4. Winnie

CHAPTER FOUR

WINNIE

Mum: Winifred, I thought perhaps you might have rung me to thank me for my very generous gift of the sundresses. But you didn’t. You must be very busy with that job of yours.

I left the sundresses in the hall to give to you next time you visit, along with a beautiful wooden rocking horse. I saw it in the charity shop window and I think it’s just perfect for when you have kids. You will be having kids, won’t you? You only have so many years before your eggs are no longer viable. Remember all the fun things we used to do when you were little? All the craft projects and building forts and trips to the zoo? I’ll make a wonderful grandmother.

If you had the sundresses with you, you might be pregnant already.

I lie on the bed in my creaky pub room (Lilac lied – the pillows have more lumps than an elephant with chickenpox), staring at the crooked ceiling beams, contemplating the mess that is my life and wondering if the hot guy from the bar ever really existed, until sunlight streams through the flimsy net curtains.

Every time I remember that needy, wretched sound I made when his teeth scraped my neck, my face flares with shame. I thought that when I moved out of Mum’s house and got my life together, I’d never feel shame like this again. But ever since Patrick left me, it’s been living beneath my skin, flaring up whenever I dare to believe that I’m worthy of good things.

Of course a guy like that wouldn’t be interested in me. Of course he was just being kind, and I had to go and get too into it. Of course I moaned like a pornstar in front of a pub full of people. No wonder he ran off into the night.

I’m a mess .

You have to get your shit together, Winnie. You’re meeting the new client today, and they mustn’t know you’re an abject failure at life.

When I hear staff wandering around downstairs, I drag my arse out of bed and into the shower. I make liberal use of the surprisingly-fancy bottles of shampoo and body lotion from a local company called Zen and Tonic, and wrap myself in fluffy towels like an Egyptian mummy. Today is a new day, and I’m a new Winnie. I’m out of London, and I’m off to meet a new client who will think I’m absolutely wonderful, and no one will remember me as the girl who moaned in the pub.

I throw open my suitcase, admiring the neat rows of packing cubes, each one containing the components of a different colour-coordinated outfit. Yesterday’s carefully chosen ‘impress the new client’ outfit was hanging dripping wet from the curtain rail, but lucky for me, I’m Winnie Preston and I’m always prepared for any eventuality.

I pull out my backup ‘impress the client’ outfit – a pair of Max ‘Cool it with the gargoyles, dude. No one’s that goth.’

I slide from the car, seeking purchase for my trembling legs. I square my shoulders and follow Reginald to the front doors. He shoves open one of the imposing wooden slabs and wheels my suitcase inside. “Follow me, Ms. Preston.”

“Coming.” I tear my gaze from the turrets. “I was just admiring the next cover of Architectural Digest .”

“Black Crag is remarkable, but you’ll have plenty of time to explore her secrets. I don’t want to keep my lord waiting.”

As I step inside, I’m greeted by two warring sensations – the sound of Louis Armstrong’s gravelly voice blasting at top volume from somewhere deep within the castle, and the scratch of dust getting up my nose.

My client must be an older man – a quirky lord who has allowed his estate to go to rot and now needs a professional organiser to help him get on top of things. I suck in a breath as the familiar sinking sensation washes over me.

Don’t be intimidated by the ramparts and gargoyles, Winnie. You’ve dealt with this type before. The Winnie Wins System can work for anyone (except your mother).

It’s never as bad as you fear. You can do this.

It takes my eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. The entrance hall is decorated in what I’ll now forever refer to as, ‘Medieval Stabby Chic.’ Several dusty suits of armour glare at me from unseeing eyes around the perimeter of the room. Weapons cover the walls and ceiling – swords fanned out like peacock feathers, knives and spikey things arranged like works of art. Everything is covered in dust and cobwebs. The only light comes from candles flickering in dirty sconces.

Two things are out of place – an empty, dust-free plinth and square on the wall where some items had been removed recently, and a small shelf under the grand staircase. It’s stuffed with teddy bears of various sizes and states of fluffiness, each one dressed in handmade clothes – a chef, a firefighter, a plague doctor. There are more bears than space to hold them, so several are piled on the floor beneath the shelf, giving the impression of a teddy bear army storming the castle doors in a bid for freedom.

Curious.

Reginald leaves my suitcase at the foot of the stairs. “I’ll show you to your room later. Lord Valerian would like to meet you first.”

From his tone, I get the distinct impression he thinks that once I meet Lord Valerian, I won’t want to stay.

I follow Reginald to the left and along a grand corridor. At least, the corridor would be grand if it weren’t crowded with stacks of newspapers, piles of boxes, lumpy, misshapen candles sticking out of ornate iron candelabras, and display cases jammed full of what looks suspiciously like model trains. There are several more square gaps on the walls where paintings once hung.

My breathing grows shallow as a familiar dread twists in my gut. A sharp pain stabs at the left ventricle of my heart. The haphazard stacks of things, the disorder, the smell of dust and decay…it’s too much like the house I grew up in, the house I’m still desperately trying to scrub from my skin.

Please, don’t let this be what I think it is…

Reginald picks his way through the mess, showing me a path through the detritus. Beneath the piles of stuff, I see the antique furniture and gilt objects I’d expect from such a grand home, all of it hidden and neglected beneath Lord Valerian’s junk.

“My lord?” Reginald calls out.

“I’m in the green drawing room,” a faint voice calls back.

The music swells. Louis’ trumpet soars through the vaulted ceilings.

Reginald leads me down another snaking hallway. Oddly enough, this hallway has electricity. Modern lamps on either side illuminate stacks of oil paintings, more strange gaps where objects and artwork have been moved, and a pyramid of creepy porcelain doll heads. I peer into room after ornate room, each one stuffed to the brim with…stuff.

The tight sensation in my left ventricle shrinks my whole chest.

What I’ve seen so far isn’t as bad as Mum’s house. At least…not yet, but only because the castle is so large . As I inspect the piles, I sense an internal order to the chaos, the same connections between disparate things that my mother can see and I never can.

If Faye had known what waited for me at Black Crag, she’d never have accepted the job.

That’s not true, a voice niggles in my head. Faye doesn’t care what you have to do on a job if it means more money for her designer handbags and celebrity brunches.

But maybe…

…maybe I can save Black Crag.

This is going to be so much work, but already the old castle is speaking to me, whispering that beneath all the dust and grime and stuff is real treasure. Even though this place looks like a junk store had a drunken hate fuck with an Andy Warhol painting, it has a personality, a vibe, a presence . And I could be the one to bring it to light.

I can’t stop my mother from filling her house with rubbish, but this Lord Valerian called me . He wants my help.

Maybe I can save him.

Despite the dust and the dinginess and the tightness in my chest, I can’t wait to get started.

I practically skip into a gloomy room after Reginald, who bows deeply at a shadowed figure behind a large table. “My lord, may I present to you, Miss Winifred Preston, from the Clutter Queens.”

I step forward, extending my hand at the shadow. “Good evening, Lord Valerian. You can call me Winnie. You have a beautiful home, and I’m here to help you make it shine. I’m so excited to get stuck in and clean up your?—”

As the shadowy figure lifts his head from a desk covered in paints and brushes to fix me with a withering glare, my words die on my lips.

It’s him .

The stranger from last night. The one who saved me from that creep and kissed me as if he needed me to breathe. The one who made me moan like a pornstar in a crowded pub.

He’s my new boss.