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I hurry off to the kitchen and start boiling a kettle. And then I realise I’ve not made tea in Jonathan’s kitchen yet. I sort of assumed he wouldn’t have any because he doesn’t seem to have any of anything else, but I root around in a cupboard and find a caddy full of ground coffee and a half empty box of Yorkshire teabags.
What with the kitchen being open-plan and looking right out onto the garden, I’ve got a perfect view of the tree being dragged around from the front. From inside, it looks like even more of a disaster. Del and Les are supporting the base while Jonathan and Barbara Jane are pulling from the front but Jonathan’s garden has been designed for looking nice in brochures, not for having a Norwegian spruce lugged across it, and I’m pretty sure his flowerbeds aren’t making it through the evening alive.
I do the teas to people’s specifications and to make myself extra specially useful, I open the French windows as well. It takes some wrangling for Jonathan and Barbara Jane to get in, but theydo eventually. Except as they back up through the middle reception room, the tree just keeps coming, like flags out of a magician’s sleeve, and before Les and Del are in with the base, the top’s poking out the other side and into Jonathan’s study.
“I hate to say I told you so.” Les doesn’t sound like he does, in fact, hate to say he told us so. He sounds, at best, neutral to saying he told us so.
“It’s fine.” Del has managed to squeeze through the door and is now standing on one of the relatively small areas of floor that’s not completely occupied by Christmas tree. “Is that my tea? Cheers.”
It is, and I hand it to him.
“This is fine,” he repeats. “I got a big one because it’s like I always say—what do I always say, Jonathan?”
From inside his study, Jonathan clambers over the top of the tree and comes out to inspect the damage. “You say a lot of things, Granddad, but Ithinkthe one that you’re getting at isyou can cut a bit off but you can’t cut a bit on.”
“Exactly.” Del is grinning. “All we need to do is chop it in two.”
Les is looking like he thinks this is a terrible plan. Barbara Jane is looking like she thinks this is a terrible plan but she loves it anyway. And Jonathan, well, he goes to get a saw. Which isn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting. I’d been expecting him to be a shade more this-is-ridiculousy, possibly edging into being get-out-my-housey. Maybe he’s just too exhausted to argue. Or maybe it was the Wagyu Beef pizza.
Or maybe he’s just, y’know, trying.
Which means I might be doing what I told Claire I’d be doing. Influencing him and that. Except it doesn’t feel quite like I thought it’d feel. Because you don’t really expect a man like Jonathan Forest to change. And if he is…sort of is…for me. Well. I’m not sure I deserve it.
CHAPTER 16
They’ve hauled the tree back outside and turned the garden lights on so as they can see what they’re doing, and I’ve retreated to the kitchen to throw together some sandwiches because it’s turning into a long evening. Barbara Jane’s come with me since while I get the feeling she’s a hands-on sort of person, there’s already three generations of her family gathered outside trying to work out how to hack up a Christmas tree in the least un-Christmassy way possible, so I reckon she feels a bit superfluous.
“Are they always like this?” I ask.
“Pretty much.” She’s sipping on a mug of black coffee and watching the lads out the window with strong rather-them-than-me energy. “Sometimes I think it’s a toxic masculinity thing, and sometimes I think we’re all just arseholes.”
Outside, I see Jonathan and Del squabbling over which one is going to be doing the sawing. I sort of hope Jonathan wins because I reckon he’d look good doing manual labour. It’ll give him somewhere to direct his hostility.
“So”—Barbara Jane takes a sharp left turn into a different topic—“how did you and Jonathan meet?”
“I told you, we’re not dating, I just work for him.”
She makes the most scepticalmm-hmmI’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard Claire’s scepticalmm-hmms.
“Really,” I tell her. Because there’s nothing more convincing than saying “really” with a rising inflection.
“You’re living in his house and he’s so concerned about your well-being that he sent you inside instead of making you help with the tree. That’s more consideration than he’s shown half his actual boyfriends.”
“I think he’s just worried I’ll sue him.”
Shemm-hmms me again. “Pretty sure he’s got better lawyers than you.”
It’s only because we’re about to lapse into an uncomfortable silence, and because I’m not sure what to say next, and because I’ve got a concussion that I follow up with, “So has he had a lot then? Boyfriends, I mean.”
That makes her laugh. There’s a lot about her and Jonathan that’s very similar but the laughing isn’t one of them. “Oh God no. A few, but he’s mostly married to his work. Also, in case you haven’t noticed, he’s a prick.”
“Hey, steady on, that’s your brother you’re talking about.”
“Which is why I’m allowed to call him a prick.”
“He’s not that bad.” I don’t know why I’m defending him either.
“Sam”—this time shemm-hmmsme with her eyes—“he’s family and I love him. But he’s exactly that bad. He’s like Ebenezer Scrooge in the first two-thirds ofA Christmas Carol. Frankly, if you’re not dating him, then I’m pretty sure he’s going to die alone.”
