by M. B. Shaw
Iris’s colour deepened to an ugly beetroot. Really, it was infuriating to have someone see through her like this, to be stripped bare. As a portrait painter, Iris was usually the one doing the stripping. She found the shift in the power dynamic between her and Dom deeply unsettling.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dom, still chuckling but sensing he might have gone too far. ‘I’m surprised, that’s all. You always seemed so poised.’
Iris was flattered. Did she seem ‘poised’? It wasn’t a word she’d ever associated with herself before.
‘But now it turns out you’re like one of those old buffers who keep dog-eared copies of Train Lovers magazine in the garden shed instead of porn and spend every Sunday up in the attic with their Hornby train set!’ Dom added with a grin.
‘I am not like an old buffer,’ Iris protested, painfully aware that she was once again sounding pompous. Drawing herself up to her full five foot two, she attempted to look as ‘poised’ as a person could hope to look while wearing a pair of Snoopy pyjamas and wellington boots and with last night’s mascara smeared, panda-like, round their eyes.
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ said Dom, nudging her good-naturedly in the ribs. ‘I’m only teasing you.’
‘Ugh. Sorry,’ said Iris, forcing a smile. ‘It’s been a rough few days.’
‘Has it?’
He was being kind, but again Iris had the uncomfortable sensation that Dom Wetherby was seeing through her. That he knew, or wanted to know, more than Iris wanted to tell him.
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ he asked, out of the blue.
‘I … well, I … I’m not sure,’ Iris stammered. Actually, she was sure. She’d finally summoned up the courage to call Ian yesterday and tell him she wouldn’t be coming home for the holidays.
‘I figured,’ was all Ian had said in response. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
Neither of them had had the energy to bring up the subject of what might happen after Christmas. Instead, they’d exchanged a few polite words and hung up as quickly as possible. It was all terribly muted and depressing.
‘I only ask because you mentioned you and your husband were separated,’ said Dom.
Did I mention that? thought Iris.
‘So I assumed there was a good chance you’d be staying here on your own.’
Iris opened her mouth to speak, but Dom cut her off.
‘And if that’s the case, then you must come to us.’
Iris paused for a moment. She was touched by the invitation. He was so sincere and sweet, underneath all the bombast, she found herself warming to him yet again. He doesn’t want me to be lonely at Christmas. For all his vanity, Dom Wetherby’s a kind man. But at the same time she really didn’t think she could face sitting through Christmas lunch with the Wetherbys en famille. She could picture it now: Billy’s sniping, Ariadne’s all-round saintliness, Dom three sheets to the wind on expensive Burgundy and Iris struggling to make small talk with Lorcan, or the grown-up son she hadn’t yet met. As kind as Dom’s offer was, this wasn’t Iris’s idea of festive fun.
‘It’s terribly nice of you to offer,’ she began, ‘but I couldn’t possibly intrude.’
‘Bollocks! No intrusion,’ Dom said robustly, his tone firm almost to the point of bullying.
‘Really, I can’t,’ said Iris. ‘I’ve already made plans here at the cottage.’
‘What plans?’ Dom challenged her. ‘Are you having friends over?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘I’m sorry, Iris,’ Dom interrupted, ‘but I can’t have you sitting here on your tod, carving up toy turkeys with your dolly friends while we’re all enjoying ourselves up at Mill House, eating Ariadne’s world-class Christmas lunch. I simply can’t do it.’
‘I do not carve up toy turkeys!’ Iris protested vehemently. ‘I’m a collector!’
‘Whatever you say.’ Dom winked at her. ‘But you’re spending the day with us and that’s final. I refuse to take no for an answer.’
* * *
‘Over my dead body!’ Undoing the clasp on her pearls, Ariadne threw them down angrily onto her dressing table. ‘What were you thinking, Dom?’
Dom Wetherby watched, distressed, as his wife continued undressing, each gesture and movement angrier than the last. Pulling on one of the old-fashioned white linen nighties she always wore and that Dom secretly hated (deeply unsexy and they made her look like a ghost), Ariadne began brushing her hair in swift, violent strokes.
