Page 200 of Save You
“Ruby is the head of the events committee,” says James, not looking up from his soup.
His father pays him no attention.“And will you be going to university too?”
“I hope to be starting at Oxford next year.”
Now Mr.Beaufort looks up, and, for the first time this evening, I get the impression that he’s actually taken notice of me.
I hold my breath.Everything within me is rebelling against talking about Oxford with this man.It’s sacred to me, and I don’t want anyone who doesn’t get what studying there really means to me to trample on my dreams.
“Oh, really?What will you be reading?”
“PPE,” I reply.
“A solid degree.And which college has taken your fancy?”
“St.Hilda’s.”
He nods.“Just like James.How convenient.”
I ignore his insinuation.“It’s a lovely college.At the interviews…” I fall silent.It was during the interview period that Mrs.Beaufort died.I glance at Lydia, who has frozen, her spoon halfway to her lips, and is now staring blankly into her soup.“I really liked everything there, and I’m looking forward to it a lot,” I conclude hastily.I can hardly imagine how painful it must be for James and Lydia to think back on that time.I venture a glance at James, but he’s not letting anything show, just spooning up his soup.
Just the starter takes more than an hour.During the main course, Lydia and I try to make the best of the situation and chat about all kinds of things—from films and music to books and blogs.When Lydia mentions that she used to do ballet, Mr.Beauforteven manages a fleeting smile.It only lasts a split second, after which I start to wonder if I’d imagined it.
“I once had the tiniest part inTheNutcracker, but I was so proud,” Lydia reminisces.She cuts into her chicken, which is beautifully garnished with griddled vegetables.The cook has put so much work into the presentation that I can hardly bear to destroy his mini work of art.
“I’d love to see photos.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” James mumbles beside me.“She was a little rat.The pictures are terrible.”
“Why don’t you tell Ruby about the times you did ballet too?”Lydia mocks from across the table.As James glares at her, she pops a huge forkful into her mouth and shrugs.
“Did you really?”I ask in surprise.
A muscle in James’s jaw stands out.“Lydia made out that it was really hard.She used to kick up a major fuss every time.So I said it couldn’t be that difficult and that anyone could do a bit of jumping up and down.”
“And then he came along to three lessons.You should have seen him.He was so awful!”She bursts out laughing.
“Why did you stop?”I ask, grinning.
“Because I made Lydia promise to stop moaning about ballet at home.”
“Such a nice brother,” I remark.
“One does one’s best,” James replies.
“It’s just as well it was only those three lessons.Otherwise, I probably would have stopped as well and not kept it up another two years,” Lydia says.
“Why did you stop?”I ask.
“Lack of discipline,” Mr.Beaufort replies, as if I’d asked himthe question and not Lydia.“My daughter generally only persists with things she finds easy.The moment she faces a challenge, she gives up.”
An unpleasant, heavy silence spreads over us, like a dark thundercloud that will start rumbling any moment.
Lydia’s lips are set into a pale line.Beside me, James grips his knife and fork so hard that his knuckles are white.The only person to keep eating at his leisure is Mr.Beaufort.He doesn’t even seem to notice that his unkind remark has killed the mood around the table.
How is it possible to be that insensitive to everything going on around you?To be so ignorant when it comes to your own children?
My friend Lydia faces up to every challenge.Speaking about her like that shows how little he knows his daughter.
