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“But if you put ’em together”—Del holds his hands flat and mimes two tables being shoved end-to-end—“then you lose one off each. That’s twelve.”
Having entirely overcome her thirteen-at-the-table worries,Wendy waves a dismissive hand. “It’s fine, we’ll squeeze, it’ll be cosy. I’m more worried about the tree.”
The tree is news to Jonathan. “Whattree?”
“You’ve got to have a tree if you’re doing Christmas,” Nanny Barb tells him. She’s pretty matter-of-fact about it, and she’s right. “Not Christmas without a tree. Where will the kids’ presents go?”
“There’s one kid,” Jonathan points out, “and she’s sixteen.”
I’m beginning to worry he’s regretting this. And I very much need him to not regret this so that he can be all relaxed and chilled out and not want to fire my entire staff for missing a bunch of made-up sales targets. “Tell you what,” I offer, “I’ll help with the tree.”
And I should have realised that this wasn’t shutting stuff down. It was opening it up. Way up.
“What about the decorations?” asks Nanny Barb. “They’re all in a box in our attic.”
Jonathan folds his arms. Jonathan folding his arms is never good. “Could we not just get new decorations?”
I don’t want make too many assumptions, because everyone’s family is different, but if I’d suggested to my mam and dad that we get new Christmas decorations, they’d have taken it about as well as if I’d suggested we eat Santa Claus. And apparently it’s a similar dynamic here.
“No, we bloody well can’t.” Looking at Wendy, I’m beginning to see where Jonathan gets his temper. “Them decorations is traditional. We’ve been using them since you was this big.” She bends down to illustrate quite how little bigness Jonathan possessed when the great Christmas decoration tradition began.
“I can help with them and all,” I tell her.
“We might run a bit short, mind.” Les is casting a wary eye over Jonathan’s impressive square footage. “You’ve got a lot of halls to deck, son.”
Jonathan pinches the bridge of his nose in a way that saysI’ve got a headache coming oneven though the headache is definitely already here. Metaphorically like. “I’m sure we can buy more decorations.”
“Aye,” I say, trying to keep up enthusiasm, “we can do a shop.”
“There’s a Christmas market up North End,” Les suggests, but that seems to set something off in Del.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, “them things is just to rip off tourists. There’s a wholesaler down Acton I know’ll get you everything you want half the price.”
A shadow crosses Les’s face. He’s had this conversation before, or one a lot like it. “Can we not—”
Before that thought can finish, the door opens and a dark-haired woman in massive sunglasses waltzes in like she owns the place. Somehow she’s carrying off a smock dress and cowboy boots combo. She reminds me a lot of Jonathan; she’s what he’d look like if he was girl and if his face had been put together more carefully. Like, a bit less nose and a lot less crag.
“Door was open,” she says, “what have I missed?”
Jonathan just glares at her. “How did you even know to come here, BJ?”
From the expression on BJ’s face, it’s not an abbreviation she cares for. “Well, I got a taxi from the airport to Mum and Dad’s house, and when I got there I found a note on the door sayingJonathan’s doing Xmas, we’re at his.” She makes an exaggeratedthis is awkwardface. “Which means I’ve also dumped all of my luggage in your garden, sorrynotsorry.”
Before Jonathan can say anything back there’s another round of hugs—the men get in on it as well this time because the rules say it’s okay when it’s not a bloke—and I’m introduced to the new arrival. Her name’s Barbara Jane—hence BJ—and she’s Jonathan’s sister just back from Texas and a messy divorce.
“Love the dress, Mum,” she tells Wendy.
Wendy grins. “Thanks. Eighteen quid, Bonmarsh.”
Niceties out of the way, she turns back to her brother. “You’re notreallydoing Christmas, are you?”
“Why does that surprise you?” Jonathan’s being remarkably defensive what with how firmly he insisted he wasn’t going to.
Barbara Jane folds her arms. She and Jonathan have very similar folded-arm game. “Because you’d clearly be terrible at it. You can’t cook, your house is the least welcoming place I’ve ever been in, and you’re deeply unpleasant.”
“Fuck off, BJ.”
“It’s alright.” Nanny Barb comes to Jonathan’s defence, or at least to something that looks a bit like his defence. “The new boyfriend’s going to take care of it.”
