Escape for Christmas

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next day was 23 December – the day of Brody’s party – and it was just thirty hours until Sophie’s escapees arrived.

Luckily the local garage had managed to fix the wheel while Sophie did a tour of the village shops, looking for any last-minute bits and pieces to give Sunnyside a fiesta, rather than festive, feel.

It hadn’t been easy, with the shops rammed with traditional decorations, and she was glad she’d already ordered some items online. Her new cocktail glasses and shaker looked great when arranged on the honesty bar alongside a selection of mixers and spirits, with a price list in a notebook, where people could sign for what they’d drunk. If they could remember …

She picked up some staples in the village supermarket that morning, but the bulk of her main shop was already on order at the farm shop, ready to be collected tomorrow, early on Christmas Eve morning.

By lunchtime she was back home, to find Vee having made a start on the dining room and guest lounge. The bedrooms were ready to welcome guests, with a small gift of Spanish turrón nougat placed on each pillow, along with a programme of events.

Not for the first time, Sophie had butterflies in her stomach at the prospect of hosting such a comprehensive – and unusual – break. Expectations were bound to be high and she only hoped she could live up to them. Instead of a traditional tree, she’d ordered a large inflatable palm for the dining room. It was bigger than she’d expected and, even using an electric pump, it was hard work to inflate it and set it up.

‘For God’s sake don’t let the cats get their claws on that!’ Vee cried when the palm was in place.

‘I dread to think of the bang if they do.’ Sophie shuddered. ‘Must brief everyone to shut the dining-room door at all times. It does look very … celebratory, though, don’t you think?’

‘I love it,’ Vee replied enthusiastically. ‘Makes me want to put my shades on and start singing “Livin’ la Vida Loca”.’

Encouraged, Sophie unboxed the rest of the ‘tropical-pool party kit’: several inflatable parrots, beach balls and flamingos, which she blew up and arranged around the guest lounge. She could hear Vee humming the Ricky Martin pop classic in the dining room and smiled, hoping it would bring a different kind of joy to her guests.

‘I might be “anti-Christmas”, but I’m not anti-fun!’ she joked, standing back to admire their efforts. Vee handed her a mug of coffee and a cranberry brownie.

‘It’s a festive brownie, but pretend it isn’t,’ Vee told her, with a wicked gleam. ‘I made some for the kids’ last-day-at-school party, but kept a few for myself.’

Sophie took a bite. ‘This is really good; maybe I should get you baking for the guests too.’ She frowned at the parrots and flamingos perched over the bar. ‘Are there flamingos in Spain? I definitely don’t think they have parrots. I can’t decide whether it looks bonkers or cool.’

‘Both,’ said Vee with glee. ‘It’s hilarious. With the grief I’ve had to deal with about presents, nativity costumes and who’s cooking what and when, and with whom, on the big day, I might escape here myself.’

‘I’d love that,’ Sophie replied. ‘But that’s not a hint. I want you to have a lovely regular Christmas with your family.’

‘What is a “regular” Christmas?’ Vee asked. ‘No one has a perfect day, do they? ‘There’s always tension and stress at some point – families falling out or missing loved ones they’ve lost. I bet thousands of people would love to escape and spend their holiday drinking cocktails with a giant palm tree and an inflatable parrot.’

‘Don’t forget the flamenco troupe,’ Sophie said.

‘Are they an actual genuine flamenco troupe?’ Vee asked. ‘Are they staying in the village?’

‘They all live fairly locally. They’re a new troupe formed by the Anglo-Spanish club in Kendal. There are only six of them, and apparently they all either have Spanish heritage or are married to Spanish partners. They seemed very keen, and happy to get the guests up and dancing. I didn’t think they’d want to come out, but of course there’s very little demand for a fledgling flamenco group on Christmas Eve, especially around here.’

‘I can’t think why!’ Vee chuckled, tucking into the remains of her brownie.

Although they were new and keen, the dancers had obviously still needed a fee, which Sophie had had to factor into her prices. Her weekend would cost as much as staying in a boutique hotel for a traditional Christmas, so it had to work.

