‘Just one picture,’ he repeats. ‘Tom, take it, quick—’
‘Leave her alone—’
‘Just fuck off,’ she yells, pulling away and catching the skinny one looking mortified.
‘Fuck you,’ Babyface shouts as Esther hurries away, aware of more abuse being hurled at the back of her head and wondering why not one single person in the vicinity has said anything. To all these people heading out to celebrate Christmas Eve, seeing a girl being hassled means nothing.
‘Ugly bitch!’
Esther is running now, trying not to cry because they’re not worth her tears, they’re just idiot boys who probably can’t even get served. They’ll have fake IDs and this is a fun part of their night, to humiliate a girl out on her own. She’s lost now, looking for a stupid restaurant where her mum and Luc will make her try something disgusting like a jellied hoof.
She swerves round a corner, having shaken off the boys as she checks Google Maps. Whereisthis place? Why couldn’t they just have had a nice dinner at home like normal people? Who even goes out on Christmas Eve? Everyone knows the staff are all desperate to go home and service is shit.
Esther tries to focus hard on the blue dot on the map, wondering what Tabitha of Tabitha’s tits is doing now. Could it be a band? she’s wondering now. Does it have a kind of ironic post-feminist edge to it? Unlikely, she decides. She’s picturing this mythical woman sitting in a chic bar, with a cocktail, when she spots the restaurant across the street. Too cool to display an actual sign, it just has just a tiny menu under glass beside the door. Esther hurries in, her hair all straggly and faux fur jacketsoggy from the rain, and sees her mum, dad and Luc sitting at the far end of the restaurant.
She inhales deeply and wipes away her tears with her fingers.
‘Hey, sweetie, we were getting worried!’ Her mum waves and her dad jumps up in greeting, his face breaking into a big, relieved smile. There are hugs all round.
‘You’re soaking, love,’ her dad says. ‘Here, take that coat off …’
She shrugs off the great wet rug and a waiter whisks it away. ‘You’re really late,’ her mum announces. ‘You could’ve texted.’
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ Esther mumbles, pushing her damp hair out of her face.
‘What happened?’
‘I just lost track of time,’ she says feebly.
‘Right. ’Course you did. And your mascara’s run, darling. Maybe go to the loo and sort yourself out?’
‘She’s fine, Rhona,’ her dad says sharply. Sensing an atmosphere building, Esther forces a smile.
‘I’ll do it in a minute, Mum.’ Her mother is wearing a glamorous black dress in a clingy jersey fabric and her hair’s all piled up, artfully undone; she’s obviously just been to the hairdresser. No straggly wet tresses or smudged make-up for her. Esther catches a man glancing at her mother from another table. She doesn’t even notice if anyone’s spotted her and she couldn’t care less.
‘Anyway, you’re here now,’ Luc says, with forced jollity.
‘It’sfine, Est,’ her dad says quickly. ‘Just sit down and relax and we’ll get you a drink.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Esther smiles briskly. Still shaken up by Miles’s journal and those boys jostling her, she busies herself by delving into her voluminous shoulder bag for everyone’s Christmas presents. They’re just little thingsshe’s bought, but carefully chosen: fragrance from Liberty for her mum (she loves expensive scents) and a beautiful penknife with a hand-carved wooden handle for Luc, which she thought would be handy for his foraging. For her dad, who’s the hardest to buy for – because he always says he doesn’t ‘need’ anything – she’s put together a bundle of beautifully illustrated books about animal behaviour from an antiquarian bookshop on Charing Cross Road.
‘Oh,’ she mutters, starting to sweat now. ‘They’re not here.’
‘What’s not here?’ her mum asks.
‘Your … your Christmas presents …’ Her eyes are filling up again. Damn these uncontrollable tear ducts, humiliating her like this. Esther rummages some more but there’s just her purse, keys, some loose make-up, scrunched-up tissues and that particular kind of bag grit that immediately embeds itself under your fingernails. ‘I forgot them,’ she announces. ‘I must’ve left them sitting on the bed. I’m really sorry—’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ her mum says. Esther can tell by her face that it does really.
‘I’m so stupid,’ she murmurs.
‘No, you’re not,’ her dad exclaims. ‘You’ve had a lot on your mind, Est. We can do presents another time.’ He’s already given Esther her gifts to open tomorrow, and her mum has transferred money into her account.
Esther tries to blink away tears. It’s the sight of her dad’s concerned face that’s doing it. Concern not just over the fact that she’s upset about the presents, but that she’s living with a man he really doesn’t like, and doesn’t trust to treat her well.
He’s right, of course. He has an instinct, her dad – about people. Esther knows she should probably listen to himmore. But what twenty-year-old really wants to listen to their dad?
She grabs a menu, focusing hard on the tiny lettering. Liver sausage and beetroot; ox tongue, duck blood pudding (she almost retches just reading it) and, as suspected, hoof. Chicken parfait with – ugh – something called cockscomb. Her mum must have spotted it at the same time because she’s asking, ‘I wonder what cockscomb is?’
