Comfort and Joy

by India Knight

  ‘And I’m holding the linguine in my own fair hands,’ says Evie, getting up and grabbing the packet from the worktop. ‘I will be poised by the pan. I will monitor its cooking. Sit down, Clara. Eat your lunch.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘If I sit down you’re not going to have any room to get to the cooker.’

  Now Kate gets up. ‘You are all creating complications,’ she says. ‘I will do it.’

  ‘You sit down too, Kate,’ says Evie. ‘Everybody’s standing up and it’s making me feel claustrophobic and if they keep doing it I might have a panic attack, actually. I am now officially the only person in charge of The Truffle.’

  ‘Oh God,’ says Sam, who’s two people away from me. He’s getting on my nerves as well. At least he’s eating his lunch, instead of being persecuted by burns and frizz and The Truffle’s complex needs.

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘What, do you mean, oh God? Is your lunch not to your satisfaction?’

  ‘No, it’s delicious,’ he has the grace to say. ‘It’s just, all this fuss.’

  ‘Fuss?’ says Kate. ‘Fuss? Poor Clara’s been working like a donkey. Like two donkeys, one of whom is absent. She’s donkeyed about all day while you’ve sat there smooching your friends thank you for their frankly banal and unimaginative gifts. There would have been a great deal less fuss if you’d given her a hand.’

  ‘Steady on,’ says Chris, giver of unimaginative gifts.

  ‘Kate,’ I say. ‘Now’s not the …’

  ‘It is, actually,’ says Kate. ‘Now is absolutely the time. It is time for a toast to you, even though your language is intolerably gross.’ She taps a glass with the edge of a knife. ‘Shush,’ she says. ‘Sam’s going to make a toast.’ Her face is deadpan but her eyes are sparkling with mischief.

  ‘Mum,’ I say. I only say ‘mum’ in extremis, partly because Kate prefers ‘mummy’, and I’m forty-one. ‘There’s no need for him to …’

  ‘Quiet, Clara. If you don’t pipe down, no one will hear the toast.’

  Flo reappears with Maisy’s toothbrush just as the room falls silent. All eyes are on Sam. Sam’s eyes are on me, and there is desperation in them. Shall I help him out?

  ‘Hurry up, Sam,’ says Kate. ‘Spit it out. People’s food will get cold.’

  No, I don’t think I will. As he has made more than clear, the time for complicity is over.

  ‘Ooh, isn’t this nice,’ says Pat, putting down her fork and leaning back in her chair contentedly. ‘A toast! Lovely.’

  ‘I’d be happy to say a few words,’ says Jake.

  ‘Sweet of you, but no,’ says Kate firmly.

  ‘Ahem,’ says Sam, clearing his throat.

  ‘Stand up,’ says Flo. ‘It’s more traditional.’

  ‘Put your paper crown on,’ says Evie. ‘It’s more regal.’

  ‘And so chic,’ says Robert. ‘On an adult male.’

  Sam glares at Robert and throws both my sisters black looks but pushes his chair back and rises.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘Here we all are. Again. For Christmas. Merry Christmas, by the way.’

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ everyone choruses. Cassie blows a lone tooter – paaarp, it goes, quite poignantly.

  ‘And a happy New Year,’ says Maisy. ‘And I hope the Easter Bunny visits you, chocolate face, ding-dong.’

  ‘Dong!’ says Ava the baby, ensconced on Flo’s lap.

  ‘Kate would like me to thank Clara for this … delicious lunch, and what Kate has decreed must of course come to pass.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ says Kate loudly.

  ‘And it is a delicious lunch,’ Sam continues. ‘So … thank you for that, Clara. For making it. And having us all round. And being so … giving of yourself.’

  ‘Do you mean that to sound like it sounds?’ guffaws Jake. ‘Because it sounds like …’

  ‘Shush, Jake,’ says Tamsin.

  ‘Possibly,’ says Sam. ‘Anyway. It’s a great virtue you have, Clara, the ability to gather everyone together and make them feel welcome and included no matter what the circumstances might be. Even when the circumstances aren’t straightforward. And we’re all very grateful to you. For your, your warmth.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Robert. ‘We are. And we love to give loving speeches about it.’

  ‘Piss off, Robert,’ I say.

  ‘No, really,’ says Sam, meeting my eye. ‘You make Christmas lovely every year. And I know how much hard work it is. So, from all of us, and from me – thank you. To Clara,’ he says, raising his glass. ‘And Christmas.’

