Comfort and Joy (15 page)

‘It’s okay,’ I say, getting up again. ‘I’m closest.’

At least I haven’t forgotten to buy the linguine – not spaghetti: spaghetti is not allowed near The Truffle, being unforgivably
tubular – or the Parmesan or the double cream onto which The Truffle will be shaved. But there aren’t any clean pans left,
so I start washing up the one I parboiled the potatoes in earlier. The Truffle is getting on my nerves.

‘We need a toothbrush,’ says Kate.

‘What?’

‘To clean The Truffle!’ she says. ‘I’m not eating a dirty truffle that a strange pig has snuffled all over with its
snout
.’

‘In a bosky glade,’ says Evie. ‘In autumn. Quite a poetic pig, as pigs go. I don’t think it matters terribly. Can’t we just
give it a wipe?’

‘Toothbrush!’ says Kate, much as a surgeon might say, ‘Scalpel!’

‘Oh God,’ I say again, not on purpose – it just comes out. And then, ‘Ow, fuck,’ because I’ve just burned the top of my forearm
trying to extricate the tray of extra stuffing from the top shelf of the oven.

‘It’s okay,’ says Flo. ‘I’ve got it. I’ll go and get one from upstairs.’

‘Florence!’ Kate says. ‘For God’s sake. We need a clean toothbrush, a new toothbrush. We don’t need the toothbrush that’s
been in Clara’s mouth.’

‘It’s my mouth, not my arse,’ I say. I am feeling hotter and hotter, plus I’m starving, plus I feel a bit dizzy from all the
champagne, plus my burn is starting to throb. Everyone else is tucking into their lunch with gusto. I can feel my hair frizzing
and sweat beginning to trickle down the back of my neck.
Also, there’s turkey fat on my really nice new lace dress – this is the first time I’ve worn it – and I don’t think it’ll
come out.

‘Good grief,’ says Kate, shaking her head with sadness and pity. ‘You are so unbelievably coarse, Clara.’

‘I’ve burned my arm. I don’t have a brand-new toothbrush,’ I say. ‘And the shops are shut, otherwise obviously I’d crawl there
on my hands and knees through the snow. So. Why don’t we use Maisy’s? You can’t object to Maisy’s mouth, surely?’

‘My new princess toothbrush?’ says Maisy. ‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘Scrub the dirt off The Truffle,’ says Kate. ‘I’m no happier about it than you are, Maisy.’

‘Pigs find truffles. Will it have pig on it?’ says Maisy. ‘Afterwards.’

‘Yeah,’ says Jack. ‘It’ll be covered in pig’s bogeys.’

‘But I don’t want –’

‘That’s enough,’ I say, more loudly than I mean to.

‘I’m getting the toothbrush right now,’ says Flo. ‘From upstairs. Excuse me, everybody.’

‘And I’m holding the linguine in my own fair hands,’ says Evie, getting up and grabbing the packet from the worktop. ‘I will
be poised by the pan. I will monitor its cooking. Sit down, Clara. Eat your lunch.’

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘If I sit down you’re not going to have any room to get to the cooker.’

Now Kate gets up. ‘You are all creating complications,’ she says. ‘I will do it.’

‘You sit down too, Kate,’ says Evie. ‘Everybody’s standing up and it’s making me feel claustrophobic and if they keep doing
it I might have a panic attack, actually. I am now officially the only person in charge of The Truffle.’

‘Oh God,’ says Sam, who’s two people away from me. He’s getting on my nerves as well. At least he’s eating his lunch,
instead of being persecuted by burns and frizz and The Truffle’s complex needs.

‘What?’ I say. ‘What, do you mean, oh God? Is your lunch not to your satisfaction?’

‘No, it’s delicious,’ he has the grace to say. ‘It’s just, all this
fuss
.’

‘Fuss?’ says Kate. ‘Fuss? Poor Clara’s been working like a donkey. Like two donkeys,
one of whom is absent
. She’s donkeyed about all day while you’ve sat there smooching your friends thank you for their frankly banal and unimaginative
gifts. There would have been a great deal less
fuss
if you’d given her a hand.’

‘Steady on,’ says Chris, giver of unimaginative gifts.

‘Kate,’ I say. ‘Now’s not the …’

‘It is, actually,’ says Kate. ‘Now is absolutely the time. It is time for a toast to you, even though your language is intolerably
gross.’ She taps a glass with the edge of a knife. ‘Shush,’ she says. ‘Sam’s going to make a toast.’ Her face is deadpan but
her eyes are sparkling with mischief.

‘Mum,’ I say. I only say ‘mum’ in extremis, partly because Kate prefers ‘mummy’, and I’m forty-one. ‘There’s no need for him
to …’

‘Quiet, Clara. If you don’t pipe down, no one will hear the toast.’

Flo reappears with Maisy’s toothbrush just as the room falls silent. All eyes are on Sam. Sam’s eyes are on me, and there
is desperation in them. Shall I help him out?