She had almost finished her brownie too. ‘We need to clear the furniture back, ready for the show. I’m thinking of putting people in two rows to create more room, with the dancers at the front. Luckily flamenco doesn’t take up much room and they only have a guitarist, not a full band.’

‘Good idea, but you’ll have to rearrange the tables for Christmas Day breakfast.’

‘I’ll manage somehow. Maybe someone will offer to lend a hand.’

‘You could always ask one of the neighbours to help?’ Sophie noticed the twinkle in Vee’s eye when she said this.

‘If you mean Brody, I expect he’ll be far too busy on Christmas Eve. The practice is open until four, and then I think he’s doing family stuff.’

‘With his mother?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t gone into detail. He just implied he’d be very busy over Christmas. I’m not expecting to see him tomorrow after the party.’

‘So you are going to his party tonight?’ She whistled. ‘You’re highly honoured. Only the great and good are invited to the McKennas’ Christmas-drinks do.’

‘Really? Well, I’m neither, so I don’t know why I’ve made the list.’ Sophie laughed. ‘I’ll pop in for half an hour, out of politeness. It could be good for the business to do a bit of networking too.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Vee replied, putting on her serious face. ‘Nothing whatsoever to do with a certain dishy vet.’

Sophie snatched up her plate and mug. ‘Nothing whatsoever! Now I think I’d better start moving the furniture around in here for the flamenco night.’

Vee gave a mock salute. ‘Hint taken. What next?’

‘Just sweeping up the hot-tub area. And please thank Kev for doing all the safety checks on the outdoor lighting and hot tub.’ In his day job, when he wasn’t volunteering for the mountain-rescue team, Vee’s husband was an electrician, which had proved very useful when Sophie needed any work doing. Kev always found time to fit her in, at reasonable prices too. Once again, Sophie said a silent prayer for her good fortune in finding Vee and Kev. They were real diamonds.

Outside, the sun was already dipping towards the horizon and dusk would fall well before 4 p.m. She cast a critical eye over the hot-tub area. The tub had been freshly installed, if a little stark and unwelcoming, when she’d taken over the guest house. She’d proceeded to put her own stamp on it, installing lights in the hot-tub area, around the trunks of the apple tree and along the veranda. In these northern climes, with frequent frosts and the possibility of snow from November to April, there was no place for the tender plants she’d nurtured in the sunny patio behind the Stratford shop. However, she’d found some hardy potted shrubs from the garden centre and had threaded fairy lights through the leaves. Even if guests wouldn’t be sitting on the terrace, they could use the hot tub or enjoy the sight of the twinkling garden from inside.

She’d also picked up several LED signs in a bargain shop a few weeks back. No one wanted pink and lime-green signs declaring Cocktails and Tropical Vibes . There were major advantages to shopping out of season.

A rogue thought entered Sophie’s head: of her and Brody in the hot tub. Alone. Sipping cocktails and wearing not a lot …

Vee soon sloshed a bucket of cold water over that thought. ‘Penny for them?’

‘What?’ Sophie said. ‘I was – er – just checking everything was in hand.’

‘Chill. It looks fantastic,’ she said. ‘You know, if you weren’t fully booked, I might check myself in and tell Kev and the kids I’m escaping for Christmas myself. I came out to tell you I’m done, and I’m off to pick the kids up. Have a good time tonight.’ She raised a cheeky eyebrow. ‘Try to behave in front of the Bannerdale royalty.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Sophie promised, laughing even though a flutter of nerves had already taken flight in her stomach. She wasn’t sure whether they’d been set off by the thought of having to survive a Christmas party or the idea of spending another evening with Brody.

At seven-ten Sophie walked across the field from Sunnyside to Felltop Farm, with her torch. As soon as she reached the gate into the stable yard she turned off the beam, because every downstairs window in the house was lit up, and the sound of music and conversation was spilling out into the yard. The normally quiet farmhouse had come alive.

The back door to the boot-room was open. Although she’d had conversations with Brody out in the yard – usually when they’d bumped into each other while they were both out walking – she’d never been inside the old house itself. She really ought to go up to the front door and knock, like every other guest, yet it felt strange when the rear door was open and she could slip in there with less fuss.

