David Szalay - London and the South-East

‘What about that?’ Mike says, indicating the huge blue box, while erasing his image of Paul in pain. ‘Whose is that? What lucky ess aitch one tee gets to open that?’

‘It’s Paul’s,’ Heather says quietly. She has just lit a cigarette and is smoking — uneasily in front of her parents. She seems nervous and holds her lower lip with her teeth.

‘Go on, Paul.’ Mike puts the viewfinder to his eye.

Paul stubs out his cigarette, and slowly standing, says, ‘I know what it is.’

‘How do you know?’ Heather says.

‘I saw it in the shed.’

‘But you never go in the shed!’

‘I was looking for a saw.’

‘Why?’

‘To cut the tree down to size. It was too big, remember? I had to borrow a saw from Martin.’

Everyone watches — except the children, who are upstairs, downloading tracks for their iPods — as Paul approaches the blue present. He sighs, and touches its shiny surface, looking at it as a sculptor who has lost his enthusiasm for his art might look at a new block of marble — yet another bloody block of marble — bored and demoralised. ‘How the fuck am I going to open this?’ he mutters. He is aware of the extreme loutishness of his demeanour — his determined, obtuse failure to evince even the slightest excitement, the least hint of enjoyment — and he finds it offensive himself, distasteful, selfish, ugly. Yet he is somehow unable to stop himself, which only intensifies his distress. As he faces the horizontal blue monolith, he feels the silent disapproval of the room behind him. His mother and Mike, despite their instant loathing for each other, have largely sat on their writhing animosity and smiled, so as not spoil things for everyone else — and yet here he is, joylessly unimpressed by his huge blue gift, and making not the slightest effort to hide it. Quite the opposite — sourly, he seems to be exulting in his unpleasantness. Finding a taped seam with his finger, he starts to tear, pulling the paper off in strips, slowly revealing the box. ‘It’s a TV,’ he says, in the tone of someone finding a ticket under their wiper. The camera unleashes its sheer flash and, wearily, he finishes pulling off the paper. ‘Is it one of the flat-screen ones?’ Mike asks, and Joan says, ‘How on earth did you get it here from the shed? It must weigh a ton.’

‘One of the neighbours helped me.’

‘You’ll enjoy watching this, Heather,’ Paul says.

‘So will you.’

‘Oh, yes. So will I.’ His voice is openly sarcastic and sneering, and he knows as soon as he has spoken that it was too much. ‘Hea- ther …’ he hears Mike say, and turns, just in time to see her leave. ‘Oh, God,’ he mutters, and shouts half-heartedly after her — ‘Heather …’ Somewhere upstairs a door slams.

As he trudges, sighing, up the narrow stairs, his performance already seems strange and inexplicable to him. Shameful. Why had he been so determined to spoil things? And he has spoiled them. They are spoiled. Despite his shame, however, he is still angry. In this state, he knocks on the bedroom door and opens it. It is dark, and he fumbles drunkenly for the light switch. When he finds it, the scene is desolate — the windows black, the morning’s mess of unwanted apparel on the floor. Heather is lying on the unmade bed, her skirted haunches turned to where he stands in the doorway, her small feet drawn up under them. ‘Heather …’ he says. She does not move. ‘I’m sorry.’ Still she does not move. ‘Look … You’d better come back downstairs. I’m sorry .’

He is halfway down the stairs when he stops and, with a whispered ‘For fuck’s sake’, turns and stomps back up. To his surprise she is not where she was. She is standing up, looking at herself in the mirror. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You’re coming down?’

‘Piss off, Paul.’

‘What do you mean, piss off?’

‘You don’t deserve anything,’ she says gnomically, still not looking at him.

‘What are you talking about?’ She ignores this question. ‘The TV? Are you talking about the TV?’ He finds he is shouting, and makes an effort to lower his voice. ‘It’s true you’ll watch it more than me. That’s fucking obvious …’

‘Only because you’re never here. Always pissed,’ she murmurs.

‘Well, don’t try and pretend the fucking TV’s a present for me then!’

‘It’s pathetic.’

‘You’re pathetic. You are. Buying a TV for yourself and then pretending it’s a present for me. I don’t mind. Fine. But don’t expect me to be fucking grateful.’

‘I don’t,’ she says.

‘You don’t? You seem to. You seem to. Why did you come upstairs then? Why this fucking scene?’

‘Because you were being a twat.’ Her voice is level and quiet. ‘As usual. I should be used to it by now. Excuse me.’ She has finished, and he is in the doorway. He stands there, twisted with fury. ‘Excuse me,’ she says again.

Downstairs the TV — the old TV, itself not small — is on. Geoff and Angela, Mike and Joan, are watching it — some fifty-year-old film with matt, artificial-looking colour and mannered acting. Sentimental orchestral music. Their faces are expressionless. Geoff keeps yawning. Mike has finally taken off his Santa hat. ‘Do you want a hand clearing the table?’ Joan says quietly when Heather comes in.

‘No, it’s all right. I’ll do it later.’ She sits down on the arm of the sofa.

‘Where’s Paul?’ Mike says.

‘I don’t know. Upstairs.’

‘Is he all right?’

Heather seems distracted. ‘I don’t know.’ Despite what she has just said, she stands up and starts to clear the table. Joan immediately starts to help her. ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ Heather says impatiently. ‘I can do it.’

‘I’ll just give you a hand.’ Joan is stacking dessert plates.

‘It’s okay.’ Joan seems not to hear this. ‘ Mum!’ Two annoyed syllables. ‘Go and sit down. I can do it. You sit down.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘ Yes ,’ Heather says emphatically.

She takes the stack of plates to the kitchen. There, in the pasty neon light she puts them down, and lights a cigarette. Was it inevitable, she wonders, that the day would end like this? If so, what was the point? And she had been truly looking forward to today. When she sees the fine cigars that she picked out, still in their aluminium tubes — she had imagined presenting them after dessert, with the port, part of her perfect Christmas meal — for a moment her vision fogs with tears. She shuts her eyes to squeeze them out, and wipes her face with a tea towel. Then she pours the dregs of a bottle of wine into a used glass, and drinks them down. The straw-yellow wine, though warm, is rich and buttery — much better than the stuff she usually drinks. It is all so sad. When she has finished her cigarette, she stubs it out in the little foil base of a half-eaten mince pie, finally sinking it into the dark mincemeat with a tiny hiss.

Though still apparently watching the film through the open door of the lounge, Geoff is standing in the hall, with his hands in his trouser pockets. He is wearing a dark blue round-necked jumper with the lump of a tie knot just visible at the throat. He seems to be waiting for something, and Heather says, ‘Do you want a coffee or something, Geoff?’

He looks at her as if startled. ‘What? No, no thanks, Heather. I think we’re off actually,’ he adds vaguely, after a moment.

‘Yes, we’re going,’ Angela says, emerging from the downstairs loo, adjusting the belt of her high-waisted trousers. ‘We’ve got to drive back and everything. Thank you so much, Heather. It’s been a wonderful Christmas.’

‘I’ll just get Paul,’ Heather says. ‘I don’t know where he is.’