Chapter 7
seven
AMANDA
Somewhere between the third spilt drink and the fifth time I’d had to request the kids stop trying to slide down the bannisters, knocking garlands off as they did, my professional veneer started wavering.
Despite the morning of clay shooting for the adults, and the puppeteer for the children, it’s like the clients were going stir crazy in the manor.
By lunchtime, I’d mediated two arguments between the chef and Pru, the housekeeper, and narrowly prevented a seven-year-old from dismantling a taxidermy badger to see whether it still contained its insides.
I’d relocated the badger to my office for safekeeping, and having his glassy-eyed stare dogging me meant hiding in there was no fun either.
Was the twitching in my left eyelid my imagination?
Honestly, I should be gifted an award for the fact that I hadn’t snapped at anyone. Or torn some ancient, fancy curtains to shreds. Or threw a wellie boot through a window.
Yet. There was still time.
By three o’clock, the family had rejected my idea of a long walk together guided by Henry.
Had sent away the watercolour artist who had been instructing them, and they seemed to be wandering the halls, giving me more things to stress about.
Never had I had clients so utterly dissatisfied with the schedule we’d agreed on.
‘Amanda, is there any vegan shortbread?’ Despite no one being vegan, but Flora and Raif, the eldest set of the matriarch’s heirs, had been feeling bubbly.
‘Amanda, have you seen my daughter?’ Which one? The one trying to bowl with a melon or the one terrorising Pru with twenty questions a minute?
‘Amanda, why is the Wi-Fi so slow?’ You’re in rural Scotland… Everything’s a bit slower-paced, especially the internet.
By four, I wondered if my smile looked as forced as it felt. I escaped to the bathroom and debated my professional grin until I no longer knew what my smile should look like. Probably not the way it did.
It was only when I realised the children had gone suspiciously quiet that I felt worry clawing at my stomach.
Quiet kids were often a part of the package with wealthy clients, many had long learned to be seen and not heard, or were shushed away by well-paid nannies, but not The Petersens. They’d left their nannies in Australia, and their children were taking full advantage of the feral opportunities.
The halls held no clues as to where the children had disappeared to.
‘Mrs Petersen,’ I asked, seeing the matriarch sitting by the fire while reading a book. ‘Where are the children?’
‘I’m not sure. They followed the gardener.’
‘For a walk?’
‘To see the donkey, perhaps. The children have been most excited to meet it.’
The donkey. Of course.
The air was bitingly sharp, a thin mist rolling up over the cliffs and emerging through the trees. I made my way around to the gardens as excited babbling met my ears. And there, like a cheery woodland sprite come chiselled Michelangelo statue, sat Henry.
Excitedly regaling some story, clippers in one hand, and a bundle of holly and pine in the other, those blond curls looked wilder than ever. A crate of colourful ribbons sat at his feet, spilling over like silken spaghetti. The six children clustered around him, eyes wide with sheer idolisation.
Merv the donkey stood amongst the chaos, chomping on a child’s pine cuttings while she squealed in delight.
‘Oh, good, even the donkey is here.’
Henry gave me one of those pulse-fluttering, sparkly-toothed smiles as I spoke. ‘Afternoon, boss.’
‘I am not your boss,’ I muttered, stepping over green clippings and ‘What exactly is happening here?’
‘We’re wreath-making, the kids were antsy, so I thought I’d put them to work.’
‘They’re guests, not elves.’
‘We made paper chains too. And found a load of pom-poms and tinsel.’ A child piped up, hair full of pine needles.
One of the twins held up a garish-looking sparkly bit of tat. ‘Amanda! We’re going to hang them on the big tree!’
I stared. And inhaled slowly. Deeply. Trying to find some semblance of cool before I emitted enough flames to incinerate Henry.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I said.
Before I could build my argument, Rita appeared, wrapped in a tartan shawl. Her eyes softened, wet around the edges and full of wonder.
‘Oh, how lovely. It’s just like when I was little.’ she whispered. Her fingers danced over the multicoloured tinsel, tousled a child’s hair and then petted Merv’s snout.
Henry stood. ‘Thought it might be a nice change of pace.’
‘It’s perfect.’
Which was when Merv turned his big old eyes on me.
Or rather… toward my coat.
My very expensive, Italian, tailored coat that had cost me an absolute bomb, and I was still paying off monthly.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ I warned as he stepped closer, his lips reaching for my sleeve. I stumbled back and hit a wheelbarrow, barely catching myself. Giving the donkey time to nab the bottom of my coat.
