Page 1 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
Chapter 1
Myheelsclickacrossthe cobbles towards the manor, its grey stone floodlit against a sullen winter sky. The money on show doesn’t rattle me. I’m a girl from a nothing-special town in the arse end of Scotland, but in corporate law I move in circles where clients’ homes are literal castles. Besides, the owners here remember their roots; I won’t need my posh-people schmooze. What’s got me on edge is that I’m late—work, of course—and I’m pissed it’s chased me here. Still, some of my favourite people in the world are inside, and I’m not letting my job ruin this week with them. As I climb the steps, my smartwatch buzzes with another email. I ignore it. For now.
An enormous Christmas wreath sits centred on the imposing wooden door. My fingertips brush pine boughs twisted with red velvet ribbon, their scent drifting in the cool air. As I grip the brass knocker, a scrabble of paws and hurried footsteps swells from inside. The door flies open, and Haley tumbles to meet me, arms as wide as her smile, three large dogs bouncing at her heels.
“Rachel, at last! I was starting to worry.”
She pulls me inside, folding me into her like I’m one of her precious Christmas ornaments and she’s the protective tissue. The dogs arrive in a flurry of fur, skittering feet tapping out a welcome as they dance around us, all wiggling joy.
The chunky orange dog, Tully, butts at my calves, the cold damp of her nose seeping through my tights. Mularkey, more athletic, springs up and manages a decent pirouette for a dog of her age. Her pale husky-blue eyes, almost level with mine, sparkle with mischief, though she keeps a polite gap between us. Just as well. I don’t need hooky claws snagging my favourite navy wool suit.
The third dog, Kona, ducks and dives in the background, still puppy-like, despite his size, but with better manners than his two doggy aunties. Now at just over a year old, he’s finally grown into those massive feet, no longer clumsy even though he’s only got three legs. His caramel latte coat shines with little gold sparks under the light of the chandelier high above us.
I can’t help my spare hand reaching down to give their soft heads a few affectionate pats. I love dogs, and the sight of these three lifts me a little from the exhaustion of the two-hour drive—but not as much as my friend’s glow when she sees me, as we gather to get ready for her wedding. Only a week away now. Hard to believe how fast it’s come round.
Haley releases me from her hug, hands falling to my elbows, as she pins me with a frown.
“You know it’s after six. I really was worried.”
“I know. I know. Sorry I’m so late. The traffic was shit.”
Escaping the city on a Friday night, barrelling towards Christmas, was never going to be easy. This sprawling estate near Sarratt is technically still within Greater London, so every mile was a slog.
“And my bloody boss threw a new case file on my desk after lunch,” I grumble. “Wanted my opinion before I left for my ‘holiday’, even though she knew damn well I planned to leave at three. So it ended up being four o’clock by the time I got out of the office.”
“Well, now you can relax. Forget about all of that for a whole week.”
I don’t want to draw her attention to the laptop bag hooked over the handle of my suitcase. For the next week, I need to pretend Haley and her wedding are my only focus. She deserves that from me. But in my job, a week without work isn’t a luxury I have available right now.
There’s a partner’s seat in the law firm with my name on it. In three weeks’ time they’ll make their choice, and I’m determined to be the one. I’ve worked for years towards an opportunity like this, and I’m damned if I’m going to let it fall from my grasp. I’ve lost too much lately—namely the fiancé who somehow slipped through my fingers without me realising it was happening until the night he came home two months ago and said he was moving out.
My personal life is a disaster, but I can still make a success of my career. That’s all I have left, apart from my friends, who’ve surrounded me with love when my world unravelled.
“Let me show you your room. Get yourself into something comfy and join us downstairs. Loreena’s making cocktails.”
“I see in your case, comfy means pyjamas.” Haley’s pair of choice, Christmas-themed of course, has a pattern of wispy snowflakes on a green background that intensifies the colour of her eyes.
“What else?” She strikes a pose, one hand on hip, the other extended upwards in a ‘ta-da’ gesture. I roll my eyes, but can’t prevent a grin escaping. I adore this girl, including her crazy pyjama obsession.
“Tell me, how many sets of Christmas pyjamas do you own now?”
“Hmmm.” She pops a finger to her lip, eyes raised to the ceiling in thought, giving little nods of her head as she counts. “Maybe ten? Twelve?”
I shake my head, exhaling a laugh. “Well, I’m sorry, but it’s a ‘hell no’ to drinking cocktails in my pyjamas.”
“You could. It’s just us girls. You know everyone.” Byeveryoneshe means the other two bridesmaids, and our quirky host Loreena. Loreena and her husband Tommy are the unlikely owners of this vast manor house.
“Nope, not happening. Besides, I don’t want to risk upstaging the bride withmypyjamas. I packed my extra-pretty ones,” I tease.
Her mouth tips into a knowing smile. Haley’s been my accomplice in several bouts of retail therapy lately, propping up my sad, lonely Saturdays. Theremayhave been a little self-indulgence in the form of expensive lingerie.
The pyjama sets in my suitcase are stunning: delicate webs of silk and lace, frankly far too sexy for lounging with your girlfriends. No guy’s going to see how fucking amazing I look in them, and that’s fine. I bought them for me. To slip them on and study my reflection in the mirror and admire the lustrous fabric hugging my curves, while I think about that bastard, Pierre. To imagine his handsome face warping in regret if he saw what he’s walked away from.
“Nothing trumps Christmas PJs. You know that.” She laughs and makes a grab for my enormous suitcase.
I sling my laptop bag over one shoulder, tucking it out of sight behind my elbow. Haley and I steer the unruly suitcase between us across the chequerboard-tiled foyer. A chandelier big enough to have wandered off thePhantom of the Operaset hovers ominously above our heads. Small wall-lamps cast a warm glow over dark oak panelling that climbs halfway up the walls. The light picks out intricate floral patterns and exotic birds in the exuberant wallpaper above. The hallway tables are barely visible under Christmas arrangements so big the furniture might buckle under their weight. I breathe the scent of cinnamon and roses drifting from flickering candles dotted amongst the foliage.
A chorus of female laughter drifts from the half-open door of a lounge room. Below it, the backdrop of muted rock music throbs from somewhere deeper in the belly of this huge house. A pounding bass line, the clash of drums, and weeping guitars carry the melody. Overlaying them, two voices woven together. I’d recognise Stellar Riot’s music anywhere from the sound of those two men alone: Haley’s older brother Ollie, and the guy she’s going to marry next Saturday, Christian, belting out vocals supported by the rest of their band.