After a long and difficult dinner, with Billy being his typical prickly self and obvious, unspoken tension between Marcus and Jenna, Dom and Ariadne had retired to bed. Only then, in passing, had Dom mentioned his invitation to Iris Grey this morning, to join the family for Christmas lunch. Ariadne had hit the roof.
‘I wasn’t thinking anything,’ Dom protested. ‘I felt sorry for her, that’s all. She’s on the outs with her husband. I was trying to be nice.’
‘Nice to whom?’ Ariadne snapped, her usually soft voice shearing sharply upwards into a staccato bark. ‘Not to me, that’s for sure.’
‘Billy had just harassed her! I had to do something. Anyway, I thought you liked Iris.’
‘I do!’ Ariadne yelled. ‘That has nothing to do with it.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Dom’s confusion was genuine. He would never understand women.
Ariadne spun round to face him, quivering with rage and frustration. ‘No. It bloody doesn’t! Don’t you realise that I spend my life, my entire life, playing the hostess for you? Throwing parties and dinners and drinks and shooting weekends for your friends, your business associates, to further your all-bloody-important career. The Christmas Eve party alone is weeks of work, Dom.’
‘I know. And I’m very grateful,’ said Dom. ‘You do an incredible job, my darling.’ He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off furiously.
‘Yes. I do,’ she snapped. ‘And in return I have one day – one day – that is family only. One day when I get to relax, and not play hostess, running around at your beck and call. Christmas Day is sacrosanct, Dom, and you know it is. I see so little of Marcus…’
‘Marcus,’ Dom muttered darkly. ‘Is that what this is about? You know you call the poor boy every damn day?’
‘Yes, I do know,’ Ariadne seethed. ‘And I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that I talk to Marcus because he actually listens to me?’
Dom turned away, stung.
I listen, he thought. I’m forever bloody listening. But it’s never enough. You’re never happy.
‘I can’t un-invite Iris,’ he said grumpily. ‘I’d look like a total fool.’
‘And we can’t have that, can we?’ Ariadne shot back snidely. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I’ll explain that you took leave of your senses. I’m sure she’ll understand.’
‘Oh really? And how are you “sure” of that?’ Dom asked, angry himself now. It was true that family Christmases were something of a rule. But then they’d never had a tenant staying at the cottage before. He didn’t understand why Ariadne insisted on blowing this whole thing up.
‘Because Iris is an understanding person,’ Ariadne announced confidently, fastening her long hair up into a tight, unforgiving bun. ‘As you said before, I like her.’
* * *
Through the wall, Marcus and Jenna heard the raised voices as they prepared for bed.
‘What d’you think they’re arguing about?’ asked Jenna. ‘I bet it’s Billy. Wasn’t he vile at supper, the way he cut your mother down all the time?’
‘I don’t think they’re arguing,’ said Marcus, pulling back the covers and sliding wearily into bed. ‘They never really argue.’
Jenna laughed loudly. ‘Are you mad? Your mom’s screaming like a banshee in there. Listen!’
‘I don’t want to listen,’ Marcus said, more curtly than he intended. ‘She’s animated, that’s all.’
Climbing in beside him, Jenna propped herself up on one elbow and raised
a languid eyebrow. ‘Animated?’
‘I hate it when you do this, you know,’ grumbled Marcus.
‘Do what?’ Jenna asked.
‘Psychoanalyse. Go all American on me. Next you’ll be telling me I have unresolved abandonment issues.’
‘Everyone has those.’ Jenna smiled.
‘You see?’ said Marcus.
‘What I see, again, is your absolutely pathological need to keep pretending your family is perfect,’ said Jenna, not unkindly. ‘It is beyond you to admit that your parents are fighting. Or that your brother is a class-A dick.’
Marcus rolled over uncomfortably. Jenna was right, of course, especially about Billy. His behaviour at dinner tonight had shocked Marcus, as had his appearance when they first arrived. He looked thin and ill and utterly changed, somehow. Strong feelings of both compassion and revulsion churned in Marcus’s chest every time he spoke to his brother. And yet he didn’t want to admit that things with Billy were as bad as they were. Unlike Jenna, Marcus remembered Billy as a small boy, so funny and charming and full of life. So profoundly, painfully different to his adult self. Something had gone catastrophically wrong between then and now. And whatever it was, Marcus had missed it. Admitting the extent of Billy’s problems would mean admitting his own guilt. At the same time it felt like a betrayal of the old Billy, the brother Marcus had known and loved, the brother he still missed desperately.
