Comfort and Joy by India Knight Page B

hopping up and down. ‘Is there a man? Oh, I knew it. Well, I
hoped
it. I prayed it.’
    ‘Hello, Kate,’ says Sam, coming down the stairs with a glass in his hand and looking rather stern. His eyes are very blue.
     ‘Evie, Flo. Happy Christmas. What have you done with your children?’
    ‘Oh pooey,’ says Evie. ‘Me and my shit timing. Sorry, Sam. Hello! Happy Christmas.’
    ‘They’re in the car,’ says Flo. ‘Hi, Sam. Merry Christmas.’
    ‘And to you. Lovely to see you all,’ says Sam. ‘Are they going to stay there?’
    ‘What?’ says Flo, shedding her flat boots and slipping into massive four-inch heels: I never understand how Flo can actually
     walk, let alone run around after two little twins. ‘
Que?
Oh, no. Ed’s bringing them inside in a minute. They fell asleep and we didn’t want to wake them because they really need
     a nap.’
    ‘Go upstairs,’ I say. ‘Take your presents. You’re making a traffic jam. Sam, would you sort out drinks for everyone? And –
     hang on – there are some canapés somewhere, you can take them up too.’
    ‘Probably in the fridge, where this truffle belongs,’ says Kate, like a woman obsessed. ‘Give me your arm, Sam. Lead on. Is
     your mother here? I long for her.’
    ‘I’ll bring them up,’ says Flo. ‘The snacks. Go ahead. I just want to talk to my sisters quickly.’ We huddle into the kitchen.
    ‘Sorry about saying “Is there a man?” ’ says Evie, looking contrite. ‘Me and my giant beak.’
    ‘It’s okay,’ I say.
    ‘But is there?’ says Flo. ‘Clara, we must know. We can’t sit here all day not knowing.’
    ‘In agony,’ says Evie. ‘In ABSOLUTE AGGO, Clara.’
    ‘Tell us,’ says Flo. ‘We beg it.’
    I should perhaps point out that both of my sisters hold down responsible jobs, and that none of us talks like this except
     when we are with each other, and particularly when we are with each other and our mother. We just slip back into the jokes
     and cadences of childhood, the shorthand. It’s comfortable, but I don’t think that’s the only reason we do it. It’s also comforting.
     My sisters are as obsessed with Christmas as I am, and there’s a reason for that: our childhood Christmases, our Christmi,
     when everything was fine, and before everything went wrong and Kate and Julian, the girls’ father, split up in seismic fashion.
     The golden Christmases that we all try to recreate each year, along with the feeling that we are loved, safe, happy and that
     nothing bad will ever happen to us again. At this late stage, it would be fair to say that hope springs eternal in the Huttish
     breast.
    ‘There isn’t a man,’ I say, grinning. ‘No man. Manless.’ I make a sad, upside-down face, but the grin won’t entirely go away.
    ‘I can tell from your face that thou lieth, Clara,’ says Evie.
    ‘I’m not lying, Eve.’
    ‘You are totally lying,’ says Flo. ‘Your pants are on fire.’
    ‘They are burning your bottom as you speak,’ says Evie. ‘Singeing your poor buttocks. “We burn,” they cry.’
    ‘Why are you so nosy?’
    ‘Because we love you,’ says Flo.
    ‘I love you too. But I’m a grown-up – you don’t need all the deets. And anyway, it’s been going on a while and it’s complicated.
     I met him a year ago. We spoke on the phone, and
emailed. Very modern. He was working abroad at the time. But now he’s back in London and we’ve been … seeing a bit of each
     other.’
    ‘Clara!’ says Flo. ‘Oh my God. Please tell me the man isn’t married.’
    ‘Oh no, noooo,’ says Evie, clutching herself around the waist. ‘We always said that was the one thing we’d never, ever do.’
    ‘Clara,’ says Flo, her dark eyes on mine. ‘Stop laughing. It’s not at all funny.
You
told us. When we were little.
You
said, a person does what they have to do, but they never nick people’s spouses, because it is sordid.’
    ‘And you said,’ says Evie, ‘that it was a monstrous betrayal of one’s