record a jingle for the new festive advertising he had planned for House 2 Home. It was the last time she had ever joined in with singing in the office. One chorus of ‘It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas’ and Roland had turned all Louis Walsh and said she was ‘through to the next round’ – of which there was one round, the final, having to sing words that were Christmassy and all rhymed with ‘en suite’. She had felt the furthest from festive last year and had only joined the team a week prior to that appointment with Kensington FM and, back then, even a heavy laugh pained both sides of her abdomen. But Roland always took the angle that what didn’t kill you made you successful. Rach said he had once had that phrase printed on compliments slips and a tote bag…
‘No,’ Rach said, laughing as she stuffed a chocolate in her mouth and opened a second advent door.
‘The school? Because, last time I went there, one girl attacked me with an ancient, heavy Bible and three glue sticks.’
‘Shall I put you out of your misery?’
‘Please. I won’t tell my mother it was you.’ Keeley held her breath.
‘Mr Peterson’s put his house on the market again. Roland wants you to get back in there and do your re-styling stuff.’
Keeley carried on holding her breath. She could feel just about everything getting tighter. The waistband of her skirt. Her long socks inside her boots that had definitely shrunk in the tumble drier. Her heart…
‘No,’ Keeley finally said through shaky lips. ‘No, you’re winding me up. Roland said, six months ago, that even if Mr Peterson bought him all the scotch in Scotland he would never ever take him on as a client again.’
‘We-e-e-ell,’ Rach said, drawing the word out, her eyebrows going up under the rim of her Santa hat. ‘Let’s just say it could be a very dry Christmas in the Highlands.’
‘No!’ Keeley said, putting her hands into her hair and squeezing. ‘No, no, no! I can’t do it! I cannot do it!’
She really couldn’t do it. It had been too short a time to even think about stepping over the threshold of Mr Peterson’s house again. Mr Peterson’s two-bedroomed terrace, albeit on an illustrious street in the heart of Chelsea, was crammed with taxidermy animals that had all been hand-stuffed by Mr Peterson in a very dark, windowless basement room that looked more ‘torture chamber’ than it did the ‘family-room with annexe potential’ that Roland had described it as in the particulars. Six months ago, when Keeley had had to restyle it ready for viewings, she had said all the animals had to go, as did some of his rather dated (and blood-spattered) furniture. The house was professionally cleaned, contemporary furnishings were hired, but on the second viewing – a family with three-year-old twins – two beady-eyed pheasants and a mole had fallen out of the wardrobe in the master bedroom and scared everyone half to death. It seemed Mr Peterson’s commitment to selling his property didn’t stretch to giving up his dead creatures even for a few weeks. And the client was the kind of stubborn Keeley knew couldn’t be changed.
‘I’m not sure it’s up for debate if you want to get your Christmas bonus,’ Rach said, patting her shoulder.
‘I’ll forego the bonus.’ It couldn’t be that much. Roland was more frugal than Martin Lewis.
‘He’s promised no animal surprises,’ Rach added.
‘I don’t believe him.’
‘Keeley, that isn’t like you.’
‘What isn’t like me?’
‘You’re usually peace and goodwill to all men – and women – and non-binary – all year round.’
‘I’m fine,’ Keeley answered. She took her hands out of her hair and picked up the now-boiled kettle, pouring water into the mugs. She wasn’t quite fine. Her mum making such a stance about a crumpet had got to her. And the last thing she wanted over the festive period was Mr Peterson’s stinky abattoir of an abode to fix again…
‘Well, thinking of positives, your hair looks awesome,’ Rach remarked. ‘You haven’t got it wet yet though, have you?’
‘No,’ Keeley said, mixing in the coffee granules. ‘I do listen to you.’
‘So, it’s just your mum and her thinking you’re the poster girl for the Final Destination film franchise?’
Keeley couldn’t help the smile at her friend’s joke. Rach was about the only person who didn’t treat her any differently to how she had before. When she’d got out of hospital everyone else seemed to tiptoe around her as