Libby spent all morning cooking. Cooking has never been my thing—like my mother, I’m the takeaway queen—but every year I make precisely one dish. It’s walnut and cranberry salad.
I survey the kitchen counter. Libby has made three different types of stuffing, including one with sausage and green apples that the whole family is gaga for. My salad is almost done. And the turkey that Libby spent half an hour butter-basting with herbs is roasting in the oven, scenting the house pleasantly with sage and making my mouth water. She might be a Judas of a sister, but she definitely can cook.
“Charlotte?” Mum calls from upstairs.
“Yeah?”
“Can you come here for a second?”
I lope up the stairs to Mum and Dad’s bedroom. Our stairway is lined with photos in mismatching but complementary frames. Mum saw the design in a photo spread in Hello! when I was a kid and decided to replicate it, immediately replacing all the matching brown wooden frames we had with silver, gold, checkered, and decorated ones. At the top of the stairs is one of my favorite photos: a picture of Libby and me when I was eleven and she was thirteen, the day before she left for Greene House. We have our arms around each other and are standing on our tennis court, sweaty after a heated match. Our faces are so open and happy; our grins are from ear to ear.
It’s been only five years, but it feels like a lifetime ago.
My parents’ bedroom door is open. It’s a huge rectangular room with a sitting room attached. Mum got really into equestrian-themed decor after we moved to Midhurst because of all the polo here—despite never going to matches—so she hired a designer and made the bedroom look like something from a Ralph Lauren catalog. The walls have framed oversized equestrian prints from the late 1800s, and there’s a giant potted plant threatening to take over the far corner of the sitting room, a vintage telescope, and an old Louis Vuitton steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. The walls were painted red last year, which Mum thought matched the wood furniture and wood paneling nicely, but this year she decided it all looked like a bordello and redid everything in shades of green and cream. The massive wooden sleigh bed is blanketed in outfits.
“Mum?”
“I’m in the closet,” she calls.
I walk into her enormous closet to find Mum sitting cross-legged on the circular sofa in the center, looking panicked. Her shoulder-length brown hair is blown out and her makeup is immaculately applied. If she weren’t wearing only a white satin slip, she could be heading to a dinner party.
“I have literally nothing to wear.” Around her, there are probably one thousand outfits, plus wall-to-wall racks of shoes arranged by color in the shelves she had custom-built.
“I’m not sure you know what the word ‘literally’ means, Mum. You have more clothes than Harrods.”
“Your grandmother will be here in fifteen minutes. I can’t have her seeing me like this.”
“You’re still freaking out over what Nana thinks of you?”
She regards me with a sour look on her face, her eyebrow arched. “I know, it must be a novel concept for you: worrying about what your mother thinks.”
“Ooh. Burn.” I walk in the closet, running my fingers through the clothes. Mum loves silky blouses, the more expensive the better. I think she’s always trying to make up for wearing hand-me-downs from Aunt Kat as a kid. The blouses feel like butter slipping through my fingers. “What about this one?” I pull out a long-sleeved purple silk blouse with a bow at the collar. “You look adorable in this.”
“I don’t want to look adorable, I want to look Christmas-appropriate.”
“You could always wear an ugly jumper.”
She shoots me another look. “Charlotte. Be serious.”
I laugh.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because this conversation is silly. I feel like I’m your mum right now.”
“I don’t appreciate that,” she pouts. “You and Libby were very lucky to grow up with a mother like me. You have no idea what a nightmare it was with her.”
I frown at the mention of my sister’s name but let it go.
“I have an idea, all right. You do know I’ve met my grandmother before?” I pull out another blouse—a red-and-green paisley print—and Mum shakes her head.
She sighs. “I still don’t know what to tell her about Edward. She’s been pumping the well dry for months. This latest development . . . oof.”
I thrust a white blouse at her. “Just tell her that Libby stole him from me. I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. Who cares which sister, right?”
Mum groans. “Can you two please try to keep it civil?”
“I’m not the one you need to worry about,” I say. “I play by the rules. Apparently, Libby doesn’t.”
“Charlotte, I wish you’d give your sister a chance to apologize to you properly. She’s beside herself about it.”
“Good. She should be.” I grab another blouse to distract her. “What about this one? The cream looks elegant. And wasn’t this a gift from Nana?”
“It was—personally, I think it’s hideous, but that doesn’t matter. She’ll be thrilled I’m wearing it. Or, at least, she won’t criticize me quite as much as normal. Well done, Charlotte.”
I beam.
“Now what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you going to wear?”
“Mum. Please. I have it covered.”
“Thank goodness I never have to worry about you,” she says, putting the blouse on over her slip. She opens a drawer and pulls out a pair of opaque stockings, sitting back down and carefully rolling them up her slender legs. “You always know just what to do.”
“Hardly,” I say. “But thanks, Mum. I’d better go change before they get back from the train station. Love you.”
An hour later, I’ve showered, blown out my hair, and painstakingly applied sparkly holiday makeup. I debate about which dress to wear, but finally settle on a printed wrap that Nana bought me for Christmas two years ago.
Back in the kitchen, I pull some homemade nonalcoholic wassail from the fridge. It’s full of spices like cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger, and Libby makes it every year. Both Nana and I are addicted to it—although Nana takes hers with booze.
I’m peering through the glass oven door at the turkey, wondering if I’m supposed to do something to it, when I hear a hubbub in the hallway. Dad and Libby are back from the train station. I dry my hands on a tea towel before plastering a smile on my face and walking into the foyer. Mum is already waiting, looking as picture perfect as a Vogue fashion spread.
“Nana!” We hug. She smells like amber and mint, a combination I remember from my childhood.
“Let me look at you, dear,” she says, holding me firmly at arm’s length. She looks me up and down, her eyes narrowed, as if searching for something—anything—to criticize. Finally, after several seconds of scanning, her face relaxes. “You look wonderful. School is treating you well.” She pulls me in again for a hug, this time patting me on the back crisply. Libby stands awkwardly behind her, watching the two of us.
She turns toward Mum. “Jane, my darling. Have you been watching your figure? You look well.”