by Emlyn Rees
‘Sure.’
‘How about drink?’ she asked. ‘Have you ever got seriously drunk?’
‘I live in a pub.’
‘Yeah, but how many times have you got smashed? I mean, totally . . . so you can’t even hardly stand up?’
‘Lots.’ He was lying. The truth was, he’d only ever been drunk a few times, and only been completely hammered the once, and that had been when his father had finally left home for good. Michael had taken a bottle of Cinzano from the cellar and had drunk it sitting on the rocks down on Hell Bay. He’d hurled the empty bottle spinning into the sea, and had then cried himself stupid and been as sick as a dog.
‘I’ve got drunk on vodka,’ she said. ‘Misha, she’s this girl I’m at school with, she snuck a whole litre bottle in from home, and me and her and this other girl, Louise, drank it all with lemonade. I couldn’t even see straight by the end.’
‘Did you get caught?’
‘We stayed out in the park until we felt better, then went back after and said we’d got lost. They believed us. They’re so fucking dumb. So long as you look like you really mean it, people will believe anything you say.’
‘Do you still hate it? School, I mean?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘What about your parents? Do you still miss them?’
‘Not really. Not any more. They obviously thought I was grown-up enough to handle it. So that’s what I did – I grew up. Or grew away from them, at least. Anyway,’ she reflected, ‘it’s not all shit. There are some pluses to being away from home.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like smoking – and getting wrecked. There’s no way I’d get away with that at home. Not with Mum. You’ve seen how much she nags my dad about his cigars. And then there are the boys, of course . . .’
‘What boys?’ He’d thought her school was all girls.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Different ones. We have these dances with the local boys’ school.’
He didn’t want to hear about other boys. He tried to change the subject.
‘I don’t like dancing too much,’ he said.
‘Have you ever kissed a girl?’
He nearly started to tell her about a girl called Elaine who he’d kissed at the September Fete in Fleet Town, only a few months ago, a girl from Sunderland, a year older than him, with a stipple of acne across her brow, who’d been pissed up on snakebite and black. He’d gone up to her and asked for a kiss for a dare, and she’d got off with him in the sunshine in the car park at the back of the Tourist Information Centre on Porthcressa Beach, while he’d fumbled unsuccessfully underneath her Radio 1 T-shirt to unclip her bra.
But he didn’t tell Taylor a thing. He didn’t tell her, because he didn’t want her to think he gave a shit about any other girl but her.
Instead, he answered: ‘No.’
And in return for his lie, she left him crushed.
‘I’ve kissed boys,’ she said, watching him closely to see how he’d react, ‘and more. This one guy, I even let him –’
A creak on the stairs cut the conversation dead. Taylor tossed her cigarette butt out of the window and pulled the window shut. She grabbed the deodorant and squirted it round the room. By the time the bedroom door squeaked open, they were both sitting on the floor, examining Taylor’s iPod.
‘Lunch is up, fellahs,’ Elliot said, sticking his head round the door. ‘What’s that smell?’
Both Taylor and Michael shrugged.
‘I’m starving,’ Michael said, ‘let’s go and eat.’
Although the plain truth was, he didn’t think he’d be able to hold down a thing. The door swung shut and Taylor slipped a strip of chewing gum into her mouth. As she bit down on it, she whispered into Michael’s ear: ‘Talk about a close call . . .’
The smell of mint would stay with him for the rest of the day.
Chapter 8
In the kitchen, Stephanie remembered what it was she most hated about Christmas: that it was always a huge anticlimax. As she let out the dirty water from the sink and shook out the metal sink sieve in the bin, she felt like a fool for ever hoping it could be anything other than intensely irritating. Being cooped up together like this for three days just wasn’t natural. She was only a couple of hours into it and already she felt like running away.
Finished with the washing up at last (Isabelle had issued firm instructions on not overloading the dishwasher), Stephanie opened the fridge to inspect the contents. As she unscrewed a jar of cranberry jelly, recoiling at the thick crust of mould inside, it struck her as typical that Isabelle had failed to clean out the fridge. Just as she’d suspected from the start, her sister-in-law’s role as a domestic goddess was all for show. It was clear that Stephanie was expected to do all the dirty work.
