Authors: Kirsty Greenwood
Anyway, I just wanted to say that everything is on track for Christmas Eve.
I’ve thought long and hard about what you said. I’m afraid it’s too late to change everything about the wedding now. You should have said something earlier - not blurted it out like that, last week. It’s your own fault.
I’m sure on the big day you will only notice Olly and not the decor which you might not like. If you don’t, then tough. You’ll just have to deal with it because I cannot face any more stress.
I have picked up your Tiara, and your shoes have arrived. They are lovely, but you’ll probably whinge about them too. There is just no pleasing some people.
All that is left to do is for you to choose a DJ as Mickey McCann who I had booked has been sent down for burglary.
I must go now as I am busy with the girls. We are playing bridge tonight, so lots to do.
From,
Your Mum.
I have never been so cold in my life. Seriously. Brrrr.
I’m trudging over to the Braithwaites’ house, and while it’s supposed to be only a five minute walk, snow fall up to my knees and a whining Dionne are doubling the time it takes to reach their house on the other side of the green.
It’s 6 PM
and the village, though mega cold, is looking spectacular. Since I was last here a mammoth Christmas tree has been erected in the centre of the green. It sparkles with crystal clear fairy lights that reflect gorgeously off the frozen pond that lies to its left. Most of the huge houses are now decked out with lights and decorations in time for Christmas. Actually, decked out is an understatement. Each stone house is festooned with holly wreaths and nativity scenes and lights in every shape size and colour. It’s truly magical.
Although it’s a Friday evening, the hazardous
weather means that most of the locals are tucked safely away, inside their houses or the pub. Warm and snug.
I’m beginning to think that that’s exactly where I should be, rather than out here, in a pair of borrowed wellies that are two sizes too big and a little sister who doesn’t know when to shut up.
“
My Uggs!
”
Dionne is squealing.
“
My poor, poor Uggs. Ruined, they are. Do you know how expensive Uggs are? I’m so sorry, darling Uggs.
”
“
No, I don’t,
”
I say stomping through the snow.
“
I appreciate you coming but you didn’t have to, you know. I’d have been all right on my own.
”
Dionne pulls her scarf a little more snugly around her neck.
“
I had to come. I can’t have you going to some old stranger’s house on your own.
”
“
It’s Barney Braithwaite, Dionne!
”
I scold.
“
He’s got a wife. And probably loads of grandkids. And he used to work for BBC Radio Two.
”
Dionne snorts.
“
Well, I can be your agent then. I don’t want them taking advantage of you on the internet and radio. And it’s not like Meg is here to help, is it?
”
“
No,
”
I shrug.
“
It’s not.
”
I haven’t seen Meg since this morning. She’s been living it up at Hobbs Manor all day. Lord knows what she’s been doing all that time. I mean, how long does it take to ‘lay down backing vocals’?
Do you know what? I bet she’s shagging Jasper Hobbs. He is her idea of a perfect man, after all. Rich and typically handsome and with a recording studio in his massive house.
I make a note to myself to tell her what Riley told me when she gets back. Not that I want to put a dampener on things if she is embarking on a brand new relationship. But I’m her friend. I should tell her everything I know. And what I know is that Jasper Hobbs doesn’t sound like a particularly nice person.
We reach the Braithwaites’ house, a beautiful chocolate box cottage with twinkling star-shaped Christmas lights in every window.
I haven’t even a chance to reach out to the gorgeous old-fashioned pewter knocker because the door is pulled open and Morag Braithwaite is standing there, red cheeked and very happy to see us.
“
Come in, come in, d
ucks!
”
she says warmly, waving us through to the living room.
“
What a darling dog!
”
She reaches into Dionne’s handbag and gives Jean-Paul Gaultier a friendly ruffle. He eagerly licks her hand in a return greeting.
“
Hi,
”
I say, noticing that she appears to have done her hair differently. The curls are a little neater and it looks like it’s been blasted with so much hairspray that five hundred high powered wind machines would struggle to shift it.
The Braithwaites’ living room is warm and cosy, full of low beams, rich colours and nooks and crannies. Christmas cards are propped up on every available surface. Brass ornaments hang off the walls and there is the most wonderful smell of cinnamon in the air.
“
Take off your shoes, lovies. I’ll put them in the airing cupboard. See if we can’t get them dry.
”
Dionne and I do as she says. I check my socks. Phew, no holes.
“
I hope you like apple pie? It’s my speciality.
”
“
Mmmm, I love apple pie!
”
I say, beaming at such hospitality.
“
Do you have vanilla ice-cream?
”
Dionne asks.
“
I like my apple pie with vanilla ice cream.
”
“
Oooh yes!
”
Morag clasps her hands together.
“
Of course, petal. Whatever you like. Oh this is exciting. It’s been a while since we’ve had any yo
ung
’
uns up here!
”
Dionne and I take a seat on the plump, pale blue sofa, while Morag bustles about pouring tea and slicing up apple pie.