He kissed Jenna’s bare shoulder. ‘Let’s go to sleep. I’m wiped out.’
‘OK,’ said Jenna, stiffening.
They lay in silence as the shouts from the other side of the wall peaked and then subsided.
One storm had passed. But their own was still brewing.
* * *
Deciding to strike while the iron was hot, Ariadne set off straight after breakfast the next morning in search of Iris. She saw her out in the lane before she reached the cottage, clipping sprigs of holly berries from the hedge and putting them into a wicker trug at her feet.
Ariadne called to her.
‘You’re out early. Decorating?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Iris turned round, red-cheeked from the cold. ‘Belatedly. Your house looks so fabulous I thought the least I should do was hang a bit of holly and put some fairy lights up.’
Helping her remove a recalcitrant stem of prickly leaves and blood-red berries, Ariadne got straight to the point.
‘Listen, I’m terribly sorry, and I do hope you won’t be offended, but I’m afraid Dom made a mistake yesterday. You see, we have a strict rule, a sort of long-standing agreement between us, that Christmas Day is supposed to be family only. The party is such an enormous effort every year, you see, and I desperately need to decompress afterwards. I know Dom invited you up to the house for Christmas lunch, but—’
Iris interrupted her, holding up a hand half covered by a pair of tatty fingerless gloves. ‘Please, don’t worry at all. I completely understand.’
‘It’s nothing personal,’ Ariadne explained.
‘Honestly,’ said Iris, ‘I get it. To be perfectly frank with you, I’m relieved. It was so kind of Dom to ask me, and he was so…’ she searched around for the right word, ‘so forceful about it, I didn’t have the heart to say no.’
‘Yes. He does that,’ Ariadne said, through pursed lips.
‘The truth is, I’d actually much prefer to be by myself this year. I’m not sure I could face a long lunch making polite, festive conversation over the turkey. Is that awful?’
‘Not at all,’ said Ariadne, delighted that they seemed genuinely to be on the same page. ‘Besides, you’ll probably be festive-conversationed out after our party. I know I always am. It’s great fun, but there are so many people coming, especially this year. It’s what my children would call “full on”.’
‘Right,’ Iris said awkwardly.
This was her moment to tell Ariadne she wasn’t coming on Christmas Eve either. She’d been putting it off for ever, but now the party was a mere two days away. It didn’t help that the entire village was abuzz with gossip and anticipation about the annual Wetherby Christmas shindig. For weeks now Iris had been hearing about the paparazzi descending on Hazelford and the slew of famous folk who’d be wending their way to Hampshire.
The very idea of spending Christmas Eve mingling with an army of preening celebrities and self-important media types brought Iris out in hives. She’d come to Mill Cottage to escape London and all its artifice and pretence. Her idea of Christmas Eve in the country was carol singers and candlelight and church bells. Cattle a-lowing. Peace. Clearly with the catering vans and florists and lighting people already starting to arrive, there would be little chance of that.
Say something! a voice in Iris’s head screamed. Tell her you can’t make it.
But the only audible voice was Ariadne’s as the two women walked up the lane and crossed the stile leading to the river and Iris’s cottage.
‘Dom’s great friend Graham Feeney is coming this year. You’ll like Graham,’ Ariadne told Iris. ‘Everybody does. He’s a barrister, very successful and terrific fun.’
With a jolt, Iris realised that Ariadne was trying to set her up. Had Dom told her she was single? Or implied it? Or perhaps Ariadne had just assumed, what with Iris spending so much time at Mill Cottage alone, and now staying on for Christmas.
‘I’m sure he is. But I’m actually still married. Technically,’ Iris said, fingering her wedding ring uncomfortably.
Ariadne looked embarrassed. ‘Of course you are. How crass of me.’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Iris said quickly. ‘It was a kind thought.’
‘It’s just that Dom mentioned things were difficult for you at the moment, with your husband,’ Ariadne went on carefully. ‘Marriages can be tricky things.’
‘They can,’ Iris agreed.
