Don't Get Me Wrong (19 page)

Outside in the brilliant October sunshine—ice-cold wind, bright blue sky—Harry looked around at the gracious town
houses, the parked Jaguars, the whole spruce prosperity of one of the most expensive residential areas in the world, and felt a small surge of pleasure. Wealth cocooned him. He felt safe.

“I'm hearing good things about you.”

“Are you?” Harry tried to sound casual.

“One of the sharpest analysts in the City. So sharp you might cut yourself.”

“But you still don't rate us.”

Syed smiled. “You do your job. We do ours.” He stepped back with a flourish to make more room on the pavement for a blonde with dark glasses and thigh-high black boots. “Do you still miss New York?”

“Sometimes. But I think if I was in New York, I'd miss London.”

Syed laughed. “The human condition. Perpetual dissatisfaction.” He glanced up at Harry. “She had a son, I hear.”

“Yes,” said Harry, wondering how Syed had heard about Otis.

“Of course he's not good enough for her. I never liked him.”

Harry was lost.

“It's the Old Etonian charm. They fall for it every time.”

They walked on in silence. Harry had just worked out that Syed was talking about Titania when Syed said, “Of course that's the trouble with the work we do. No time for relationships. It's all so shallow. Luxury holidays, fine dining, fast cars—but we'd give it all up in an instant if we thought we had a real chance of enduring love.”

“Would we?”

Syed's eyes were bright. “No.”

Harry laughed. “Although you're—what? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? It might be time to find a good woman and settle down.”

Syed's smile disappeared. “You sound like my mother,” he said gloomily.

•  •  •

“Where are you?”

“In France. In a rather beautiful villa near Nice.”

“You're at Mum's?”

“At Jean-Marc's house. He insisted. Otis is a bit shy. He's never seen so much marble.”

“Is Jean-Marc really rich, then?”

“Faded grandeur. Old aristocracy. I don't know if he's actually got any money. But Mum's happy. She's wafting about in white linen trying to pretend she doesn't find three-year-olds annoying.”

“So when are you coming back?”

“That's why I'm ringing. Just in time for Christmas.”

“When?”

“The fifteenth.”

“Oh, Eva! That's so exciting! Shall I come and meet you? Is it Gatwick or Heathrow?”

“We're coming by train. St. Pancras.”

“I'll be there. I promise. Help you with all your luggage. Will you come back and stay here? Jake would love it. He could show Otis his Matchbox collection.”

“There wouldn't be room, though, would there? In a one-bedroomed flat.”

“I'd have to tidy up a bit. But it would be fine.”

“I'm really grateful. Really. But I don't think it's a good idea. Three-year-olds are a bit manic. It's bad enough here. Although Mum can't really complain because everything's all cracked and chipped already. But Jake collects things. Valuable things. Otis would destroy it all in five minutes.”

“But—”

“I just think we'd really piss Jake off if we stayed. And I wouldn't be able to relax for a second. I'd be running around after Otis trying to stop him killing himself with ceremonial daggers.”

“So where will you stay?”

“Harry's offered to put us up.”

“Harry?”

“He hasn't got round to buying much furniture. So it's just an empty space. Which is perfect. Otis can run around screaming as much as he likes. Kim?”

“What?”

“You don't mind, do you?”

“No.”

“You sound like you do.”

“You're my sister.”

“It'll only be for a couple of months. Until we've worked out where we want to be. Ideally, I want to join some kind of community. But not too far away. Kim? Say something.”

“I got that job.”

“Regional development manager? Oh, you're so clever! That's such good news!”

“I suppose so.”

“What's wrong?”

“I'll never be in London. You come back and I leave.”

“It'll settle down once you've got it all organized. When do you start?”

“February.”

“So there's a bit of time before then.”

“Except you'll be at Harry's.”

“He says you're welcome anytime.”

“Oh, does he?”

“You're not still feuding, are you?”

“I've got no idea. I never see him.”

“But over Christmas?”

“I don't know. Jake and I might be going away.”

“Kim? Please?”

2011

T
he wedding was fixed for June. The best time of year, Grace insisted, when the rough winds have blown away and summer is just beginning. Eva was talking about wild flowers from the country. But roses are always so elegant, don't you think? So very English.

“I'm impressed,” said Izzie. “I thought you'd be frothing at the mouth.”

“I've turned over a new leaf,” said Kim. “From now on, I'm going to be calm and serene.”

“I'll believe it when I see it.”

“It's true. I've been reading books about mindfulness. I've decided that getting angry is bad for my health.”

Izzie put her head on one side. “I thought you'd say the whole thing was ridiculous. Especially as they're already living together.”

“They should do whatever makes them happy.”

Izzie laughed.

“What?” said Kim.

“You look as if you've just sucked a lemon.”

Kim hastily rearranged her expression.

“And you're going to be a bridesmaid?” said Izzie.

Kim forgot about being calm and serene. “Why would I want to be a bridesmaid?”

“Did you know,” said Izzie, “that you puff up like a pink toad when you're cross?”

Kim took a deep breath. “I just meant that I don't think I'd be very good at it.”

“You don't have to wear layers of tulle with a ribbon round your waist.”

