yellow leaves, before sticking her finger in the soil.

      ‘Even kitchen herbs die on me.’ Deborah smiled. ‘So, ladies, references please.’ She picked up the cupcake and took a bite at…. four minutes and thirty seconds! I knew she’d give in.

      ‘It’s a bit awkward,’ I said, as a faint “Mmm” escaped her lips. ‘The agency we’re registered with, um, wouldn’t appreciate us moonlighting elsewhere.’

      ‘Tightly run, are they?’ she said, a blob