All Wrapped Up

by Ally Bunbury

Genres: Women's Fiction; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

It's the time of year ... to run away from your life

Holly always seems to make the wrong decisions: her career in London is going nowhere, and she's ended up engaged to a man she doesn't love.

Which is why she decides that's all going to change - starting with calling off her engagement, six weeks before their Christmas Eve wedding.

Then Holly sees an ad for what could be her dream job: helping to declutter a remote country house back home in Ireland. It's her chance to avoid all talk of weddings and the trappings of her least favourite time of year.

But when Holly arrives at the beautiful but neglected Knockboden, she discovers that Serena Harpur, the glamorous owner, is planning on renting it out as a romantic honeymoon destination in a bid to avoid financial ruin.

With Serena's handsome but moody son hanging around, dead set against his mother's plan, Holly begins to wonder if she's made yet another bad decision.

Then Serena gets a phone call that looks set to change the fate of Knockboden. Will Holly realise that maybe she has found herself in exactly the right place, at the right time of year, for the first time ever?

Praise for Ally Bunbury's novels

'The Devil Wears Prada meets Bridget Jones [in] this sparkling debut' Irish Independent

'Delicious escapism' Irish Examiner

'A sweet romance amidst the fun and often mad media world' Irish Country Magazine

Release date: October 27, 2022

Publisher: Hachette Books Ireland

Print pages: 368

Sample

Knockboden was a magnificent giant of a house, with tall windows and chimneys rising proudly towards the heavens. It had been years since Holly had been in the countryside to breathe in the damp, earthy autumnal air, witnessing the blazing woodland shades of red, yellow and orange. Over the past six weeks, this place had become her sanctuary. She’d deleted her social media apps, removed her nail polish and stopped straightening her hair.

‘Whiskey. Over. Are you there? Over.’ Lady Serena Harpur’s voice bellowed from the walkie-talkie as Holly walked past a row of garden urns, filled with exhausted grasses which had seen better days.

‘Soda. Over. I’m on my way. Over,’ she said, pressing the button.

Serena had assigned unique names to the walkie-talkies, inspired by her favourite drink. It felt like a 1950s sitcom as her voice crackled into the air, still yelling despite Holly’s previous attempts to suggest that the sound from a walkie-talkie was clearer when speaking in a normal tone.

‘Whiskey. Over. Tango, Oscar, November, India, Charlie, urgent. Over.’

‘Soda. Over. Seriously, Serena, can’t you just say tonic? Over.’

‘Whiskey. Over. Bloody tonic then. Over.’

‘Soda. Over. With you in five. Over.’

As she approached the front of the house, a pile of logs blocked the doorway. Holly looked through the front hall window; she could see Edwin Duffy hovering over the fireplace.

‘Edwin?’

She watched a pair of red hens scratching around the logs. It was anyone’s guess whether it was colder inside or outside of the house.

‘How are you, Holly?’ asked Edwin, wincing as he sidestepped the wheelbarrow in the hall and came to the door. ‘I’ve never known a girl from the city to take to wandering around in the freezing weather.’

‘The cold clears my head,’ she said, pulling the woolly hat down over the back of her neck. ‘Gets the endorphins going.’

‘Stacking this wood does it for me,’ he said, rubbing his bald head, shimmering with sweat. ‘Even if these old bones of mine are creaking, the cod liver oil my Babs has got me on seems to be working.’

Holly watched the hens standing at the hall door, wondering if they were going to venture inside.

‘Are you missing London yet?’ asked Edwin, shooing the hens out of the way.

‘Not really,’ she said, but in truth she was, and desperately so. She missed Giles. The phone calls, the Ab Fab comedy sketches he’d send to her of Patsy and Edwina knocking back the Bolly. He had always been a supporter of Holly’s friendships and encouraged her to socialise. Giles had even known that Mariah was going to be proposed to before she did. Her now husband had asked Giles to suggest Holly take her on a girls’ night out. When Mariah arrived back to her flat, the sitting room was covered in pink roses.

‘As long as you’re happy in yourself,’ said Edwin, ‘that’s all that matters. Why don’t you come in before you turn into an ice block? You’re nimble enough to climb over the wood despite the height of you. Grab hold of the architrave as you climb over. That’s it … you’re nearly there … and step carefully onto those logs … and jump.’

