The Christmas Surprise
Page 63
‘Maybe this is my time to get out of the rat race, you know? Slow it down a bit. Stop being the incredibly successful and popular party girl. You know what that’s like.’
Rosie thought it best to keep staring straight ahead at this point.
‘I can settle down … make jam.’
‘You don’t eat sugar.’
Pamela ignored this.
‘Keep chickens.’
‘You’re vegetarian.’
‘Get my home photographed for Vogue Living. I can see the profile now … “After years at the sharp end of the hurly-burly, the Right Honourable Dr Mrs Pamela Blaine-Lipton has formed an exquisite haven for herself and her dental surgeon husband …”’
‘You certainly have this worked out well for someone you’ve only known for five days,’ said Rosie, smiling stiffly at Tina’s nice out-of-town cousins.
‘Yes, but I’m done looking,’ said Pamela. ‘I’m done dating broke screenwriters who are actually rubbish, evil bankers who would kill someone for three bucks forty, commitment-phobes and guys who steal from you. I’m done, Rosie. I’m ready. I want what you have … except I want my own baby, obviously.’
Rosie summoned up all her reserves of cheer to greet Jake’s Irish grandmother, who was being helped along the line.
‘Obviously,’ she said through gritted teeth.
Pamela turned to Roy and ran her carefully manicured hand up his jacket.
‘Sweetie, you are looking so good,’ she murmured, and Roy went pink to the tips of his ears. Rosie shook her head.
When they finally got inside the hut, the noise levels were unbelievable. Even Stephen was impressed by the decor; the massive layering of decorations and the endless fairy lights had turned the place into a magical grotto. The band had started playing by the strawbales at one end. They had banjos and fiddles and were making a fabulous traditional racket that involved lots of yelling and banging of clogs on the floor. Several children had already started dancing. The old folks who’d come from the home in a minibus were seated at tables, watching cheerfully with great brimming pints of cider in front of them. The farmers and Rodge the vet were lined up against the makeshift bar, drinking pints – no champagne for them – and discussing livestock as if they were in the bar at the Red Lion, which, Rosie was pleased to note, they practically were, because the pub’s droopy-moustached barman was serving here too.
‘I thought you’d been invited,’ she said to him cheerily.
‘I was,’ he said, his usual lugubrious, unsmiling manner not faltering. ‘I just thought this would make a nice wedding gift.’
Rosie looked at him, blinking.
‘You know, it does,’ she said. ‘It really does.’
The band were magnificent, and had the effect of turning what was supposed to be a formal wedding breakfast (in Tina’s original, sophisticated dreams) into what already felt more like a night-time affair. Nonetheless, Apostil absolutely could not keep his eyes open – he’d been up very early, as had Rosie, and had had a lot of wriggling and excitement since then. He was visibly drooping. Rosie found a spot near the musicians – they were making quite a lot of noise, but there were no amps or wires, and behind the great strawbales it was actually quite quiet – and sat down and fed him with the bottle she’d been carrying in her jacket to keep it warm.
She picked up the car seat Stephen had brought in and put it in the cosy straw, then she slipped Apostil out of his scratchy christening dress and into a comfy fleece-lined sleepsuit covered in little blue fish, and wrapped him in his favourite blanket with the spots on. He was so sleepy he obediently closed his eyes as soon as he saw it, and she laid him down gently in his seat, buckled loosely. Then, because it was funny, she plumped up the hay so it covered the plastic of the seat and made him look like they actually had laid him down in a barn. His little hand that had been gripping the bottle fell, and he tumbled elegantly into sleep, the way babies do, taking a little step from one state of consciousness to another.
Rosie sat watching him for a long time, engrossed, as ever, in the rise and fall of his tiny chest; the long eyelashes shaded on the roundness of his plump cheeks; the way his eyes flickered under his eyelids, looking at those things only dreaming babies can see. Then, smiling at a nearby table of older people, she asked them to keep an eye on him, and they were happy to oblige. Cathryn, busying around too much to even get herself a glass of champagne, nodded at Rosie and told her she’d add him to her rounds, and Rosie went back to the party.
There were piles of gifts everywhere. Although they had tried not to infringe too much on Tina and Jake’s big day, and although they’d already received so many things, for some reason people had once again been incredibly generous, and heaps of small pale blue parcels had been added beneath the tree to those for the happy couple, who were rushing about the wedding in a whirl of happiness. Every so often they would pass each other in the room, and kiss and hold one another in a way that made the old folk sigh, the middle-aged roll their eyes and Rosie grin to herself about how nice it was to see her friend so happy.
After a while the scent of fish and chips got too much for her and she realised she’d been up for hours and was absolutely starving. She went to see if Lilian wanted to eat too.
‘Go away,’ said Lilian, with her mouth full. ‘You’re not having any of my chips.’
She was holding court at a large table full of other residents of the home. Ida Delia was stoically ploughing through what was clearly a second or third helping. Her startlingly blonde hair was tied up with a bright red ribbon like Emily’s. Rosie rather liked it.
‘Mam, you’re to stop that, you’re getting fat,’ the similarly well-upholstered Dorothy Isitt was scolding her from the next table.
‘Shut up,’ said Ida Delia. ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
‘Hello, Ida Delia,’ said Rosie. ‘You look nice.’
‘Tarty, more like,’ said Lilian. ‘And have you seen how much she eats?’
‘Stop with the torture,’ said Rosie severely. ‘I’ve told you before.’
‘I’m just trying to be ladylike,’ said Lilian serenely. ‘And stay away from my chips!’
‘And I was just trying to be helpful,’ said Rosie.
‘If you want to be helpful,’ said Lilian, ‘you can bring us more champagne. Matron keeps making remarks about peeing the bed, and we think just for one night and one big celebration we should all be allowed to wet our beds.’