‘Hurry up, Sam,’ says Kate. ‘Spit it out. People’s food will get cold.’

No, I don’t think I will. As he has made more than clear, the time for complicity is over.

‘Ooh, isn’t this nice,’ says Pat, putting down her fork and leaning back in her chair contentedly. ‘A toast! Lovely.’

‘I’d be happy to say a few words,’ says Jake.

‘Sweet of you, but no,’ says Kate firmly.

‘Ahem,’ says Sam, clearing his throat.

‘Stand up,’ says Flo. ‘It’s more traditional.’

‘Put your paper crown on,’ says Evie. ‘It’s more regal.’

‘And so chic,’ says Robert. ‘On an adult male.’

Sam glares at Robert and throws both my sisters black looks but pushes his chair back and rises.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘Here we all are. Again. For Christmas. Merry Christmas, by the way.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ everyone choruses. Cassie blows a lone tooter – paaarp, it goes, quite poignantly.

‘And a happy New Year,’ says Maisy. ‘And I hope the Easter Bunny visits you, chocolate face, ding-dong.’

‘Dong!’ says Ava the baby, ensconced on Flo’s lap.

‘Kate would like me to thank Clara for this … delicious lunch, and what Kate has decreed must of course come to pass.’

‘Hear, hear,’ says Kate loudly.

‘And it
is
a delicious lunch,’ Sam continues. ‘So … thank you for that, Clara. For making it. And having us all round. And being so
… giving of yourself.’

‘Do you mean that to sound like it sounds?’ guffaws Jake. ‘Because it sounds like …’

‘Shush, Jake,’ says Tamsin.

‘Possibly,’ says Sam. ‘Anyway. It’s a great virtue you have, Clara, the ability to gather everyone together and make them
feel welcome and included no matter what the circumstances might be. Even when the circumstances aren’t straightforward. And
we’re all very grateful to you. For your, your warmth.’

‘Yes,’ says Robert. ‘We are. And we love to give loving speeches about it.’

‘Piss off, Robert,’ I say.

‘No, really,’ says Sam, meeting my eye. ‘You make Christmas
lovely every year. And I know how much hard work it is. So, from all of us, and from me – thank you. To Clara,’ he says, raising
his glass. ‘And Christmas.’

‘Clara,’ says everybody. ‘Christmas.’

‘The water’s boiling,’ says Evie. ‘For the pasta. I’m beside myself with excitement. The Truffle is ahoy, Kate. The Truffle
cometh.’

It’s extraordinary to me how quickly the food disappears. I think this every year, and yet it still takes me by surprise.
All that work, all that effort – not that I resent any of it, but it’s a lot of man-hours – and whoosh, gone in five minutes.
Well, not quite – we sit at the table for ages afterwards, but the actual eating is terrifyingly swift, as though my friends
and relatives were starving hyenas.

I notice that Hope has been taking photographs of the food, leaning over the plate of roast potatoes and zooming in on the
Brussels sprouts. Now she stands up on her chair to get an aerial shot of what remains of the turkey.

‘Hope, what are you doing?’ I eventually ask.

‘I’m live-blogging lunch,’ Hope says.

‘I didn’t know you had a blog,’ says Tamsin.

‘It’s new. I started it a couple of weeks ago.’

‘What happens on it?’ I ask. ‘You should have let us all know. Is it a work thing?’

‘Can we get down until pudding please?’ asks Cassie. ‘Me and Maisy want to go and play upstairs.’

‘Take the babies,’ says Flo. ‘Boys, can you keep a vague eye on the babies?’

‘Suppose,’ says Jack. ‘But only for a bit and only if they don’t crap.’

‘Fair enough,’ says Flo. ‘Call me if you need to. And don’t let them eat small stuff.’

‘Yo, babies. Let’s go, nappy-asses,’ says Charlie.

‘I love blogs,’ I say. ‘I’ll bookmark it. So, what, is it a work thing? Some sort of branding exercise?’

‘No, it’s just for fun,’ says Hope. ‘It’s a sort of online diary in which I share my hopes and dreams. It’s got quite a few
hits, actually. And comments. I’ve linked it to my Facebook page, you see, and to Twitter.’

‘Cool,’ I say. ‘What’s it called?’

‘
More Than a Woman
,’ says Hope. ‘Because that’s what I am. Like it says on my blog: “Woman. Entrepreneur. Tycoon. Maverick. Friend. Sister.
Lover. Survivor”.’

‘Bee Gee,’ says Robert.

‘Ah. Right,’ I say, a bit feebly. ‘Um, survivor of what?’

‘Tummy ache?’ says Robert. ‘Horrid sniffly cold?’

‘Life,’ says Hope with simple dignity.

‘Explain it to me, darling,’ says Kate. ‘I don’t understand. You post photos of our turkey carcass onto a website?’

‘That’s what I’m about to do in a minute, yes.’

