‘Ah.’ Luc looked knowing. ‘Of course, she wouldn’t have been allowed to pray if she’s menstruating.’
His unabashed use of the correct term made my delicacy look silly.
‘Are you sure that’s all it is?’ he asked.
All? I stared at him.All? Only a man could say that, couldn’t he?
‘Quite sure,’ I said coldly and made to move on, but he caught hold of my arm. I looked down at his hand, at which he released me immediately.
‘Sorry!’ he cried.
Transfixed, I continued to stare at my arm. His had been a broad, flat hand, freckled on the back. A dry, warm hand, its heat seeming to burn through the wool sleeve ofmy dress.
‘Are you okay, Alix?’
‘What?’ With an effort, I dragged my eyes upwards and focused on him.
‘I asked whether you were all right.’
‘Fine, fine, just busy, busy. Excuse me, excuse me,’ I gabbled, turning away before he could ask me why I was saying everything twice.
‘Dad!’ Emma’s voice came across the room. ‘Come and look at this! Come and see what Uncle Jules has given me for Christmas.’
‘Provided it’s not a dog…’
As Luc went to his daughter, Caroline sidled over to me. ‘Terribly brave of you to go for the little black dress, Alix,’ she said with a saccharine smile. ‘It might be a classic, but in reality the LBD suits so very few of us, don’t you think?’
Cow, I thought, baring my teeth back at her. Actually, my borrowed frock wasn’t really a ‘little black dress’ in the classic sense, and she had a point. In fact, surprisingly, the only person in the motley assortment of guests carrying off the little black dress was one Susan Mandeville. Knock half a century off her age and she looked so good she could have passed for Audrey Hepburn. I betted what she was wearing was Givenchy as well. When it came to my dress, not only was it Marks & Spencer but the hotter I was getting, the tighter it was getting. I’m not just tall but big-boned with it, especially on the hips. Yet again tugging it down surreptitiously with one hand, I shoved the plate under Caroline’s nose.
‘Do have a canapé,’ I said smoothly.
At least Caroline’s own sartorial choice was equally unsuccessful, I decided, appraising it from under my eyelashes. With a drapey sort of Victorian-style, long-sleeved white blouse tucked into a full, ankle-length drab-coloured skirt, she might have been attempting the quasi-bohemian look. Except it didn’t quite come off. She had drawn her undeniably thick and lustrous hair back in wings over her ears into a bun at the nape of her neck, not an in vogue ‘messy’ bun either but a real old granny job. This, unfortunately, had the effect of making her nose look huge. All she need was specs on the end of it to complete the picture. Whatever, it was not a good look. I wondered why she’d chosen it. Perhaps I should offer to swap clothes with her; she was more than welcome to my hot dress. This thought made me want to giggle, only momentarily, however, as Luc drifted over to us at this point, prompting Caroline to launch into her fawning, what-an-irresistible-woman-I-am act which I really could not stomach.
Besides, I reminded myself, I wasworking, and the kitchen beckoned.
As Christmas dinners go, it could have been worse. Looking back afterwards, I realised it could have been a lot worse if only on account of the mismatched collection of guests. But then, that’s typical Christmas, isn’t it? You end up sitting down to a meal with people you probably don’t see from one year’s end to the next – you probably don’t even like them much. None of you know what to say to each other, which is where the Christmas code of behaviour kicks in. Not only does this entail acting as though yourcup is filled, but it demands uproarious amusement on everyone’s part at everyone’s slightest utterance. By the time three o’clock in the afternoon arrives, and everyone, rabid anti-monarchists included, sits down to watch whoever is on the throne performing their particular Christmas act, a kind of reverence generally associated with spiritual worship takes over, not out of respect but because we’re all too bloody shattered with trying to be nice to do anything else.
So it was at the Villa Matisse. With one glaring exception: everyone seemed disposed to comport themselves pleasantly, laughing obligingly at the chronic cracker mottos, eulogising about the food as if they’d never had something so ambrosial in their life and determinedly preserving the pretence that they were ecstatic to be in each other’s company. In other words, honour was satisfied. This was Christmas, and this was how you behave.
Except for Jules. When it came to Jules, it quickly became plain that he was bent on mischief. Indeed, where Caroline was concerned, Jules had seemed bent on nothing short of malice. It began over the turkey. Up until that point, everything had been going swimmingly, the prawn cocktail going down a treat and Susan Mandeville happily plunged to such a depth in her vat of mulligatawny soup I feared she might suffer the bends if she ever came up for air.
Then, ‘I hear you’ve a second book coming out in the spring,’ Jules remarked to Luc as I discretely placed an individual dish of sprouts cooked without lardons next to Josh’s plate.
Whatever Emma, who was kindly helping me serve, might have said about her Jewish friend’s food requirements, I wasn’t taking any risks; he had declined the pigs in blankets, I noticed.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured, with a sweet little smile of gratitude up at me.
Everybody else was looking at Luc, there being too few guests too close to each other round the table to indulge in separate conversations. Emma had kindly set the table earlier, quite nicely if not quite up to Nicole’s standards, but she hadn’t extended it with the extra leaf. Personally, if it had been me arranging the table, I would have extended it with every leaf a tree could provide.
‘Indeed he has!’ squawked Caroline, in response to Jules’s remark and laying a proprietorial hand on Luc’s arm. She had reached that tactile stage of being so bent on establishing ownership I wondered she didn’t sit in his lap. ‘And it’s brilliant!’
‘You’ve read it?’ queried Jules, helping himself to gravy.
‘Of course.’ Caroline gave a haughty little toss of her head.
‘Ah.’ Jules smiled at her. ‘Then you can tell us what it’s about.’
‘What?’