For example, over brunch it had been ‘decided’ that Stephanie would be stuffing the turkey for tomorrow’s lunch. Isabelle had even printed out the recipe she wanted Stephanie to use. Stephanie didn’t mind taking on this task, except that once again Isabelle had avoided anything that might compromise the perfection of her nails. Instead, Isabelle would be the one who would be serving up the turkey on her perfectly laid table and, of course, taking all the credit.
Stop it, Stephanie told herself. It didn’t matter. She shouldn’t feel like this about her family – but the forced bonhomie and cheerful togetherness that Isabelle had tried to instil since they’d arrived was grating on Stephanie’s nerves more and more. Enforced fun was never fun. Fun was meant to be spontaneous, not planned. Wasn’t that the point?
Added to which, she was still smarting from her row with Taylor. Was the child stupid? There were snowstorms raging outside, and she wanted to go out into them! What did she want to do? Give Simon hypothermia?
Stephanie used to get on so well with her niece, but now? Well now, Taylor was just arrogant and rude. She was so much tougher than she’d been before Isabelle had sent her away to school, and there was something else, too. Apart from her ridiculously contrived punky image (which, rather than provoking anyone, just made David and Elliot laugh at her behind her back), there was something mean about Taylor, even potentially dangerous. As if Taylor wanted to push any authority as far as she possibly could. Just to see what would happen. Elliot was going to have his hands full with her and no mistake.
Worse than Stephanie’s row with Taylor, however, was that she’d received virtually no back-up from David, Elliot or Isabelle. Nobody had mentioned that Stephanie was absolutely right and that the conditions outside were potentially lethal. Instead, she’d been labelled a kill-joy. Everyone else seemed entranced by the snow, as if it had some magical quality that it might lend to this so far awful Christmas – and, as if to rub in Stephanie’s failure to get on with Taylor, Isabelle was going on an all-out charm offensive with Simon and Nat.
‘I never expected that we’d get a white Christmas,’ Isabelle was saying, moving away from the window back towards the children at the large wooden table. ‘When we went skiing in Colorado last year, it was just amazing.’
‘It’s all because of global warming,’ Simon said. ‘The weather. We did it in school.’
‘Did you?’ Isabelle asked, as if it was the most interesting thing she’d ever heard.
‘It’s to do with the North Atlantic currents.’
Stephanie glanced over at Simon, who was feeding a month’s worth of chocolates from the advent calendar to the dog. ‘Not too many now, darling, or he’ll be sick.’
‘Don’t listen to your mother, Si, give him as many as you want,’ Elliot said, coming in from the hall. ‘Poor old Rufus. Dad’s got him on that horrible dry food. Where is the bloody Sellotape?’ he asked, opening and shutting all the kitchen cupboards and getting in Stephanie’s way. Irritated, Stephanie remembered now how Elliot could make something small seem like the most time-pressured important task in the world.
She knew what he was looking for: the clunky ancient tape machine that her parents had owned since the dawn of time
. In the age of throw-away plastic tape dispensers, Stephanie (and apparently Elliot) retained a unique affection for the object which was so heavy that it had once killed a mouse when Elliot had knocked it off the mahogany dresser.
‘And did you know that there’s a big chunk of ice about to drop off which will wipe out all of California?’ Simon continued.
‘Oh my, Simon, don’t scare me,’ Isabelle said. ‘I’ve got relatives there. By the way, El, did I show you that letter in the card from Bob and Mary Jo in San Diego?’
‘Er, yes,’ Elliot said, glancing at Stephanie. ‘This year, Mary Jo’s got new boobs,’ he whispered, ‘and Bob has a new station wagon.’
Stephanie smiled. She still couldn’t believe that her brother actually knew such people, let alone mixed with them.
‘Lucky them,’ Stephanie said. ‘You know this place is a total health hazard. You should have seen what I found in this fridge. Do you think Dad’s coping?’