‘My mum always says I’m big-boned,’ she said.

‘And my mam said I was too short. Hard to win, isn’t it?’

Even in daylight, the hall was dark and there was a smell of damp rolling in over the logs.

‘Edwin, can I check something with you?’ Holly made sure the walkie-talkie was switched off before continuing.

‘Go on.’

‘Any chance you’ve been paid this month?’

‘Now, you’d be better off asking if those hens could talk.’

Holly folded her arms to ease the palpitations brewing inside her.

‘Jeepers, there’s no need to look so alarmed, love.’ Edwin leaned against the wall. ‘I’ll grant ye there have been times when it’s taken a while to get paid, but I’ll have been here fifty years come December. Started when I was sixteen.’

Holly wondered where she’d be in fifty years’ time. Maybe sitting alone, overlooking a herd of sheep, with a hairy chin and a bottle of vodka. ‘When you think of the life Lady S has had,’ said Edwin, ‘she is one-of-a-kind, she is.’

‘But doesn’t your wife mind?’

‘Babs? No, she’s delighted I’m kept busy, and she has her own busyness minding the rectory for Father Flynn.’ Edwin was the picture of contentment. ‘I join my Babs in the evenings, when the house is as she likes it. I’m here for the long haul now, Holly; it’s something I wouldn’t want to walk away from. I’ve been with her too long to go now. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘But you do actually get paid by Serena? I’ve been here for over six weeks, and she hasn’t really given me a straight answer as to when I’ll receive my salary.’

‘I get paid alright, but granted, not always like clockwork,’ he said, a little awkwardly. ‘But you’ve no cause to worry. As my old nana used to say, count your blessings and the pennies will look after themselves. It’s just the way it is, Holly.’

The door to Serena’s study was wide open, and the floor was littered with old magazines. The air smelled of hair spray and smoke.

‘There you are.’ An unlit cigarette hung from Serena’s mouth as she leaned heavily on her desk.

‘I’m not sure a stapler can get through a plastic folder,’ said Holly.

‘To hell with it then.’ Serena hurled the stapler across the desk. ‘Get me the superglue, would you?’

Holly pulled open the dresser drawer, which was stuffed to capacity with decades’ worth of promotional pens. ‘I think it’s dried out,’ she said, holding up a shrivelled tube.

‘Drat. Never mind. Did you bring the tonic?’

‘Oh no, I’m so sorry. I got distracted in the hall chatting with Edwin; he was busy filling the baskets with logs.’

Serena exhaled noisily and shot out her hand to pick up a sandwich from a chipped plate.

‘Don’t you want it, darling?’ she said, holding the sandwich over Jagger, a silky black labrador. ‘No? I can always give it to Daiquiri if you aren’t interested.’

Leaping up to retrieve his early lunch, Jagger grunted as he took a mouthful of sandwich and spat out the lettuce. Holly could have sworn she saw Daiquiri, the fat terrier beneath Serena’s desk, shudder in disgust. A smell of dog fart invaded the room.

‘How about I open a window?’ suggested Holly. ‘It’s quite stuffy, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s stuffy. That arse of a man has been on the phone, again.’

‘Which one?’ asked Holly, pushing up a sash window and wedging an ashtray into the corner to hold up the frame.

‘The fellow who wears his tie too long.’

‘Kenneth,’ said Holly, walking over to the drinks cabinet. She found an old bottle of tonic stashed behind some dusty liqueurs. The bottle hissed its last, flat breath as she twisted open the lid. ‘Dead as a dodo. I’ll find some more in the kitchen.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Serena. She was wearing one of her trademark chunky necklaces and a thick leather belt, accentuating her ample bosom and long legs. She had held on to her looks and could still sprawl across sofas and lean against walls like a carefree teenager. ‘Flat tonic is one of the few things in life that genuinely doesn’t bother me. Pour the gin, then a splash of tonic and a drop of Angostura bitters to pink it up.’

Holly fixed the drink and passed it to Serena.

