Page 45 of We Three Kings

‘Well, can you tell your father I may have run over a badger on my way in. It was that or a cat?’ she says.

‘Yes, Miss Cressida.’

How do you run over what possibly could have been a cat and then drive off? But I try and piece together who Miles might be. Is he the groundsman’s son? Jasper, that’s not a relationship, that’s a whole novel with saucy bits.

‘Is she here then? This girl you’ve brought. You never bring people here,’ she says suspiciously.

‘She’s in the loo.’

‘Is she a girlfriend?’ she says in enquiring if cruel tones.

‘No,’ he replies plainly.

‘Thought as much. Little Jaspy with a girlfriend doesn’t really compute.’

Crumbs, this feels like another sister that wants a slapping. I sit back to control my anger but as I do, I slip back hitting the window. No no no no no. Maybe they didn’t hear that. I hear silence in the room. They did.

‘Is that the robins flying into the windows again?’ Cressida says.

‘Possibly,’ Miles says.

And for no other reason than me being a complete idiot, I make a strange bird sound, a very meagre cheep. There is silence again. If it was a bird, you wouldn’t be able to hear it would you? It’d be outside.

‘Maggie?’ I hear Jasper’s voice ask.

I want to cry. This is the worst first impression any person could make. They’ll exile me. Maybe I can pretend I’m a ghost. This looks like the sort of place that has a resident ghost. Can I open the window? Could I jump down onto the gravel? I think I could make it. But instead, I emerge from those curtains, literally falling off that windowsill as the three people in that room look at me curiously, Jasper with a rather large grin on his face.

‘God, this house is massive, isn’t it?’ I say flustered. ‘Got completely lost in there.’

Jasper and Miles start giggling but Cressida looks very unimpressed.

‘Bathroom?’ I ask them.

‘Down the hall, Miss Maggie,’ Miles tells me.

‘Thank you. Lovely to meet you,’ I say, shaking his hand, my cheeks burning with too much embarrassment to look him in the eye.

‘You too, Miss Maggie,’ he replies gleefully before I take my leave, possibly doing a light curtsy before I run off.

SIXTEEN

‘HARK THE HERALD ANGELS SING! Glooooo-rrrry to the new born kiiiing.’

There’s a round of applause as a lady in a fur-trimmed velvet gown stands up and bows to the small crowd and just like that I can say I’ve seen Jasper’s grandmother’s vibrato. I clap, trying to balance the cup of cranberry punch in my hands.

‘Canapé, miss,’ a man in a tartan waistcoat asks me.

‘Don’t mind if I do, thank you.’ I try to act restrained but it’s tiny Yorkshire puddings with what looks like horseradish and rare roast beef. In my opinion, these are the king of canapés. I’d gladly steal the whole tray and eat them myself, in my four-poster bed, wrapped in my heavy curtains. What is the etiquette here? Take more than one now or take the one and follow this man around? The canapé man stares at me for a moment, smiles and then wipes the corner of his mouth, handing me a cocktail napkin. It’s so subtle, so kind.

I take the napkin, wiping at my lips. ‘Thank you…sorry, what’s your name?’

He looks at me with wide eyes, unsure whether to reveal such information.

‘I’m Charles. You are very welcome, Miss Maggie.’

Yet he knows me. He looks down at the tray urging me to take another one. This is a way to secure a good and lasting friendship with me, Charles, it really is. He bows his head and walks away. In the corner of my eye, I see Jasper’s grandmother still receiving praise for her grand festive solo, and the pianist kicks off another round of Christmas classics. I don’t know how to describe this party but it feels like an event fit for some sort of embassy purpose. The kind you see in films where at the end of the night, a diamond auction will take place or they’ll all gather around a roulette wheel. It extends into different rooms of the house, all elegantly lit and decorated with garlands and candles, with roaring fires. There is a bar set up where portly men swig at whisky and talk of their investments, and waiters dressed in seasonal tartan weave through the crowds with silver platters of smoked salmon and mince pies, or sit in the kitchen guarding what to me looks like a cheese buffet. Scrap following Charles around all night, maybe I’ll just sit with the cheese.

‘Champagne?’ a voice says next to me, pushing a glass into view.

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