“Tell her!” I say impulsively, even though I don’t know anything about Steph’s mum.
“Maybe.” Steph bites her lip, then musters a smile. “I’d better go. You must have to go too. Thanks.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say, a bit helplessly.
“You did.” She leans to give me a quick, tight hug. “I appreciate it, Becky. Let me drive you to work.”
Steph drops me at the gates to Letherby Hall and I hurry up the tree-lined drive to the main house. As I enter the gift shop, I’m all ready to explain away my delay to Suze—but instead it’s Tarquin, her husband, who greets me.
I’ve known Tarkie for years. He’s had his ups and downs, but he’s in great form at the moment. Since we all got back from the States, he’s thrown himself into running Letherby Hall with real drive. He’s had loads of good ideas for the business and talks to Luke a lot about it, and Luke says he thinks Tarquin is really stepping into his role.
On the other hand, he’s still quite weird. In a lovable, Tarkie-ish way. Today he’s wearing a shrunken, holey rugby shirt, which I’m quite sure he’s had since school, and his eyes have an intense look to them as he draws breath.
“I hear we’re coming to you for Christmas, Becky,” he says. “Marvelous!”
“Yes!” I say brightly. “I hope it’ll be fun!”
“I know it’s early days to talk specifics,” Tarkie presses on. “But you’re probably already thinking about entertainment on the day. I ask because the Met is broadcasting a performance of Parsifal on Christmas Day.”
“Is that…Wagner?” I hazard, because Tarkie is a total Wagner nut.
“His most sublime, transporting opera.” Tarkie blinks at me. “A masterpiece. And I was thinking we could gather around your television and watch it after lunch. I think it would be terribly stimulating for the children.”
A Wagner opera? On Christmas Day?
“Wow,” I say, trying not to give away my horror. “That sounds…you know. Fab. I mean, I love Wagner—who doesn’t? Only, I’m just thinking, is it very Christmassy?”
“It’s timeless,” says Tarkie earnestly. “It’s inspiring. The prelude alone is a Christmas gift for anyone. Taa daaah daaah hmm hmm…” He starts humming, his gaze fixed unnervingly on mine. “Taa aah daaa dee daaah—”
“Tarkie!” To my huge relief, Suze’s shrill voice interrupts him. She’s striding toward us, fixing Tarkie with a suspicious gaze. “Are you singing Wagner? You know the rule: no Wagner in the shop.”
“Tarkie was just saying how Parsifal is being shown on Christmas Day,” I say brightly. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“We’re not watching bloody Wagner on Christmas Day!” Suze erupts, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.
“I’m simply trying to help with entertainment,” says Tarkie defensively. “Opera is a form that everyone can enjoy, young and old.”
“No, it’s not,” retorts Suze. “It’s a form that turns most people into rigid statues because they’re so bored, but they can’t leave the room because the opera lover says, ‘Shhh!’ when they even twitch a muscle. And it goes on for six hours.”
“Parsifal does not go on for six hours…” begins Tarkie, but Suze ignores him.
“I think Christmas is all about the children.” She turns to me. “I think we should have craft activities, finger paint, glitter, all that kind of stuff.”
My heart slightly sinks. Craft again? We’re talking about Christmas Day here. Christmas isn’t about finger painting. It’s about sitting on the sofa, eating Quality Street chocolates, and watching Christmas specials on TV while the dads try to find batteries for all the new toys and break half of them and the children end up crying. That’s tradition.
“We could do, I suppose,” I say carefully. “Except Jess thinks glitter is evil.”
“Hmm.” Suze bites her lip in thought. “We could make Play-Doh?”
“Maybe,” I say, trying to sound more enthused than I feel. “Or just watch telly?”
“OK, well, let’s wait till we see what’s on telly,” says Suze. “Then we can make a plan. Oh, and by the way, I can pick up Aphrodite and Hermes tonight,” she adds, changing the subject. “The forklift truck is back from the menders. I’ll bring one of the men.”
“Suze,” I say, immediately feeling bad. “Don’t take my hideous statues. You’re welcome to come and spend Christmas with us, whatever. You don’t want them.”
“No, I do!” says Suze eagerly. “I’ve had a brilliant idea. We’ll use them next Halloween. I’m going to call them Grotesque and Grotesqua.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling very slightly insulted. “Well, OK.” And I’m about to take off my coat when Suze touches my shoulder.