  ‘Clara,’ says everybody. ‘Christmas.’

  ‘The water’s boiling,’ says Evie. ‘For the pasta. I’m beside myself with excitement. The Truffle is ahoy, Kate. The Truffle cometh.’

  It’s extraordinary to me how quickly the food disappears. I think this every year, and yet it still takes me by surprise. All that work, all that effort – not that I resent any of it, but it’s a lot of man-hours – and whoosh, gone in five minutes. Well, not quite – we sit at the table for ages afterwards, but the actual eating is terrifyingly swift, as though my friends and relatives were starving hyenas.

  I notice that Hope has been taking photographs of the food, leaning over the plate of roast potatoes and zooming in on the Brussels sprouts. Now she stands up on her chair to get an aerial shot of what remains of the turkey.

  ‘Hope, what are you doing?’ I eventually ask.

  ‘I’m live-blogging lunch,’ Hope says.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a blog,’ says Tamsin.

  ‘It’s new. I started it a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘What happens on it?’ I ask. ‘You should have let us all know. Is it a work thing?’

  ‘Can we get down until pudding please?’ asks Cassie. ‘Me and Maisy want to go and play upstairs.’

  ‘Take the babies,’ says Flo. ‘Boys, can you keep a vague eye on the babies?’

  ‘Suppose,’ says Jack. ‘But only for a bit and only if they don’t crap.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ says Flo. ‘Call me if you need to. And don’t let them eat small stuff.’

  ‘Yo, babies. Let’s go, nappy-asses,’ says Charlie.

  ‘I love blogs,’ I say. ‘I’ll bookmark it. So, what, is it a work thing? Some sort of branding exercise?’

  ‘No, it’s just for fun,’ says Hope. ‘It’s a sort of online diary in which I share my hopes and dreams. It’s got quite a few hits, actually. And comments. I’ve linked it to my Facebook page, you see, and to Twitter.’

  ‘Cool,’ I say. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘More Than a Woman,’ says Hope. ‘Because that’s what I am. Like it says on my blog: “Woman. Entrepreneur. Tycoon. Maverick. Friend. Sister. Lover. Survivor”.’

  ‘Bee Gee,’ says Robert.

  ‘Ah. Right,’ I say, a bit feebly. ‘Um, survivor of what?’

  ‘Tummy ache?’ says Robert. ‘Horrid sniffly cold?’

  ‘Life,’ says Hope with simple dignity.

  ‘Explain it to me, darling,’ says Kate. ‘I don’t understand. You post photos of our turkey carcass onto a website?’

  ‘That’s what I’m about to do in a minute, yes.’

  ‘I see,’ says Kate. ‘How insane. Why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yes. What is the purpose?’

  ‘Well,’ says Hope. ‘I suppose it just gives my fans a little insight into my everyday life.’

  ‘Your fans?’ says Kate. ‘But darling, who are they? Have you become a pop star since I last saw you?’

  ‘Not really fans,’ says Hope. ‘I mean, my Facebook friends and my Twitter followers. Do you know about Facebook, Kate?’

  ‘I’m not a hundred and three,’ says Kate. ‘My grandsons showed me years ago, although if I remember correctly – IIRC in your parlance, Hope – that was MySpace. I can see why they like it: it looks rather jolly, if you’re a teenager. Tell me, Hope – what about you? What do you use it for, mostly?’

  ‘Kate got out of the naughty side of bed this m
orning,’ Flo says to me quietly. ‘Inside, I am crying with fear.’

  ‘Primarily?’ says Hope, connecting a cable from her camera to her laptop and uploading the images of our lunchtime vegetables.

  ‘Mm,’ says Kate. ‘Primarily.’

  ‘For … contacts,’ says Hope.

  ‘I knew it,’ says Kate. ‘You use it for sex.’

  ‘Kate!’ I shout. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Don’t be such an old prude, Clara,’ says Kate. ‘There’s nothing wrong with using it for sex. Good for you, Hope.’

  ‘I, er, thank you,’ says Hope.

  ‘One can perfectly well imagine doing it oneself,’ says Kate. ‘In different circumstances. Everyone’s on Facebook these days.’

  ‘Can one?’ says Evie. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Are you on drugs, Kate?’ says Flo.

