Snow Angels, Secrets and Christmas Cake (3 page)

‘Who...?’ was all I could say.

‘They’re bailiffs... say they’ve got a possessive warrant,’ Mrs J said. ‘They’ve come for the house.

It took several seconds for me to compose myself. I was frozen to the seat and all I could think was how apt that I should sit there like an ice statue in my own winter wonderland. When I tried to stand up, my legs buckled and I fell to the ground, face deep in pure wool, wall-to-wall designer carpet. After a few minutes, I came round, but remained on the floor, gazing upwards, hoping it was all a bad dream and that I’d wake soon. Sam and Gabe were above me, discussing what to do – he was offering mouth to mouth or something equally sinister, but I put my hand in the air before he got any ideas. The thought of his Monster-munch-scented breath lurching towards my lips made me want to heave, which I promptly did – all over my winter white flooring. Of course Heddon and Hall were now in full throttle, screaming, running around in a complete frenzy demanding hot water and towels.

‘She’s been sick, she’s not given birth,’ Sam said rudely, while wiping my face with what looked like one of my very expensive linen napkins, which caused me to pass out again.

Within seconds I was back, having been slapped in the face by a now hysterical Heddon, who was being comforted by Hall. I felt woozy, and with everyone’s blurred face in mine, I turned away. My eyes alighted on the Christmas tree, still magnificent, smothered in a million fairy lights and snowy white baubles... had I dreamt these last few minutes? The smell of Norwegian Pine danced in the air, but however hard I tried to pretend it was a nightmare and I was now back in my own winter wonderland, I was dragged into reality by two balding bailiffs standing over me, impatiently.

‘I don’t understand... it’s all a big mistake... isn’t it?’ I felt a tear fall down my cheek.

‘No,’ the fatter and lesser tattooed gentleman answered gruffly. ‘Ask your husband, he knows all about it, he’s been in receipt of a Warrant of Possession for several weeks now.’

‘Simon knows about this?’ I looked at them.

The fatter one nodded. ‘He’s known for weeks.’

‘Well you’ll need to speak to my husband then and he isn’t here is he. I don’t know anything about it. So would you please leave...’

‘You can’t ask them to leave,’ Sam said gently. ‘They have a Notice of Eviction, Tam...’

‘Okay... okay,’ I couldn’t think straight, I had no idea what a warrant of possession or a notice of eviction was, but they both sounded terrible – and not something one would associate with Chantray Lane. ‘Well, if you won’t leave, let’s keep this civil and discuss what exactly is going on,’ I said. ‘Mrs J, mulled wine for everyone please,’ I called. I was feigning the ‘good hostess’ trick, but really I needed alcohol in order to bring myself round, comprehend what had just happened and try to deal with it.

‘It’s not a bloody drinks party, Tamsin. This is serious,’ Sam snapped from my side. I pulled away from her and addressed the men.

‘Please don’t do anything rash just yet – I’m sure we can sort this out. My husband will be home any minute, just sit down over there... no, not on the white sofas,’ I cringed in horror at the very thought of these men’s no doubt grubby backsides on my perfect seating. ‘Use those dining chairs, and let’s talk,’ I said, with what little authority I could muster from my semi-prostrate position on the floor.

They both looked at each other and I saw a glance pass between them.

‘No point talkin, you haven’t been payin yer bills. You don’t need to give out fancy wine to find that out,’ Gabe said, rudely, as he and Sam helped me to my feet.

‘Oh I’m so sorry. I should have spoken to you first, Gabe – after all, you seem to know exactly what’s happening,’ I snapped. ‘I’m offerin these men a drink because I might be about to be repossessed – but I wasn’t brought up in the fuckin gutter!’ I’d raised my voice and dropped my g and shortened my u and my hand flew to my mouth, horrified at my own outburst. Heddon and Hall gasped and everyone stood open-mouthed, even Hermione looked surprised, and it took a lot to shock my daughter.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered, sitting down, supported by Sam. ‘I just thought we all could do with a drink.’ Well, I certainly could.

‘You’ll be offering them a mince pie next,’ Gabe said, more gently this time, but just as annoying.

I didn’t dignify his comment with an answer. Looking at their broken noses and tattooed knuckles, a Patisserie a la Joyeux Noelle definitely wasn’t on their ‘to-do’ list.

