Page 3 of Meet Me Under the Mistletoe
Dev Chakrabarti was Ameerah’s latest boyfriend, a model who was the darling ofBritish Voguephotographers and a well-known figure on the catwalk at the Milan, Paris, London, and New York Fashion Weeks. Ameerah was fond of saying she had neither the time nor the space in her life for men who hadsomething to say, she merely wanted them to look good and fuck better.
“It doesn’t seem fair that he should be a nice person and attractiveandgood in bed. There must be something wrong with him,” said Nory, screwing up her button nose.
Nory had met Dev several times now and found him tobe very good company, quite different from the vacuous men Ameerah usually dated.
“There is,” Ameerah said, stretching and yawning. “He’s a man-Barbie.”
“I think Dev has hidden depths. You simply won’t give him the chance to show you. Did you know he has a degree in politics and international relations?”
“What?” Ameerah was taken aback. “Who? Dev?”
“Are you objectifying a man, Ameerah? I’m shocked.” Andrew smiled wickedly.
Ameerah pulled a face at him. “Andrew, darling, I have been objectified since the day I grew these.” She paused to poke out her boobs and prod them in turn. “Do you think men see me in my barrister getup and think ‘Gosh, she looks like a clever well-read woman’? No, they look at me and think, ‘What’s she got under those robes,’ and assume I must have slept my way to the top. That is, if they don’t first mistake me for a defendant.”
“Cynical much?” asked Andrew.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” said Ameerah fiercely.
Andrew put his hands up in surrender.
“Does that mean we ought to behave as badly as men?” Nory queried.
“Oh, I’m sick of having to be the better person. Why is it always down to women to act like grown-ups and lead by example? I want equal rights to objectification.”
“Well, objectification aside, if hypothetically I do come to the house party, I’ll be the only person without a plus-one. I’ll be the proverbial third wheel.”
“Are you not enough as you are?” asked Andrew, one eyebrow raised archly. “Do you need a man by your side in order to feel complete?”
“Certainly not!” Nory was indignant.
“Then you should be perfectly happy to attend as a one.” He smiled triumphantly.
“I’m worried about the shop.” This was a small lie.
Andrew, who had left his position beside Ameerah’s throne and begun to re-alphabetize the middle-grade children’s section, turned with his hands on hips.
“And what am I?” he asked. “Chopped liver?”
“Andrew, you know what Christmas is like here. I can’t leave you to cope on your own.”
“I’ll get Seb to come in. He’s helped out before.”
“And what about Matilda?”
“Well, naturally she’ll come too. We can take turns to carry her in the papoose. She’ll love having both her parents with her all day.”
“As if that baby isn’t spoiled enough,” said Ameerah.
“How can you spoil a four-month-old baby?” asked Andrew. “All they want is cuddles, love, and food: pretty basic requirements for any human, really.”
“I only saw my parents at weddings and funerals; didn’t do me any harm,” said Ameerah mirthlessly.
“I rest my case,” Andrew remarked, giving Ameerah a side-eye.
Ameerah had been a boarder at Braddon-Hartmead from age eleven and had been raised by a nanny before that; she was only slightly exaggerating how little of her childhood she had spent with her parents. Nory’s family lived in the village down the hill from the school, so she only boarded Monday to Friday.
“What about Mugwort?” asked Nory.
