Fiction: Guess What?

FRIDAY

Well, Vi, I’ll keep this short. Internet up the Castle’s in and out like a fiddler’s elbow. If they can get a mobile signal on Everest, why are the Scottish Highlands so difficult? Anyway, I promised to let you know what it’s like, so here goes.

You’ve met Miranda. Nice girl, despite the caterpillar eyebrows, and she obviously loves my Ryan. But it’s pretty clear she’d prefer a Dowager Duchess from Dulwich as her mother-in-law rather than a beautician from Bow. I guess I’m still smarting because she chose ‘Mayfair Faces’ to do her make-up on The Big Day instead of me.

The hens are making me feel as welcome as a wasp in a cheesecake. They’re all Miranda clones. Mirandas don’t talk. They shout in clipped sentences that sound like questions and every other word is ‘ like’. The only time Davinia, the maid of honour, spoke to me at the airport she actually said, ‘Dolly, do you like like Chanel or like like Shiseido?’ Given their combined education probably cost the same as a small Pacific island, I reckon their parents was robbed.

At Edinburgh, a chauffeur turned up in a white stretch limo with red leather seats and a bar. As if they hadn’t drunk enough on the way up! He had a right job fitting all their luggage in the boot. You’d think we were staying a month, not a weekend.

From the outside the castle looks like Colditz. Inside it’s basically a kilt. Miranda’s family must have shares in

They’re making me feel as welcome as a wasp in a cheesecake

tartan. A bald bloke wearing black bow tie and tails said, ‘Good to see you home again, Miss Miranda. Ladies, welcome. Her Ladyship will be down directly.’ Just like Downton bloomin’ Abbey.

Her Ladyship swept down the great oak staircase like Norma Desmond. The Mirandas sniggered when I curtsied. But Honoria, that’s what she said to call her, was just so regal. There was lots of air kissing. When it came to me, she said, ‘So pleased to meet you at last, Dolly. Mothers-in-law must stick together.’ Then she tucked her arm in mine, all cosy like, and led me into a wood-panelled dining room lined with glassy-eyed stag heads.

She sat me next to her at a table the size of my flat and asked me about Ryan’s latest restaurant in Chelsea. I thought she’d be stuckup, like the Mirandas, but when she patted my hand and said, ‘ You must be so proud,’ I felt she meant it. The Mirandas got stuck into the port while Baldy served a ‘cold collation’. Beside each plate, decorated with cock pheasants, was a list of activities Honoria suggested for our ‘entertainment’.

‘Fly-fishing, Mummy?’ said Miranda, having a good old pout. ‘Clay pigeon shooting. Really?’

‘ Yes,’ said Honoria in a steely voice. ‘I know Davinia’s planned in-house beauty treatments and wine tasting but I insist you enjoy our wonderful Scottish traditions.’

Just then one of the Mirandas piped up saying she felt ‘a bit squiffy’ and fell over on the way to the ladies’. Honoria suggested it might be time to ‘retire’. Then she winked at me. After they trooped out, we stayed up for a ‘wee dram’ and chewed the fat till after midnight. Guess what? Turns out her husband did a bunk like what mine

did. Right, time for bed. Flyfishing first thing. Love, Dolly.

BTW, I’ve got a four-poster bed trimmed with tassels and fur. It’s like sleeping in a sporran.

SATURDAY

Who’d have thought flyfishing was so much fun? And guess what! The ghillie, that’s the chap what teaches fly-fishing, said I ‘was a natural with a magnificent wrist action’. Only a couple of Mirandas made it down to breakfast before the lesson. I thought one of them was going to throw up when Baldy brought in kippers. The Bride-to-Be was a no-show. Honoria was not best pleased. In the end, it was just her and me in our wellies on the river bank. Walking back up to the castle, Honoria said Ryan was good for Miranda because, unlike previous ‘chinless wonder’ boyfriends, he had an excellent work ethic. That was a surprise. I expected she’d want her daughter to marry some Duke or whatever. I told her, he gets that from me. Being a single parent, I didn’t have a choice.

The Bride-to-Be and co did turn up for the clay pigeon shooting. They looked terrible. Skin like uncooked pastry. Eyes like two burned holes in a blanket. Honoria looked at me and raised her eyes to heaven. Of course, firing shotguns with a hangover can’t be fun. But I loved it. The smell of cordite. The feel of cold steel in my hand. And guess what? Apparently, I have excellent hand-eye coordination. Soon I was killing clay discs like a right little Clint Eastwood. At the end, Honoria actually applauded. The Mirandas didn’t.

Got to go put on my glad rags. It’s the wine tasting this evening before dinner. Honoria’s made haggis.

SUNDAY

OK. Last night. The Mirandas, made up like geishas and wearing slinky frocks, were high as eagles. Eyes like organ stops, and the noise! Like someone let a flock of parrakeets out in the library.

The sommelier, a red-haired fellow in a cummerbund, had his work cut out stopping them necking his bottles. Eventually, Honoria clapped her hands and said, ‘Girls. That’s enough.’ Reminded me of our old headmistress at East Ham Tec. He did what they call a blind tasting. Six bottles with the labels covered up and we had to guess which one was the most expensive. Guess what? I won. Turns out the girl whose favourite wine is Lambrusco has a ‘refined and sophisticated palate’. My prize was a weekend at his wine school in Edinburgh. Honoria invited me to stay up the castle again when I come up.

Right, Vi. That’s the breakfast gong. Kedgeree calls. It’s facials and massages

later today. They’ve got a beauty therapist coming in from the local salon. I’ll be comparing notes. D x

SUNDAY NIGHT

You wouldn’t believe what’s just happened. There I was sitting by the fire in the library enjoying a ‘wee cheeky sherry’ with Honoria. The squawking Mirandas were upstairs having their ‘ bespoke’ facials with the therapist. When I checked out ‘The Robbie Burns Therapy Centre’ online, it promised ‘ bespoke unctions sourced from locally foraged ingredients’. Honoria giggled when I said, ‘Let’s hope she don’t use porridge as an exfoliant.’ Just then, we heard a scream from upstairs. Davinia was leaning over the balustrade shouting, ‘come quick, Miranda’s face is melting’.

Miranda, wrapped in nothing but a towel, was lying on her bed clawing at her face. From what I could see, every visible inch of skin from forehead to feet was bonfire red.

Poor Honoria held Miranda’s hand as she thrashed about on the eiderdown. Her breath was all ragged and she whispered, ‘Do something, Mummy. My body feels like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper.’

I’d seen reactions like this before. That’s why I always keep essentials in my vanity case. I crushed antihistamines in milk and helped Miranda suck it up through a straw. Then I sponged her skin with warm water before massaging in my special calamine lotion. The Mirandas, silent for once, held hands like children until the Bride-to-Be fell asleep. I suggested we all went downstairs for a nice cup of tea.

MONDAY

Morning Vi,

I’m all packed and ready to come home. We had a lovely evening yesterday. The Mirandas were so sweet to me. And guess what? When I went to check on Miranda, she thanked me, a bit tearfully, and asked me to do her make up on The Big Day. ‘ Who needs Mayfair when I’ve got Dolly,’ she said, giving me a hug. I’m looking forward to the wedding now. Especially since Honoria asked me to go with her on an all-expensespaid cruise afterwards. A thank you for saving the day, she said.

Guess what? I said ‘yes’.

She was lying on her bed, clawing at her, every inch of skin red