‘So we are in financial trouble?’ I nodded, making it sound vaguely like a question, in the vain hope that the shorter bailiff (with a disturbingly naked lady tattoo on his arm) would say ‘no’ and this whole nightmare would be over and I’d be back to my unspoilt winter wonderland where the only thing I had to worry about was Horatio not spoiling his onesie.

He didn’t say no. He just flexed his forearm which made the lady’s breasts move.

‘Financial trouble? You could say that, love. You haven’t paid your mortgage for over a year and your husband’s neglected to make contact with the bank with regards these repayments.’

‘Oh... I see,’ I tried to appear unfazed by this, aware I had an audience and suddenly feeling very embarrassed. My brain was working ten to the dozen, hadn’t paid the mortgage for over a year, what on earth? I had no idea how this had happened, Simon was in charge of finances and he’d given no sign anything was wrong if anything he’d been working more. He was always working late into the evening and recently had even worked weekends, so I had no reason to question our finances.

This was the dirty washing my Nan always warned me about – don’t let anyone else see it, keep your business to yourself. Heddon and Hall were standing with Mrs J, mouths agape, and Jesus was glaring out from jet-lagged eyes and about two years’ worth of unwashed dyed black hair. It was like they were watching a cliff-hanger episode of Coronation Street. I wanted to die.

I should have known something was wrong – Simon had been even more stressed and grumpy of late, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I’d thought he might be having an affair, a mid-life crisis, but I never thought it would be anything like this.

I called him, sure this was all a big mistake, but it went straight to answerphone. This wasn’t like Simon, he always kept his phone on, never wanting to lose business.

I tried again and with the phone to my ear just kept looking at Sam and Gabe and Heddon and Hall. My eyes moved from one to the next seeking some kind of answer... and rested on Sam, who looked as shell-shocked as I was. ‘What do I do?’

Sam said we could stay with her for now and she asked the bailiffs basic questions I couldn’t even utter like ‘do they have to leave now?’ And to my temporary relief, as the court order had been served, we didn’t have to move out for two weeks. ‘Small mercies,’ I muttered, meeting no one’s eyes.

Hermione and Hugo said nothing – which was distressing in itself to see my two kids in shock. This whole scenario was mortifying, and as I looked at the people around me, all I could see was pity on their faces.

‘Where the hell is Simon?’ I kept saying over and over again. We’d been lucky with our property business, starting up during the property boom, buying to let, beginning with flats and ending up with large office blocks, penthouse apartments. Our hard work and good luck along with Simon’s business flair and contacts had got us here, but it looked like our luck and his talent for business might have just run out.

I was at a complete loss, and I kept asking Sam what I should do – a complete role reversal for us. Sam had to collect Jacob but suggested we all pack some stuff and stay with her, but I had to stay to see Simon, so she agreed she’d be back first thing and we’d work out what to do. I told everyone else it was all a huge mistake and to go home because I was absolutely fine and Simon had texted to say he was sorting it. He hadn’t. I lied because I was embarrassed and worried and didn’t know which way to turn and I didn’t need people watching me in my anguish.

Once they’d all gone and the kids (who were still in shock) were in their rooms packing, I poured another dry sherry into a crystal flute and took my seat at the kitchen bar. My mouth was dry and I was numb, but slipped into autopilot – I raised the pale liquid under the light. ‘Cheers,’ I said to no one and took a long drink. The dry, spicy warmth filled my chest and tasted vaguely of Christmas as it went down, filling me with warmth but adding to the burn of worry in my stomach. Where was Simon?

I gazed around in the silence at my beautiful kitchen and took another big sip. We’d bought the sherry on our last visit to Spain and enjoyed it, along with amazing views, at a stunning bar set high in the mountains. It was the finest sherry in the region, served chilled, bone dry and brought to life by a dish of salted almonds at our table in the sunshine. It had been a good summer, I thought, then remembered how the following day Simon had been called away to deal with a problem at work. As he packed, I’d asked if someone else could deal with the problem, but he shook his head, kissed me on the cheek and went, leaving me alone in our luxury hotel bedroom with stunning sea views and our own pool. I remember feeling terribly guilty, imagining how many people would envy me this – yet I’d never been so unhappy or so alone in my life. Like now.