‘Absolutely not,’ I said through gritted teeth, pressing a hand between his eyes and pushing firmly. He didn’t budge.
Rita laughed as she patted his neck. ‘Oh, he likes you.’
‘He’s likes to vex me,’ I hissed.
Merv began chewing as I fought off the urge to cry. ‘Henry, get your beast off of me.’
‘Merv,’ Henry said, half laughing. ‘Mate, leave her coat alone.’
Merv ignored him.
‘Henry?’ I said through gritted teeth, stuck in place while a donkey attempted to ingest my designer tailoring.
‘I am,’ he said, coming over. ‘I’m negotiating.’
‘Negotiate faster.’
The children shrieked with laughter, their high-pitched noises only seeming to egg the donkey on.
‘Developed a taste for quality, haven’t you, pal?’
‘Henry, please?’ I pleaded, and Henry stood looking down at me, one hand on Merv’s mane, and his eyes darkening at the plea in my voice. Leaning closer, he lowered his voice until it took on a gravelly depth that hit me right between the thighs.
‘Well, since you begged so prettily, Amanda.’
Fuck. Where did that come from? And why did it remind me of the relationships I’d chased in my early twenties?
I’d given up when all it brought me were guys who said they could play the games I craved, but actually just wanted a rougher BJ without any of the giving side of things.
Just want want want. But surely Henry, the smiley golden retriever, wasn’t into all that. Wishful thinking, perhaps.
With my head in the clouds and my pulse going ten to the dozen, I almost forgot the bloody donkey eating my coat. Henry finally managed to pry it free.
I looked down at the damaged edge, the material frayed and crumpled. Then up at him.
He winced. ‘Could be worse.’
I closed my eyes for a second to recalibrate myself and plastered a professional look back on my face.
I ushered them all inside before someone lost a finger to the sharp clippers.
The moment we reached the entrance hall, the children exploded upon it with armfuls of paper chains, oodles of ageing tinsel and decorations that had seen better days.
Sticky fingerprints were as much a part of the result as the rest of the chaos.
Someone dropped a pom-pom, and it rolled beneath the grand piano.
When they finished, I stared at the tree. My elegant, carefully curated, soft-gold Christmas tree.
A neon-green paper chain sat dead centre, like an alien worm.
‘Oh,’ someone breathed behind me.
I turned to find Rita standing near the stairwell, her hand over her heart and her face beaming.
‘Would you look at that,’ she said, hand drifting to her throat. ‘It’s been so long since I’ve seen a tree like this.’
I blinked. ‘Like… this?’
‘Chaotic,’ she said warmly. ‘Real. None of that sterile magazine nonsense. This is the Christmas I remember. The Christmas I want my grandchildren to have.’
I tried very, very hard not to look directly at Henry, who was leaning against a bannister looking like the cat who got the fucking cream. Hot or not, I wanted to kick him in the shins.
The children continued adding atrocities. Glitter appeared. Feathers. A bauble that had definitely not existed before today, containing what looked like three sequins and a tooth.
My seasonal palette was designed to evoke winter luxury. Gone. Drowned beneath pom-poms. The adults glanced at me, waiting for approval.
So I lied. With another fake smile.
‘If you’re happy, I’m happy.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Rita said.
If she said perfect one more time while referencing the monstrosity before me, I might actually combust.
Henry moved closer, warmth rolling off him like he hadn’t just been outdoors creating havoc.
‘Not so bad, is it?’ he murmured.
‘It is. Very bad.’
‘They’re happy.’ I followed his gaze to the clients, who did look happier than I’d seen them since they arrived.
‘They’re deranged.’
He leaned in, voice low enough to make me quiver. ‘It’s Christmas, Amanda. Maybe imperfection’s allowed.’
‘No, it’s really not.’
But when the children burst into giggles as Rita proudly lifted their lopsided wreaths, something in me softened. A tiny bit. Enough that Henry caught it.
I scowled at him for good measure before sidling away from him.
‘Hot chocolate?’ I suggested, desperate for a distraction.
The children cheered.
Henry’s lips quirked.
And I guided them into the parlour, my head feeling utterly stuffed with cotton wool as I bounced between annoyance and relief. Of course, I was pleased that the clients were happy, but did it mean I was bad at my job? I’d always excelled in making events magical.
Yet, Henry had come in and managed it with little more than a fucking frin and a box of old stuff from the attic.