She listens to the burble of Adam and Maisie riffing off each other about another present opened; she barely registers what it is. A prank present from a friend, perhaps. Here is her beautiful, accomplished daughter on the verge of the exams that will launch her into the next exciting phase of life. She has everything laid out ahead of her … This is a good day and yet she feels on the other side of the glass: smiling along, nothing really touching her.
And yet. Becky has weathered the storm, has she not? Siobhan will get her reference and keep her silence. Amber will live or die, and that’s not up to Becky. The stories in the papers, already fading, will vanish altogether. Her film will pick up more cast members, more money. She will choose her staff and, unlike Siobhan, they will be grateful for the opportunity to work hard for her. To learn from her. Everything can now flower into life.
‘Sorry,’ she says, when she realizes someone must have said something to her, because everyone is looking to her like they’re expecting an answer. ‘Still haven’t got my strength back from Camber. What did you say?’
‘Only should we put the pizzas on?’ says Adam. ‘It’s OK. Let me take care of things.’
‘I think I just need some coffee. I’ll make it.’ Becky gets up and puts the kettle on. ‘Any other takers?’
‘I like my coffee like I like my women,’ says Adam, in a husky bass tone. ‘Served in a mug.’
‘I like my coffee like I like my men,’ replies Maisie instantly. ‘Strong. And yet decaffeinated.’
‘Open another present,’ says Grandma T, rolling her eyes. She knows that left unchecked they might do this routine for another five minutes.
Becky heaps two spoons of coffee granules into a mug. The idea of making proper coffee is too much.
‘Next present,’ declares Adam. ‘Who’s this one from?’
‘This is from Jules.’
‘Who’s Jules?’ asks Grandma T.
‘A boy who likes Maisie,’ says Adam.
‘Dad! Back off.’
‘What?’ cries Adam, doing his outraged New York Jewish matriarch bit. ‘A boy shouldn’t like my beautiful girl? Boys shouldn’t write poetry about this beautiful face of hers?’
Maisie squirms.
‘Adam, you’re embarrassing her,’ says his father.
‘That’s my job! Maisie, tell him!’
‘It’s his job, Grandpa, and he’s extremely good at it.’ Maisie shoots pretend eye-daggers at Adam.
Becky sits back down with her coffee. ‘What’s this one?’ She can’t seem to hold anything in her head.
Maisie tears open an A4-sized envelope. She pulls out a folder. And bursts out laughing.
‘What is it?’
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe he actually did this!’
‘Did what?’
‘OK,’ says Maisie to her grandparents. ‘So me and Jules have this joke that I’m a Viking or from Denmark or something because I’m tall.’
‘What?’ says Grandma, perplexed.
‘It’s just this stupid joke. With my eye colour and everything, I must have come from Viking stock. We do this whole thing with me feasting instead of eating at school lunch, and any time I go off he’s like, Maisie’s off pillaging. Lock up your livestock and clay jugs.’
‘But you’re tall because your mother’s tall. It’s something to be proud of, it’s …’
‘It’s fine, it’s just a joke, Grandpa. Anyway, he did this thing where he was like, I’m going to prove it once and for all, and he swabbed my cheek with a cotton bud thing and said he was having me analysed by the Viking institute. But he’s actually done it. I mean, there isn’t a Viking institute. He’s done me one of those ancestry service thingies.’
A ripple of ice-water seems to run through Becky. She catches Adam’s eye. His gaze darts, sharp and quick, away and back in the direction of Maisie. She knows he is thinking the same thing.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow,’ says Grandma T.
‘They take the DNA in your saliva,’ says Maisie, ‘and then they compare it to millions of other samples and then they can tell you your family history. Like, on a genetic level. Not names and stuff, but where your lineage is from over thousands of years.’ She opens up the booklet. It is full of charts. Her eyes shine as she reads. ‘This is so cool!’
‘Over thousands of years?’ says her grandfather. ‘And all from some spit?’
‘From some cheek cells.’ Maisie beams.
‘That’s unbelievable. Fantastic,’ he says. ‘What’s next? Day trips to Mars?’
Maisie laughs.
Becky is urgently trying to catch Adam’s eye again. This has to stop, and now. ‘Do you want to read it later?’ asks Adam.
‘We’ve got a pile more presents to get through,’ adds Becky. ‘And honestly, I might have to head to bed in a minute.’
‘It’s really detailed,’ says Maisie. ‘I have Irish heritage. Like, thirty per cent of me is Irish genes.’
‘That’s my dad,’ says Becky, her interest piqued, despite herself. ‘His mum and dad were both from Wicklow. Is this one of the ones that gives you medical results? I’d be interested in that.’
‘No, you can get those too but this one’s just ancestry,’ says Maisie. ‘Ha ha! I can’t believe this.’
‘What?’ says Becky.
‘He’s written here that I’m still a Viking even if these results say otherwise. He’s written that I’ve managed to get my own DNA wrong. That’s funny. He’s really funny.’
So she likes him back, thinks Becky. He has teased her into loving him. Well, he wouldn’t be the first.
‘Next present,’ says Adam, handing her a big box. The photo album had finally arrived. There will be enough in there to distract Maisie from the rest, for a good long while: Becky has gathered and printed photographs from all their recent trips away together. ‘This one’s from me and your mum.’
Becky pushes