‘He’s fine. Stop worrying,’ Elliot said.
‘What do you think Father Christmas will bring you tonight, then, Natascha?’ Isabelle said in her wide-eyed children’s television presenter mode.
Nat, who was sitting at the end of the table, drawing, was clearly terrified of Isabelle. She glanced at Stephanie for support.
‘Go on, darling. Tell Aunty Isabelle.’
‘A bike.’
‘A bike?’ Isabelle gave Stephanie a knowing smile. ‘What kind of bike?’
‘Well, no, we discussed this,’ Stephanie began, closing the fridge, ‘Father Christmas might not be able to get a bike out here to the island, because –’
‘A pink one. A Barbie one,’ Nat went on.
‘Oh, Father Christmas brings excellent bikes,’ Elliot said. ‘Do you remember the one he brought Taylor that year in London?’
‘Oh yes,’ Isabelle said, smiling fondly at Elliot. ‘It was so gorgeous. Covered in bows and glitter balloons. Maybe you’ll get one like that, Nat.’
‘Well, don’t get your hopes up too high, darling,’ Stephanie said, running her hand over Nat’s head, ‘and think of all the other nice things he might bring you.’ She joined Elliot by the door. ‘Thanks a bunch,’ she told him, under her breath.
‘What did I say?’
‘Perhaps you could explain to Nat the difference between the Father Christmas that comes to Chelsea in a Harrods delivery van and the one that comes across the water to a remote island with hand luggage. There are no bloody Barbie bikes.’
‘Oh. Sorry,’ Elliot said, but he didn’t sound sorry to Stephanie. He was looking behind her, over her shoulder. ‘Uh oh.’
‘What?’
‘That’ll be the Yuletide log, then.’
Stephanie turned to see that Rufus had relieved himself in the middle of the floor.
‘Very funny,’ Stephanie said, but she couldn’t help herself grinning at his joke. ‘Perhaps you should put a sprig of holly on it,’ she suggested.
‘And some berries.’
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Rufus!’ Isabelle screeched, jumping up from her seat, as the dog straightened up from his squat. ‘That’s gross! Oh. I’m gonna be sick. Kids, stay back. Stay back.’
‘You encouraged the chocolate eating . . .’ Stephanie said to Elliot, raising her eyebrows at him.
‘No, Steph, no,’ he said, backing away. ‘I can’t. You’ll have to –’
‘No way,’ she said. ‘He’s your dog.’
‘No he’s not. He’s related to my old dog. That doesn’t mean –’
‘You know the rules. You clean up your own shit. See ya,’ she said.
‘I’ll give you twenty quid,’ he called after her, ‘Fifty?’
But Stephanie ducked out of sight, a wry smile on her face. It would be good for her brother to have to deal with some shit for once in his over-privileged life.
Stephanie was on her way to see her father, when she found David unloading the holdall full of presents on to the dining room table, turning each gift over, as if utterly perplexed. The cheap slippery paper Stephanie had picked up at the twenty-four-hour garage the night before last looked embarrassingly shabby next to the tasteful gold embossed thick cream paper which Isabelle had used for her presents.
‘I was going to do that,’ Stephanie said. She wanted to check that all the presents had arrived intact.
‘What are all these?’ David asked, looking in a plastic bag full of little presents.
Stephanie snatched the bag and hid it back in the holdall. ‘They’re for the kids’ stockings.’
‘Well, I wasn’t supposed to know, was I?’
No, she thought. You wouldn’t have a bloody clue.
‘Nat wants a bike from Santa,’ Stephanie informed him, determined not to have a row. ‘How are we going to get around that one?’
‘She won’t care. You know what kids are like on Christmas Day. There are so many presents lying around that they don’t even know which ones are theirs, let alone have time to worry about what they didn’t get.’
‘She will care,’ Stephanie said, feeling cross that she felt so inadequate. They’d already argued about presents before they’d left home, when David had suddenly announced that he’d been shopping for the kids. Stephanie had already bought the children’s presents, but David had told her to stop being so controlling. That if he wanted to buy extra presents, then he could. Now, after all of that, he was making out that the kids wouldn’t care in any case.
