The doorbell rang again and I looked at my watch – it was almost time for a sandwich. Suddenly I stopped dead. My heart raced. What if that was Melissa, inviting me around for a sushi lunch? Or maybe she just drank that maple and cayenne pepper diet formula all the celebrities swore by. She was so slim, I bet she never ate a bacon butty or double cheeseburger with extra large fries.
I dashed into the hallway and wished there was a mirror to check my appearance. Feeling judgy, I glanced down at my legs, squished into discount skinny jeans. At least I was wearing my new black top with a silver sequinned stiletto on the front. I sucked in my stomach. What would I say? Pretend not to know her? Or gush about her talented husband?
‘Just coming!’ I politely called, at the last minute remembering my – what did the French call it? – pièce de résistance. I couldn’t resist buying it, whilst out at the shops. I legged it back into the kitchen and grabbed a cute pink canine sweater with glitter trim off the worktop. I tore off the tag and knelt down by Groucho’s bed. ‘Good boy,’ I said and made him stand up. Well, they didn’t have it in blue, and weren’t dogs supposed to be colour blind? Wrestling his front paws, I managed to pull it on snugly and adjust the shape. ‘Aren’t you handsome?’ I cooed. Melissa probably had a Toy Poodle or Chihuahua. ‘Naughty, don’t pull back your top lip. Pink is soooo your colour.’ Feeling like Paris Hilton or Britney, I carried him (squeezed as if my arm were a vice, to be honest). Talk about ungrateful – he did his best to tug off the new outfit.
I opened the door to a wall of icy air and felt the smile drop from my face. ‘You again?’ Oops. That sounded a bit rude. Terry thought Luke was okay, so perhaps I should try to see his better side. It wasn’t his fault that he’d made me realise not all men were as thoughtful and considerate as Adam.
‘Ten out of ten.’ Luke eyed Groucho’s sweater. ‘You going to invite me in? After all, I did ring the bell this time.’
‘Can I ask what for?’ It’s not as if this Luke owned the place; he couldn’t just call by for no good reason.
‘The chandelier bulbs blew during that storm, yeah? Of course, if you’d rather fix them yourself…’
‘Erm, okay,’ I muttered. He was wearing those light cords again with a blue shirt, under his unzipped anorak. The skin on his chest (what little of it I could see) was tanned and his profile straight and solid. Yet he didn’t seem the gym bunny type, like Adam, whose muscular shape was well-defined. Luke bobbed out of view for a moment, and then came in carrying a step ladder and toolbox.
‘What’s with the jumper?’ He nodded at Groucho.
Groucho barked and I released him to the ground. He rolled on his back, paws scrabbling at his stomach.
‘Think he’s trying to tell you something.’ Without asking, Luke bent down and pulled the jumper off.
‘Why did you do that?’ Honestly, forget my good intentions. He could have at least asked first.
‘He’ll overheat indoors, let alone be the laughing stock.’ He ruffled Groucho’s head. ‘That better, mate?’
Annoyingly, the little dog ruffed.
‘He has been taken out this morning, hasn’t he?’
‘There’s no need to check up on us,’ I said stiffly. ‘We found the list of instructions. It’s not rocket science.’
‘How about a cup of tea then, Jess?’ He leant forward towards me. Once more I smelt his musky aftershave that made the word “sex” pop into my head.
‘It’s Kimmy,’ I muttered.
‘Huh?’
Arghhh! This man really was soooo annoying!
‘I might put the kettle on,’ I sniffed, ‘if you have a look at the shower in my room. It’s dripping. Or leave me a large pair of pliers and I’ll unscrew it later. I reckon the washer’s damaged.’
He stared at me for a second. ‘No. It’s okay. I’ll take a look. Where are you sleeping?’
‘At the back of the house, on the left.’
‘Lily’s room.’ His face softened. ‘She suffered from insomnia; preferred her own space so she could do her embroidery in the night, without waking up Walter.’
Luke must have known the Carmichaels well. He made them sound more like relatives than former employers.
‘Milk, no sugar, thanks Jess,’ he beamed.
I glared, turned three sixty degrees and made my way back into the kitchen. Scraping my hair back into a ponytail, I ignored his irritating whistling. I seized some flour, sugar butter, eggs, rummaged around for a sieve and mixing bowl, then grabbed the fab silicone cupcake pan Jess had bought me for my last birthday. There was nothing better for stress than beating cake batter – apart from eating it of course, once it had been baked, iced and sprinkled. Mmm.
Three quarters of an hour later, six naked cupcakes stood on a wire rack, almost cool and waiting to be dressed. I’d mixed the batter with a generous dollop of mincemeat and was just finishing off the brandy buttercream icing, which I piped on top. Then I delicately added a green marzipan holly leaf and red berry to each one. Just as well I’d subbed our expenses money to pay for my baking ingredients. I grinned to myself. This was the kitchen I’d always dreamed of. Film crews could tape my latest series here: Kimmy’s Sixty Minute Meals (I wasn’t as quick as Jamie Oliver).
‘All done,’ said a voice behind me.
I turned around and to my annoyance my cheeks burned. He’d taken off his anorak, unbuttoned his shirt a little and had rolled up the sleeves. Determined to find a distraction from his appealingly toned skin, I focused on a scab above his eyebrow.
‘Um, your cup of tea, I forgot…’
‘Let me.’ He brushed past me to wash his hands before filling the kettle. He reached for the packet of tea bags and my eyes ran over his lean back. He was lankier than Adam; looked as if he kept himself in shape without really trying.
‘How’s your head?’ I said, when the drinks were ready. We sat down at the breakfast table and he helped himself to a cupcake. Deep breaths. Must be nice, because apart from anything else I wanted to quiz him and find out why some of the bedrooms – particularly the one where I’d seen the moon-face – were locked.
‘I’ll live.’ Luke shrugged. ‘You not having one?’
‘It’s lunch time.’
‘But you might have poisoned it; perhaps you still think I’m the Harpenden Ripper.’ He took a knife out of a nearby drawer and cut the cake into four. He offered me a quarter.
‘Thanks.’ Why did I say that? After all, I was the host and he was the guest. Although nothing made me happier than watching someone stuff their face with my cake. It made me feel like I’d won the lottery or magically fitted into a size ten.
‘Not bad.’ Crumbs fell from his mouth and I felt an inexplicable urge to run my finger along his top lip, which was covered with the brandy buttercream icing. Not that there was any need as, seconds later, he slowly licked it off with his tongue. I touched my throat. No surprise that he didn’t use a napkin like Adam. Good, reliable, straightforward Adam, who knew my name was Kimmy and didn’t break into houses to cavort around with headless dummies.
‘Lily made amazing cakes,’ he said. ‘A rich fruity one with brandy was one of her specialities.’
I took a bite and then another. Mmm, great, the sponge was lovely