Oh God, no, not again …
Freya sat bolt upright, jolted from her nightmare by the ringing of her mobile. She was drenched in sweat even though her bedroom window was rimed with frost. That stupid, ridiculous dream … It had surfaced out of nowhere, plunging her back to one of the most humiliating days of her life.
Fumbling for her phone on the bedside table, she stabbed the green button.
‘Freya? Phew. Am I relieved you’ve answered! I’ve been trying you for ten minutes! We’ve a major crisis on our hands!’
Freya pressed the phone to her ear. ‘Another one?’ she said croakily, wishing she’d taken a glass of water to bed. Her best friend Roxanne’s hen night had gone on two hours and several drinks past what she’d intended. She was meant to be having the day off while her business partner, Mimi, took the helm of their property management company.
‘Yes. But this is serious.’ There was an edge of panic in Mimi’s voice that rang alarm bells.
She flicked on the bedside lamp and winced. ‘How s-serious?’
‘Pretty bad. I knew this freeze would spell trouble. There’s been a burst pipe at Waterfall Cottage and the guests are sitting in the office in their pyjamas. I’ve made them hot drinks but lot of their stuff has been ruined and I need to find them alternative accommodation.’
‘Poor things.’ Freya grimaced at the image of guests trying to deal with a flood on an icy December morning. It was no more than Mimi could deal with, however. ‘Have you phoned the owners and the cottage letting company to get them to find somewhere else?’ she said, wondering why her partner was in quite such a state.
‘Yes, and it’s being sorted out, but I can’t leave them until the new place is ready. We’ve also had a – um – canine-related incident in one of the posh flats by the lake. The cleaners arrived first thing to find the guests’ three miniature dachshunds must have been on the vindaloo and left a trail of destruction in their wake. The carpets are ruined.’
At least they weren’t Great Danes, thought Freya as her stomach turned over. ‘Yuk. Where are the dogs’ owners?’
‘They scarpered before dawn apparently, leaving the evidence behind.’
‘Some people are truly disgusting. Never mind. Joe will sort that. He works miracles. He could make a cow shed look like Buckingham Palace.’
‘He’s on my list to call, but there’s more, Frey. We’re two cleaners down.’
‘Two?’
‘Yeah. One’s off sick and the other’s wife has gone into labour. I’m so sorry to bother you on your day off, but this is a shitstorm. Literally.’
‘It’s OK. I’ll come in now. You find somewhere for the guests to stay and I’ll come and deal with Poomageddon. I’ll cover the cleaners and do the changeovers myself.’
‘Thank you so much, partner! Promise I’ll make it up to you.’
‘I’ll make sure you do.’ Freya swung her legs out of bed, wincing at the pulse in her temple. She hadn’t had that much to drink, but she’d been tired after a busy week at work and too busy to have dinner before heading to the cocktail bar in Bowness. She’d have to dose up on paracetamol and put a peg on her nose before she inspected the House of Doggy Doom.
She and Mimi had started Cottage Angels five years previously as a cleaning and changeover service for the many holiday cottages around the Lake District village of Bannerdale, but it had now expanded to a full-blown property management service.
With experienced cleaners in short supply, and many more homes being turned into holiday lets, their services were in great demand. Most of the owners lived miles away – sometimes abroad – so Cottage Angels were often the guests’ first port of call in emergencies.
It was demanding and relentless, but Freya adored being her own boss, and Mimi was a great business partner – if prone to the odd freak-out.
Freaking out … Freya shuddered as her nightmare came back to her in lurid detail – except it hadn’t been a nightmare when she was eight. Running out of the village church during her ‘wedding’ to Travis Marshall had made her the laughing stock of the school for years. Even now, some of the kids who’d been there – now ‘grown-ups’ – still referred to her as ‘Bolton the Bolter’.
Squashing down the memories, Freya made a gallon of coffee and a pile of toast before making calls to the owners of the flooded cottage and to Joe the carpet cleaner.
‘Thanks for the business,’ he said, sarcastically.
‘You’re welcome,’ she said cheerily. ‘I’ll meet you there at ten to see how bad it is then leave you to it.’