‘Aren’t you going to join me?’ Serena gave the G and T a stir with the end of her biro and smiled as she took her first sip.

‘I’d better not,’ said Holly, sitting on the club fender by the fireplace. ‘I’ve got to drive into Turpinstown for supplies and order that bottle of port for you.’

‘Thank you for remembering, Holly. This is one area in which I am organised. A round of Stilton and port on Christmas Day is my present to myself,’ Serena said, tipping the overflowing ashtray into a wastepaper bin. ‘Last year, Daly’s Wine stocked the most abysmal port and so this time I want them to import exactly the bottle I want.’

‘Who do you usually spend Christmas with?’ asked Holly, peering up at the mantelpiece and wondering if she should salute the magpie perched up there in a glass case.

‘My dogs, of course. We watch Dynasty – the original, obviously – and I dine as if I’m at the Shelbourne. It’s the one time I put a lot of effort into my cooking.’

‘Turkey?’

‘Goose,’ she said. ‘Mother always insisted on it. And what about you? Will you be with your family?’

‘Not this year.’ Holly could feel herself tensing up. ‘Isn’t it a little negative to have a single magpie in here?’

‘Certainly not. The ancients believed a magpie to be a sign of opportunity, and that little bird has given me plenty of luck over the years.’ Serena lit her cigarette and threw the match away.

‘I don’t think even the magpie would approve of you dropping a freshly lit match into the bin.’

Serena wrinkled her nose. ‘Honestly, your generation, so overly cautious about everything. You’ll give yourselves ulcers.’

Holly looked around the study. There were stacks of magazines, long-life shopping bags overflowing with letters, moth-eaten felt hats piled on a free-standing radiator and a trunk with its lid open, filled with what looked like old computer wires.

‘Now, Holly,’ said Serena, holding out her glass for a refill. ‘Tell me where we are with the computer site for Knockboden.’ She seemed unable to bring herself to use the word internet. ‘I want to start promoting our B&B for honeymooners. I still think it’s a genius idea, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ said Holly, admiring the way her boss commanded so elegantly from her desk.

‘And I do is precisely what I want people across the world to say, and then to come to Knockboden and test out the bed springs.’ Serena squeezed her eyes at Holly. ‘Why are you looking like a doubting Thomas?’

‘I think it is quite a niche market, that’s all.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Serena. ‘Romance is the one good thing which can withstand a recession and my “Knockboden Honeymoon B&B Retreat” is going to bring the lolly.’

‘You’ve added the word retreat since we last spoke.’

‘Holly, at twenty-nine years of age, do you know nothing? Lynette brought me an article from the Sunday Business Post, which said something along the lines of “the more words you include in a commercial offering, the more euro signs you can add”.’

‘Clever,’ said Holly, thinking this may in fact make quite good sense.

‘Most of all, we want the B&B venture to shut up the irritating creature that is Karl from that blasted money-lending organisation.’

‘You mean Kenneth.’

‘Karl, Ken, what does it matter? I just want him off my back.’

‘The broadband has been connected, and I’ve purchased the site knockboden.com,’ said Holly, mixing another drink. ‘But, Serena, remember, I’m here to declutter and get the bedrooms ready, not to do your online marketing?’

‘What’s that?’

‘We talked about hiring a specialist to do all the promoting.’

Serena held out her hand to receive her drink, like a child awaiting a handful of bon-bons.

‘There’s no need to be defensive, Holly. I want to bring in some lolly so that I can buy my staff pressies.’ She lit another cigarette.

‘On that note, Serena, you originally said it might take a few weeks before I get my first pay cheque.’

‘And?’

‘I’ve been here since the beginning of September. It’s now the twentieth of October.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘Really? Well that’s great.’ Holly felt instant relief. She did have savings, but Giles, so good with money, had always advised that it was better to keep them safe for a downpour, rather than a rainy day.

‘You know, Holly, once upon a time I was drenched in Chanel, and now I’m drenched in nothing but bills.’ Serena was skilled at drifting away from answering questions. ‘The thought of having to give up my most beloved bedroom to make way for bonking guests is really quite beyond the imagination.’

It was becoming clear to Holly that Serena was going to take as much managing as the house.

