Page 32 of Make You Mine This Christmas
The brightly lit kitchen is a handsome mishmash of country and modern aesthetics – white brick tiles line the walls above slate counters, and in the middle of the room stands a heavy oakbutcher’s block table next to a sleek kitchen island. It shouldn’t work, but it does.
They join Esther, where she stands attending to a shiny copper pan on the hob.
‘I thought you could do with a glass to warm you up,’ she says.
Inside the pan is a batch of home-made mulled wine. As she stirs, bundles of spices and orange peel float to the surface before disappearing back into the dark. It smells divine.
‘Yes please,’ Haf says. ‘Shall I get some cups?’
‘Already done,’ says Christopher, laying a couple of half-glazed stone-coloured ceramic mugs on the counter in front of her.
In the bright light from the large windows, Esther glows a little. Where Christopher is all languid movements, Esther is almost bird-like – aware of her surroundings, quick, elegant. Christopher’s description of her had been scant at best, but she was expecting someone far more domineering than the quiet certainty in front of her. Perhaps that’s just being someone’s child; you always see them differently, as a parent first rather than a person in their own right. Intimacy and proximity always change things. To Haf, she just looks like a woman who knows what she likes.
Esther stirs the mulled wine in two full swirls, then ladles the dark liquid into two cups.
‘How was the train journey? Pleasant, I hope?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Haf says again, cursing herself silently for being a parrot. ‘It wasn’t too busy, and it was nice seeing all the decorations.’
‘Did you get to see much of London?’
‘Oh no, we just passed straight through. I’ve not been since I was a kid, actually.’
‘Christopher, haven’t you shown her all the sights yet?’ Esther asks, a little affronted on behalf of Haf even though she’s pretty sure they’re nowhere near London now.
‘It’s on the cards,’ he says, taking a cup from his mother. ‘Is Father out with the dogs?’
‘No, I think he’s in the study,’ she says, handing a cup to Haf. ‘Your sister appeared about an hour before you and took them out straight away. She said she needed the fresh air.’
‘Oh,’ he says, surprised. ‘I thought she wasn’t coming down until the Howard party?’
Esther gives a delicate little shrug. ‘You and I both. More fool us for expecting Kit to do anything other than exactly what she wants.’
Christopher laughs and smiles, and Haf gives a polite grin to agree, even though she has no idea if that’s a fair characterisation or not.
‘I suspect Laurel asked her to come down early,’ Esther adds. ‘Come, let’s go sit by the fire.’
As they walk through the house, Haf clutches onto her cup for dear life. If she spills even a drop, she is going to be mortified. Haf has never drunk or eaten anything in her life without a spill or a dribble, at the very least.
As Esther walks, her slippers, designed to look like heels, clack pleasingly on the floors.
Haf pauses to take a quick swig of the mulled wine for courage – and so there’s less in her cup that could spill everywhere. It feels like some of it went down the wrong way, and she coughs a little, before rushing after the Calloways.
The living room has the same colour scheme as the hallway – a rich-green sofa with two matching armchairs, and dark-wood bookcases stuffed with books – and a roaring fire in the centre of it all. Childhood photos line the mantelpiece, which she notes to noodle through later. A basket for the dogs slumps in front ofthe fire, surrounded by ragged toys and a very tired and slightly muddy woollen blanket.
A beautiful Christmas tree almost as tall as the high ceiling stands in front of the French windows, lit in soft golden light that reflects off the berry red baubles. Crystal snowflakes hang from the largest branches, and perched at the top is a gold sparkling star. It’s the sort of literally-a-whole-tree Christmas tree Haf has seen in American Christmas films. Around the room, there are touches of seasonal décor too. There’s no tinsel, just smatterings of red tartan that feel tasteful rather than fake Scottish.
She can see the dusk of winter outside, and a yawn escapes her. The fading dark feels so comforting from inside this cosy blanket of a room.
In an armchair, sits a man with a formidable moustache and perfectly round black glasses. The ankle of one foot is balanced on the other knee in the very masculine version of crossing your legs, and a large newspaper is spread over his lap. His hair is deep black, with only the faintest traces of silver.
‘Ah! My boy!’ he cries, folding the newspaper back along its original creases.
He leaps up enthusiastically, taking Christopher’s hand and pulling him into a hug. It’s one of those man hugs, where no one gets that close really and both slap each other’s backs, but it’s familial and sweet.
It’s very clear where Christopher gets his height from; Otto is only a little shorter than him. Where Christopher is willowy, Otto is broad like a rugby player.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Christopher says as they step back to look at each other.
