excited child, when in reality she knows his small pleasure in unwrapping it will only be enhanced by a period of anticipation.
“After dinner,” she says, and leads him back into the kitchen.
An hour before their meal, she is upstairs, immersed in a hot bath, from which he knows she will not emerge for at least thirty minutes. He thinks with pleasure of the new candles he had thought to scatter around her bathroom, and he knows she will be lying there with every one of them lit. Since there will be only the two of them he has decided to serve beef rather than turkey, and the joint of meat is almost done, it’s savoury juices melting slowly into the pan where the potatoes are crisping. The wine is decanted, and he has the remaining vegetables browning, bubbling or roasting, according to their needs.
When the telephone rings, he considers leaving it, but the bell is persistent, and finally he scoops up the handset and flicks it on.
“Merry Christmas.” He recognises Estelle’s voice at once. He puts the pan he is holding back onto the stove and sits down at the kitchen table.
“And to you. How was California? Did you succumb to a facelift?”
“Are you implying I need one?” she returns.
“Of course not. I was thinking of your postcard, that’s all.”
“I have to say, I think LA has nothing going for it except maybe silicone implants and orange juice. How are you? Melissa told me the deal is probably off.”
He notes the word ‘probably’. Perhaps there is a chance to complete this sale after all. “Yes it is. But it happens. Perhaps it just wasn’t the right fit.”
“That’s too bad.” She sounds unconcerned. “Listen, I wanted to see if you’re free to come over for tea tomorrow. And your niece, if she’d like to.”
Alexander accepts, trying not to sound over-eager. He is pleased to hear from her. He had liked her relaxed tone, her forthrightness, the lack of formality, during their lunch – as he gets older, he has little patience for the careful treading that most new friendships require.
“How did you know Lauren was here?”
“Melissa mentioned it. In one of her few moments of conversation.”
“She’s with you for Christmas?” he asks.
“Yes. Right now she’s at one end of the apartment typing away on a laptop as thin as a wafer,” Estelle continues, “while at the other end, her father is scratching out literary criticism with a fountain pen that looks like something Dickens might have used…”
He smiles at the image, then risks a more intimate remark.
“Sounds lonely for you.”
She hesitates. “I’m used to it.”
His perception has unbalanced her, and he feels at once that the easy tone of the conversation has been lost. Without remaining on the line for much longer, she simply confirms the time for their visit and hangs up the phone.
After dinner they sit in the living room, almost stupefied by the food.
“I can’t believe I ate that much. I can’t move,” Lauren tells him.
He offers her a chocolate truffle. “Are you trying to kill me?” she asks.
“Certainly not. I want my present first.”
She struggles up with looks of exaggerated anguish, but refuses his offer of assistance. With difficulty she slides her package into the living room. He comes to where she holds it upright, and glances to her for permission to open it. She nods, an edge of anxiety scoring into her, as she watches him pick at the tape.
“Just rip it open, Uncle Alex. It’s a portrait,” she admits suddenly, unable to wait.
“A portrait of whom?”
She smiles and they continue unwrapping together, leaving curls of gold paper all over the floor. He is about to ask the question again, but now enough strips of paper are removed that what was initially just swathes of textured paint now reveals itself as a white blouse, a neck, a throat… then a chin and a mouth – a familiar mouth. The smile freezes on her face as she sees his watching eyes change from anticipation to
“After dinner,” she says, and leads him back into the kitchen.
An hour before their meal, she is upstairs, immersed in a hot bath, from which he knows she will not emerge for at least thirty minutes. He thinks with pleasure of the new candles he had thought to scatter around her bathroom, and he knows she will be lying there with every one of them lit. Since there will be only the two of them he has decided to serve beef rather than turkey, and the joint of meat is almost done, it’s savoury juices melting slowly into the pan where the potatoes are crisping. The wine is decanted, and he has the remaining vegetables browning, bubbling or roasting, according to their needs.
When the telephone rings, he considers leaving it, but the bell is persistent, and finally he scoops up the handset and flicks it on.
“Merry Christmas.” He recognises Estelle’s voice at once. He puts the pan he is holding back onto the stove and sits down at the kitchen table.
“And to you. How was California? Did you succumb to a facelift?”
“Are you implying I need one?” she returns.
“Of course not. I was thinking of your postcard, that’s all.”
“I have to say, I think LA has nothing going for it except maybe silicone implants and orange juice. How are you? Melissa told me the deal is probably off.”
He notes the word ‘probably’. Perhaps there is a chance to complete this sale after all. “Yes it is. But it happens. Perhaps it just wasn’t the right fit.”
“That’s too bad.” She sounds unconcerned. “Listen, I wanted to see if you’re free to come over for tea tomorrow. And your niece, if she’d like to.”
Alexander accepts, trying not to sound over-eager. He is pleased to hear from her. He had liked her relaxed tone, her forthrightness, the lack of formality, during their lunch – as he gets older, he has little patience for the careful treading that most new friendships require.
“How did you know Lauren was here?”
“Melissa mentioned it. In one of her few moments of conversation.”
“She’s with you for Christmas?” he asks.
“Yes. Right now she’s at one end of the apartment typing away on a laptop as thin as a wafer,” Estelle continues, “while at the other end, her father is scratching out literary criticism with a fountain pen that looks like something Dickens might have used…”
He smiles at the image, then risks a more intimate remark.
“Sounds lonely for you.”
She hesitates. “I’m used to it.”
His perception has unbalanced her, and he feels at once that the easy tone of the conversation has been lost. Without remaining on the line for much longer, she simply confirms the time for their visit and hangs up the phone.
After dinner they sit in the living room, almost stupefied by the food.
“I can’t believe I ate that much. I can’t move,” Lauren tells him.
He offers her a chocolate truffle. “Are you trying to kill me?” she asks.
“Certainly not. I want my present first.”
She struggles up with looks of exaggerated anguish, but refuses his offer of assistance. With difficulty she slides her package into the living room. He comes to where she holds it upright, and glances to her for permission to open it. She nods, an edge of anxiety scoring into her, as she watches him pick at the tape.
“Just rip it open, Uncle Alex. It’s a portrait,” she admits suddenly, unable to wait.
“A portrait of whom?”
She smiles and they continue unwrapping together, leaving curls of gold paper all over the floor. He is about to ask the question again, but now enough strips of paper are removed that what was initially just swathes of textured paint now reveals itself as a white blouse, a neck, a throat… then a chin and a mouth – a familiar mouth. The smile freezes on her face as she sees his watching eyes change from anticipation to
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