The Christmas Surprise
Page 33
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘There is a really disgusting nappy in that bed. With our baby in it.’
‘I know,’ said Rosie. She had decided before falling asleep the night before that she wasn’t going to push Stephen on the arm issue. He was stubborn as a mule. She wasn’t going to change his mind. And they didn’t have to decide now, did they?
She smiled at him.
‘I’ll give you a million pounds and a striptease if you’ll change it.’
‘Four million,’ said Stephen, throwing hot water from the bath on his face.
‘I am so sleepy,’ groaned Rosie. She had gone downstairs to give Apostil his bottle at four, but found it so inhospitable she had brought him upstairs to bed with her and they had all fallen asleep again, the three of them together.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Stephen, lathering up his face. ‘It’s not like we have anything really awful to do today.’
‘I am looking on the bright side,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s going to love him. Everyone loves him.’
‘Yes, everyone whose house and title he’s not inheriting loves him,’ pointed out Stephen.
‘Maybe she’ll say, “Hey, here’s a bunch of money for you I forgot we had, why not take it and let Lilian keep her house?”’
‘No chance of that,’ said Stephen. ‘She’s still saying I need to pay her back for boarding school, seeing as I didn’t use my expensive education to the full extent of my abilities.’
‘Oh,’ frowned Rosie, clambering into the scalding bath and wincing.
‘Was that it? Was that my striptease? It’s all covered in goosebumps. And what about Ap? I’m sure it’s your turn.’
‘OH!’ said Rosie. ‘I totally forgot.’
‘You forgot? You can smell him from Isitt’s farm. He smells exactly like Isitt’s farm.’
‘But I’m in now,’ pleaded Rosie. They only got one bathful of hot water a day from the very old boiler, and it didn’t stay warm for terribly long in the frigid air.
‘That was a rubbish striptease though,’ grumbled Stephen, who nonetheless grabbed the box of Pampers and went and set to. Apostil was not impressed by having his bum exposed to a cold world, and made his feelings known accordingly.
‘I’m bringing him in.’
Rosie reluctantly added some cold water to the bath so it wasn’t too hot, then reached up for the baby.
‘Hello, my sweetie.’
Apostil greeted her with his normal gummy grin, and she sat him up on her tummy and bounced him up and down till he chuckled.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now today you are going to meet your EVIL GRANDMOTHER.’
Stephen popped his head back round the door.
‘Are you going to call her that?’
‘Maleficent?’
‘Hmm. I wonder what she wants to be called.’
‘How about Beelzebub, Destroyer of Worlds?’
Mr Dog as usual was beside himself with excitement as they took the familiar uphill road to Lipton Hall. The trees in the long avenue leading to the house were white, their branches heaped with early snow; the driveway was gravelly and full of icy puddles, which the Land Rover cracked with a satisfying bounce, jiggling Apostil’s car seat in a faintly worrying fashion. All Mr Dog’s relatives lived in the great house, and he liked nothing better than tearing about with them, even though, as the runt of an extremely suspect litter, he was about a tenth of the size of most of his pure-bred cousins. He let out a couple of happy barks as they drew closer to the house, its soft yellow sandstone and rows of glittering windows (some cracked) looking magnificent. They drove as usual round the back, where there was a large yard with several outbuildings, and always some cheerful dogs roaming about.
Rosie undid Apostil’s seat belt with apprehension, as Mr Dog shot off and vanished into a furry throng. Mrs Laird, the daily, came running out with a huge grin on her face.
‘Is the little master here?’ she said.
‘He’s not a master of anything,’ said Stephen affectionately. ‘Not even his own bowels.’
Mrs Laird, who had worked for the great house all through Stephen’s lonely, unhappy childhood, took his hands in hers and gave him a thorough inspection.
‘You look well,’ she concluded, and Rosie smiled to herself. Passing Mrs Laird’s assessment was at least as important as passing Lady Lipton’s.
‘Well, come on, come on, let’s see him!’
She marched over, and peered at the little bundle.
‘At last!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Been too long since we’ve had a little one about the place. And the last one was terribly grumpy. Anyway, by the way, have you heard?’
‘Heard what?’ frowned Stephen. Their phones struggled to get a signal down in the village, and Stephen rarely bothered with his anyway, a fact, as Rosie constantly reminded him, that had once nearly split them up.
However, whatever Mrs Laird’s news was was cut off as the back door opened to reveal someone who was so like Lady Lipton – except, if it was possible, with an even more imperious demeanour – that it had to be Stephen’s older sister Pamela. She was exceptionally thin, in a way Rosie had occasionally seen in London but never in Lipton, where most people tended to acquire a comfy layer to keep out the harsher winter winds. She had Stephen’s strong jawline and forehead, which on her looked a little hard, and a completely smoothed-out face, her skin taut and shiny, which oddly made her appear older than her thirty-six years.
‘Well,’ drawled Pamela. ‘What on earth have you been up to now?’
Stephen grinned.
‘Hey, Pam. Wow, you’re looking seriously underweight. Well done.’
Pamela was wearing a tiny black miniskirt that Rosie could somehow tell was expensive, as were her tights – who knew tights could look expensive? – a black cashmere polo neck, fancy high leather boots with tassels and chains hanging off them in unusual ways, and a very peculiar half-leather, half-fur jacket. Her hair was tinted in varying shades of blonde, and even though nobody round here had seen the sun in a month and a half, she had Chanel sunglasses perched on top of her head.
Stephen hugged her, and Pamela gave a tentative smile.
