Seven Days of Us(35)

“Irina the cleaner,” chorused Emma and Phoebe, and burst out laughing. Olivia wasn’t sure why this was funny. It actually kind of appalled her that they had a cleaner when her mother didn’t work. And that the poor woman was spending her wages on gifts.

Irina (she now dimly remembered a Romanian woman scurrying around Gloucester Terrace) had given Olivia a box of Lindt chocolates and a glittering card wishing her safe return from Africa. Her mother had probably been talking about it nonstop. At least she no longer wrote her round-robin, that always began “Olivia has reached new academic heights.” Olivia offered everyone the chocolates, though only her mother took one. She reached again for her iPad, hiding it behind the cushion on her lap, and pretended to watch the others open their presents. Her mother met each one with a noisy show of delight or hilarity. Andrew kept pulling the same nonplussed face he always made on receiving gifts, until he came to Phoebe’s, and looked genuinely thrilled with a wine aerator.

Phoebe was holding a small, professionally wrapped present. “OK, now George’s,” she said. She uncovered a tiny turquoise box. Her lips puckered, like when she was about to cry as a child.

“Ooh, Tiffany! More sparkles!” said Emma.

Phoebe opened it and sighed. “I knew he wouldn’t get them,” she said.

“What’s wrong, angel?” said Emma. “Let’s see.”

Phoebe held up a pair of pearl studs.

“Oh sweet! Very nice, very classic. You’ll have those forever.”

“I never wear pearls.”

“Perhaps George would like you to,” said her father. “Nice rugby top and pearls, sounds right up his street.”

Emma shot him a look.

“It’s just I asked him specifically for these Dinny Hall hoops. I sent Mouse the link and everything. I knew she’d be useless.”

“Oh well, these are lovely, too. Let’s see them on! Perhaps the hoops can wait?” said Emma.

Phoebe sat back on the sofa, biting her bottom lip. “Can you put that away?” she suddenly snapped at Olivia. “It’s Christmas!”

“OK, calm down. There.” Olivia made a show of turning her iPad screen facedown and covering it with a blanket.

“You never get it, do you?” said Phoebe.

“I don’t? I’m not the one crying because I got some ridiculously expensive earrings, when millions of children are malnourished.”

“Oh my god—do you always have to bring it back to Africa?”

“It’s not just in Africa. Although, since you mention it, hundreds of people have died of Haag this month.”

“Girls, come on, please,” said Emma. “Now, here’s one for Daddy.” She handed a floral package to Andrew, and he gave her a clumsy pat on the arm, as she leaned down to plant a loud kiss on his cheek. He took ages to open it, using his penknife as if they were on a survival course. Finally, he eased a book out of the William Morris paper, held it at arm’s length, and announced: “Where Chefs Eat: A Guide to Chefs’ Favorite Restaurants. Marvelous, I shall enjoy that. Thank you, my sweet,” he said, scanning the blurb. Olivia wondered why her mother had bought him a book on the one subject he knew inside out. But it wasn’t really about that, she knew. It was about going through the motions of giving each other more and more stuff, every year. Her mother had given her about twenty tubes of hand cream—all of them overpoweringly perfumed. Phoebe had bought her a jumper that looked like something she’d wear herself, and was probably made in a sweatshop in Bangladesh. And her father had given her a pointless photo album—no doubt chosen by Emma. He’d written in the gift tag: “Olivia, Haagy Christmas, A.” What was wrong with him? Did journalists find it that hard to resist a pun? She looked at the floor, scattered with newness and wrapping paper and ribbon, and realized it was actually making her feel sick. She mumbled an excuse and went upstairs to check the news in peace.





Andrew


THE DINING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 4:00 P.M.

? ? ?

It was nearly dusk outside but they were still finishing lunch, wearing paper crowns from their Christmas crackers. Andrew had protested that it made them look as if they were in an old people’s home. But Emma and Phoebe had insisted, and Olivia had just looked pained—no change there. Was there anything, thought Andrew, more dismal than a family of adults wearing paper hats? He felt uncomfortably full. The turkey carcass sat on the side, the tarlike pudding still on the table. They’d followed it with some unnecessary Stilton, and Emma was now passing round Charbonnel et Walker truffles. Writing about food, eating out all the time, Andrew had come to feel that less was more. In his foreign correspondent days, they’d often made do—cheerfully—with Ryvita and boiled water. Emma put a fuzzy recording of “White Christmas” on the old LP player in the corner. He remembered dancing to it with her soon after they had met and knowing he would marry her. Now it just sounded schmaltzy.

Phoebe was clamoring for charades when the doorbell rang with the long pressure of a stranger. Nobody ever used the bell. A heavy knock followed.

All four of them looked at each other.

“Who’s that?” said Phoebe.

“Didn’t they see the sign at the gate?” said Emma.

Andrew stood up quickly. He knew he should have replied to Jesse’s last e-mail, should have fended him off. “I’ll go,” he said. But already there came the sound of someone grappling with the front door.