“It won't be that kind of wedding. She says she wants to keep it simple.”

“They all say that. How many guests are coming?”

Kim slumped, defeated. “I've lost count.”

“Well, I suppose he can afford it.”

Kim looked even more depressed.

“What about your father? Will she ask him?”

“Why would she do that? She hasn't seen him for years.”

“I don't know. As a way of saying that all the bad things are in the past and we're all making a new beginning.”

“You watch too many rom-coms.”

Izzie laughed. “Look at it this way. At least you're getting a holiday in the South of France.”

Kim fixed her with a baleful stare. “I can assure you that being around my mother while she plans her wedding to Jean-Marc is not going to be a holiday.”

“Is Jake going?”

The question hung in the air. Kim didn't know. When she'd asked him at the weekend, he'd said, “Why would your mother want me there?”

“Because you're my partner?”

“But your mother doesn't really know me.”

You spent Christmas Day together, Kim thought miserably. It was still vivid in her memory, like a bright red scar. Harry's vast white apartment overlooking the Thames. Lunch from Harrods Food Hall, with carefully chosen additions from Fortnum & Mason. Several bottles of champagne. The floor covered in crumpled silver wrapping paper. The sky outside pale blue.

It was years since they'd had Christmas in the Nunhead house with all the old decorations—the bald angel with the missing tiara, the papier-mâché reindeer with three legs and a squint, the red paper chains that fell from the ceiling because Dad never put them up properly. But the tasteful opulence of Harry's version of Christmas made Kim miss all the festive rubbish from her childhood with fierce longing. Christmas shouldn't be delivered in a wicker hamper, she thought. What will Otis remember from today? How the icing on a shop-bought Christmas cake is so neat it looks like decorative cornicing in a stately home?

“Will it snow tomorrow?”

Lunch was over. The Christmas pudding had been eaten. They were all lying around on the brand-new sofas, almost too full to move. Harry, the benevolent host, was nursing a small brandy.

“It might do,” said Eva.

Otis tried again. He turned to Harry, his brown eyes serious. “Will it snow tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

Otis looked over to Jake but thought better of it. He turned to Kim. “Will it snow tomorrow?”

“Do you want it to?”

Otis nodded.

“So we have to hope it'll get very cold,” said Kim. “Zero degrees.”

“Although, in fact, that's a common misperception,” said Jake. “The air temperature needs to be below two degrees, not zero. And of course above two degrees, you get sleet or rain.”

Harry seemed to be trying not to laugh.

“Oh, not rain, please,” said Grace, wide-eyed and appalled. “London is so desolate when it rains.” She shivered, a rose petal buffeted by the wind.

“Gam-ma,” said Otis.

“Oh call me Grace, darling. ‘Grandma' is so aging.”

“Gam-ma, will it snow tomorrow?”

“I do hope not. I've got my flight back booked for the twenty-seventh. I can't leave Jean-Marc to fend for himself for much longer. You know, I was very lucky to get here at all. With all the blizzards. Heathrow was practically closed.”

“I heard,” said Harry, “that they had to shut the Eiffel Tower earlier in the month. Because of the snow.”

“Oh, Harry,” said Eva with affection, as if he was being very silly.

Harry looked offended. “It's true. I read it in the
Telegraph
.”

“The weather gets more and more extreme,” said Kim. “You have to wonder why.”

“And there was that earthquake in the Lake District,” said Harry. “Scary. That's never happened before.”

“Hasn't it?” said Eva.

“Well, maybe,” said Harry. “Quite a few times. Every year,
in fact. You often get earthquakes that size in the UK. But I still think we should be really, really worried.”

“You think climate change is funny, don't you?” said Kim.

“So, Jake,” said Eva, “Kim tells me you used to restore windmills.”

Harry's whole face lit up with delight. He swung one long leg over the other—the brandy nearly slopping over the edge of the glass—and leant towards Jake with an expression of rapt interest.

“Used to,” said Kim loudly. “Used to restore windmills. You don't really have time anymore, do you? Now that you're head of campaigns.”

“What can you do?” said Jake. “It's full-on. Twenty-four/seven.”

“Like an emergency plumber,” said Harry.

It was excruciating. Kim escaped to the ultramodern white-and-chrome bathroom and rested her forehead against the mirrored cupboard above the sink. Beneath her, three toothbrushes were lined up in the stainless steel holder—one blue, one pink, and a little red one with a Mickey Mouse face. Harry's enjoying every minute of Christmas Day, she thought. But the more he laughs, the more I die inside. I feel like a withered old prune.

“It becomes quite addictive, working at the heart of government,” Jake was saying as she walked back into the room. “They'll do anything to stay in power. The main policy objective of any politician is to get reelected.”

“Absolutely,” said Harry. “What an amazing insight.”

“What about the Queen?” said Grace.

“Well, if we're talking about power,” said Jake, “she doesn't
really have a place in this discussion. Because she's a figurehead. More of a ceremonial role, really.”

“I meant the Queen's Christmas message,” said Grace, looking at Jake as if he were stupid. “Three o'clock. We're all avid royalists in Nice, you know. Often gather round the TV waving our Union Jacks.”