THREE
OK, Christmas doesn’t count. Everyone knows that.
You can’t expect a toddler to behave perfectly when it’s all so exciting and there are sweets and decorations everywhere. And it’s no wonder Minnie woke up at 3 a.m. and started yelling for everyone. She just wanted us all to see her stocking. Anyone else would have done the same.
Anyway, I’ve already torn out the first page of the Incident Book and shredded it. Everyone’s allowed to have a false start.
I take a sip of coffee and happily reach for a Quality Street. God, I love Christmas. The whole house smells of roasting turkey, carols are playing over the sound-system and Dad’s cracking nuts by the fire. I can’t help feeling a glow as I look around the sitting room: at the tree twinkling with lights and the nativity scene we’ve had since I was little (we lost Baby Jesus years ago but we use a clothes peg instead).
Little Minnie’s eyes when she saw her stocking this morning were like saucers. She just couldn’t take it in. She kept saying ‘Stocking? Stocking?’ in utter disbelief.
‘Becky, love,’ calls Mum. I head into the hall to see her at the door of the kitchen in her Santa apron. ‘Which crackers shall we have at lunch? Novelty games or luxury gifts?’
‘What about those ones you got from the German market?’ I suggest. ‘With the little wooden toys.’
‘Good idea!’ Mum’s face brightens. ‘I’d forgotten about those.’
‘Yup, I’ve got the paperwork here …’ Luke heads past me towards the stairs, talking on his phone. ‘If you could run your eyes over the Sanderson agreement … Yup. I’ll be in the office by three. Just a few things to clear up here first. Cheers, Gary.’
‘Luke!’ I say indignantly as he switches off. ‘Christmas isn’t “a few things to clear up”.’
‘I agree,’ says Luke, not breaking his stride for a second. ‘Then again, it’s not Christmas.’
Honestly. Can’t he get into the spirit of it?
‘Yes it is.’
‘In Bloomwood-world, maybe. Everywhere else, it’s December 28th and people are getting on with their lives.’
He’s so literal.
‘OK, maybe it’s not exactly Christmas Day,’ I say crossly. ‘But it’s our second Christmas. It’s our special Christmas for Jess and Tom and it’s just as important and you could try to be a bit festive!’
This whole two Christmases thing is fab. In fact I think we should do it every year. It could be a family tradition.
‘My love.’ Luke pauses, halfway up the stairs, and starts counting off on his fingers. ‘One, it is not just as important. Two, I need to finalize this agreement today. Three, Tom and Jess aren’t even here yet.’
A text arrived from Jess and Tom overnight to say that their plane from Chile had been delayed. Since then, Janice has come across to our house approximately every twenty minutes to ask if we’ve heard anything, and could we possibly look online again, and has there been any news of accidents or hijacks?
She’s even more hyper than usual and we all know why: she’s desperately hoping that Tom and Jess have got engaged. Apparently Tom said in his last email that he had ‘something to tell her’. I heard her and Mum talking the other day and Janice is obviously gagging to hold another wedding. She’s got all sorts of new ideas for floral arrangements and the photos could be in front of the magnolia tree and it would ‘excise the memory of that ungrateful little harlot’. (Lucy. Tom’s first wife. Total cow, take it from me.)
‘On the same subject, why on earth did Minnie get another stocking this morning?’ adds Luke, lowering his voice. ‘Whose idea was that?’
‘It was … Father Christmas’s idea,’ I say, a bit defiantly. ‘By the way, have you seen how good she’s being today?’
Minnie’s been helping Mum in the kitchen all morning and she’s been absolutely perfect, apart from a tiny moment with the electric mixer, which I won’t mention to Luke.
‘I’m sure she is,‘ Luke begins, as the doorbell rings. ‘That can’t be them.’ He consults his watch, looking puzzled. ‘They’re still in the air.’
‘Is that Jess?’ calls Mum excitedly from the kitchen. ‘Has anyone texted Janice?’
‘It can’t be Jess yet!’ I call back. ‘It must be Suze, arrived early.’ I hurry to the front door and swing it open – and sure enough, there’s the whole Cleath-Stuart family, looking like a photo spread from the Toast catalogue.
Suze is stunning in a black shearling coat, her long blonde hair streaming down, Tarquin is the same as ever in an ancient old Barbour, and the three children are all gangly legs and huge eyes and Fair Isle jumpers.
‘Suze!’ I fling my arms round her.
‘Bex! Happy Christmas!’
‘Happy Christmas!’ calls out Clemmie, sucking her thumb and holding on to Suze’s hand.
‘And a happy you near!’ chimes in Ernest, who is my godson and already has that bony, upper-class beanpole look going on. (‘Happy you near’ is an old Cleath-Stuart family saying. Like ‘Happy bad day’ instead of ‘Happy birthday’. There are so many of them, they should issue a crib sheet.) He shoots an uncertain look up at Suze, who nods encouragingly – then extends a formal hand to me as though we’re meeting for the first time at an ambassador’s reception. I solemnly shake it, then scoop him up in a bear-hug till he giggles.