“Also your brother hates me,” Gwen went on with her gloomy update, “and Valentina hates me, and whenever they’re back at weekends she’s like, there, all the time, flicking her hair around and being evil. It’s like a hate-fest, they officially hate me.”
Nathan came up behind them, startling Gwen, who felt her cheeks flush. He was in skinny, faded jeans, gray suede sneakers, and a large, bright purple hooded sweatshirt, bearing the same brand name across its oversized pockets as the black one she herself wore, which displeased her. He was gallingly attractive despite a painful-looking spot on his forehead, for which Gwen did not judge him, as she fought her own sebaceous battles. Unlike his sister’s, which sounded enviably American, Nathan’s accent hovered diplomatically mid-Atlantic, tending East or West depending on the company and his mood. To Gwen, this suggested fickleness, and a more general unreliability. A large set of neon-green padded headphones was slung around his neck, like a DJ, off-duty. He was always disconcertingly sure of himself. “It’s true,” he said, and as she watched he hung his head briefly on one side and passed a loving hand through his dark hair to encourage its wave. “Officially. I filed paperwork to make it legal just this week. I officially hate you.”
“Shut up.”
“Aww, guys.” Saskia put an arm around each of them and drew them into a group hug. Both had to bend down to her height. “Be friends! Feel the love!”
“I feel it.” Nathan dropped his head, overcome with the evangelist’s fervor. “I feel it. All is healed. Sas, listen,” he whispered, now that they were close enough to confide, “don’t leave me alone with Wentworth again, he’s seriously dry.”
His phone began to ring, and he broke free of the huddle. “Amore mia.” There was a long pause, then, “Yes, can I call you later—you’re right, I’m sorry, you’re up very late. Can we Skype tomorrow? I know, I said I was sorry—” He stopped, grasping a fistful of hair, holding it back from his forehead. A few moments later he murmured, “I love you, cara mia. Saskia and Gwen send love. A domani.”
“Hiatus continues,” he told his sister in an entirely different tone, putting away the phone.
“What, you’ve broken up, you mean?” Gwen demanded. She was surprised. A recognized fact of teenage life was that relationships would end, and whether they lasted days or years did not change this expectation. Yet Nathan and Valentina had seemed exempt, their union entirely established, and unalterable. Like adults. Valentina had talked openly about their wedding, had once even been heard to say that their first daughter would be called Fabia. This development was extremely interesting. “Why were you calling her cara blara if she’s not your girlfriend?”
“It’s only a hiatus.” Nathan sounded irritable. He moved Gwen aside two steps to check his appearance in the antique mirror behind her. “She wanted us to stay at your mom’s house for the weekend while you all came here, which is classic Valentina insanity as obviously I’m going to visit my mother and sister for Thanksgiving. I’m taking some time to reconsider.”
“It didn’t sound like you were on a hiatus. And we didn’t send love.”
“I would have,” Saskia protested, mildly.
“We’re not just going to stop talking after two and a half years.”
“So basically you just decided not to see each other this weekend when you couldn’t see each other anyway because you were on opposite sides of the Pacific. How radical.” She felt pleased by her appropriation of what she felt was his own, airy manner. “And you literally spend more time looking at yourself than I do.”
Nathan made a final, invisible adjustment. “I’m not sure that’s anything to boast about. And it’s the Atlantic, but don’t let the details bog you down. Come, let’s get food.”
“It was raining,” said Gwen, crossly, trying to tame the frizzing corkscrews that she saw had escaped from her ponytail. Admired and envied by older women, her hair was disobedient, far too thick and wiry, and an appallingly bright color, but to master it and make it serve her would take a patience she lacked. Together with her height it made her obtrusive, and to be obtrusive at sixteen was the unhappiest of states. Nathan had departed in the direction of the buffet table and beside her in the mirror she saw Saskia shaking her head, looking sorrowful.
“You two are so mean to each other!”
“He’s mean to me.”
Saskia held out a bundle of plastic cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin printed with prancing turkeys. “Poor Valentina. It will be a major deal if they break up.”
“She’s had a lucky escape, if you ask me,” muttered Gwen, but when she noticed Saskia’s crestfallen expression she apologized and resolved to save her abuse of Nathan for private moments with her mother, or her grandparents, or her friend Katy who simultaneously fancied Nathan and hated him, and therefore made a satisfyingly insatiable audience. They discussed him at length.
? ? ?
GWEN WAS DISTRESSED to see Julia descending the stairs bare legged, and in sagging purple mohair bedsocks. She abandoned her plate on a sideboard and rushed over.
“Mum! You look so weird.”
“It’s all she gave me, darling, I couldn’t get out of it.”
“Take them off!”
“I took my shoes off, too, to be companionable,” said Pamela, appearing behind Julia with a flourish, her hand extended to clasp and squeeze Gwen’s. Gwen looked down to see naked white feet, the toenails vermillion, a toe ring in black-stained silver shaped like a serpent and wrapped, sinuously, around the second toe.
It was the first sight of this toe ring that led Julia to understand that James had sold to her a picture of family harmony that was not wholly accurate, or possible. She and Pamela would not, she saw, be friends. Pamela did not seem the kind of woman who was a successful friend to other women, whatever proclamations she might make about sisterhood. It was unimaginable, and indeed now was not at all the time to be imagining that James had married and had his children with this expansive, threatening person.
“I love that you’re with us,” Pamela whispered, as if Julia had been at death’s door and had rallied bravely to attend her party. She linked her arm through Julia’s and squeezed, like a confiding schoolgirl. James, who had been across the room helping himself to one of the many untouched M&S mince pies that Pamela had requested he ferry from London, hurried over to Julia’s other side and took her fingers. Julia felt for an odd moment as if they were parents leading her toward an altar, possibly marital, possibly sacrificial. Pamela summoned over the man who had let them in.
“I’m going to introduce you to everyone. This is Wentworth.”