  ‘Drugs! Not since that nightclub someone took me and Julian to in the mid eighties. In Manhattan. Now, what was it called? Area, I think. Absolutely packed with dwarves, for some reason. Rather attractive ones.’

  ‘Gosh,’ says Flo.

  ‘What’s that you’re talking about there?’ says Pat, who’s been a million miles away at the other end of the table.

  ‘Hope,’ says Kate, ‘is finding new boyfriends on the internet. For sex. Which seems as good a way as any, don’t you think, Pat?’

  ‘Oh aye, sure,’ says Pat. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Unless they’re murderers,’ says Tamsin. ‘Or twenty-three-stone truckers pretending to be hotties. Or married. Or, you know, just complete and utter psychos from hell.’

  ‘I like a nice wee fat man,’ says Pat. ‘A nice wee chubby man.’

  ‘But they’re the people I meet in real life,’ says Hope. ‘Nutters and psychos and married men, though few really fat ones.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ says Pat. ‘It’s nice to have something to hold on to, with a man.’

  ‘So it’s not like I have much to lose,’ says Hope.

  ‘Jesus Christ, women,’ says Sam to nobody in particular. ‘Jake, come upstairs with me? We can take our drinks and keep an eye on the children.’

  ‘The bar is set low for you, Hope,’ says Kate.

  ‘You could say that,’ says Hope. ‘I – well, you know, Kate. We’ve had this conversation before. There simply aren’t any good men left.’

  ‘That’s because they’re hiding from you,’ says Robert with a pleasant smile. ‘Whimpering with terror.’

  ‘Meanie,’ says Hope, tapping him playfully on the arm. She might as well say, ‘La, sir, forsooth!’ and be carrying a fan. She honestly can’t help herself: Robert’s a man, after all.

  ‘They’re not hiding from Clara,’ says Robert. He is relentless, more so with a drink in him. ‘Judging by the little indicators one is so familiar with as her former spouse.’

  ‘That’s precisely what I was saying earlier,’ says Kate, shooting me a triumphant look.

  ‘Clara?’ says Robert. ‘Anything you want to share with the group?’

  ‘No thank you,’ I say primly. ‘And keep your voice down.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ says Hope. ‘What, you’re seeing somebody?’

  I heave quite a large sigh. In recent months, my relationship with Hope has been dramatically buoyed by her idea that we’re both ‘in the same boat’, an idea I find unappealing in the extreme but go along with because it boosts her morale.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Ignore them, Hope. They’re just wittering on to make conversation.’

  ‘I know my own child,’ Kate says.

  ‘I know my own wife,’ says Robert. ‘Former.’

  ‘Fancy that,’ says Pat. ‘You’re a dark horse, Clara, so you are.’

  ‘I can’t believe you would be seeing somebody and you wouldn’t tell me,’ says Hope, looking genuinely wounded and also quite angry.

  ‘It’s a low blow,’ says Robert. ‘I quite agree.’ I know what I should have given him for Christmas: en enormous stick, all the better to stir the pot with.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ says Hope.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t understand it?’ This is me. ‘Understand what?’

  ‘Well,’ says Hope. ‘To be honest. To be blunt.’

  ‘Yes?’ I say.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘Yes, do,’ says Robert, smiling wolfishly. ‘Clara’s dying to hear.’ He actually starts laughing to himself before Hope’s even opened her mouth.

  ‘Well,’ Hope says. ‘And don’t take this the wrong way.’

  ‘You know,’ says Flo, ‘in my experience, anything you feel the need to prefix with “don’t take this the wrong way” is better left unsaid.’

  ‘Totes,’ says Evie. ‘Can I see your blog, Hope? Will you show it to me? Like, right now? I die to read More Than a Woman.’

  ‘In a minute,’ says Hope.

  ‘You were saying?’ I say.

  ‘Well,’ says Hope. ‘I don’t really understand how you – you, Clara – can meet someone and I can’t.’

  ‘You’re always meeting people, Hope,’ I say. ‘You do nothing but.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not what I mean. I mean … well, look at you.’

  ‘Me?’ I say, startled. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Oh God, I didn’t mean it like that. Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re quite attractive. It’s just … I do Pilates three times a week. And I see Guy, obviously.’ Guy is Hope’s personal trainer; he arrives every morning at 6 a.m.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Feel these,’ she says, proffering her upper arms. ‘Just feel.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Thanks. And you’ve seen my abs. And I never have my roots showing, unlike you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And I don’t have marionette lines.’