Harold solved her dilemma, barking loudly and bounding up to her. She laughed when she saw his red bow tie. A moment later Brody himself emerged and met her halfway to the door.

‘Oh, hello there!’ The surprise in his voice; perhaps he hadn’t expected her to actually come. Harold woofed again in greeting.

‘Hi. I – took a shortcut, but wasn’t sure if I should use the front door.’

‘Back door is fine for friends,’ he said, then pushed a lock of hair sheepishly off his face. ‘Bugger! You’ve never actually been inside, have you?’

Sophie could have replied that she’d never been invited, and realised once again that they’d only been acquaintances until a few days previously. She felt her cheeks heat up as she shook her head. It was a good job it wasn’t daylight, so Brody couldn’t see her blushing like a teenager.

‘Anyway, come in,’ he went on. ‘The party’s just getting into the swing of things. If you can call it swinging, with the vicar and Brian from the Traders’ Association here – not swinging in the sense of people hooking up. It’s not that kind of party … Argh! Please, ignore me. It’s already been a long day.’

‘I’ll try to banish that image!’ Sophie said, with a giggle at the thought of the strait-laced, fussy Brian and the vicar picking keys out of a bowl. ‘And I still think I ought to have brought wine,’ she said awkwardly, feeling rude for not bringing anything.

‘There’s plenty inside, and Mum and her friend have just brought the sausage rolls out of the oven, so your timing couldn’t be better. The caterers seem to have supplied enough food to feed the whole of Bannerdale.’

‘Sounds good. I didn’t have any dinner.’

‘Wise choice. We need all the mouths we can feed.’

Brody ushered her through a boot-room stacked with coats, hats, wellies, umbrellas and other paraphernalia. He opened a door onto a blast of heat and savoury aromas. The kitchen was huge, twice the size of the one at Sunnyside. There was a range cooker, a modern electric oven and a large, scrubbed oak table that was covered in platters of canapés, sausage rolls and mini-sandwiches.

Sophie spotted four other doors leading off the kitchen, one of which was open and looked like a pantry full of jars and pans.

Several women she didn’t recognise bustled in and out, picking up trays of food. They were all in sparkly tops and satin jumpsuits and clearly hadn’t walked through a field to reach the farm, like she had. They were so intent on collecting the food that they didn’t seem to have noticed her and Brody.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Brody offered, moving to a corner of the kitchen stocked with bottles and cans. ‘Wine? Fizz? Beer?’

‘Fizz, please, if there’s one open,’ she said.

Brody picked up a bottle of prosecco, found a flute and filled it.

‘Thanks,’ Sophie replied, taking a sip while observing the scene.

Yet another woman in heels and satin palazzo pants walked in. ‘Martina! Louise is asking if we can put another tray of sausage rolls in the oven. They need warming through!’

‘No one likes a lukewarm sausage roll …’ Brody whispered to Sophie while opening a bottle of lager.

‘Oh no,’ she said, suppressing another giggle. ‘I – er – hadn’t realised it was quite so formal. The dress code, I mean.’

‘It’s not,’ Brody assured her. ‘Mum tells everyone “smart casual”, but that can mean anything. You look great.’

Sophie looked down at her best jeans, smart jumper and boots, which were admittedly a little muddy after the short walk. ‘Thanks.’ She could have said the same to Brody, who was in chunky boots, black jeans and a thick checked shirt, open to reveal a grey T-shirt.

‘Shall we go into the sitting room? That’s where the main action is. I’d be happy to hide out in the kitchen all evening, but I ought to do my duty and introduce you.’

Sophie was amused that Brody had at least three reception rooms to host parties in. He led the way down a corridor that had so many doors off it, Sophie lost count. At the end was a room where the volume of noise and music had swollen to a degree where she couldn’t hear what he was saying to her. Her pulse beat faster. There was a Christmas mix-tape on, the same sort of thing she’d endured in supermarkets and shops for a month, and for a second it took her back to that moment when she’d opened the door to her stockroom.

