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It’s the first time I’ve heard Les swear.
“Leave it, both of you,” Wendy is saying. “It’s Christmas.”
Auntie Jack looks up from the sofa with the impeccable instincts of an eighty-something drama queen. “It’s the eleventh of December. Let the boys have it out.”
“Nobody’s asking you, Jacqueline.” Les barely moves as he talks. He just casts his eyes briefly in Auntie Jack’s direction.
“Nobody ever asks you,” adds Del.
Les turns his head a fraction of an inch. “Not sure you’re one to talk on that front.”
“Leave it out, I’m on your side.”
“There ain’t meant to be sides.” Wendy is getting increasingly flustered. “We’ve been having a lovely time, we’ve not all been together like this in a while—”
“Yes, and I’m beginning to remember why,” says Jonathan.
I can’t say for sure, because I’m me and he isn’t, but I’ve got to know Jonathan Forest pretty well over the last few weeks, and I reckon he regrets it the moment it’s out his mouth. But I also reckon he’d never admit it.
“Now that”—Les’s attention’s back on Jonathan now, and there’s a weight to it, a strange weight that I only half understand—“was uncalled for.”
And this brings out the other Jonathan. The one that backed me into a Nexa by MERLYN 8mm Sliding Door Shower enclosure and threatened to shut the entire Sheffield branch if I didn’t shift more extended warranties. “Was it? I never asked foranyof this. I’m doingallof you amassivefavour, and you come in here like you own the fucking place, you fill my house with”—he picks up a little plastic angel with one broken wing and the glitter all rubbed off its halo—“utter tat and—”
Wendy seems more offended by this than anything else so far. “Hey, donottake it out on the angel. She used to belong to my grandmother.”
“Ohfucking hell.” Jonathan’s losing it, he’s definitely losing it. “Can you evenhearyourself? I amtryinghere. I am really trying to do all of”—he spreads his arms wide—“thisthe way I’m apparently meant to, even if it means letting this human chimney”—that’s Auntie Jack, apparently—“smoke in my reception rooms and putting up withyou”—Del this time—“dragging me all over London because we have to do everything your way andyou”—he’s finally got around to Johnny—“why are you evenhere?”
“He’s family,” says Wendy firmly.
“Yes, but none of uslikehim. Even Kayla doesn’t like him and she’s his daughter.”
Anthea raises a hand. “I like him.”
“You’re a child.” Jonathan seems to have lost track of who or what he was angry about in the first place, so now he’s just this thrashing mess of rage and venom. “And for some reasonyou”—he’s back to Les at last—“choose to stay quiet about absolutely everything except for myperfectly reasonablesuggestion that you let me handle the tree.”
“Son.” I’ve never heard quite so much baggage packed into one syllable.
“Oh, don’tsonme.”
Getting involved now is probably the worst decision I could possibly make. But since I’m faking amnesia to infiltrate my boss’s family Christmas in the hopes it’ll save my job, I think we can accept that good decisions aren’t really my thing. “Jonathan, do you not think—”
“No.” He whips round to face me. “Whatever it is, no Idon’tthink. Unless by some seasonal miracle what you were about to say wasdo you not think that I, Samwise Becker, should shut the fuck up and mind my own fucking business for once in my fucking life.”
This bothers Wendy even more than the angel thing. Which I suppose I should find flattering. “Jonathan, he’s a guest.”
“Actually, Mum, you’reallguests and right now you’re prettyunwelcomeguests. So, thinking about it, why don’t you all just listen to me for once in your fucking lives and show me some fucking respect.”
Les takes half a step forward. “Now hold on, I’ll not have you talking to your mother like that.”
“But you will, though, won’t you? That’sverymuch the problem.”
“Jonathan,” Les has taken another half step forward. “I’m asking you to calm down.”
“I am perfectly calm,” says Jonathan. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the wordsI am perfectly calmuttered by an actual calm person. “I’m just sick of—”
Whatever he’s sick of, he’s not quite able to articulate it, and even if he was, he doesn’t get the chance.
Les looks down at his wife. “Wendy, I think we should leave.”
