jerks up and I realize everyone’s looking at me. Shit. OK, I need to be supportive.
“I think it’s a brilliant charity effort,” I reply, hedging, “and everyone must sponsor Luke.”
“We can get you some mustache oil for Christmas, Luke!” says Janice, and my smile turns to a rictus of dismay. Mustache oil?
“It’ll be gone by then,” I say too quickly.
“Well,” says Luke, stroking his upper lip self-consciously. “That was the idea. But if you like it, Becky…”
Like it?
“Do you like it, love?” says Mum, with interest.
Argh! I feel totally put on the spot. I don’t want to say anything negative, but how can I say I like it? Husbands and wives should not discuss mustaches in polite company, I instantly decide. It should be a major breach of etiquette.
“You said it looked great the other day,” adds Luke.
“Right,” I say, my voice a little shrill. “Yes. I did say that, didn’t I?”
“So!” says Mum, handing Luke and me espresso martinis. “Speaking of Christmas, shall we discuss arrangements?”
“Let’s wait for Suze,” I say. “The Cleath-Stuarts are coming for Christmas Day too.”
“Oh, good!” exclaims Mum. “It’s going to be such a lovely day. Just think, Graham! No cooking, no decorating…Becky’s going to do it all!”
“All?” I echo in slight alarm.
I know I’m hosting Christmas, but doesn’t Mum want to do some? Or, like…most?
“Becky, love, we don’t want to get in your way,” says Mum in generous tones. “It’s your Christmas.”
Before I can say, “I don’t mind sharing,” the doorbell to the flat rings and Dad swings the door open.
“Suze, my dear!” he exclaims. “Welcome to our new home.”
“Wow,” says Suze, her eyes like saucers as she ventures in, peering around. “Just wow. This flat! And, Jess, you’re here, and, Jane, your outfit is amazing, and…oh my God, Luke!” she says as though this is the biggest surprise of all. “You’ve got a mustache.”
“Becky likes it,” says Janice eagerly, and Suze’s gaze swivels to me in astonishment.
“Really?”
“For now,” I amend quickly. “I like it for now. You can like things for a bit. You can really like them and then…not like them quite so much.” I clear my throat. “That can be a thing.”
“Huh,” says Suze, looking mystified. “I never thought—” She stops herself dead. “I mean, absolutely. Good for you, Luke. It’s…It’s…” She seems to be struggling for words. “Wow!”
* * *
—
As we walk along Shoreditch High Street to the restaurant where we’re having brunch, Minnie holds my hand and we fall into step with Suze and Jess, while the others walk farther ahead.
“Have you seen what your mum’s T-shirt says?” demands Suze, as soon as Mum is out of earshot. She sounds on the brink of hysteria, which is pretty much how I feel too.
“I know!” I say. “Thank God Minnie can’t read!”
“And espresso martinis.”
“And circus skills.”
Dad showed us some tricks with his newly acquired diabolo just before we came out for brunch. We all clapped and said, “Encore!” and Janice only shrieked once, when the diabolo nearly hit Martin on the head.
“I think everyone should retire to Shoreditch,” says Suze firmly. “It’s the way to go.”
Jess has been walking along silently, but now she says, “It’s really generous of Graham and Jane to give me their house. They didn’t need to.”
“Oh, they wanted to,” I say quickly. “They’re having a great time here! It’s an adventure for them. When do you think Tom will come over?” I add casually, to make conversation—and at once Jess flinches, exactly like she did before.
“Not sure,” she says. “As soon as…He’ll…” She stops as though to give herself time. “Not sure. I’m not sure.”
OK. That was a weird response. Jess’s jaw is rigid and her gaze is fixed ahead. I glance at Suze, and I can see she’s a bit puzzled too.
“How’s Tom’s work in Chile going?” I venture.
“Yes. Good.”
“Any news on the adoption?” I ask, even more cautiously.
“No, none.” Jess’s face closes up, and I see her hands clenching into fists.
I have an anxious feeling in my stomach. My sister is even more monosyllabic than usual. Her eyes have darkened with misery. And, OK, I know we’re only half sisters, but we definitely have a psychic connection. (We once built exactly the same kind of cupboard, hers for rocks, mine for shoes.) I feel I know her—and right now I’m pretty sure something’s wrong with her and Tom.
I glance at her anxiously, longing to fling my arm around her and say, “Jess, what’s up? Is it Tom? He’s always been