At least everyone else is talking now. The glasses of bubbly pinched between their fingertips have apparently loosened their tongues enough that they now actually resemble a somewhat cordial group of co-workers.
‘Got any Christmas plans, Therese?’ Luca asks, shifting in his seat to turn to the woman with the sharp eyes.
Therese nods. The champagne has helped to temper the hard-edged glint in her eyes and she gives Luca a polite, if slightly strained, smile. ‘We’re heading to Courchevel in two days,’ she says, with the faintest hint of a French accent. ‘Should be fun, though I haven’t skied in years so I’m expecting to come back with a few bumps and bruises.’
‘I bet it’s like riding a bike,’ Luca says. ‘Your body’s probably got it all down in muscle memory. But, you know what?’ He shifts slightly in his seat and nods in Hoxton’s direction, a wide grin on his face. ‘Alex is a great skier. You should ask him for some tips.’
Everyone turns to Hoxton, who looks very much like he would like to ram his glass down Luca’s throat. Luca remains happily oblivious.
‘Oh.’ Therese clears her throat. ‘I didn’t know.’
There’s a painfully awkward beat of silence.
‘Yes,’ Hoxton says, much too delayed.
Another awkward beat.
‘Though I prefer snowboarding,’ Hoxton continues, apparently realising that the ball is still in his court. ‘Have you—’ He clears his throat and shoots Luca a sideways glare. ‘Have you ever tried it?’
Therese’s eyes brighten a smidge. ‘I haven’t, but my husband – Henri, you remember?’
The look on Hoxton’s face tells me that he absolutely does not remember this Henri, but he gives her a sharp nod anyway.
‘Yes, well, Henri adores snowboarding. Really, I didn’t know you were such a fan. At the summer gala next year, I’ll have…’
Her voice trails off as I disappear into the corridor and start hurrying back to the kitchen to grab the appetisers. When I return, balancing a large wooden cutting board with several loaves of perfectly sliced and crusty French bread dotted around the two mini cast-iron skillets of brie in my hands, the room is even livelier than before.
Therese has stopped interrogating Hoxton about his snowboarding skills and is now in the middle of an animated discussion with Luca, the tall, grey-haired woman and the man with his phone glued to him.
‘You think Christmas is expensive now,’ the older womanchortles. ‘Wait until you have grandchildren, Brian. It’s all “latest iPhone” this, “designer clothes” that. And not apleaseorthank youin sight! Back in my day, I was happy to get a doll for Christmas, and now I’ve got my granddaughter sending me something called aSephora Wishlistthat I’ve got to make heads and tails of.’
Brian laughs. ‘Thanks for the heads-up, Meryl. But my little ones are still young enough that a few cuddly toys will suffice. It’s my wife who insists on making it all a big deal.’
‘Oh, but think about the memories,’ Therese sighs, almost dreamily. ‘Most of my favourite childhood memories have something to do with Christmas, and it’s all because my mother took the time to make it special.’
‘Agreed,’ Luca says with a faraway kind of smile. ‘My mum used to put baby powder on the floor by the tree and make my dad walk up and down with his boots on so we’d think that it was Santa.’
I can’t help but grin as I approach the table and set the appetisers down in the middle. I always love hearing about different families’ Christmas traditions and I’m itching to jump into the conversation and share the story of how my mother would stand outside the bedroom I shared with Eve, with a tape recorder playing the sound of reindeer stomping on the roof.
Or about the Christmas when my father went outside for a few minutes and then came rushing back in hollering,‘Santa must’ve dropped this last night!’ before brandishing a bell-laden collar with the name ‘RUDOLPH’ printed across the front.
And don’t even get me started on the Christmases spent at Gran’s house, where all the children are tasked with bringing something unique to decorate the tree with, resulting in a seven-foot evergreen covered in some of the most bizarre, technically non-Christmassy ornaments you’ve ever seen.
But I don’t share any of that. I’m here to serve, not to eavesdrop on their conversation and share my own Christmas anecdotes. And besides, something else has caught my attention.
At the furthest end of the table, Hoxton is sat with a stony expression on his face. Beside him, the last member of the Board is speaking. This is the one Hoxton barely greeted on arrival and it seems like the tension between them hasn’t eased at all.
‘And have you given much thought to our discussion last week about outsourcing some of the support centre staff?’
Hoxton grits his teeth. ‘No.’
The man huffs. ‘I thought we agreed that it was an immediate concern, and that—’
‘You decided that it was an immediate concern, Wilbur,’ Hoxton says, his voice icy. ‘As I told you, the contract we have in place doesn’t expire for another two years. No sense in worrying about it now.’
‘But if they’re in breach of contract, we can terminate our arrangement with them and opt for a centre that doesn’t, shall we say, dent our end-of-year financials as much as this one currently does.’
‘Unfortunately, they’re not in breach of contract,’ Hoxton says in clipped tones. It should be obvious that he wants this conversation to end, but Wilbur ploughs on.
