Harriet Evans - Going Home

‘Urgh,’ said Tom. ‘She’s such a muscler-inner! I wonder what it is – Weekend at Bernie’s ? Pretty in Pink ?’

‘ Pretty Woman ,’ I suggested. ‘No, Risky Business. No! Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves !’

‘I’ve got it,’ Chin yelled. ‘ Showgirls ! In a tie with Top Gun !’

‘Actually,’ said a voice from the door, ‘it’s Some Like It Hot , and it’s on now.’

We turned. There was Rosalie again. The world’s quietest walker. Damn. There was total silence.

Then Rosalie spoke: ‘Hey, where’s that coffee? I bought some chocolates, and your dad says there are chips in the cupboard bit at the back of the kitchen…’ She bustled through to the larder. ‘Here, yeah,’ she said, emerging with two big bags of crisps. ‘I’ll see you in there, but hurry up. Tony and Jack have just nearly been shot – they’ll be getting to Florida any minute.’ She walked out and we gazed after her in astonishment.

‘Is she all bad?’ Chin wondered aloud. ‘Clearly not. And yet, my friends, it is easier to hate her than to like her, no?

‘I say you’re all horrible people,’ said Gibbo, picking up the milk jug and bending over to kiss Chin again. ‘Come on, let’s go and join them.’

Mike appeared in the hall as Tom and I were negotiating our way to the side-room with the mugs and the cafetière. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Let me get the door. Hey, Titch, isn’t that the mug you painted for me in that stupid craft class you used to go to after school?’

‘It wasn’t stupid,’ said Tom, defensively. ‘It was really interesting. And you said it was the best present you’d ever had.’

Mike picked it up and considered it. ‘I dare say. It’s got a dent in the middle, though, hasn’t it? Look.’ He held up Tom’s masterwork, fashioned in blue with ‘Unkle Mike’ in a childish, uneven script. As a drinking vessel it wasn’t an unqualified success – goodness knows why we still used it. It sloped on one side and the handle bent in on itself, which made it difficult to hold. ‘Looks as if it’s had one or two too many, if you ask me. Can I take it back to New York?’

‘Of course you can,’ Tom said, rather chuffed. ‘Sorry I forgot to wrap it.’

‘So that’s the way the land lies, is it?’ Mike said. ‘ Très charmant. No presents, after I come all this way.’ His head drooped. ‘Oh, well…’ He brightened, taking the cafetière out of my hands. ‘I haven’t got you chaps anything either, so we’re evens. But Rosalie and I are going to stop off in London before we fly back. We’re staying at Claridges. How about we take you shopping, get you each a present, then treat you to dinner? Jess too.’

‘Oh, do Jess and Lizzy have to come?’ Tom asked. I kicked him. ‘Ouch! Blimey, Mike, that’s really kind of you. Are you sure? Claridges, eh?’

‘Well, in for a penny, in for a pound,’ Mike said. ‘Can’t do these things by halves, can you? Let’s give the coffee to the thirsty troops. And ssh – don’t mention it to the others. It’s a surprise for Rosalie and I don’t want her to find out.’

If you’d told me eight hours previously that I’d spend the rest of Christmas Eve watching the World’s Greatest Film with Mike’s new wife, I’d have said you were mad. But that was what happened. Rosalie hadn’t made a very good first impression – unless a brunette version of Anna Nicole Smith in a twin-set is your idea of a good first impression – but I had to admit she might turn out to be not too ghastly.

She helped with the sprouts and adopted the Walter tried and trusted technique – remove the outer leaves and cut a cross in the base, which helps them cook better. I love sprouts. Rather unsociably, Dad and Mike had disappeared into the study for a catch-up. I bet you any money you like that at no time did Dad say, ‘So who on earth is she, bro?’ No, they’d have been talking about some shares of Grandfather’s that were currently worth zero, and whether the wall in the kitchen garden needed rebuttressing.

‘So,’ Rosalie said, toned thighs clamped round a bowl as we all sat in the side-room, intermittently roaring with laughter at the film, ‘Suzy, you’re a doctor, right? Where?’

‘I’m a GP at the local surgery,’ said Mum, deftly whisking off a rogue stalk.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Rosalie, looking blank.

‘She’s a family doctor at a clinic,’ said Tom. He had performed a remarkable volte-face and become Rosalie’s new best friend. He was even speaking with a semi-American accent.

‘Wow,’ said Rosalie. ‘That’s hard work, right?’

‘Right,’ said Mum. ‘I’m lucky, though, I’ve got three days off for Christmas.’

‘Gaahd!’ screeched Rosalie. ‘I don’t know how you do it. I have such admiration for doctors and nurses and those who help.’

My mother and Kate shifted closer to each other on the sofa.

‘Er, yes,’ said Kate. She cleared her throat. ‘So, Rosalie, what about you? What do you do?’

‘Me? Oh, gosh, nothing real interesting. I’m an attorney with Wright Jordan Folland. That’s how I met Mike. I head up their commercial property arm,’ Rosalie said casually, tossing a pile of uncropped sprouts into her lap.

‘Really?’ we said in unison.

‘Are you serious?’ Chin said.

‘Sure, why?’ said Rosalie.

‘I just…’ mumbled Chin. ‘No reason.’

‘Well, that must be a much more stressful job than mine,’ said Mum. ‘Good grief, you’ve done so well to get so far, and you’re so young! How old are you?’

‘Oh, my God, my favourite bit!’ yelled Rosalie, neatly deflecting the question as Tony Curtis cycled towards the hotel after a night spent kissing Marilyn Monroe.

‘He’s brilliant,’ said Tom.

‘Creep,’ I muttered under my breath.

‘Tony Curtis! What a man!’ Tom continued, unabashed.

‘I was his attorney a few years ago when I was living in California,’ Rosalie said. ‘Nice guy. Some asshole was trying to screw him around on the money and I guess I ironed things out. He gave me one of his paintings.’

‘Oh, my God!’ said Tom. ‘You met him?’

‘All part of the job, honey,’ said Rosalie, tossing her hair off her face and putting the bowl on the floor. She smiled at me as she looked up again and I smiled back, unable to resist her. ‘So Lizzy,’ she said suddenly, ‘I want to know more about you. You got a boyfriend?’

The room fell silent – apart from the rise and fall of Gibbo’s breathing as he dozed in the corner.

‘No,’ I said.

‘But what about that David guy? Doesn’t he live round here?’

‘David?’ I asked. How did she know about David?

‘Mike and I met him for a drink in New York. I liked him.’

The atmosphere was as thick as stew.

‘You met David?’ breathed Jess. ‘You saw him?

‘David…Lizzy’s—’ Mum broke off. ‘David Eliot?’ She made it sound as if she barely knew him.

‘I’m sure that was his name.’ Rosalie looked confused. ‘You guys dated, right? Journalist? Kinda cute, short brown hair, real tall?’

‘Argh!’ I said, in a kind of strangulated scream.

Chin sat up straight. ‘Well, actually, Rosalie, we don’t talk about him any more. Do we, Lizzy?’ she said.

‘No, we do not,’ I said, as firmly as I could, though the mere mention of his name made me feel as if someone had scooped out my insides.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rosalie. ‘Hey, Lizzy, I hope I didn’t—’

I raised my hand. ‘Don’t worry. David and I finished last year. He went to New York but his mother lives just over there,’ I said, gesturing towards the window, ‘in the village.’