I smile at her. ‘The staff here are a lot like the tide, they come in and out.’
She seems to accept that, so I pick up the bun tray and a stack of plates and bring them over to the table. ‘Anyone fancy a warm cinnamon and cranberry swirl?’
I help myself to one, take a bite, and begin unpacking my bags and looking in the cupboards for baking trays and scales. I know what hungry kids are like when it comes to demolishing baking, so I’m wafting past in the hope of snaffling another before they all go. But as I get to the table there’s a series of loud moans.
‘Totally gross …’
‘Bleugh …’
‘Did we bring Pop-Tarts?’
Libby’s tutting. ‘For goodness sake Tiff, stop pulling at your tongue.’
Tiff’s protesting loudly. ‘Those red things are disgusting, I’ve got to pull to scrape the taste off.’
I’m trying to be friendly. ‘My fault, I thought you might like them, I ate my own body weight in them yesterday.’ They’re staring at me without engaging, looking so supremely pissed off, I’m reaching for my trump card without even meaning to. ‘How about we play Elf on the Shelf instead? It’s a hunting game.’ This was a little gem of an idea I got off Pinterest, on offer because, unlike the baubles, the order of a hundred plastic pixies to hide around the castlehasarrived. It was meant for when things flagged on Christmas Day, if I’m bringing it out nine days early it’s only because I’m desperate.
As they lean back in their chairs they’re staring at me blankly. Tansy is first to react, and it’s with another grimace and a head shake. ‘P-e-r-l-e-a-s-e …’
‘Just no, totally no.’ Tiff’s got her back. ‘I mean why … justwhy… would anyone want to look forelves?’
‘It might have been fun?’ I think I get the message about that. ‘Well, who likes baking? I’m making gingerbread men in a moment, to hang on the tree. Anyone want to help?’
They don’t even say, they just stare at me in total silence as if I’m an alien. I sense I’d actually have got a better reaction if I was.
Libby turns to them. ‘Why not go and watch TV in the family room, CBeebies is bound to be on.’
A long groan comes from the gap between Tom’s woolly hat and his puffa coat. ‘When are you going to get it, Mother,Postman Patisn’t doing it for me any more. Why can’t I watchThe Wire? OrGame of Thrones? OrKilling Eve?’
Libby snaps at him. ‘You know why, Tom, twelve is way too young to see women ripping men’s whatsits off.’
There’s another squawk from Tom’s collar. ‘THIRTEEN … in a month.’
Tiff’s staring at her mum like she’s interrogating her. ‘Or you could take us to the cinema?’
Tom’s choking. ‘IREFUSEto watchFrozen 2again.’
Tiff’s sniffing. ‘One more time, then I’ll be ready to do my vlog.’
Tom’s voice rises in protest. ‘I thought your vlog was about make up?’
Patronising doesn’t begin to cover how she sounds. ‘Tom, a vlog can be whatever you want it to be. My followers are happy to hear my thoughts onany subject.’
‘You do know how vommy you sound?’
As Tom launches himself across the table and retches over the edge I totally get where he’s coming from. I’m wondering what he’s hiding underhishat when Libby gets up and pushes a box into my hand.
‘An iPhone?’
‘It’s already set up with all my social media accounts, so you can upload pictures too.’ She half closes one eye and her foot lands on my toes and crushes them at the same time. ‘We never know when we’ll find wifi do we? It’s easier for you to slip away than it is for me.’
Bill’s been warned – unless he wants the entire house party taking up residence in his room, he needs to keep his door firmly closed. Obviously Libby and I will have to nip in throughout the day, so I’ve given him a DO NOT DISTURB sign to hang on the door in case he needs private time. If he wants too much of that, we’re stuffed.
‘Lovely.’ It’s the latest model, I just hope I can work out how to use it.
‘You can kick off with some photos of delicious warm buns. Straight away would be good.’ She’s clapping her hands, which seems rude even for her, but the claps aren’t meant for me. ‘Right, guys. Anyone up for breakfast atPret, in the car,NOW!’
There’s a scrape of chairs, a mass scramble for the French windows, and two seconds later Libby and I are left staring at each other, our jumpers flapping in the gale that’s blowing in from the courtyard.