The previous night’s celebrations seemed a long way off as she drove from her tiny cottage to the chic lakeside apartment where the dogs had had a field day. Sleet pattered the windscreen of her van and the high fells were hidden under a blanket of cloud. She knew they would be covered with snow after the recent freeze.
Joe was waiting for her at the lakeside apartment. While Freya tracked down the culprit guests to inform them they’d be paying a hefty cleaning fee, he set to work restoring the floorcovering to pristine condition.
Like many of the properties they managed, the apartment had already been decorated for Christmas by Krystle, a professional Christmas decorator whose work had impressed Freya so much that she’d added it as an optional service for their property owners.
Krystle and her team had been busy putting up owners’ decorations, or using their own, over the past two weeks, so that come December 1st, the cottages and flats were already sparkling and festive.
Next on the agenda were two contrasting properties to be cleaned and prepared for arriving holidaymakers.
Freya stuck some Christmas tunes on the smart speaker while she made the two-bed ‘boutique’ flat sparkle enough to make the guests feel they were the first people ever to set foot in the property. She hadn’t done a house prep for a while and was reminded how hard her freelance housekeeping team had to work. Every nook and cranny had to be pristine; the kitchen had to gleam, the bathrooms furnished with sweet-smelling toiletries and fluffy towels and the beds made to five-star standard.
No real home was ever presented to such a standard – but that’s what guests expected.
She arranged the welcome tea tray with fresh coffee, local tea and Grasmere gingerbread, and added a welcome hamper with a chocolate advent calendar as a special festive touch. With one last check of the property, she dropped the keys in the door safe and headed to her final job.
Squirrel Cabin was situated up a long track on the outskirts of the village, virtually the last dwelling on the steep slopes that led up to the high fells. It was located in the grounds of a big house but had been empty for a few months while some basic work was done on its electrics and roof. It wasn’t a trendy bolthole; the furnishings were quirky cast-offs from the main house – but Freya had always had a soft spot for it.
The large wooden squirrel beside the front door had been there as long as she could remember, although it was rather battered by the Lakeland elements these days. With snow dripping off the trees behind it, and sheep grazing the fells above, the cabin looked very picturesque. Being one bedroom, and having been unoccupied, she liked it even more because it would be a relatively quick job to make it look warm and welcoming for its next guests.
A small tree had already been set up in the corner of the lounge area, trimmed with woodland creatures and rustic decorations by Krystle.
Singing along to her Christmas mix tape, Freya vacuumed and dusted, made up the bed and attempted to turn the towels into waterlilies before giving up and leaving them neatly folded on the bed.
Next she replenished the tea and coffee, and put an advent calendar and welcome hamper on the counter before adding a basket of logs next to the wood burner.
There were only the flowers to arrange now. She found a vase from under the sink and unwrapped the crimson alstroemeria stems. She was almost done and could go home, enjoy a long soak in the tub and do some planning for the festive events taking place in the village over the next few weeks.
Cottage Angels had two big community events coming up: a stall at the Bannerdale festive fair and the annual carol concert, of which they were the major sponsor that year. When she’d first started the ‘little cleaning firm’ as her ex had once referred to it, she could never have dreamed of her business playing such a key role in the life of the village.
She’d come a long way from the terrified little girl running out of the church with the whole village laughing. Or had she?
The words dried in her throat, and she gripped the vase tighter, as other memories surfaced.
Now was not the moment to dwell on the darker times since.
As Mariah Carey reached the climax of the song, Freya stuck the vase under her mouth as a mic and let rip:
‘All I want for Christmas is you-uuuuuuu!’
‘Wow. I’ve heard of a warm welcome, but this is beyond the call of duty.’
Still clutching the vase, she turned around slowly, unwilling to connect the familiar voice with its owner.
The man framed in the doorway was tall and muscular with curly brown hair, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a tripod balanced on the other.
The vase slipped from her hands with a crash that made her heart almost leap out of her chest.
Blood pumped through her limbs and her stomach flipped as she tried to process the fact that the handsome guest glaring back at her was Travis Marshall: the man she’d tried and failed to marry – twice.