“Listen, Bex,” she says more quietly. “Another thing. Before any customers arrive, I wanted to ask you…I’ve been thinking.” She pauses, then continues, even more quietly, “D’you think Jess is OK? Yesterday she seemed a bit weird.”
“Yes!” I exclaim. “I thought the same thing! She was tense and kind of…odd.”
“Exactly! She froze up when we mentioned Tom, and I thought…I got worried that maybe…”
Suze’s face is all twisted up anxiously, and I know what she’s thinking.
“Khaki hot pants,” I say before I can stop myself.
“What?” Suze looks puzzled.
“I thought maybe Tom had gone off with some charity worker in khaki hot pants. Or she had. Or something.”
“Oh God.” Suze stares at me unhappily. “That’s kind of what I thought too. Only I saw cropped chinos and a bandanna.”
We lapse into silence, and I find myself picturing Tom snogging a girl in cropped chinos and a red bandanna. Then I change the bandanna to a horrible green one and make her nose bigger, because she’s too attractive. Then I make her chinos really unflattering and have her picking her nose. God, she’s gross. Why would Tom prefer her?
“It might not be that,” I say at last. “Maybe they just had a fight.”
“Yes.” Suze seizes on this. “I mean, the strain of waiting for an adoption must be so stressful.”
“So stressful,” I agree. “And they’re all on their own out there, without any support….Anyway, I thought I might take Jess out for a drink. Will you come too? Then she might relax and tell us what’s up.”
“She’s not very talkative,” says Suze dubiously. “And does she even drink?”
“All right, we’ll go to a cooperative and eat fair-trade oats,” I say a bit impatiently. “The point is, she’s all bottled up right now. We can help her open up and share her pain.”
I feel quite an expert on listening to marital woes after my session with Steph. I can see Suze and myself sitting at a table, eating oats and holding Jess’s hands as she falteringly explains her predicament and weeps and then says, “But being with you girls helps me so much, especially you, Becky.”
I mean, she doesn’t have to say, “Especially you, Becky.” She just might.
“Poor Jess,” says Suze, as I take off my trench coat. “I’ve always thought—” She breaks off midstream, and I look up to see her staring at my distressed-tweed outfit. “Oh my God, Bex. What happened to your suit?”
She doesn’t seem quite as impressed by my customizing as I’d hoped. In fact, her tone sounds suspiciously close to horror.
“Oh,” I say self-consciously, tugging at my frayed jacket. “D’you like it? I thought I’d play around with it.”
“You did that yourself? On purpose?”
“Yes!” I exclaim defensively. “I customized it.”
“Right,” says Suze, after a long pause. “Er…great!”
She watches as I change out of my trainers into my black riveted boots, and her eyes get even bigger. “Wow. Those are…fierce.”
“Do you like them?” I say, suddenly alert. Does Suze want these boots for Christmas? I have only just bought them, but, then, that’s what Christmas is all about: giving. “They’d really suit you,” I add generously. “D’you want to try them on?”
“No!” says Suze, recoiling. “No, thanks! I mean, they look great on you, but…”
“Becky, dear!” Irene bustles up, eyeing my suit with alarm. “My goodness, what happened to your clothes? Did you get into an accident?”
Honestly. Does no one around here recognize the edgy look?
“It’s distressed,” I explain, a bit tetchily. “It’s fashion.”
“I see,” says Irene faintly. “Very modern, dear. Oh, your boots.” She claps a hand over her mouth.
“Have you got blue dye in your hair?” demands Suze, peering incredulously at my head.
“Yes.” I shrug casually. “You know I like to mix things up. Live life dangerously.”
It wasn’t actually that dangerous: It’s washable nontoxic blue hair dye for children. But that’s not the point. I saunter casually over to the mirror, trying to balance on my spiky heels, and stare at my reflection. I don’t look like an uncool suburban mum, that’s for sure. I look like…
Well, I don’t look boring, anyway.
* * *
—
It’s a fairly slow morning, and by eleven o’clock my feet are killing me, although I would never admit it to anyone. Just as I’m thinking I might sneak off for a KitKat, a group of women arrives in the gift shop, all very well dressed and holding copies of A Guide to Letherby Hall. They must have been round the house.
“Well, I didn’t think much of the Long Gallery,” the one with the blond ponytail is saying as she looks at a row of multicolored tweed jackets, and I stare at her indignantly. How can she say that? The Long Gallery’s brilliant. It’s got loads of amazing paintings and sculptures, which I’m totally intending to learn about one day. Thank goodness Suze isn’t in earshot—she’d be really hurt.