Peacock Emporium by Jojo Moyes Page B

Daddy and I would so love it if you could make it, although we quite understand if you’ve got something else on. Let me know.’
    Always so careful not to suggest any obligation or imposition. That cheerful, yet slightly apologetic tone. The subtlest hint of ‘We know you’re having problems, and we’re keeping our fingers crossed for you.’ Suzanna sighed, knowing that, having missed several Christmases and numerous other family gatherings, there were few excuses to avoid her family now that they were, geographically at least, so close.
    ‘We should go.’ Neil had taken off his coat and was pouring himself a drink.
    ‘I know we should.’
    ‘Your dad will probably find some reason to go out anyway. You two are pretty good at avoiding each other.’
    ‘I know.’
    He liked being part of her family. He had little of his own, one seldom-visited and not-much-missed mother now several hundred miles away. It was one of the reasons he took such a conciliatory approach with hers.
    Neil put down his glass and walked over to her. He put his arms round her and pulled her to him gently. She felt herself concede to him, unable entirely to shake off her natural rigidity. ‘It would mean so much to your mum.’
    ‘I know, I know.’ She placed her hands on his waist, unsure whether she was holding him or just holding him away. ‘And I know it’s childish. It’s just the thought of everyone wittering on about how fantastic Lucy is, and what a marvellous job she’s got and look how beautiful and blah blah, and everyone making out we’re this super-happy family.’
    ‘Listen, it’s not exactly easy for me to listen to that stuff either. Doesn’t make me feel like the superstar son-in-law.’
    ‘I’m sorry. Maybe we just shouldn’t go.’
    Suzanna was the decorative one of the family. Its genetic mythology had ascribed to her beauty and financial haplessness, to her younger brother, Ben, a countryman’s wisdom beyond his years, while Lucy had been the brainy one, able at the age of three to recite great swathes of poetry, or ask in all seriousness why such and such a book was not as good as The author’s last? Then, slowly, some kind of metamorphosis had taken place, and while Ben became, as everyone had expected, a kind of younger, merrier echo of their straightforward, stoic, occasionally pompous father, Lucy, far from becoming the predicted bespectacled recluse, had blossomed, become frighteningly assertive, and now, in her late twenties, headed up the Internet section of some foreign media conglomerate.
    Suzanna, meanwhile, had gradually realised that decorative-ness was no longer enough when one reached one’s thirties, that her lifestyle, her lack of financial acumen had ceased to be endearing and now seemed simply self-indulgent. She didn’t want to think about her family.
    ‘We could go and look at shops tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen a place in town that’s up for rent. Used to be a bookshop.’
    ‘You don’t waste any time.’
    ‘There’s no point in hanging around. Not if I’ve only got a year.’
    He was evidently relishing this unusual intimacy, enjoying holding her close. She would have liked to sit down, but he seemed unwilling to let her go.
    ‘It’s in one of those little lanes, the cobbled ones off the square. And it’s got a Georgian window at the front. Like the Olde Curiosity Shoppe.’
    ‘You don’t want something like that. If you’re going to do it, do it properly, with a great big plate-glass window. Something people can see your stock through.’
    ‘But it’s not going to be that sort of shop. I told you before. Look, come and see it before you say anything. I’ve got the estate agents’ number in my bag.’
    ‘Now, there’s a surprise.’
    ‘I might ring them now. Leave a message. Just to let them know I’m interested.’ She could hear the excitement in her voice. It sounded strange to her, as if it came from somewhere else.
    ‘Ring in the morning. It’s not