‘Yes, yes,’ sighed George, looking utterly defeated by life– or, more accurately, his wife– as he smoothed down his wiry moustache and waved his hand dismissively.
‘And I’ve asked you several times to put the lights up outside,’ she griped. ‘I really wanted them to be up by the times Miles and the children arrived.’
‘Iknow,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘I said I’d do them in the morning.’
Jeannie turned to us with a grin. ‘I’ve got something very special planned for our first evening, you won’t believe it.’
Martha cocked her head to one side, her shoulder-length brown hair swaying. ‘Is it a murder-mystery evening?’
Jeannie’s expression dropped slightly. ‘Um, yes, actually, it is. How on earth did you know that?’
Martha and I exchanged a glance and I tried not to laugh as Martha fought to control herself. Jeannie organised a murder-mystery night every Christmas.
‘Well … anyway,’ Jeannie persevered, ‘I want everyone to dress in their best. It will be such fun!’
‘No,it really won’t,’ Callum mumbled under his breath.
‘Hear that, Martha?’ Toots piped up, eyes sharp and glinting. ‘No jeans with holes in them!’ Her mouth perked up at the edge.
‘Hmm, yes,’ Jeannie said thoughtfully. ‘And is that purple streak in your hair… permanent?’
‘Yep,’ said Martha, extremely satisfied with herself. I could already tell she was one hundred per cent planning on wearing ripped jeans to Jeannie’s murder-mystery party.
‘Callum was saying how much he loves your cooking, Mother,’ Miles redirected with a quick grin.
‘Pah!’ Fergus leaned into Callum before thumping him on the back and sending his fork flying. ‘After some pocket money, are you, lad?’
Callum didn’t dislike many people, on account of being so laid-back he was practically horizontal, but I could feel his displeasure at his uncle seeping from every pore.
Clem leaned forward, sniffing out drama like a bloodhound. ‘I can’t believe you’ll be missing all the Christmases with us. Won’t you miss it?’
Jeannie sighed theatrically. ‘A summer Christmas doesn’t feel right at all.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ I said, pasting on my smile again. ‘We thought we’d have a BBQ on the beach.’ These conversations were going to get old pretty quickly.
‘But you’ll be coming back for Easter, won’t you? For the big charity egg-hunt Jeannie’s putting on?’ Clem persisted.
‘We’ll have to see, it’s quite soon to be coming back,’ I said, stabbing at my peas.
Jeannie looked at Miles, eyes glistening.
‘Maybe I could come back?’ Martha said, her eyes lighting up.
God, give me strength. I would need it for when the others arrived tomorrow… this was only the beginning. The real fraying of the nerves would start when they arrived.
2
BAUBLES, BOWS AND BURIED GRUDGES
Dressed in a flowing emerald-green dress and Swarovski earrings that skimmed my collarbone, I’d hoped to make an entrance that evening. I’d even attempted to tease my hair into Hollywood waves and applied red lipstick. It was a lesson I’d learned the hard way from my first ever Christmas with the Weisses– when I had assumed all I would need would be kitted jumpers and leggings.
That first year, I’d had to go to dinner in my socks and a hideous dress Jeannie had lent me because she said it was sacrilege to wear trainers, and my ‘hooves’, as she so charmingly called them, didn’t fit into any of her old-lady shoes. The embarrassment I endured when she held up a patterned 1970s velour dress for me to wear had not left me. Miles still liked to tease me about it.
We entered the wood-panelled dining room, candlelight dancing over the oil paintings and silverware. Miles looked gorgeous, as usual, his dark hair effortlessly tousled. He’dopted for a crisp white shirt, the top two buttons undone, and a pair of black trousers. The kids had worn what they always did– I don’t think they even owned smart clothes, and hell would be frozen over before they’d set foot in anything uncomfortable.
A large portrait loomed over us all, the light casting shadows on Eugene Weiss’s severe expression. Candles adorned the mahogany chest directly beneath his portrait– a shrine to the man we had lost four years earlier. Eugene, Miles’s grandfather, had inherited his fortune from his father’s Welsh goldmine, and had trebled profits by becoming the sole maker and distributor of rare jewellery to some of the richest clientele in the world.
Mrs Margaret Harlow, the head, and now only, housekeeper, made her way towards us with a silver tray of bubbling champagne. Mrs Harlow had lost her husband two years prior, and as she had no children, Jeannie had insisted that she come and live with them full-time. For reasons I couldn’t comprehend, MrsHarlow had agreed and moved out of her small apartment. Each to their own, I suppose, but I couldn’t think of anything worse.