‘Well, if nothing else, hopefully our party will be a distraction. And who knows, you may even get some new commissions out of it. I have a long line of friends simply dying to meet you. I’ve told them all about you doing Dom’s portrait.’
Oh God, thought Iris. She’s being so kind. There’s no way I can say no now, not without sounding churlish.
She thought back to Billy’s angry words about his mother yesterday.
‘My mother is not who she pretends to be. She’s a wicked, wicked witch.’
It seemed to Iris that Ariadne Wetherby was in fact the exact opposite of a witch. She was more like a Good Fairy, floating around on an aura of kindness and peace and goodwill.
If anyone was wicked in the Wetherby family, and not what they seemed to be, it was Billy. Having to see him again was another reason Iris dreaded Christmas Eve. But her fate was sealed.
‘We’ll see you at the party, then?’ Ariadne hugged Iris warmly as they parted ways.
‘See you then,’ said Iris.
‘And sorry again about the misunderstanding with Dom.’
* * *
Walking back to Mill House, Ariadne felt pleased with herself.
The conversation with Iris had gone well. Dom had caused a problem and Ariadne had solved it. And so the time-honoured rhythm of their marriage continued, the long ebb and flow of wrong and right, disaster and repair. It was tiring sometimes, being the one whose job it was to fix everything. But Ariadne was used to it. It was the life she had chosen, in the end.
Walking back into the warm cinnamon fug of the kitchen, it struck her forcefully how very much easier her life would be if Dom weren’t in it. More boring, certainly. And perhaps less happy. But oh, how easy! How calm!
For a second she allowed herself to fantasise about the Mill without Dom. About a life that was truly her own. But only for a second. Soon Lorcan came in needing help with his present-wrapping, and Oscar started whingeing, looking for Jenna, and the vortex of family life sucked Ariadne back into its bloody, warm, throbbing heart.
Chapter Eight
Iris watched from her tiny bedroom window as the local TV news team clambered out of their van, looking for a
suitable spot to set up their cameras. In less than an hour the first guests should start arriving for Dom and Ariadne Wetherby’s long-awaited Christmas Eve bash, and space along Mill Lane was already scarce. TV crews and print reporters competed for parking spots along the verge with wine merchants, caterers and the DJ for tonight’s event, a spotty boy of about nineteen, who seemed to have brought an army of ‘technicians’ with him, for reasons Iris couldn’t fathom, especially since Ariadne had told her that the playlist was to be carols and American Christmas music, which hardly warranted Moby or Fatboy Slim.
Word in Hazelford village was that tonight’s party was expected to be an altogether more spectacular event than last year’s, although the increased media presence probably had more to do with the fact that Dom Wetherby’s beloved Grimshaw series was coming to an end, and the entire nation was bracing itself for a tearful goodbye to its favourite detective on New Year’s Day.
In reality, it was the Grimshaw novels rather than the television series that had made Dom his fortune. The bulk of his net worth, estimated at around fifteen million pounds, had come from book sales. But it was the TV series that had turned Grimshaw’s creator into a celebrity in his own right, something close to a national treasure. Thanks to the power of television, everyone in England knew that Dom Wetherby was turning sixty next year and officially about to retire, just as they knew the ins and outs of Carl Rendcombe’s colourful love life. (Carl played the eponymous detective in the ITV series and was a regular in the gossip magazines and the Daily Mail Online. He would be at tonight’s party, along with the rest of the cast.)
If tonight’s event turned out to be Dom Wetherby’s last hurrah as a literary and TV powerhouse, then that made it newsworthy, not just in Hazelford but everywhere.
Pouring herself a second small shot of Laphroaig (Iris wasn’t typically a whisky drinker, but her nerves tonight went way beyond Rioja, and needs must), she stood in front of the mirror and tried to see her reflection with her own artist’s eye. She’d chosen an unusually understated outfit for tonight’s party, a simple grey sheath dress and shiny black boots. There was a possibility she looked a little bit like an elf – her shorter, feathered haircut might be making that worse, amping up the whole ‘pantomime boy’ thing. But at least no one could accuse her of looking like a jester, or a clown, or a lunatic, or a ‘drug-addled art teacher’, or one of the many choice insults that Ian had come up with over the years to describe Iris’s off-the-wall dress sense.