Tyrone Harpur watched his soon-to-be-ex-wife walk towards him. She was sexy as hell and carrying takeout from the café. He pushed his hands into his cashmere coat and raised his head to acknowledge her. The Conservatory Garden in Central Park had seemed like a sensible location to meet. There were no runners or cyclists, meaning that Kenzie wouldn’t be distracted or be a distraction. She was the ultimate flirt, which made his meeting her in person all the more perilous. Her inexplicable ability to make him change his mind – a touch, her breath, her perfume, it didn’t take much – but not this time. The sham was over.

‘Hey, you,’ she said, passing both coffees to Tyrone so she could pull her bouncy curls free from the collar of her coat. ‘You look good, darling.’ Kenzie would have kissed Tyrone full on the lips if he hadn’t offered his cheek. She was not au fait with the proper etiquette once the papers had been served.

‘How have you been?’ Tyrone took a sip of coffee, which was too sweet. Kenzie always added sugar.

‘I was surprised, obviously,’ she said, when Tyrone passed a coffee back to her. ‘I didn’t expect you to go legal so quickly.’

Butter would not melt, he thought to himself. ‘So you thought I’d just go along with you sleeping with my business partner?’

‘Business?’ she asked. ‘I thought you played squash.’ Then she laughed. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but you weren’t exactly husband of the year.’

‘Meaning?’

‘In the three years we’ve been together, not once have you remembered my birthday.’

‘I’m hopeless with dates.’

‘Yes, those too – when was the last time we actually went on one? If you want your wife to stay, you have to give your wife attention. It’s as simple as that.’ Kenzie liked to refer to herself in the third person, particularly when she’d got into trouble. ‘Sleeping with your wife is also a good tip.’

‘That’s rich,’ said Tyrone, taking the lid off the coffee cup and pouring the contents onto the grass. ‘I walked in on my wife with another man in my own bed. You have any other tips you’d like to share?’

‘How about spending less time with Carl?’

‘He’s my best friend and he’s lonely.’

‘Lonely? So was I, and you wonder why I sought out company?’

‘Don’t be so fucking insensitive. His wife died, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘Fine,’ she said, relenting. ‘I did love you, though.’ She said it in the same way she might have said she loved a jacket at a fashion show last season. ‘But there’s a part of me that would like to meet up with your first wife and compare notes.’

‘Kenzie,’ he said, ‘you know I really did love you.’

She reached out to rub the side of his face, which felt almost soothing. ‘I worry about you, honey, and I know you don’t like it when I say this, but I’m going to say—’

‘Please don’t—’

‘You have Mommy issues and I don’t think you’re going to make a decent husband until you work them out.’ Kenzie’s voice was so smooth and extravagant, she could have narrated a self-help book. ‘I’d love you to hook up with this therapist I’ve been seeing.’

For a moment he thought Kenzie was suggesting marriage counselling, but she quickly qualified herself. ‘To help you work out whatever it is that’s bugging you.’

Tyrone chose to ignore the dig.

They walked towards the entrance to Fifth Avenue. ‘Amazing to think these gates were once part of the Vanderbilts’ place, isn’t it?’ Kenzie said. Her appreciation of history had been one of the things that had made him fall for her. ‘Do you think the guy who created twenty feet of iron and bronze ever thought they’d welcome New Yorkers and tourists rather than the Vanderbilts and their friends?’

‘I think he’d have had a word with Gertrude,’ Tyrone said, without thinking.

‘Sorry?’

‘Gertrude – she was the Vanderbilt who donated the gates to Central Park. But I guess she’d be happy to know that people walking through are looking for solace in the Conservatory Garden—’

‘People like us?’

‘Sure.’ This was what made it annoying. He and Kenzie got on well; conversation had always been easy. ‘But can you imagine? Within seventy years of Commodore Vanderbilt’s death, all of the Vanderbilt homes along Fifth Avenue had been sold or levelled. There’s longevity for you.’

‘Maybe some things weren’t meant to last.’

Tyrone thought of Ireland and the formal gardens of Knockboden, which he could vaguely remember as a child: the yew walk, the wisteria pergola he used to hide behind when his parents had parties.