  ‘What are marionette lines?’

  ‘Those,’ she says, pointing at the tiny lines between my mouth and nose. ‘You should really get them filled in. I do. And maybe a tiny bit of Botox.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘And I weigh eight and a half stone.’

  ‘I know. You’ve told me before.’

  ‘Also, I’ve seen you in the changing room. Three kids: I’d have had a tummy tuck.’

  ‘Hypothetically.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Hypothetically. If you’d ever had children, you might have had a tummy tuck. I guess we’ll never know.’ This isn’t a kind thing to say, but I’m not really digging the demolition of my appearance.

  ‘Clara!’ says Hope. ‘Why are you being mean to me? It’s not my fault I haven’t had children yet.’

  ‘Modern women are so bizarre,’ says Kate. ‘In my day, if you wanted a child, you just got up the duff. Worked if you wanted a husband, too, come to think of it. Why don’t you just get up the duff, Hope? Just get pregnant. I realize it’s not ideal, but frankly at this latest of late stages … It’s not like you couldn’t afford to raise a child on your own.’

  ‘I want to get married,’ says Hope.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ says Robert. ‘Christ.’

  ‘Why am I not married, Robert?’ Hope asks plaintively, laying a hand on his arm. ‘Seriously. What do you think, as a man?’

  ‘You try too hard,’ says Robert. ‘It’s ball-witheringly off-putting. Simple as. Is there any cheese, Clara? I fancy cheese. Stilton. It’s Christmas. You must have some Stilton somewhere.’

  Hope looks absolutely crestfallen, so I pat her, even though I need a tummy tuck and filler for my lines.

  ‘Fridge, I think,’ I tell Robert. I turn to Hope: ‘Everything that Robert says is purest nonsense,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t listen to him.’

  ‘Not nonsense,’ says Robert from inside the fridge. ‘Unvarnished truth. Horse’s mouth. Ah good, here it is.’

  ‘It is nonsense,’ I tell Hope. ‘He divorced me because I didn’t try hard enough …’

  ‘Yes, that’s partly true,’ says Robert. ‘Where are the
crackers?’

  ‘… and now he’s telling you that you try too hard. You can’t win.’

  ‘All I want,’ says Hope, ‘is for a nice man to love me. I don’t even care what he looks like that much any more. I used to have this great long list – he had to be tall, he had to be clever, he had to own property and have a decent income and be successful and maybe a bit glamorous – and I’ve scrubbed every single requirement out. All I want is for him to be nice and love me and want to have children.’

  ‘Oh God, Hope,’ says Evie. ‘It’s so tragic.’

  ‘I know,’ says Hope. ‘It’s a wonder I haven’t thrown myself under a train. Anyway: where is he? I go to the shops and I see dozens, hundreds, thousands of couples. Ugly people, fat people, stupid people. Women with moustaches and men with breasts. They’ve all got partners. And I’m good-looking – I’m a goddess by comparison, to be honest – and I spend hundreds a month on maintenance. Plus I have amazing tits. And hair extensions you can’t even detect. And my own business. And a palatial house. Do I have a boyfriend?’

  ‘You do not,’ says Flo. ‘It is really sad.’

  ‘I know. And now your sister has a man, and to be honest it just pisses me off.’

  ‘I don’t “have a man”.’

  ‘Well, something’s up. I’m saying this in a nice way, Clara, but if there were any justice in the world I would have a man and you wouldn’t. You’ve had some already and you’ve got kids.’

  ‘What, I’d just sit here every night, doing the crossword and sewing my vagina up with artisanal yarn?’

  ‘Clara!’ says Kate. ‘That is the most horrendous visual.’

  ‘Well, honestly,’ I say. ‘I’m tired of it. Of women buying into all this, this crap in the completely mad belief that it’ll get them a man. It isn’t true. None of it is true. You’ve been sold a pup, Hope …’

  ‘You’ve been sold a pup, Hup,’ says Flo, who loves rhymes.

  ‘You’ve been sold a pip, Hip,’ says Evie.

  ‘The difference between you and me is – and I’d worked this one out by the time I was twenty-one – you don’t have to do anything. Well, you have to do some stuff, otherwise …’

  ‘The full bush,’ says Flo. ‘You can’t have the full bush.’

  ‘Some people like a full bush,’ says Evie. ‘Just saying.’

  ‘And the ’tache. Gotta bleach the ’tache,’ says Flo.