Page 47 of Bare
‘Yeah. He's...’ Neil stopped. The word he wanted wasn't a word. It was a sensation, standing in a room with someone whodidn't require performance. ‘He sees me, Gem. He actually sees me. And doesn't look away.’
‘Good.’ Her eyes were bright. She blinked once, hard. ‘Good. I'm glad.’ She took a bite of the mince pie. Chewed. Steadied. ‘Bring him for tea sometime. When you're ready.’
When she walked back to the kitchen, Neil stood in the hallway with his wine and the confession lighter than he'd expected. Two people now. Kieran and Gemma. The circle widening. The sky intact.
Christmas Day. Lunch at Malcolm and Diane's.
The house was a detached four-bedroom in a cul-de-sac. Air freshener and something else, something without a scent that Neil had never been able to name. The atmosphere wasn't unhappy. It was managed.
It always had.
The driveway was pressure-washed. The wreath was positioned with a spirit level. The garden was immaculate even in December, lawn striped, borders mulched.
Diane opened the door in cashmere and lipstick. ‘Neil. Freddie, darling. Happy Christmas.’ She kissed Freddie with the tenderness she reserved for the grandson. She offered Neil a cheek that carried the exact temperature of a radiator on its lowest setting.
Malcolm was in the lounge. Armchair. Cardigan. The newspaper folded on the arm, unread. He stood when Neil entered. Shook his hand. ‘Neil.’ One word. Enough.
Lunch was roast beef, overcooked to submission. Brussels sprouts with the texture of surrender. Roast potatoes thatMalcolm carved like a military exercise, equal portions, equally distributed, the serving spoon deployed with precision.
Freddie wore a paper crown. Diane had placed it on his head with the ceremony of a coronation. He'd adopted a regal bearing for approximately forty-five seconds before it slipped over his eyes and he announced that he was now a knight and all food would be eaten with a sword, not a fork.
‘We use forks in this house,’ Diane said.
‘Knights don't use forks.’
‘Knights in this house do.’
‘That's not historically accurate.’
‘Where did he learn historically accurate?’ Malcolm asked, from behind the beef.
‘Mr Cavanaugh told us about knights,’ Freddie said. ‘They used to eat with spoons or their hands. And they didn't wash.’
‘Delightful,’ Diane said.
‘They also went to the toilet in their armour. They had a special flap.’
‘Freddie,’ Neil said.
‘It's TRUE. Mr Cavanaugh showed us a picture.’
‘I'm going to have a word with Mr Cavanaugh about age-appropriate content.’
‘It's HISTORY, Dad. History isn't age-appropriate. That's the point.’
Malcolm looked at Neil over the beef. The look said: control your child. Neil looked back. His look said: my child is the only interesting person at this table and we both know it.
Malcolm's eyes stayed on Neil a beat longer than the beef required.
The crackers were pulled. The jokes read aloud. The paper crowns worn briefly and removed. The machinery of Christmas operated with the mechanical precision of an assembly line, each tradition executed, checked off, filed.
Diane asked about Freddie's school. About the reading scheme. About whether Neil had considered department head. She asked nothing about Neil's personal life beyond the professional.
After lunch. The kitchen. They washed up. Freddie with LEGO in the other room. Malcolm asleep in his armchair, the paper rising and falling on his chest.
‘You look different,’ Diane said. Her hands in the washing-up bowl, wringing a cloth with the intensity of a woman processing emotion through the nearest available fabric.
‘Do I.’