There was a short pause, as she zipped up the bag.
‘So have you got a present for Isabelle and Elliot?’ David asked.
‘Of I course I have.’
‘What is it?’
Why did he need to know right now? she thought, irritated that he expected her to randomly access a section of the vast quantity of information that had been occupying her brain during the whole run-up to Christmas.
She let out a frustrated sigh.
‘It’s that one,’ she said, pointing to the box on the end of the table. She watched David go towards it, but somehow, just as he picked it up, it slipped out of his hand. The box fell on to the hearth.
‘David! For God’s sake!’
‘Calm down,’ he said, picking up the box. ‘It’s no big deal.’
‘Er . . . yes, David, it is,’ Stephanie said, snatching it off him and shaking the box. The unmistakable sound of shattered glass came from inside.
She saw his cheeks flush, but he didn’t apologise.
‘What the hell was in there?’ he asked.
‘Cut glass brandy tumblers.’
‘Cut glass? Well what do you expect?’ he said, as if the breakage was her fault. ‘After the boat ride, they were probably already broken. Way before I dropped it.’
How typical that his immediate response was to wriggle out of any responsibility, Stephanie thought.
‘It was rather a stupid present, if you ask me,’ he said.
She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t a rather stupid present. She wanted to tell him that she’d bought the glasses because they would actually make a rather nice present, considering that Elliot had a penchant for brandy and Isabelle collected that exact design of cut glass and would be delighted with the gift. But looking at David now, Stephanie didn’t bother. Instead, she threw the box down on the table and gripped her fringe in her hand. She must not lose control, she thought, even though she felt her chest tightening with anxiety. She must not allow this to escalate into a full-blown argument, because if it did, she didn’t know where it would end.
David planted his hands on his hips.
‘So? What do we do now?’ he asked. ‘Was that all you got them?’
‘What do you mean all I got them? They cost a fortune.’
‘But two glasses . . . it’s not very big, is it? It doesn’t look like much.’
Stephanie stared at him. Was their worthiness now to be measured by the proportion of space under the tree their Christmas present occupied? What exactly did he think was big enough? A set
of golf clubs? Monogrammed luggage?
‘We’ll just have to give them the present that I bought for the kids to give them,’ Stephanie said.
‘What did you get?’
‘I don’t know. Pot pourri, or something. It’s there.’ She pointed to the pile under the Christmas tree, as she ripped off the label from the box of smashed glass.
‘Pot pourri?’ There was an edge of horror to his voice.
‘It’s in a nice designer glass dish thing. It’ll match their lounge.’
David searched through the pile and picked it up.
‘We can’t give them just that,’ he said. ‘It’s miserly.’
Stephanie stared at him. They wouldn’t have to if David hadn’t smashed the glasses. This was all his fault in the first place.
‘And anyway,’ he continued. ‘You always used to laugh about stuff like that and how pointless it is. I mean, come on . . . pot pourri? It’s not a very nice gift. Not for close relatives.’
Stephanie clicked her tongue, wondering where to start. Had he ever tried buying presents for the entire family on a budget, dragging himself around the shops after a hard day at work, sweating in the bad-tempered crowds, racking his brains for something appropriate to buy from the children? Had he suffered the intense migraine brought on by deep resentment and time-pressured indecision? And when he’d stood in the giant queue and paid for the god-damned thing with the money earmarked for his own haircut, had he then carted the said bowl of pot pourri through the freezing drizzle to the car where its sickly scent had permeated all of the other shopping?
No, actually, she didn’t think he had.
And whilst she was on the subject, had it been David who stayed up to midnight, trying to rub off the price label’s super-sticky glue residue before wrapping the bloody thing?
Er . . . No.
And had he written the loving message and signed it from his children, as if the gift were a flippant whimsical token of their affection?
No he bloody well hadn’t. So how dare he accuse her of buying a horrible gift?
