Page 11 of Winter Magic at Hollybrae Castle

I shrug my coat off and hang it up, although I’m still freezing from being outside and taking my coat off does nothing to help the situation. I rub my arms subconsciously, trying to get blood circulating again because I think the coastal wind has made my veins freeze solid.

Ollie notices immediately. ‘Right, the tour can wait because you look like you need a cuppa now.’ He holds the door open for me to step back into the foyer, and then inclines his head so I follow him. ‘This way to the kitchen. The fire’s going in there, so it’s warmer. Now, the most important question I’m ever going to ask my pretend wife – how do you take your tea?’

I can’t hide how much it makes me smile. ‘Oh, Ollie, if that isn’t the most seductive question a pretend husband could ever ask. Milk and one sugar, please.’

‘Same. Does it bode well that our tea preferences are the same?’ He pushes the arched door and holds it open for me to go through first.

‘It must do.’ I try not to gasp as I step into the entrance hall. Dark wood panelling covers the lower half of the walls, while the upper half is painted cream. A red carpet across the floor, a sideboard and a couple of decorative benches, and it all leads to the grandest mahogany staircase, with dark wood banisters and carved newel posts. Halfway up, the staircase splits at a small landing, and two smaller staircases lead upwards in both directions.

Ollie lifts my bag off his shoulder and leaves it with my suitcase at the foot of the stairs, and then carries on towards a wooden door at the back of the entrance hall. There are other doors too, and I want to poke my head into all of them, but he’s right about my need for a cup of tea, fast.

‘So tell me about these children you’re borrowing…’ I follow him through another door and down a bright corridor with smooth lemon-coloured walls, lit by floral wall uplighters. Even a corridor here is better decorated than flats I’ve rented in London.

His deep voice echoes in the acoustics of the corridor. ‘Rory’s ten and Maisie’s eight. You’ll meet Nancy and Hamish tomorrow, my housekeeper and groundsman, they’re a married couple and the kids are their grandchildren.’

‘Oh, you do know them then?’

‘Aye, as opposed to what, borrowing random children off the street? I don’t think that would go down too well.’

I can’t help laughing. I didn’t question him much on the video call, but it’s a relief to know he can legitimately borrow these children and I haven’t walked into some kind of kidnap scenario. ‘I’m not sure if it’s inspired or the start of a horror film.’

He lets out another unexpected laugh. ‘Me neither. But Nancy and Hamish live in a cottage on the grounds, and the kids are used to this place. I’m “Uncle Ollie” to them. Before I started my current job and I was home for the holidays, Nancy and Hamish took pity on me and had me over every Christmas. All the family know me, and the kids have spent plenty of time here when their grandparents are babysitting. They’re coming over next weekend to meet you, if that’s okay?’

‘Of course,’ I say, glad there will be a chance to meet these borrowed children and get our stories straight before the real performance begins.

‘What about you?’ Ollie asks over his shoulder as he reaches another double door and holds it open for me. ‘Am I taking you away from your family for Christmas?’

‘It’s just me and my sister and her family. We go to my mum and dad’s for Christmas dinner.’ I’m distracted from the answer by the amazing kitchen we’ve entered. ‘It’s just another day. We can have a roast dinner and an inquisition on my lack of a love life any day.’

He lets out a snort of laughter as he crosses the room to boil the kettle. ‘Maybe there’s something to be said for making up a completely fictional love life after all? I didn’t mean to take you away from your family at Christmas though. I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask on the video call.’

‘It’s fine. I’ll have a late Christmas with my parents when I get back, we don’t do anything special.’

‘Everyone’s Christmas is special in its own way though, right?’ He glances over his shoulder at me. ‘Even if it’s not big and chaotic, we all have these wee things that we only do at this time of year…’

‘I feel like you’re trying to distract me from this room. Now this is a kitchen.’

