Chapter 8 #3
And then—a blare of a car horn. We leap apart, startled.
Poppy’s Land Rover is blocking the courtyard entrance, a grin from ear to ear.
Damn her, sneaking up on us while the horses made enough racket to cover her arrival.
She waves at us, and feeling like a prize dick, I give an awkward wave back.
Rachel’s not the least bit concerned, her whole arm flapping in an exuberant wave with no hint she cares we’ve been sprung.
A niggle I can’t shake: maybe she doesn’t care who sees us, because to her this doesn’t count.
The car window glides down.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Poppy smirks. “Not a bad idea on a cold afternoon, warming each other up.”
Rachel chortles with laughter. “Yeah, you caught us out, Poppy.”
“Well, if it’s warmth you’re after, there’s an empty stall next to Bodie. Nice and snug. You won’t need your coats in there.”
I can’t believe she’s actually suggesting what I think she is.
“Nah, we’re good,” I say. “Better get back up to the house. We’re all done here.”
“Chicken,” Rachel giggles as Poppy drives off. “But yeah, you’re right, we should get back.”
I take Rachel’s hand in mine, lacing our fingers together.
Hers are like ice, and I pull her hand into my pocket, rubbing it to warm it up a little.
She wraps her arm behind my back, burrowing a second hand into the other pocket of my jacket.
I lead her back to the house, the two of us wrapped around each other, us against the winter cold.
A few steps away from the front door, we’re met by an avalanche of bodies pouring out onto the driveway. Shapes loom in the darkness. It’s only just after four, but on an overcast day at the end of November, night pushes in early.
“Judging time,” Ollie calls out, his voice brimming with confidence.
I can see why. The front door he and Sam chose is now trimmed with an arch of lights, cycling back and forth in a mesmerising sequence of colours that transitions slowly from deep purple to vibrant red, then fades to gold before beginning again.
It’s pretty, although a little gaudy. Lucky Haley isn’t the judge. She’d go for that.
“Nice work,” I say. Might as well be generous in defeat.
“Sam’s idea.” Ollie gives her a fond smile. “Wasn’t going to argue on this one.”
I bet that was a relief for the other teams based at the house. Ollie and Sam go at each other like seagulls over chips—fun to a point—but even me, who grew up in a house with three sisters always bitching, finds it tiring.
“The windows look great, too.” Rachel offers the compliment with a cheerful tone, but when she glances across at me, I read the look of worry in her eyes. The other two loved-up pairs lap up her praise, smiling indulgently into each other’s eyes.
“Who did what?” I ask, although I think the blaze of colour across the front lounge room has to be Haley and Christian’s creation.
The sheer number of lights speaks to her ‘more is always better’ philosophy when it comes to Christmas.
Christian rolls his eyes and points a finger that way, confirming it.
Their window is a riot of multicoloured LED strands forming an animated Santa’s sleigh that actually appears to move across the glass, complete with flashing Rudolph nose and twinkling stars that rain down like digital snow.
It’s bold, but kind of tacky. I hope our judges will go for something more tasteful.
“Ours is the dining room,” Liv says, staring up at Garrett with a look of awe. “Not that I can take much credit for it. It’s all him.” Her arm tightens around his waist with a possessive pride, and he dots a kiss on her hair.
The precision of the perfectly symmetrical Christmas tree silhouette in their window shows Garrett’s engineering background, each light positioned with mathematical accuracy.
Right now, I think he’s wasted playing bass guitar in a rock band.
Warm white lights outline the tree, with tiny blue stars scattered throughout like ornaments, creating an elegant, understated display that somehow captures the essence of the season better than the other two garish alternatives. This is the one to beat.
“Damn,” Rachel whispers against my ear. “That’s amazing.”
“Ours is amazing, too.” I breathe the words against her neck, enjoying the warm echo of my breath and the smell of her perfume, the heady scent of flowers overlaid with spice. “The star is way more tasteful. I’m glad we didn’t grab all those psychedelic lights like the others. So predictable.”
“Yeah, I suppose. But we’re not the judges.”
Her words act as a summoning spell. Tommy and Loreena stand at the top of the stairs, the unlikely lord and lady of the manor in jeans and puffer jackets, with beanies pulled down low.
“In you go,” Loreena commands. “Give the judges some peace and quiet for their deliberations.”
“Hot chocolate’s made,” a voice calls from behind.
It’s Raymond, a burly, bald-headed guy who I can’t quite figure out.
He seems to do lots of different things: in charge of the security cameras, screens people arriving at the gatehouse through the intercom, and oversees the rest of the staff.
He’s an odd butler in his uniform of black jeans, Sex Pistols t-shirt and leather bomber jacket. Now he makes hot chocolate too.
“Come on.” I tug Rachel towards the door. “Nothing we can do about it now we’ve downed tools.”
“I know, but I really want us to win.” She reminds me of Elodie, a petulant child expecting the adult to make her wish come true.
“I do too.” I press a sneaky consoling kiss to her cheek, knowing I’ve done all I can to give her the win.