Rosie thought it best to keep staring straight ahead at this point.
‘I can settle down … make jam.’
‘You don’t eat sugar.’
Pamela ignored this.
‘Keep chickens.’
‘You’re vegetarian.’
‘Get my home photographed for Vogue Living. I can see the profile now … “After years at the sharp end of the hurly-burly, the Right Honourable Dr Mrs Pamela Blaine-Lipton has formed an exquisite haven for herself and her dental surgeon husband …”’
‘You certainly have this worked out well for someone you’ve only known for five days,’ said Rosie, smiling stiffly at Tina’s nice out-of-town cousins.
‘Yes, but I’m done looking,’ said Pamela. ‘I’m done dating broke screenwriters who are actually rubbish, evil bankers who would kill someone for three bucks forty, commitment-phobes and guys who steal from you. I’m done, Rosie. I’m ready. I want what you have … except I want my own baby, obviously.’
Rosie summoned up all her reserves of cheer to greet Jake’s Irish grandmother, who was being helped along the line.
‘Obviously,’ she said through gritted teeth.
Pamela turned to Roy and ran her carefully manicured hand up his jacket.
‘Sweetie, you are looking so good,’ she murmured, and Roy went pink to the tips of his ears. Rosie shook her head.
When they finally got inside the hut, the noise levels were unbelievable. Even Stephen was impressed by the decor; the massive layering of decorations and the endless fairy lights had turned the place into a magical grotto. The band had started playing by the strawbales at one end. They had banjos and fiddles and were making a fabulous traditional racket that involved lots of yelling and banging of clogs on the floor. Several children had already started dancing. The old folks who’d come from the home in a minibus were seated at tables, watching cheerfully with great brimming pints of cider in front of them. The farmers and Rodge the vet were lined up against the makeshift bar, drinking pints – no champagne for them – and discussing livestock as if they were in the bar at the Red Lion, which, Rosie was pleased to note, they practically were, because the pub’s droopy-moustached barman was serving here too.
‘I thought you’d been invited,’ she said to him cheerily.
‘I was,’ he said, his usual lugubrious, unsmiling manner not faltering. ‘I just thought this would make a nice wedding gift.’
Rosie looked at him, blinking.
‘You know, it does,’ she said. ‘It really does.’
The band were magnificent, and had the effect of turning what was supposed to be a formal wedding breakfast (in Tina’s original, sophisticated dreams) into what already felt more like a night-time affair. Nonetheless, Apostil absolutely could not keep his eyes open – he’d been up very early, as had Rosie, and had had a lot of wriggling and excitement since then. He was visibly drooping. Rosie found a spot near the musicians – they were making quite a lot of noise, but there were no amps or wires, and behind the great strawbales it was actually quite quiet – and sat down and fed him with the bottle she’d been carrying in her jacket to keep it warm.
She picked up the car seat Stephen had brought in and put it in the cosy straw, then she slipped Apostil out of his scratchy christening dress and into a comfy fleece-lined sleepsuit covered in little blue fish, and wrapped him in his favourite blanket with the spots on. He was so sleepy he obediently closed his eyes as soon as he saw it, and she laid him down gently in his seat, buckled loosely. Then, because it was funny, she plumped up the hay so it covered the plastic of the seat and made him look like they actually had laid him down in a barn. His little hand that had been gripping the bottle fell, and he tumbled elegantly into sleep, the way babies do, taking a little step from one state of consciousness to another.
Rosie sat watching him for a long time, engrossed, as ever, in the rise and fall of his tiny chest; the long eyelashes shaded on the roundness of his plump cheeks; the way his eyes flickered under his eyelids, looking at those things only dreaming babies can see. Then, smiling at a nearby table of older people, she asked them to keep an eye on him, and they were happy to oblige. Cathryn, busying around too much to even get herself a glass of champagne, nodded at Rosie and told her she’d add him to her rounds, and Rosie went back to the party.
There were piles of gifts everywhere. Although they had tried not to infringe too much on Tina and Jake’s big day, and although they’d already received so many things, for some reason people had once again been incredibly generous, and heaps of small pale blue parcels had been added beneath the tree to those for the happy couple, who were rushing about the wedding in a whirl of happiness. Every so often they would pass each other in the room, and kiss and hold one another in a way that made the old folk sigh, the middle-aged roll their eyes and Rosie grin to herself about how nice it was to see her friend so happy.
After a while the scent of fish and chips got too much for her and she realised she’d been up for hours and was absolutely starving. She went to see if Lilian wanted to eat too.
‘Go away,’ said Lilian, with her mouth full. ‘You’re not having any of my chips.’
She was holding court at a large table full of other residents of the home. Ida Delia was stoically ploughing through what was clearly a second or third helping. Her startlingly blonde hair was tied up with a bright red ribbon like Emily’s. Rosie rather liked it.
‘Mam, you’re to stop that, you’re getting fat,’ the similarly well-upholstered Dorothy Isitt was scolding her from the next table.
‘Shut up,’ said Ida Delia. ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
‘Hello, Ida Delia,’ said Rosie. ‘You look nice.’
‘Tarty, more like,’ said Lilian. ‘And have you seen how much she eats?’
‘Stop with the torture,’ said Rosie severely. ‘I’ve told you before.’
‘I’m just trying to be ladylike,’ said Lilian serenely. ‘And stay away from my chips!’
‘And I was just trying to be helpful,’ said Rosie.
‘If you want to be helpful,’ said Lilian, ‘you can bring us more champagne. Matron keeps making remarks about peeing the bed, and we think just for one night and one big celebration we should all be allowed to wet our beds.’