“
Barney is just upstairs in our media room. Getting things ready for you.
”
Dionne sniggers at the very thought
of their being anything as high-
tech as a media room in this house.
As soon as Morag goes to the kitchen to fetch the ice cream she’s forgotten to bring in, Dionne leans over toward me and whispers,
“
Did she say media room?
”
“
Yes.
”
“
I bet
it’s, like, a tape deck and a Commodore Sixty F
our. Ha, or a gramophone!
”
“
Shhh!
”
I hiss as Morag returns with the ice cream.
“
There you go!
”
she says cheerfully, spooning some out into Dionne’s dish.
“
Enjoy!
”
We tuck in. Oh yum. This is amongst the most delicious things I’ve ever had in my mouth.
“
It’s scrumptious!
”
I say, mouth still full.
“
Mmmhmm,
”
Dionne chimes in, looking even more pleased than me.
“
Oh, it’s an old family recipe,
”
says Morag, flushed with pleasure. She drops her voice.
“
A dash of whisky in the apple sauce!
”
I nod with approval. Whisky!
“
Morag, dear! Send them up please!
”
It’s Barney, his voice coming from somewhere upstairs.
“
He’s ready!
”
Morag says.
“
Eat up now and I’ll show you girls to our media room.
”
Dionne and I scoff the remainder of our pie and follow Morag up some creaky stairs. Tons of photographs are hung up neatly above the banister. At each step Morag explains who the picture is of.
“
And that’s our granddaughter Amelia, with Barney, of course. Amelia lives in London. She's very clever. A big wig in a bank.
”
Next step.
“
And this here is our old cat, Paws. She passed three years ago.
”
Next step.
“
Here we are at our holiday apartment in Paris. We don't get to go as often as we'd like. Barney's always so busy.
”
“
And this is Barney with the editor of the Daily World. He used to work there!
”
“
Morag!
”
Comes Barneys voice.
“
Are you showing them those bloody photographs? Let them get up the stairs for chuff’s sake!
”
Morag chuckles and turns to us.
“
We best get up there, then.
”
The stair/photograph tour comes to an abrupt end as Morag leads us through a flock wallpaper decorated hallway, up a couple more steps and into cream painted door with a sign that says ‘MEDIA ROO
M. PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING’.
Morag knocks three times. Beside me Dionne giggles quietly. I nudge her and frown, though I must admit that it is a little funny.
“
You may enter!
”
Morag pushes open the door with a flourish. And oh my! It is actually a media room.
Next to me I hear Dionne gasp.
Morag smiles proudly.
“
It’s rather snazzy isn’t it, ducks?
”
“
We’re going to record
as live
. Which means that the listeners will think it’s live. But it won’t be. It will be
as live
. It will actually go on air in the morning. It gives us chance to edit things a little.
”
I’m sat on one of those leather twisty chairs at Barney’s control desk, still in shock at the fact that this room exists in this traditional cottage. There are three - three! - flat screen computer monitors lined up on a long pale curved desk, wires and headphones everywhere, and even a light on the wall flashing orange. Apparently when we’re recording, it will flash red. The walls are hung with pictures of Barney, obviously once quite a successful journalist. There’s a picture of him with Shirley Bassey. And, bloomin’ heck, one of him with Phil Collins and Cliff Richard!
Wow.
Morag is busy typing away at one end of the desk, ready to transcribe my interview on the radio for her Little Trooley blog site and Dionne is sat on a brown leather sofa on the other side of the room, texting on her phone.
“
So…
obviously I’ll be asking you some questions,
”
Barney is saying, fiddling with dials on the computer. It’s odd. He looks different in here. Like…
a mogul! It’s comforting that he obviously knows what he’s doing.
“
Please don’t ask me anything…
private,
”
I say, fingering a stray piece of wool on my cardigan. I have to make sure that this interview isn’t just another opportunity to embarrass myself, to get myself into more trouble.
“
He won’t, love,
”
Morag says kindly.
“
Of course I won’t,
”
Barney shakes his head.
“
I’ll just ask you questions about what has happened to you. And why you want to find Brian. Don’t worry, lass. It's all under control.
”
“
Okay.
”
“
And we’ll be filming the interview for YouTube, too!
”
He gestures to a top of the range camcorder propped up on a tripod and pointing directly at me.
“
Oh! Won’t that be a bit boring?
”
I ask, curious.
“
The same thing on the radio, website and on YouTube?
”
“
Of course not! The medium is the message Natalie.
”
Barney rolls his eyes.
“
Oh yes. The medium is the message, Natalie,
”
Morag agrees, nodding fervently.
“
The medium is defo the message,
”
Dionne pipes up looking knowledgeable for a brief moment.
I have absolutely no clue what that means but it's obvious that they all think I should know that the medium is the message... so I nod along like I get it and pat my hair in an attempt to get rid of any remaining snowflakes. I
am
going to be on the internet after all.