‘I see,’ says Kate. ‘How insane. Why?’

‘Why?’

‘Yes. What is the purpose?’

‘Well,’ says Hope. ‘I suppose it just gives my fans a little insight into my everyday life.’

‘Your fans?’ says Kate. ‘But darling, who are they? Have you become a pop star since I last saw you?’

‘Not really fans,’ says Hope. ‘I mean, my Facebook friends and my Twitter followers. Do you know about Facebook, Kate?’

‘I’m not a hundred and three,’ says Kate. ‘My grandsons showed me years ago, although if I remember correctly – IIRC in your
parlance, Hope – that was MySpace. I can see why they like it: it looks rather jolly, if you’re a teenager. Tell me, Hope
– what about you? What do you use it for, mostly?’

‘Kate got out of the naughty side of bed this morning,’ Flo says to me quietly. ‘Inside, I am crying with fear.’

‘Primarily?’ says Hope, connecting a cable from her camera to her laptop and uploading the images of our lunchtime vegetables.

‘Mm,’ says Kate. ‘Primarily.’

‘For … contacts,’ says Hope.

‘I knew it,’ says Kate. ‘You use it for sex.’

‘Kate!’ I shout. ‘Stop it.’

‘Don’t be such an old prude, Clara,’ says Kate. ‘There’s nothing wrong with using it for sex. Good for you, Hope.’

‘I, er, thank you,’ says Hope.

‘One can perfectly well imagine doing it oneself,’ says Kate. ‘In different circumstances. Everyone’s on Facebook these days.’

‘Can one?’ says Evie. ‘
I
can’t.’

‘Are you on drugs, Kate?’ says Flo.

‘Drugs! Not since that nightclub someone took me and Julian to in the mid eighties. In Manhattan. Now, what was it called?
Area, I think. Absolutely packed with dwarves, for some reason. Rather attractive ones.’

‘Gosh,’ says Flo.

‘What’s that you’re talking about there?’ says Pat, who’s been a million miles away at the other end of the table.

‘Hope,’ says Kate, ‘is finding new boyfriends on the internet. For sex. Which seems as good a way as any, don’t you think,
Pat?’

‘Oh aye, sure,’ says Pat. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Unless they’re murderers,’ says Tamsin. ‘Or twenty-three-stone truckers pretending to be hotties. Or married. Or, you know,
just complete and utter psychos from hell.’

‘I like a nice wee fat man,’ says Pat. ‘A nice wee chubby man.’

‘But they’re the people I meet in real life,’ says Hope. ‘Nutters and psychos and married men, though few
really
fat ones.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ says Pat. ‘It’s nice to have something to hold on to, with a man.’

‘So it’s not like I have much to lose,’ says Hope.

‘Jesus Christ, women,’ says Sam to nobody in particular. ‘Jake, come upstairs with me? We can take our drinks and keep an
eye on the children.’

‘The bar is set low for you, Hope,’ says Kate.

‘You could say that,’ says Hope. ‘I – well, you know, Kate. We’ve had this conversation before. There simply aren’t any good
men left.’

‘That’s because they’re hiding from you,’ says Robert with a pleasant smile. ‘Whimpering with terror.’

‘Meanie,’ says Hope, tapping him playfully on the arm. She might as well say, ‘La, sir, forsooth!’ and be carrying a fan.
She honestly can’t help herself: Robert’s a man, after all.

‘They’re not hiding from Clara,’ says Robert. He is relentless, more so with a drink in him. ‘Judging by the little indicators
one is so familiar with as her former spouse.’

‘That’s precisely what I was saying earlier,’ says Kate, shooting me a triumphant look.

‘Clara?’ says Robert. ‘Anything you want to share with the group?’

‘No thank you,’ I say primly. ‘And keep your voice down.’

‘What do you mean?’ says Hope. ‘What, you’re seeing somebody?’

I heave quite a large sigh. In recent months, my relationship with Hope has been dramatically buoyed by her idea that we’re
both ‘in the same boat’, an idea I find unappealing in the extreme but go along with because it boosts her morale.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Ignore them, Hope. They’re just wittering on to make conversation.’

‘I know my own child,’ Kate says.

‘I know my own wife,’ says Robert. ‘Former.’

‘Fancy that,’ says Pat. ‘You’re a dark horse, Clara, so you are.’

‘I can’t believe you would be seeing somebody and you wouldn’t tell me,’ says Hope, looking genuinely wounded and also quite
angry.

‘It’s a low blow,’ says Robert. ‘I quite agree.’ I know what I should have given him for Christmas: en enormous stick, all
the better to stir the pot with.

‘I can’t understand it,’ says Hope.

‘What do you mean, you can’t understand it?’ This is me. ‘Understand what?’

‘Well,’ says Hope. ‘To be honest. To be blunt.’

‘Yes?’ I say.

‘Never mind.’

‘No, go on.’