‘And I know how to read, sooo… yeah. Send me a text next time,’ Ceecee said, flicking her hair off her shoulder.
Tristan went scarlet and began to say something to the girls, which to my annoyance I missed because Jeannie began talking.
‘George, have you spoken with Tristan about the papers?’ she said quietly.
‘He’s just bloody got here,’ George hissed. ‘Does it look like I’ve had the chance?’
‘You’ve been talking to him all evening!’ she countered. ‘Well, do it first thing, will you? And then I need you to put the lights up.’
‘Blast it, woman,’ George growled. ‘Will you give me five minutes’peace?’
‘What’s this?’ Miles asked.
‘I’ve been on at your father to put the lights up out front for a week. But you know what he’s like.’
George pointed his knife at Jeannie. ‘Mention those bloody lights again. I dare you.’
Jeannie leaned forward. ‘Lights,’ she taunted.
‘Didn’t you have a handyman?’ I interjected, trying to defuse the tension. ‘Tim, I thought his name was?’
‘Oh, Tim retired last year,’ she said, delicately popping a slither of panna cotta into her mouth.
‘I wasn’t referring to the lights,’ Miles said. ‘You mentioned something about papers? Is it something I can help with?’
‘Oh, that! No. It’s just a little admin we’ve got to work out with our lawyer. Tristan just needs to dot a few I’s and cross a few T’s.’
‘Okay…’ said Miles. I could see his brain working, contemplating whether he wanted to do this now or whether he could bear to wait and ask about it later. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to sign?’
‘No, no, it’s all getting sorted this weekend. I wanted it all worked out so you won’t have to worry about a thing before your move, I know how stressful it must be. I just didn’t want to have any loose ends if anything should happen–God forbid– to me or your father, and when you’re so far away in Australia that’s the last thing you’ll want to be dealing with. Tristan will look after everything.’
Miles stared at his mother, his face a mask of cold stone.
‘Right,’ he said simply.
Mrs Harlow began clearing away our bowls and plates. Jeannie loudly clapped her hands together.
‘Right! Time for our murder-mystery game! I’m playing moderator this year.’
Aunt Clem scoffed. ‘You’re always the moderator, Jeannie!’
The table was awash with grimace-like smiles. The first year we’d played it, it had been a fun novelty, now the game was wearing decidedly thin.
‘You are a bunch of stick-in-the-muds, aren’t you!’ Jeannie tutted, getting up from her seat and fetching the glass bowl from the sideboard, ‘Come on, this could be our last time.’
She dropped a folded piece of paper on the table in front of each of us.
‘Now, no cheating! No looking at each other’s paper to try and speed things up. I will know.’
Rain hissed on the windowpane, punctuated by the popping of the crackling logs in the grate. She sat back down and placed a pair of pince-nez on the end of her nose, ‘Right, you can all look now!’
I unfolded my paper.
MURDERER was scrawled in spidery blue handwriting. Thunder rumbled and the lights flickered.
‘Honestly, Mother,’ Tristan guffawed from the end of the table, ‘do you invoice the weather, too?’
Jeannie gave a little smile, reached for the wine decanter and held it aloft.
