Page 13 of Lost in Translation
‘Size doesn’t matter,’ said Dom, winking at Charlotte. ‘It’s the quality that counts.’
‘Mummy, can we open them now?’ Alastair edged the corner of a large package out of his sack.
‘Just a second.’ Dom hurried over to the camera before giving the thumbs up. Charlotte took her usual place in the corner of the sofa, tucking her legs up and smiling at the boys’ bubbling delight.
‘Cool!’ Alastair exclaimed, tearing open the wrapping paper to reveal a jumbo box of magic tricks.
‘This is awesome!’ declared Robson, unwrapping a Playmobil Mars Mission Rocket. He already had a castle and a pirate ship, the latter having caused great angst the previous Christmas when he tripped and snapped the mast in two. Dom hadn’t been best pleased, and Robson’s tears only abated when Charlotte ordered a replacement part online.
Within minutes reams of paper and piles of toys, games and clothes surrounded the boys. They pushed aside the clothes as they opened boxes and scattered pieces of plastic across the floor.
‘Tree time next!’ Ignoring the boys’ grumbles, Charlotte and Dom stacked up the considerably smaller pile of presents from under the tree and placed them on the coffee table. Gift vouchers for everyone from Dom’s parents, Star Wars Lego for the boys from Charlotte’s folks, and fluffy pink slippers from Dom to Charlotte.
As Dom unwrapped the professionally packaged gift from Charlotte, she held her breath. It had been a last-minute purchase at Geneva Airport when she’d persuaded Dom to watch the planes take off and land with the boys while she browsed Duty Free. A Tag Heuer watch caught her eye, then made her credit card quiver with the six-figure price tag. Moving swiftly on, she picked up a Tissot model, a lot cheaper but still stylish. Or so she hoped.
‘Thanks, darling.’ Dom barely glanced at it before putting it to one side. ‘Right, kitchen duties!’
Having watched her mum getting overly stressed every Christmas — parboiling sprouts, making stuffing, and chugging the brandy she used to anoint the pudding — Charlotte liked to keep things simple. A prepared small turkey crown, ready-to-cook veg and plenty of pigs in blankets, with ice cream and chocolate Yule log for dessert. The boys would pick at the food until they could play with their presents.
‘Red or white?’ asked Dom, holding a bottle in each hand.
‘You choose,’ replied Charlotte. ‘Can you check on the turkey?’
Dom opened the oven and gave the crown a desultory poke with a fork. ‘Looks OK to me. Shall I take it out and start carving?’
Charlotte nudged him aside and grabbed the oven gloves. ‘It needs to rest first.’ She located the kitchen foil and carefully swaddled the turkey as lovingly as she used to wrap the boys when they were babies. Admittedly, they hadn’t been basted in butter or draped in bacon, but the action reminded her of their delicious baby smells. And of how they weren’t babies any more.
An hour later, and both Dom and Charlotte’s plates were clean. Alastair and Robson’s looked like they’d merely shifted things around, aside from the pigs in blankets and a token Brussels sprout each.
‘No pudding unless you eat more than that.’ Dom frowned at the pair of them.
Charlotte passed the gravy, and they added a tiny splash to the mound of meat and stuffing. ‘Two more mouthfuls, then you can have pudding,’ she said, ignoring Dom’s disgruntled sigh.
With the dishes cleared away and pots and pans left to soak, Charlotte and Dom settled in the lounge with the remaining wine. Alastair and Robson disappeared to their bedroom to ‘prepare’ a magic show for later, and Charlotte promised they would all watch the Christmas movieKlaustogether later.
‘You’re too soft with them,’ grumbled Dom, flicking on the TV. ‘When I was their age, I had to eat everything, otherwise there was no dessert.’
Charlotte gave a mock-snore. If she had a pound for every story Dom told about Torquil and Jean’s boot-camp approach to parenting, she could have bought that gorgeous buttery-leather handbag she’d eyed longingly at Geneva airport. Instead, she’d stroked it and focused on buying the watch that Dom didn’t appreciate.
‘So, for your birthday.’ Dom changed the subject deftly, switching the TV off. ‘How about just a few friends at a nice restaurant? We spent a fair bit on the Swiss trip, so maybe keep things low-key?’
Charlotte refrained from pointing out that Dom’s fortieth birthday celebrations had included a week-long trip to an all-inclusive resort in the Dominican Republic, and a party for fifty people she’d organised as a surprise. ‘Whatever. I’m not bothered.’ Except she was, deep down.
Dom looked put out at her response. ‘Sweetheart, there will be loads of opportunities to do amazing things when we get to Switzerland. It’s a gorgeous country, with easy access to France and Italy. And we can do something special in the summer once we’ve settled in.’
At that point, Alastair and Robson swept into the room and began setting up their magic show. Charlotte sat down next to Dom and smiled as both boys gave an exaggerated bow.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Alastair. ‘Prepare to be dazzled!’
Chapter 13
Packing day,and Charlotte desperately needed a coffee or something stronger. But the kettle was nowhere to be seen, despite her use of colour-coded stickers to mark what should and shouldn’t be packed. Hugh and Des, the packing men (whom she’d already nicknamed Hump It and Dump It), were whistling loudly and tunelessly as they wrestled with reams of bubble wrap and assembled cardboard boxes at warp speed.
‘Any chance of a brew, love?’ Dump It, T-shirt straining to contain his ample girth, appeared in the kitchen. Before Charlotte could retort that boiling water required a vessel to boil it in, he whipped out her beloved red KitchenAid kettle from behind his back. ‘That daft ’aporth nearly had this away,’ he said, as Hump It huffed his way into the room. ‘Blue to pack, red to keep aside. It’s not bleedin’ rocket science, Hugh.’
Luckily, the hapless Hugh hadn’t got his mitts on the four mugs, caddy of tea bags and jar of instant sitting forlornly on an almost-empty shelf. And the boys had been beside themselves with joy when Dom whisked them off to McDonalds for a rare Sausage and Egg McMuffin treat, meaning the milk carton — usually upended over their cereal — still contained enough for their drinks.
Since they’d signed on the dotted line for both school and accommodation, the time had flown. In her twenties and early thirties, Charlotte had dismissed the notion that time speeded up the older you got. Now, barely into her forties, she firmly believed that the days and months had taken on a new and terrifying momentum.
