Page 21 of Christmas Is All Around
Charlotte cupped her own mug in her hands, savoring the warmth. The pub Graham had chosen was a Victorian-era hole in the wall, all antique mirrors and worn velvet booths and cozy lighting. She hated to admit it, but she loved it.
“My family has never been terribly… good at Christmas.”
“How can you be bad at Christmas? It’s not an exam.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure your family isgreatat Christmas,” she said. “Historic family home, lots of vibes, zero time spent listening to your parents arguing in the other room or, god forbid, being asked to fly off to some remote location to meet your mother’s latest paramour.”
“They sound like a treat, your parents,” he said, frowning down into his mug of wine.
“That’s one word for it. It’s what you get when two capital-AArtists marry each other.”
“You know that being an artist doesn’t automatically make you an ass, don’t you?” he asked conversationally.
“I’ve got a lot of evidence to the contrary,” she said shortly, before reluctantly amending, “Myself excluded, obviously. And Ava’s fine—selfish at times, but I love her, and she’s a good sister. Mostly.”
“My sister’s an artist, you know,” he said slowly. “Not Eloise—Lizzie, our little sister. She’s in her final year at Central Saint Martins, studying fashion design. She’s incredibly talented,” he added, with an unmistakable note of pride. He loved his sisters—she could hear it in his voice, every time he spoke of them. “And she’s one of the least selfish people I’ve ever met. She’s very weird, don’t get me wrong, andslightly terrifying to strangers, I think—but she’s not selfish at all.” He shook his head. “I just think… if your family has convinced you that it’s acceptable, or understandable, for your parents to be shit parents, just because they’re devoted to theircraftor whatever… well, it’s bullshit. And you deserve better parents than that.”
She stared at him, a bit astonished. “Are you secretlykind?” she asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.
He spluttered. “I don’t think I’msecretlykind. There are plenty of people who would call me kind.”
She crossed her arms across her chest, leaning back against the soft, upholstered booth. “Name them.”
“My mother.”
“Doesn’t count. Mothers can’t see their children objectively.”
“My sisters.”
“Would they, though?” she asked shrewdly. “I’ll bet you were a nightmare of an older brother. You probably gave them absolute hell.”
He grinned suddenly—a wolfish, fierce grin unlike any of the smiles she had yet seen cross his face. “I hid Eloise’s hairbrush every evening after she went to bed.”
Charlotte blinked. “Her… hairbrush?”
“Yes. She read an article in a magazine telling her how many strokes she needed to brush her hair every morning and every night and became fixated on it. It was extremely annoying—she kept making us late for school, because she wouldn’t stop brushing her hair.”
Charlotte could imagine, in a sudden flash, child Graham, in his school uniform, tapping his foot impatiently, checking his watch, absolutelyhorrifiedby the notion of being late.
“So one night I hid it in a closet. She had an absolute fit the next morning, wouldn’t stop shrieking about her hair—we were late for school anyway, but it was worth it just to get to watch it all. So the next night I hid it again, in a different spot. She worked out it was mepretty quickly, but instead of telling our mum, she started creating elaborate traps inside her room to catch me when I tried to sneak in to steal it.”
“Please tell me it involved chocolate syrup being dumped on your head and a fan spraying feathers on you,” said Charlotte, who had watchedThe Parent Trapa possibly worrying number of times.
“Nothing quite that elaborate, but she did once manage to rig up one of those contraptions where the door opens and tips flour down on the head of whoever is walking through the doorway.”
“Why didn’t she just lock her door?”
Graham snorted. “Because it’s a three-hundred-year-old house with old-fashioned locks and my mother hid the keys from us because she didn’t trust us—probably a good call,” he added thoughtfully.
“Probably,” Charlotte agreed, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence for a moment, each sipping at their wine.
“So,” she said slowly, lowering her mug of wine. “Where’s our next stop on this holiday movie tour?”
“Our,” he repeated, and looked at her over his mug, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“If you wanted,” she said. “To do more research, of course.” She took a breath. “My point is, I… wouldn’t mind.”
“Neither would I,” he said quietly. He pulled out his phone and glanced down at his list from Eloise. “We need to go to Sloane Square, so that’s easy enough. I’ve plans this weekend, though, and I have to go down to Hampshire for a couple of nights starting on Monday.”
