Snow Angels, Secrets and Christmas Cake Read Online Free PDF Page A

for hours, the possibilities for Jesus’ whereabouts and actions being endless and hilarious.
    I poured him a mulled wine as he unpacked his equipment. I felt akin to Jesus. We were both born pleasers from the wrong side of the tracks who had somehow reinvented ourselves. I often wondered if he felt like me, like an intruder in his own glamorous life.
    Now our celebrity photographer had arrived we were ready and I marched to the top of my beautiful stairs, which were the reason we’d bought the old rectory house fifteen years earlier. The stairs came down into the centre of the open plan hallway and sitting room, sweeping in a dramatic curve. I would often sashay down them one step at a time, feeling very Bette Davis. In fact, some days I had been so bloody bored of shopping and lunching I’d stay home and go up and down my spectacular stairs again and again perfecting my walk. Arriving at the bottom I’d stand, hand on hip, and say, ‘Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.’ I loved doing that but stopped when Mrs J asked me why I kept talking to myself at the bottom of the stairs. I’d had no idea she was there, the woman was like someone from bloody MI5.
    Surveying the scene from the top of my fabulous stair-scape, I could almost taste Christmas. The air sparkled, glittering snowy white feathers glinted with diamanté on the giant tree and I had to hold my breath at the Christmas my interior design geniuses and a calming white colour palette had created.
    Jesus stood at the bottom of the stairs, Nikon in hand, a sardonic, but admiring smile on his face. ‘Go baby,’ he said. And I obliged.
    ‘Boys, you are my angels – I am in Heddon and Hall heaven,’ I announced in my best Bette Davis voice, wishing I had a glitzy cigarette holder to wave for effect.
    ‘You are an outrageous tyrant, but we love you,’ screamed Heddon, glugging the last dregs of his mulled wine before climbing the balustrade and hurling white fur and spangles in a delicious, if impromptu Christmas swag.
    ‘Brace yourself gorgeous one,’ sighed Hall, the younger of the two. ‘I’m about to mount the main fireplace, light the Christmas lights and within minutes, my darling, you will be immersed in your own, sparkling, white Christmas-scape.’
    I heard Gabe say ‘Jesus’ under his breath, and he wasn’t addressing my photographer. I gave him a withering look. He didn’t fit in – I’d only employed him for his muscle and he had no finesse. He just didn’t appreciate our mutual adoration, camp affectation and love of all things gorgeous. He’d have to go.
    I wasn’t going to allow the butch, obtuse Gabe to impair my evening, so I began my walk down the stairs, each important step bringing me a little nearer to Christmas.
    Heddon and Hall screamed and clapped as I swished and shimmied, camping it up just for them. Even Jesus had a little twinkle in his eye as he climbed the filigree banister to get me in my best light, while Sam shouted, ‘Go girl.’ How I loved being the star of my own Christmas show.
    ‘Jesus, I’m ready for my close-up,’ I said, breathlessly looking down his lens and abandoning Bette for an over-the-top Gloria Swanson.
    As I reached the bottom, my kids were giggling and blowing kisses and I blew them back as Gabe stepped in and reached out a hand to walk me to my seat. I was touched, but I wished he’d washed his hands first, one didn’t like to contemplate where they’d been, but as most of the wives on Chantray Lane had been recipients of his services, one could hazard a guess. I tried not to dwell on Gabe’s sexual proclivities and personal hygiene as he led me to my seat next to Hermione and Hugo. I held my breath; the air shimmered with expectation as Hall leaned behind the fireplace pressed the switch, and flooded the room with fairy lights.
    The whole room glittered, the tree shone and icy white baubles caught a million wintry rainbows in their facets. I was moved to tears by my