She’d survived the lantern parade, but this party was a different proposition: a Christmas social occasion that she couldn’t bail out of very easily. Part of her didn’t care what people thought of her, but there were bound to be more questions about her unusual approach to Christmas. There was no way she was going to air her private life to a bunch of strangers, so she’d simply have to smile, make a joke of it and change the subject.

The sitting room was spacious enough for three enormous velvet sofas and an inglenook fireplace with a blackened beam. There also seemed to be numerous nooks and corners lit by lamps or decorated with copper jugs of holly and spruce. With the fire glowing and at least two dozen people chatting, guffawing and drinking, it was very warm. The ladies’ sequinned outfits shimmered like Santa’s grotto, and while several of the men sported garish Santa jumpers, most were in smart jackets and two were in black tie. Even the vicar wore a velvet jacket over his shirt and dog collar.

Sophie felt decidedly underdressed and hoped she wouldn’t tread mud into the rugs that covered most of the oak floorboards, even though they were well worn and slightly tatty already.

‘Sorry. I appreciate it’s a bit full-on …’ Brody said, perhaps sensing her nerves.

As soon as she walked in, Louise McKenna spotted them, like a lioness scenting game. Or was that being unkind? Sophie thought as Louise wiggled between the guests, clearly on a mission. She was tiny, five feet at most, with toned arms and a blow-dried honey-blonde bob. Sophie couldn’t really see much resemblance to Brody. Perhaps he’d taken after his father, who she knew had died when Brody was a teenager.

‘Sophie. What a lovely surprise. I wasn’t sure you could make it.’ She moved to kiss her on the cheek.

‘I did mention I’d bumped into Sophie, who said she was coming, Mum,’ Brody reminded her.

‘Ah, of course you did.’ She smiled at Sophie. ‘Please make yourself at home. There’s acres of food and gallons of fizz.’

‘Louise!’ A woman in a purple sari called out. Sophie recognised her from the doctor’s, where she worked on reception. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but have you any idea where the cocktail serviettes have gone?’

‘Aren’t they on the Welsh dresser in the kitchen? I’ll come and look. It’ll be quicker than you rooting through all the drawers. Help yourself to food and drinks, or get Brody to wait on you,’ Louise said, with an apologetic grimace to Sophie before dashing out of the sitting room.

Sophie thought it must have been tough for Louise to jointly manage the family business – and support her son – on her own. No wonder she was used to multitasking and was such a whirlwind in the community.

‘I did tell Mum you were coming,’ Brody said with a sigh.

‘She seems very busy. I expect she forgot, and this must have been a lot of work to plan.’

Before Brody could utter another word, a man and a woman bounded up, reminding Sophie of Harold when he’d snaffled her guests’ breakfast.

‘Are you Sophie from Sunnyside?’

The man, whose comb-over had worked loose and was flapping over his head, snorted with laughter. ‘The one running the hotel for folk who hate Christmas?’

‘Oh, Gerald, don’t be so rude!’ his wife cried in embarrassment.

‘It’s not for people who hate Christmas, as such,’ Sophie protested.

Gerald chortled and patted Sophie on the arm, much to her horror. ‘Brave of you to venture into the festive lair, my dear.’

Sophie’s stomach tightened and she contemplated all kinds of action involving the launch of trifle and sausage rolls at his shiny pate.

Brody stepped in with a knowing smile. ‘Gerald, how are you and, more importantly, how’s Winston? I hope you’ve been keeping him off the steak and chips. You know we agreed it was contributing to his weight issues, and Labradors find it hard to resist a treat.’

His wife gasped. ‘Gerald! You promised not to give Winston any more leftovers! No wonder he’s not getting any slimmer and is costing us a fortune in vet’s bills. Not that your prices are unfair – unlike some vets – Brody,’ she added hastily.

Brody ushered Sophie away from the couple while Gerald’s wife was still berating him, glad that his plan had done the trick. ‘Come on,’ he whispered to Sophie. ‘I have an urgent need for you to help me with something completely unimportant.’