“You’re an underage mixologist,” James called, from the kitchen.
“My blends are purely in the interests of science, I assure you. Help me up, sous chef,” Nathan commanded Gwen, who crossed her wrists obligingly and hauled him to his feet, and Julia’s free-flowing anxiety about Pamela’s impending visit was momentarily staunched by this heartwarming camaraderie between the children.
13.
Pamela did not arrive until six, for “driving past” turned out to mean that she was en route from Sussex to her hotel in Ladbroke Grove. “Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands,” Iris was heard to mutter, refusing James’s offer of a fourth cup of tea.
When the doorbell rang it was Gwen, to everyone’s surprise, who sprang to her feet and rushed to open it. Pamela swept into the hall, drawing in behind her a theatrically cold wind. Iris, never anything but ramrod straight, threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin a fraction.
“I’m just so thrilled we could do this,” trilled Pamela, as if answering an invitation extended months ago that had been fiendishly difficult to honor. She kissed Julia. “I just couldn’t resist the opportunity to see my babies on Christmas Day. Will you send one of them out with me to help bring pressies from the car?”
A pair of Nathan’s sneakers lay abandoned by the front door and Gwen slipped these on, laces untied, and trotted out after Pamela. Once introductions had been made Pamela arranged herself in an armchair and looked about with satisfaction, scanning the room until she had educed a tentative Mexican wave of returned smiles. Only Iris remained impassive, regarding Pamela as she might a stage on which an amateur theatrical production of mixed reviews was about to begin.
“Isn’t this a lovely nest you have? If I miss anything from London, it’s these sweet little Victorian terraces. Now, shall I make my presentations?”
“It’s commendable how well prepared you are for a spontaneous visit,” observed Iris, regarding the pile of gift bags and boxes that Gwen had obediently carried in behind Pamela, like a bellboy.
“Oh, everything was in the car for tomorrow in any case, but I was whizzing past and thought, why not? A Christmas sherry with you all. I’m so pleased to meet you, I’ve heard such wonderful things about you from James. And you”—here she addressed Philip—“of course I’ve read your papers on OP presentations and have so many enormous bones to pick with you, so I am utterly overjoyed we’re meeting like this, I just have a hundred thoughts to share. Perhaps later I will sweep you off into a corner.”
“Pick swiftly,” advised Iris, “our bones are going to have to go quite soon, I’m afraid.”
“No sherry, Mom, but we’ve been mulling wine in your honor,” said Nathan, coming in from the kitchen. Gwen followed behind him carrying a tray of mugs. She was being oddly obliging, Julia thought. Perhaps later she would begin a campaign to be allowed to go to Trafalgar Square alone with her friends on New Year’s Eve, or to attend the overpriced, underage driving course she’d discovered in Elstree. It was possible she’d broken something in the kitchen.
“That accounts for the gorgeous smell. I can have half a glass, I’m sure, I’ve eaten enough mince pies to line my stomach for a week. Or I suppose I could be devilish and have a whole one and pick up the car tomorrow.”
“Why not have tea?” Iris suggested.
? ? ?
TO NO ONE’S GREAT SURPRISE, Pamela outstayed her tentative welcome. Iris had long since abandoned any noble thoughts of outlasting her and had called herself a taxi, without the aid of Philip’s app, and the two of them had gone home. After a nod of permission from Julia, Gwen had escaped to her room where she flopped on the bed with her laptop, relieved and exhausted and glowing from a series of audacious, snatched intimacies with Nathan—his hand on her knee beneath the lunch table; their socked feet touching, fleetingly but in plain sight, as they’d all watched the Queen’s speech. Alone in the kitchen they had whispered while on the stove the neglected mulled wine reduced to a sticky, overboiled syrup and they had to rescue it with a second bottle, one of James’s better Pinot Noirs. There had been a sea change. The wrongness of family occasions with James, the pressure in her chest, the slight constriction of her throat during all festivities without her father—this was the sixth Christmas—were alleviated by the support and camaraderie of a boyfriend, even a secret one. And his weird mother seemed to like her.
“I really must get going,” Pamela was hooting, in an ever-increasing volume that suggested she was coming farther up the stairs, away from the front door, “but you must give me the tour before I go. Show me the kids’ rooms.”
A light tread followed. “Right at the very top is our bedroom,” she heard, “really no need to go up there; it’s a mess. My practice room is here, where I teach; this is where Saskia sleeps when she stays—”
“Wonderful!” Pamela boomed. “You must be so inspired there.”
“Yes.” Their voices got louder as they came up half a flight of stairs and stood outside Gwen’s door. “That’s Gwen in there, we won’t disturb her, I think she said she was going to nap, then the bathroom across the hall, and this is Nathan’s.” The door beside Gwen’s creaked open.
“Isn’t he a pig?” Pamela declared, with a hint of pride. “And everything’s just giant with boys, isn’t it—giant stinking shoes, and giant stinking clothes just strewn about everywhere. You really are a saint to take all this on. He said you’ve been doing his laundry! When he’s with me of course I insist he does his own. Still. Not long before he’s off and this could be the baby’s room, inshallah.”