“Lord and Lady Larkford.”
“Lord? As in titled? Not as in his first name is Lord?” Ben leans over her.
She nods, keeping her head down, not meeting his eyes.
He flops back on the bed. “Wow! So you would normally have Christmas in a big old house, with chestnuts roasting by the fire, and a massive Christmas tree, I’m guessing?” She nods again.
“And what about Christmas lunch?”
“A five-course meal. The housekeeping staff come in specially on Christmas morning to prepare it. One of them stays to serve it; the rest knock-off early to go back to their own families.”
“You don’t even have to clear up after?”
Another nod.
“Sounds magic.” Ben’s hands tighten around her body and lift her until she is lying on top of him. “And you would swap that for Christmas in a piss-ordinary house with a fake tree, a bunch of atheists, and festive karaoke?”
“Karaoke?”
“Oh, yes. The Khan Christmas is far from grown-up. There’s only three of us, but I’ve never sat down to Christmas dinner with fewer than ten at the table – my mother is prone to inviting waifs and strays. Unfortunately, we all love the sound of our own voices too much, hence karaoke. Every year there is a different theme. Last year it was animated film tunes. Gotta say,” he drops his voice to low and sultry, “I’m an awesome Woody.”
“Sounds magic,” Jasmine says, meaning every word spoken and every innuendo implied.
A text to Ben’s parents and a call to hers, and everything is set. When she says she is not coming home for Christmas, Jasmine can hear disappointment in her mother’s voice but she must be mistaken for she knows they will all enjoy their turkey and pigs in blankets far more without her reminding them they were once living animals running around a field, babies sacrificed so humans can gorge. She sends a text to Flora as well, for they had plans to meet up and she is genuinely sorry to disappoint her oldest friend. Flora’s reply is weirdly needy:Please come to Larkford soon. Shit happening. And Jasmine thinks it might be an idea to call and chat, but in the excitement of packing and present buying for a whole new set of people and finishing her much-neglected essays before the end of term, the need to talk to Flora gets side-lined.
Having practised being a houseguest with Sean’s parents in the summer, Jasmine is relaxed about the prospect of staying with Ben’s family. They travel together, dragging their wheeled suitcases to the station. Ben’s dad is waiting for them at the other end. It is immediately obvious where Ben gets his looks, his height, and his charm. For a moment, Jasmine considers how well Ben may age. Mr Khan has a full head of hair, greying slightly at the temples and excellent teeth. She expects to be fat and frumpy by fifty. She hopes Ben will still think her perfect then.
“Asim,” Ben’s dad says with a smile in response to Jasmine calling him “Mr Khan”.
In contrast, when she addresses Ben’s mother as “Ms Green”, there is no correction. Still, Jasmine finds Hannah Green as remarkable as expected. Her hair is chopped short and dyed brown to remove any trace of grey. Her make-up is on point and her high-street suit is flattering. Jasmine knows how vicious the tabloids can be with any woman in power. Looking old, unkempt, or unpolished is no longer a sign of character; it is a sign of weakness. It is one of the many reasons she has no wish to ever be the face of power. Jasmine’s own hair has to be long enough to tie back to achieve anything near neat. She knows from experience short hair makes her look like a lumpy scarecrow. She loathes the sensation of foundation on her skin, and more often than not, pokes herself in the eye with the mascara wand. While she strives to look neat, her lack of interest in anything to do with fashion outside of its ethical and sustainable sourcing means her clothes are boring and basic. She admires Ms G, but she is not envious. A trusted adviser, she believes, can have as much power as an MP without the risk of offensive or abusive press reports and social media posts. Or, at worst, being shot and stabbed outside the local library.
She is relieved to find Ben’s parents have put them both in the same bedroom. Being immersed in someone else’s world is hard enough when there is overlap with your own truth. To spend nights apart, staring into the dark, reflecting on the mis-steps of the day would be utter misery. Despite the double bed, she has no intention, out of some odd notion of modesty, of having sex under his parents’ roof, but that lasts all of ten minutes after Ben climbs in beside her. She does extract a promise from him to be very, very quiet, gritting her own teeth and keeping her lips firmly closed as Ben works his usual magic, turning her limbs liquid and her belly to fire.
There is little time to dwell on his mother’s reserve, to work out if it is her usual character or the jealousy of a mother with an only son or an objection to Jasmine herself, because Ben is a social being. Back on his home turf, there is a pre-Christmas rush of coffee meets and parties and nights in the pub and an extraordinary amount of relatives: uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins. Jasmine is familiar with the aristocracy’s ability to keep track of family members, but they also go to some lengths to make sure they avoid one another. The Khan family seems to have no such issue, often cramming an uncomfortable amount of people into average-sized rooms.
Jasmine, who has spent the last five years telling almost no one she is the daughter of a Baron, finds Ben has far less reticence on the matter. Caught on the sofa between two generous-sized aunties, she is subject to a weird form of inquisition, in which her responses do not seem to be required.
“Jasmine, isn’t it?” says Auntie One.
“Lovey name,” says Auntie Two.
“Ben tells me you are at university?” asks Auntie One.
“And your father’s a Lord?” asks Auntie Two.
“Always good to have a Lord in the family,” affirms Auntie One.
“Better than a doctor,” confirms Auntie Two.
“And four sisters!” exclaims Auntie One.
“But no brother!” declaims Auntie Two.
“Your poor mother,” commiserates Auntie One.
“Although so much help in her old age. Such a comfort!” sympathises Auntie Two.
A half hour later, when Ben rescues her, Jasmine still has not said a word. By the end of the week, Jasmine has had her fill of vegetable samosas and pakoras and intrusive questions. She is all peopled out. Ben seems to sense this and schedules a Christmas Eve of long lie-in, leisurely lunch, and an afternoon watching nature documentaries. His parents are out; his mother at a party for constituency activists; and his father ostensibly shopping for his wife’s present. By the time they re-appear, Jasmine is feeling more sociable, which is just as well because the evening is dinner in a fancy restaurant. Used to the more formal spirit of her own family’s Christmas, she made sure to pack a couple of good dresses. She is glad she took the precaution as she shakes one out and slides it over her head. Hunting through her suitcase for the only pair of slingbacks she possesses, she looks up when Ben returns from the bathroom and sees his face.
