Becky noticed that Rosie and Declan were sitting closer together than they had the day before. She suspected they were holding hands under the table.
On impulse she took Will’s hand, allowing herself to touch him while she was still allowed. She wondered if he might pull away but instead he curled his fingers over hers, pressing her hand onto his thigh. The same thigh she’d seen naked the night before. The same thigh that had pressed up against hers.
“But they danced in sacks!” her grandmother said. “And theset was a single black wall. Ballet is supposed to be beautiful. What’s beautiful about a sack and a black wall?”
Rosie nibbled the edge of the bun. “It was edgy, Granny.”
Her grandmother made a disparaging sound. “It was ugly, wasn’t it, Brian?”
“The clue is ‘Not genuine.’ Anyone?” Her grandfather was absorbed with his crossword as usual and Phyllis poked him in the ribs.
“Brian?”
“What?” He looked up from the paper. “What did I miss? Oh, cinnamon buns. Now I know it’s Christmas. You’re wonderful cook, Jenny.”
“These came from the supermarket,” Jenny said, “but I was wonderful at heating them up.”
Becky felt Will’s thumb gently stroke her fingers. She didn’t dare take a cinnamon bun in case she choked.
“I was telling Rosie about the ballet we saw,” Phyllis said. “The one with everyone in sacks.”
“Oh. Yes, that was ugly.” Brian returned to his crossword. “The clue is ‘Not genuine,’” he said to no one in particular, tapping his pencil on the paper.
“Fictitious,” Martin said, adding a stack of sourdough toast to the table. “Jamie, are you ready with those eggs? Is there anything else anyone needs? If not, then tuck in.”
Her grandfather shook his head. “It’s only four letters.”
“Mock.” Jamie appeared at the table with a pan of freshly scrambled eggs and everyone served themselves. “Sham.”
“Phony,” Jenny said and then frowned. “No, that’s five letters.”
“Fake,” Will said, and Becky felt her heart stop.Was it her imagination or had he put emphasis on the word? Maybe he was reminding her that none of this was real. As if she needed reminding.
She pulled her hand away from his and helped herself to a cinnamon bun.
Was it her imagination or was her mother looking at her a little too closely?
“Fake! That’s it. Good lad.” Brian filled in the letters with a flourish, protesting when Phyllis tugged the paper away from him.
“Enough! We have this every day of the week. Do we need to have it at Christmas too?”
“It keeps my brain agile.”
“Your brain isn’t going to wither away over one meal. And if you really want to exercise your brain you could finish writing your book. You know—that book you’ve been talking about for the past fifteen years.”
“We are not talking about the book at breakfast.” Jenny sat down and took a slice of toast and a spoonful of scrambled eggs.
“We’ve done a plan,” her father said. “Haven’t we, Martin?”
“We have. It’s a good plan.”
Percy sat down by Rosie’s chair hopefully, tail wagging.
Rosie stroked his head. “Percy should have a Christmas treat.”
“He’s going for a long walk on the beach soon, with the entire family in attendance,” Martin said. “That’s a Christmas treat.”
Becky was grateful for the chaos, grateful for her family, who were loud and noisy enough to ensure that no one was paying any one individual too much attention.
