How the In-Laws Wrecked Christmas. Fiona Gibson
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course not,’ Ben says with a snort. ‘It’s a bloody relief. He’ll keep her occupied. You know how difficult she’s been …’
‘Uh-huh …’ Ben has filled me in on the acrimonious divorce, the wrangling with Louisa over money and property and access to six-year-old Daisy, their only child. And to think, I’ve been withering on about being nervous of spending a few days with his parents … Grow up, I tell myself silently, taking in Ben’s handsome profile: the aquiline nose, fine cheekbones and full lips that I have an urge to kiss every time I look at them. His hair is dark and wavy, his eyes an intense shade of indigo I’ve never encountered before, and edged by the most luxurious lashes I’ve ever seen on a man. ‘He’s so good-looking it hurts my eyes to look at him,’ Kate teased, the first time he’d been round to our place.
‘You know Daisy loves you,’ Ben adds.
I smile. ‘I’m really glad. She could have been difficult; I wouldn’t have blamed her …’
‘She’s always asking about you. Wasn’t it great that day we took her to down to Sandwich Bay?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t she love the sea? I’ve never known anyone so desperate to run into the water.’
‘Louisa would’ve been horrified,’ he says, laughing.
‘By Daisy paddling?’
‘God, yeah, especially in October …’
‘But why?’ I ask. ‘It was a gorgeous day.’
Ben smirks. ‘Oh, you know, the usual hazards – the sea being too cold and unhygienic and full of, I don’t know, jellyfish, seaweed, killer sharks …’
We’re both sniggering now as Ben turns right into a long, narrow drive. Bright winter sunshine flickers through leafless trees as the house comes into view.
‘My God, Ben,’ I mutter as we park next to a gleaming dark green Bentley on the large, gravelled crescent. Although Ben has shown me pictures, none have conveyed the sheer size and grandeur of the place.
We climb out of his car. ‘I know,’ he says with a trace of embarrassment. ‘Pretty impressive, isn’t it? Quite a pile …’
‘Just a bit,’ I chuckle.
‘Crazy really. Far too big for the two of them, but they both reckon the only way they’ll ever leave it is in their coffins.’ He squeezes my hand reassuringly as the glossy black front door opens. Daisy appears first, white-blonde hair flowing as she shrieks with joy and hurls herself at her father, then turns to envelop me in a shyer hug.
‘I’ve been waiting ages for you to come!’ she announces.
Ben laughs. ‘I drove as fast as I could, sweetheart.’
She grins as Ben’s parents step out to greet us: Clara, impossibly elegant in a cream shift, a pale grey cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders; Charles more rumpled in a huge, ratty-looking fisherman’s sweater and fawn corduroys with well-worn knees.
Ben hugs them. ‘Mum, Dad, this is Anna …’
Clara blinks at me. ‘Oh! Nice to meet you, Anna.’ She glances at Ben. ‘It’s just, we didn’t expect …’
‘Anna’s been looking forward to meeting you,’ Ben cuts in.
‘I have,’ I say brightly. ‘What a lovely house …’ And what a dumb thing to say: like being shown a friend’s new mobile phone and remarking, ‘Wow, it can do so many things!’ I mean, ‘house’ doesn’t do it justice. It’s more like a stately home. I’ve never been in one before where I haven’t had to buy an admission ticket.
We unload copious bags from the boot and all head into the enormous panelled hallway. Ben introduces me to Nell, an elderly golden retriever who presses, winningly, against my legs. I ruffle the soft, warm fur behind her ears, gazing around me in awe. Antlers are mounted on the wall beside the sweeping staircase; real antlers, from slain deer. There are gloomy oil paintings – portraits, mostly, of aristocratic types, plus the odd landscape in murky greens and browns. As I’m led through the house, I can’t help but wonder, what didn’t Clara expect? That I’d be coming for Christmas? Surely Ben hasn’t just sprung me on them …
‘Let’s have coffee in the drawing room,’ Charles suggests, leading us along the hallway to a room filled with chesterfield sofas and antique furniture. Drawing room. Again – and without wanting to sound as if I grew up regarding bread and dripping as a fantastic treat – I have never encountered anyone who has a drawing room before.
As Clara glides off to fetch coffee, Ben and I arrange ourselves on one of the three sofas, while Charles occupies an armchair by the bay window which looks out on to the sweeping grounds. I sit bolt upright with my knees pressed together, hoping to convey the impression that I am utterly relaxed and find myself in rooms like this all the time.
The dark, polished floorboards are scattered with faded rugs. There is a grand piano and shelves of leather-bound books and vases filled with red, velvety flowers I don’t know the name of. In pride of place, in front of the window, stands a Christmas tree: the biggest I have seen outside a department store – only, it’s real (of course), and bedecked in coordinated silver and purple decorations. Beautifully wrapped presents are stacked around it.
‘So,’ Charles says, as Nell settles into her basket in the corner, ‘good drive?’
‘Yes, no problems,’ Ben replies. They start discussing our journey, as if the route from South London to Little Winterden has changed beyond all recognition since Ben’s last visit. I look down at Daisy, who has squeezed on to the leather sofa between her father and me.
‘I like your shoes, Anna,’ she offers.
‘Oh, thank you. I bought them specially …’
‘Aren’t they lovely, Grandma?’ she says as Clara appears with a tray of coffees.
‘What’s that, darling?’ Clara asks.
‘Anna’s shoes. I love them!’
‘Er, yes,’ Clara says, eyeing them as if they were splattered in horse shit. She places the tray on the coffee table beside a stack of board games: Scrabble, Monopoly, Risk. I glance down at my shoes, and see them through Clara’s eyes: strappy heels, as red as the Christmas flowers in those huge vases – a bargain, I’d thought, my heart performing a little somersault of delight as I snatched them in New Look. Not especially comfortable, admittedly – but so festive. ‘Very sexy,’ Jamie had said when I’d brought them home. God, they look cheap in this room.
‘D’you know what I’m getting for Christmas?’ Daisy asks.
I smile. ‘Lots, I expect. Did you write a list for Santa?’
‘Erm, yes, I asked Father Christmas for a musical box, a scooter and a bead-making thing …’ Whoops, they say Father Christmas here, not Santa.
‘Sounds great,’ I say. ‘I wish I’d done a list …’
‘And I’m going to wake up very early tomorrow,’ she enthuses, ‘so I get to see Father Christmas. I want to see him in my room, so I’m not going to sleep at all …’
‘Oh, but you must!’ Clara exclaims, pouring our coffees from an ornate china pot. ‘Otherwise you’ll be exhausted. Mummy wouldn’t want you to be tired and crotchety and spoil the day …’
I glance at Ben, whose expression is impassive. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he says, ‘won’t you, Daisy? But, yes, Grandma’s right. You should probably get a little sleep tonight …’
‘Can I stay up a bit later than normal? It’s Christmas Eve!’
‘Of course you can,’ Ben says, stroking her hair.
Clara frowns. ‘But Louisa said Daisy’s bedtime is eight o’clock …’
‘We