I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,8
city: dusky pink carpets, flowery walls and curtains; crocheted dolls in crinolines sat on top of each loo hiding a toilet roll, with more of that Christmas-spicy potpourri in bowls dotted around, but the effect was charming rather than vomit-inducing. The owner had taken care to provide his guests with comfort, as each room had a velvet-upholstered chair next to a table with a fan of well-read books on it, a box of pastel-coloured tissues on the dressing table with a tray of complimentary single-use toiletries, a thin notepad and pen on every bedside cabinet all bearing a line drawing of the Figgy Hollow Inn. A fourth smaller room opposite the end bedroom was filled with stocks of duvets, pillows, sheets, towels, more of those tiny soaps and bottles of shower gel and shampoo, individually-wrapped toothbrushes with a minuscule tube of toothpaste, pads, pens, notepaper, envelopes, boxes of those coloured tissues and a motherlode of toilet rolls. There might not have been anyone around, but, on the positive side, there were enough toiletries to see her through until May if things got really bad.
Bridge went back downstairs, noticing things she hadn’t seen now her brain had started to switch to full-on observant survival mode: the lights on the wall, fashioned to resemble old oil lamps, the seasoned timber beams, which were probably original, given that the ceiling was bowed in places and the walls hadn’t been built by anyone with a plumb bob. She hated that Victorian colour palette usually, of chestnuts, maroons, heavy oppressive shades, but the deep red paint on the walls worked well here with the bright white-glossed picture rails and skirting boards, maybe because it had been expertly applied and not just slapped on by an old bloke down the road who got paid in pints. The bar area wasn’t that large: twelve dark wooden square tables to serve customers seated on the motley selection of wooden chairs, upholstered benches or leather-studded wing-back armchairs. The dark brown and red carpet had seen better days but it sat quietly underfoot without drawing attention to itself, letting other features take the glory, none more so than the massive inglenook fireplace. If ever there was a fireplace suited to a visit from Santa Claus, it was this one.
There was an old stack system stereo near the Christmas tree with a cassette tape deck and a radio. She plugged it in, switched it on, twiddled a knob trying to tune it to a station that would give her some news.
‘…Met office has offered no explanation for failing to forecast the Arctic weather conditions but has issued a warning not to go outside, but to stay indoors…’
No shit, Sherlock, said Bridge to herself. She turned the radio off, thought of Luke arriving at the inn door any moment now. Just the two of them snowed in, alone together. It wouldn’t do. It really wouldn’t do at all.
Chapter 4
Bridge had been there for over an hour trying to read a dated, yellowing periodical taken from a stack of vintage magazines by the fire, when the noise of a car engine pulled her thoughts away from the running sore that was Luke Palfreyman. Outside, she could see that an impressive peacock-blue Range Rover was nosing slowly into the car park. Nice. Surprising, though. She’d imagined Luke rolling up in the vintage Aston Martin he’d always said he’d buy if he won the lottery. He might not have won millions, but he’d certainly earned them these past five years, selling his veggie burgers. She quickly reached for her bag, pulled out her mirror and refreshed her red lipstick. She’d hidden behind this same shade (Rich Bitch) for years. It didn’t go with her flame-bright hair, she knew that, but it made her look potent, in control, even if she didn’t feel it. Like now.
She gave her hair a quick brush hoping to restore it to its artificially straightened glory, but that was a hope too far. She returned her attention to the Range Rover outside and saw that there was someone sitting in the passenger seat. Surely he hadn’t brought Spanish Carmen with him. Not to discuss his divorce. That was the sort of shitty trick he would play, two against one. She felt her ire rising and prepared to do battle by summoning up her inner Boudicca.
The car drew up next to her Porsche, and the driver got out: a tall, solidly built man in his fifties, was Bridge’s rough guess, wearing a