‘So, I decided to come over early, you know, pitch up and see what was happening.’
‘I know,’ said Rosie. She had decided before falling asleep the night before that she wasn’t going to push Stephen on the arm issue. He was stubborn as a mule. She wasn’t going to change his mind. And they didn’t have to decide now, did they?
She smiled at him.
‘I’ll give you a million pounds and a striptease if you’ll change it.’
‘Four million,’ said Stephen, throwing hot water from the bath on his face.
‘I am so sleepy,’ groaned Rosie. She had gone downstairs to give Apostil his bottle at four, but found it so inhospitable she had brought him upstairs to bed with her and they had all fallen asleep again, the three of them together.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Stephen, lathering up his face. ‘It’s not like we have anything really awful to do today.’
‘I am looking on the bright side,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s going to love him. Everyone loves him.’
‘Yes, everyone whose house and title he’s not inheriting loves him,’ pointed out Stephen.
‘Maybe she’ll say, “Hey, here’s a bunch of money for you I forgot we had, why not take it and let Lilian keep her house?”’
‘No chance of that,’ said Stephen. ‘She’s still saying I need to pay her back for boarding school, seeing as I didn’t use my expensive education to the full extent of my abilities.’
‘Oh,’ frowned Rosie, clambering into the scalding bath and wincing.
‘Was that it? Was that my striptease? It’s all covered in goosebumps. And what about Ap? I’m sure it’s your turn.’
‘OH!’ said Rosie. ‘I totally forgot.’
‘You forgot? You can smell him from Isitt’s farm. He smells exactly like Isitt’s farm.’
‘But I’m in now,’ pleaded Rosie. They only got one bathful of hot water a day from the very old boiler, and it didn’t stay warm for terribly long in the frigid air.
‘That was a rubbish striptease though,’ grumbled Stephen, who nonetheless grabbed the box of Pampers and went and set to. Apostil was not impressed by having his bum exposed to a cold world, and made his feelings known accordingly.
‘I’m bringing him in.’
Rosie reluctantly added some cold water to the bath so it wasn’t too hot, then reached up for the baby.
‘Hello, my sweetie.’
Apostil greeted her with his normal gummy grin, and she sat him up on her tummy and bounced him up and down till he chuckled.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now today you are going to meet your EVIL GRANDMOTHER.’
Stephen popped his head back round the door.
‘Are you going to call her that?’
‘Maleficent?’
‘Hmm. I wonder what she wants to be called.’
‘How about Beelzebub, Destroyer of Worlds?’
Mr Dog as usual was beside himself with excitement as they took the familiar uphill road to Lipton Hall. The trees in the long avenue leading to the house were white, their branches heaped with early snow; the driveway was gravelly and full of icy puddles, which the Land Rover cracked with a satisfying bounce, jiggling Apostil’s car seat in a faintly worrying fashion. All Mr Dog’s relatives lived in the great house, and he liked nothing better than tearing about with them, even though, as the runt of an extremely suspect litter, he was about a tenth of the size of most of his pure-bred cousins. He let out a couple of happy barks as they drew closer to the house, its soft yellow sandstone and rows of glittering windows (some cracked) looking magnificent. They drove as usual round the back, where there was a large yard with several outbuildings, and always some cheerful dogs roaming about.
Rosie undid Apostil’s seat belt with apprehension, as Mr Dog shot off and vanished into a furry throng. Mrs Laird, the daily, came running out with a huge grin on her face.
‘Is the little master here?’ she said.
‘He’s not a master of anything,’ said Stephen affectionately. ‘Not even his own bowels.’
Mrs Laird, who had worked for the great house all through Stephen’s lonely, unhappy childhood, took his hands in hers and gave him a thorough inspection.
‘You look well,’ she concluded, and Rosie smiled to herself. Passing Mrs Laird’s assessment was at least as important as passing Lady Lipton’s.
‘Well, come on, come on, let’s see him!’
She marched over, and peered at the little bundle.
‘At last!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Been too long since we’ve had a little one about the place. And the last one was terribly grumpy. Anyway, by the way, have you heard?’
‘Heard what?’ frowned Stephen. Their phones struggled to get a signal down in the village, and Stephen rarely bothered with his anyway, a fact, as Rosie constantly reminded him, that had once nearly split them up.
However, whatever Mrs Laird’s news was was cut off as the back door opened to reveal someone who was so like Lady Lipton – except, if it was possible, with an even more imperious demeanour – that it had to be Stephen’s older sister Pamela. She was exceptionally thin, in a way Rosie had occasionally seen in London but never in Lipton, where most people tended to acquire a comfy layer to keep out the harsher winter winds. She had Stephen’s strong jawline and forehead, which on her looked a little hard, and a completely smoothed-out face, her skin taut and shiny, which oddly made her appear older than her thirty-six years.
‘Well,’ drawled Pamela. ‘What on earth have you been up to now?’
Stephen grinned.
‘Hey, Pam. Wow, you’re looking seriously underweight. Well done.’
Pamela was wearing a tiny black miniskirt that Rosie could somehow tell was expensive, as were her tights – who knew tights could look expensive? – a black cashmere polo neck, fancy high leather boots with tassels and chains hanging off them in unusual ways, and a very peculiar half-leather, half-fur jacket. Her hair was tinted in varying shades of blonde, and even though nobody round here had seen the sun in a month and a half, she had Chanel sunglasses perched on top of her head.
Stephen hugged her, and Pamela gave a tentative smile.
‘So, I decided to come over early, you know, pitch up and see what was happening.’