Kenzie brushed her arm against him. ‘You know, Tyrone, I think if you had taken the trouble to spend more time with me, we could have made it work.’

‘I suggested plenty of weekends, but between your facials and fashion shows, Kenzie, you were never around. Always too interested in following the crowd.’

‘The crowd? Are you for real, Tyrone, Mr Irish Country Gent? At least I know where I belong and I’m not pretending to be a city slicker.’

‘I’m not sure where to begin in my response,’ he said, pulling a fake smile across his face, ‘but I’m pretty sure that my therapist would say turn the other cheek.’

Kenzie pulled the lid off her coffee to scoop up the cappuccino froth. ‘I like to make the most of everything I get,’ she said, licking the tip of her finger.

‘I’m grateful for the reminder.’ Tyrone meant it. Five minutes was all it had taken to assure him that he had made the right decision. Feeling a vibration in his coat pocket, he took out his mobile phone. ‘I’m going to take this,’ he said, seeing an Irish number flashing up on the screen.

Kenzie squeezed Tyrone’s hand. ‘Take care of yourself, won’t you?’ She walked through the gates, waved her hand and within seconds a yellow cab screeched to a halt.

Tyrone watched her go, feeling regret for what he’d hoped and thought could be. He now had two failed marriages and pre-nups behind him.

‘Tyrone Harpur?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Kenneth Gates.’

‘What’s the latest?’

‘There’s no point beating around the bush,’ he said. ‘The clock is ticking on the debt relating to Lady Harpur. We have received precisely no payments to date on her loan.’

‘When did you last make contact with her?’

‘Last week, by letter, email and phone.’

‘Visit one more time, and then call me. I want her to know you mean business.’

The timing couldn’t have been more annoying. Tyrone had started a new routine with his personal trainer. That he was co-founder of an investment bank was another aspect, but one that bothered him less. He had given the past twenty years to his clients, advising on acquisitions and restructuring their finances. Increasingly Tyrone felt it was he who needed restructuring. Even when he tried, he couldn’t put his finger on what he wanted any more. His ambition had dwindled and it was a dreadful feeling. Then there was the reservation at Jean-Georges on Thursday with Carl. But maybe this divorce could be the impetus to sort all aspects of his life – including the situation with his mother.

Four p.m. November was well underway and already it was getting dark. Holly cranked the ancient Land Rover into gear, and gripping the weighty steering wheel, she felt a pang at the sight of her ring finger. This time last year, she’d had a manicure in anticipation of meeting Giles’s parents as their daughter-in-law-to-be. Instagram had been uploaded with a multitude of sparkling engagement photos, Holly with blow-dried hair and lip gloss, believing she was on the right path. But now she was travelling along a track with a grassy centre, flanked by burnt orange and crispy brown leaves in the hedgerow. It was hard to make sense as to why she’d left him, but her intuition had taken over.

On the outskirts of Turpinstown, a large banner advertised for staff to work on a Christmas tree farm. Another sign promoted ‘Homemade Puddings & Mince Pies’. The thought of decorating sent Holly into a guilty spin, thinking of her mum’s wedding plans. Giles had sent a barrage of messages during the first few weeks following the break-up. He’d offered her a room in his house, ‘no-strings attached’, for when she returned to London. His parents had wanted to know if they could make direct contact with Holly’s mother, but Giles had assured her that he’d keep the cat in the bag until Holly was ready to tell her mother that the wedding had been cancelled rather than postponed.

Holly came to a halt at a roundabout when a WhatsApp call from Mariah flashed up.

‘I’ve got you on loudspeaker,’ said Holly, balancing the phone on the dashboard, ‘and the coverage isn’t great either.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Turpinstown, trying to find my way into the village. It’s my fourth visit and I still find the roundabout confusing.’

‘Surely all roads lead to Rome?’ said Mariah, her voice confident and reassuring. She and Holly had met at Durham University, both coasting along on arts degrees. Doing the bare minimum had worked for Mariah, but Holly barely scraped a pass in her exams.

‘Not sure I can compare Turpinstown to Rome, but maybe once I visit the wine shop I’ll feel differently.’

‘Bottoms up,’ giggled Mariah. ‘Once you park, can you. . .