excited about Christmas.’
‘And is Mick off flying again soon?’
‘Mick never flies over Christmas.’
‘Right. So. You’re all pretty busy then.’
‘Not really. Just getting ready for Christmas.’ She wished she could stop saying the word ‘Christmas’.
Monica paused again. ‘I did phone last week – I spoke to Mick.’
‘Mick? He didn’t say.’
‘I phoned right after I heard about the Harrods bomb. I was in Canada and I saw it on the TV, and I had this sudden feeling you might be up in London shopping, so I rang …’
‘When was the bomb?’
‘The seventeenth.’
She could hear Monica trying not to become angry with her again for not knowing the date of the Harrods bomb when it only happened six days ago. ‘I wasn’t up in London then.’
‘I know – Mick said.’ Monica paused. ‘I was thinking …’
‘What?’ Dominique laughed nervously. ‘You want to spend Christmas here?’
Monica breathed out. ‘I suppose I could do, couldn’t I?’
Dominique stared at Linda Palmer’s gazelle that Mick had brought downstairs and put on his desk. What was it he’d said about the gazelle? He’d said that it confronted him – that the gazelle confronted him. There was something going on between Mick and the gazelle that she didn’t understand, and it wasn’t even his – it belonged to Linda. She picked it up then put it down. How exactly did a wooden animal that fitted in the palm of your hand get confrontational anyway? She didn’t like it.
‘But you’ve probably made arrangements,’ Monica was saying. What else had Monica said that she hadn’t heard? This was something she’d always been able to do – fade people out. When she was a child she used to be able to make them invisible as well. Something that had prompted Monica to have her tested for epilepsy.
‘No arrangements – no. We’re having a small party on Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day – just family.’
‘Well, I’m family …’ Monica said.
Dominique heard the airport down the phone, and the Tannoy announcing a delay to the Dubai flight had more clarity for her right then than anything she and Monica were saying.
‘If you’re sure that’s what you want to do,’ she said. ‘Christmas here, I mean.’
‘And if you’re sure you could put up with me for three to four days,’ Monica said. Now it was her turn to laugh nervously.
Dominique didn’t say anything. She’d never heard Monica laugh nervously before. ‘So – do you want to come straight here or are you going to Ciba first?’
‘No, I’ll come to you.’
‘You’re sure? I can get Delta to come and pick you up?’
‘Delta drives?’
‘She was eighteen on her last birthday.’
‘I’ll get a cab.’
‘I would come myself but we’ve just got back from the airport.’
Why was Monica doing this? She’d never spent Christmas with them before – maybe once when Delta was small, but never more than once. Dominique couldn’t work out Monica’s motive – and life, for Monica, had to have motive.
‘I’ll get a cab.’
‘Okay – fine.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘Of course.’
‘You don’t sound sure.’
‘It’s unexpected, that’s all.’ Dominique paused. ‘Impulsive; and I’m not used to that in you. You’re not a very impulsive person.’
‘Well, I was here, and I thought … well, it’s Christmas.’
‘It is Christmas.’
The Tannoy was updating people about the Dubai flight, then the phone flatlined.
She stared out the window at the mint again, wondering where it came from. She’d gone through a stage of reading gardening books and they all warned against mint; mint and bamboo. There were others she couldn’t remember, but they were all difficult to control, and she never could work out why this was seen as a bad thing.
Out in the hallway, Stephanie was doing a headstand over the bathroom mirror, which was on the floor between her hands. ‘What are you doing, Steph?’
There were flecks of spittle on the mirror.
‘Watching the blood in my head,’ she said with difficulty.
‘Well, stop it – you’ll make yourself sick.’
‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Steph – pancakes,’ Mick’s voice called out from the kitchen.
Steph was leaning against the hallway wall looking at her Mickey Mouse watch. ‘Four minutes and twenty seconds that time,’ she said, walking unevenly into the kitchen where there was a plate of immaculate pancakes on the bench next to the hob.
Dominique followed her in. ‘Monica’s coming for Christmas.’
Mick, still in his pilot’s uniform, put the pancakes on the table. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’ve just spoken to her.’
He got the maple syrup out of the cupboard and didn’t say anything.
‘Who’s Monica?’ Stephanie asked.
‘She’s your grandmother,’ Mick said.
‘Mick – you know we don’t call her that.’
‘OK. She’s Mummy’s mummy, which makes her your grandmother, only we call her Monica because she suffers from a disorder called babushkaphobia.’
‘What’s babushkaphobia?’ Delta asked.
‘A woman’s aversion to her grandchildren.’
‘But we don’t know a Monica, do we?’ Stephanie insisted.
‘She was here about a year ago – maybe longer,’ Delta said, without looking up from her matador.
‘Is she the one with the short hair and dragonfly earrings?’ Stephanie asked.
‘I don’t remember dragonfly earrings,’ Dominique said, sitting down at the table. Mick made his way round everybody, sprinkling chocolate drops from a packet over their shoulders and onto their plates.
‘Well, I do,’ Stephanie said.
‘Why’s she coming now?’ Delta asked.
Dominique shrugged, looking up at Mick. ‘She said she phoned last week?’
‘Last week?’ He thought about this. ‘She did phone last week – to make sure none of us got blown up in the Harrods bomb.’
‘That’s what she said.’ Dominique looked down at her pancakes. Mick had sprinkled chocolate drops in the shape of a heart.
‘Why’s she coming now?’ Stephanie repeated. ‘I hate Monica.’
Joe went into the lounge and shut the door behind him. ‘Where’s Mum, Jess? Jess?’
‘In