The Things We Do to Our Friends(18)

Servants’ Christmas felt like something they all knew how to navigate, something they’d done before. I decided to wait and see what my gifts were before organizing anything myself, and as December began, slowly, my “gifts” started to appear.

From Ava I received a vigorous massage. If she’d told me I was going to have a massage for an hour, I would have been anxious, but instead, one day when I was round at their flat, she just emerged and wordlessly pulled me into a room. I lay there as she pummeled each muscle into submission, signaling she’d finished by giving me a light tap on the rump to send me on my way like a show pony. It was pleasant enough, but it hadn’t felt tailored to me. I later learned that each of us got the same thing apart from Tabitha, who refused to discuss any of it with us. Finn had shuddered when I’d told him about the massage. “That girl is too weird.”

Samuel took me out in the car, of course, for a day in Perthshire. “Sounds like a date,” Finn had remarked caustically.

I followed Samuel into a forest that smelled of pine needles, where I could hear running water, and it was very damp in the air. Then he called me over and picked up a mushroom. Held it up to where the light came in through the trees and turned his hair to fire.

“This,” he said excitedly. “Winter chanterelle!”

He tried to pass the grimy thing to me. I shook my head and he shrugged, unperturbed, gave it a cursory clean with his thumb, and then he popped it in his mouth.

A few seconds passed. The light in the forest changed as clouds moved over us.

He collapsed, shuddering, gasping for breath.

I observed him.

After moment or two, he composed himself and got up. Giving me a strange look, he brushed the soil off his trousers. “Just a wheeze, they are actually chanterelles. Thought you might have been a bit more worried about me,” he said in a hearty tone that didn’t quite ring true as he nudged me with his shoulder.

I shrugged and we kept moving through the woods, picking up mushrooms as we went.

I’d been dreading Imogen’s gift. She’d warmed up to me a bit, but she was still territorial when it came to Tabitha. I don’t think she thought I deserved to be part of it—part of them—I hadn’t earned it. She invited herself round to my flat on one of those brutal days in early December when all you want to do is stay in bed.

She scrunched up her nose when I let her in.

“Now I see why you’re always round ours,” she said.

There was a welcome consistency in her frankness. I couldn’t bear the thought of Tabitha waltzing around my tiny, grubby flat, saying, “Oh, it’s lovely here.” I would have to grin and agree or grimace and protest.

Imogen’s gift turned out to be nice and practical. She arrived with something called a lint roller, shoe polish, and an industrial-looking steamer. With matronly vigor, she set upon my entire wardrobe, throwing away old pieces I’d had for years and scrubbing my boots until they gleamed.

I helped her a little, and I wondered if Imogen and I could find a way to become friends. I didn’t crave it exactly, but I thought the time would arise naturally and we could establish a deeper relationship. When she came round that day, the possibility of a connection felt close. She sang songs under her breath as she worked away, enjoying being bossy and restoring order. She seemed lighter that afternoon away from the rest of them.

“Isn’t that better,” she said happily as we both looked at my streamlined wardrobe.

“This was so kind of you, thank you,” I said. It really was a very useful gift, and I was touched.

“No problem.”

As we folded the last pieces in a companionable silence, I felt I could ask her the question I’d wanted to, maybe a way for us to become a little closer and find common ground.

“Tabitha hasn’t got me anything yet. I wonder, has she done something for you?”

She froze midway through folding a shirt and tore round to face me. “What on earth do you mean?” All of a sudden, her face was screwed up in rage.

“I didn’t mean anything!” I said.

“Why are you even asking?” she said. I could tell she was trying to slow her breathing and calm down.

I stumbled to explain. “I just wondered because she hasn’t done anything for me! It’s fine—if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t want to tell me. It’s not a big deal. We don’t have to make a thing out of it.” I put both hands up in defense.

She seemed to have worn herself out. She was still upset, but I could tell it was over, and there would be no more sorting of my closet. My opportunity had gone.

“I need to leave,” she said, picking up her bag and wrestling with the steamer. There was no goodbye.





14


For them, I agonized for hours. All their gifts to me had involved so much one-on-one time—it had been a lot to navigate.

In the end, I broke the rules and turned up at Tabitha’s flat laden with bottles, banishing them all to the kitchen to wait. Then I welcomed them into the drawing room where I’d made cocktails, a carefully selected recipe for each of them.

I’d practiced at work, buying all the spirits and liquors I’d need, which had cost far more than I could afford.

For Samuel, a perfect Manhattan with aged bourbon.

For Imogen, a pi?a colada made with fresh coconut milk and served garishly in half a coconut shell (in retrospect, I’m not sure why I chose something so kitsch for someone so unplayful, but I put an undue amount of effort into it because whatever I’d said to upset her, I wanted to make it up to her).