I’d imagined all our troubles were behind us. Those rumours about him and a woman at his gym were as ridiculous as all the other silly stories about our marriage being a joke. As Simon had said, it was just nasty stuff put around by jealous people. Was it too much for others to believe we had all this money and a happy marriage too? It was like we weren’t allowed both, and I was determined to prove that not only was it allowed – but that we had it! It wasn’t a lie, I was happy and our marriage had survived the bumps on the road of life. I’d decided recently that fretting about Simon’s whereabouts and our future was doing me more harm than good and I was going to put all my fears and insecurities behind me and celebrate by making this Christmas even better than the last. From the tree to the food to the music and our annual party, I’d planned to work hard and make it the best. I loved my husband and wanted to make him proud of me... of us. But at this stage it seemed I didn’t even have a home to live in, let alone a house to hold a party.

‘I don’t know why you waste money every year having so-called charity events, you should give it all to charity instead,’ Sam had whined when I’d told her my plans for Christmas. ‘A carol service? A thirty-strong choir in the garden?’ she’d said like I was planning to build a bloody motorway through the front lawn.

‘It is for charity... you don’t begrudge those poor starving little children!’ I’d said.

‘Not at all. But the cost of putting a carol service on in the first place will cost a fortune. Why don’t you have a small family Christmas and just donate the money directly to the charity instead of killing the fatted calf for those poor starving little children?’

‘Who do you think I am? Bob Geldof?’ I’d snapped.

‘No – but I don’t know who
you
think you are. Your front garden isn’t St Paul’s Cathedral on Christmas Eve,’ she’d snapped back. She was always better than me in arguments was our Sam.

And here I was, no parties, no carol singers, no bloody lawn for that matter. I was just a crumpled heap, leaning on my island in my clotted cream designer kitchen, drinking last summer’s sherry and wondering what the hell was going to happen next.

Sam hadn’t got a clue. She thought my life was easy, like it was all just one lovely long lunch, but it was a constant battle. My social circle was highly competitive and if you weren’t struggling to keep your husband, you were competing with kids’ school results, party kudos and charity functions. I lived in a place where footballers’ wives mixed with regional TV royalty, and since the Salford influx from the BBC, we were positively awash with new money and WAG glamour. Everyone wanted theirs to be the glitziest evening, the sunniest garden party, the finest charity lunch.

Christmas was the most punishing. Every year it was the same, you had to have the best location, the finest food and the glitziest baubles on the biggest tree. It was relentless and fickle, you were only as good as your last Christmas canapé - and quite honestly, though I hadn’t admitted it to anyone, the mere thought of another round of bloody Christmas balls (in every sense of the word) filled me with dread. My friends would have been amazed to hear it didn’t make me happy. I gave nothing away – and people marvelled at my Christmases, which had a different theme every year. Once my ‘Victorian Christmas’ was in a double-page feature in
Cheshire Life
. ‘A bewitching Victorian-themed Christmas in the £2m home bedecked with vintage baubles and filled with a boisterous family and tinkling laughter,’ it read. The reality had been a little different. Simon had been working late at the office – again! And so I’d ‘borrowed’ Mrs J’s son for the shoot and told him to keep his back to the camera. I remember sitting there with the journalist while the photographer snapped away, thinking how it summed up my life. Everything was fake, from the feigned festive joy to the caring, present husband.

But this year I really hoped things might be different.

I’d seen less and less of Simon in recent months which he’d put down to pressure of work, but I knew it was more than that. Only the night before the bailiffs arrived I’d found him hidden in his study having a hushed conversation on the phone. He quickly clicked the phone off as I walked in and refused to tell me who he’d been speaking to. I’d had an uneasy feeling deep in the pit of my stomach and stormed straight back to our bedroom. I’d grabbed my bespoke pillows and gone to one of the spare rooms. But I couldn’t sleep and on discovering the
Vogue
December issue I’d pored over the festive gloss, turning the pages of a lavish turkey dinner, champagne served in crystal and a perfect model wife and mother presiding over it all. Despite my own faked Christmases of a photo-shopped husband and borrowed children, I couldn’t help myself and part of me still bought into the dream. I wanted to be that perfectly groomed, smooth-haired woman in her glitzy top and black velvet trousers. She was laughing, her mouth open showing perfect teeth with effortless glamour. She wasn’t insecure in her marriage and stressed about the festive season, she was comfortable with herself and sure of her husband. Those glossed lips were saying, ‘I am the best wife and mother, I make perfect canapés, cook the most golden goose and after all that I will still have enough love and libido left to delight my husband in the bedroom.’