I can honestly say I’ve never seen a kitchen like this before. On one side is a woodburning fireplace filling the room with a comforting crackle, and I’m still so chilled that I go over to it and hold my hands over the warmth. Above it is a mantelpiece holding a double photo frame with two pictures of what must be Ollie’s parents. His mum, standing in front of the cooking area in this very room and wearing a tartan apron, his dad sitting on the edge of the fountain outside. The frame looks worn, as though it’s been picked up often.

The whole room is bigger than some apartments I’ve paid hundreds of pounds a month to rent. The flagstone floor is dark grey, and the walls are white tiles with a subtle floral pattern running through them. At this end, there’s an oak table with six chairs around it. On the wall opposite the hearth is a painting of what must be the Mull of Kintyre lighthouse and the view across the sea to Ireland, and at the other end of the enormous room is a cooking area. There’s a big rectangular island, and kitchen units line the lower walls, with white cupboards running around the upper walls. A shiny cooker hood above a well-used oven. A sink and draining board that looks industrial size. It’s a kitchen designed for chefs feeding a castle full of people, and the room is so long that anyone cooking in here must easily hit their step count target for the day by trekking back and forth. ‘I didn’t know kitchens like this existed.’

‘That was my mum’s doing. She loved to cook. She and Nancy would be in here for hours, while my dad and I were banned because we were sure to mess something up or nick something before it was ready.’ Ollie’s wearing slipper boots that pad across the floor as he throws two spoons into the sink and carries two mugs over. He pulls out a chair at the table for me, and then crosses back to the other side of the room again.

I sit down and wrap my chilly fingers around the mug and take a sip, hoping it will warm me from the inside out. When he comes back, he’s got two small pies on two plates, and he puts one down in front of me and then takes the seat opposite.

‘Mince pies. Nancy made these for you this morning.’

‘She… didn’t? Your housekeeper can’t be cooking for me already?’ I say in surprise as I look at the pies on the plate in front of me. Crumbly, buttery puff pastry with a sugared top, finished off with a hand-cut pastry holly leaf that’s painted green with red berries. They look like the sort of thing you’d pay a fortune for in an artisan bakery, and I can’t believe that someone would go to so much trouble for me. I spend most of my life feeling unimportant – surplus to requirements at work and an inconvenience at Mira’s house, even though she assures me I’m not. It’s a feeling that’s hard to shake.

‘When you meet Nancy, you’ll see why. Feeding people is her love language. Her words were, and I quote, “She’ll have been travelling all bloody day, who doesn’t need a fresh mince pie after that? And don’t forget to offer the whipped cream that’s in the fridge too!”’

I laugh as he mimics the voice of an older lady fond of fussing, although I wave away the offer of cream. I have no idea how I’m going to eat the flaky pastry without getting it all over myself, adding cream would make me far too much of a disaster in front of someone I’ve just met.

‘Get used to Nancy fussing over you. The more you tell her not to, the more determined she becomes.’ He takes a bite of his mince pie and then laughs at himself as the plate and half the table is immediately covered in pastry flakes. ‘I’m sorry. I was attempting to appear sophisticated, but it’s an act I can only keep up for so long. You’re living here, you’re going to see that I’m nothing more than a messy child in an adult’s body.’

I giggle at his… just his normalness. Maybe we’re not so different after all. It’s easy to be overawed by this place and assume he’s posh and cultured, but now I see the man I spoke to yesterday and that sense of camaraderie comes again. He’s as nervous as I am. I might have travelled a long way and be coming to stay in a stranger’s home, but he’s invited a stranger to stay in his home. For all he knows, I could be the axe murderer.

I pick up one of my mince pies and bite into it and laugh at the pastry snowstorm that flakes off. It really is impossible to eat one without making a mess, and it’s also impossible to hide the groan of pleasure as I realise how hungry I was. The pastry is as buttery as it looked and the fruit filling has extra orange and a hint of cinnamon in it. ‘Oh my God, that’s good.’