“Mary owes me a tenner,” Lydia said. “Pay up.”
“Fascinating.” Mary scribbled something down furiously but did not produce the money. “The delayed onset of relationship anxiety following major milestone events—”
“Mary, put the bloody pen down,” Elizabeth said.
Mary clutched her notebook protectively. “But this is important data—”
“It’s my relationship, not your dissertation,” Elizabeth protested.
“Can’t it be both?” Mary asked.
“No!” everyone else said at once.
“Fine,” Mary grumbled, setting her pen aside with obvious reluctance. “But I’m mentally cataloguing everything.”
“Of course you are,” Elizabeth sighed. “As you’ve all decided to stage an intervention—”
“We haven’t staged anything,” Jane protested. “We’re just available for consultation.”
“With wine,” Lydia added, topping up everyone’s glasses.
“And moral support,” Kitty added.
“And empirical analysis,” Mary added, then caught their glares. “I mean, sisterly advice. Regular, non-academic sisterly advice.”
Elizabeth settled cross-legged on the rug, wine glass cradled in both hands. “All right. I may have been thinking about Christmas presents.”
“The present exchange?” Jane asked.
“Among other things.” Elizabeth took a fortifying sip. “None of this bothered me at first, but the farther on we get, themore every tiny thing feels like it has edges. I’ve been wondering if Darcy and I show affection in fundamentally different ways.”
The room went suddenly, suspiciously quiet.
“How different?” Kitty asked.
Lydia chimed in. “Like ‘he prefers tea, you prefer coffee’ different, or ‘he thinks romance is a waste of time’ different?”
Elizabeth winced. “I don’t know.”
“Explain,” Mary commanded, then caught herself. “Please explain. In your own words. For sisterly purposes only.”
“Right. Well, you all know I spent three weeks learning to knit so I could make him a scarf.”
Kitty nodded. “The blue-grey one that looks like it was attacked by a drunken octopus?”
“That’s the one.”
Jane shook her head at their younger sisters. “I’m sure he appreciated the effort.”
“It looks like you knitted it with your feet,” Lydia added, and then realised Jane was glaring at her. “But in a loving way.”
“The point is,” Elizabeth continued, shooting Lydia a look, “I made him something personal.”
“Very romantic.” Mary nodded with approval. “Historically, handmade presents have been associated with—”
“Mary,” Elizabeth warned.
“Sorry. Continue.”
