“Dammit, Michael. You and your lawyer line of interrogation.” The smile’s back now. Irrepressible. The Ben effect, even from a distance. “More than a friend. There. I said it.”
Michael looks terribly pleased. Unlike our parents, he has no delusions that I will become all hetero through their force of will. “What’s his name?”
I gulp. If I say his name, put it out there, it will make everything more real. Like maybe it wasn’t all fanciful wishes and daydreams spurred by hangovers and latte withdrawal.
“Ben. His name is Ben.”
Michael grins. “Well, he must be someone important for you to reveal his name.”
“I know better than to resist the legal profession. With my luck I’ll end up in some third-rate penitentiary with your connections.”
“Well, that’s true,” Michael concedes. “That was a downer last Christmas.”
I snort. The silly smile, I fear, might be permanent. Ben has a lot of explaining to do. He didn’t warn me that might happen if we agreed on a date. Scottish trick.
“Boys,” calls Mum from the other room as the doorbell rings. “Time for dinner.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dinner is in the formal dining room. Mum calls the paint color in here aubergine, but no self-respecting aubergine would tolerate that insult or that much brown in good conscience. It’s plain brown. Imagine my family’s expressions if I painted the room oxblood or emerald in the night. If I called it brown, would they be any the wiser?
At the table, we’re elbow-deep in relatives, including Jenna. We’ve poured wine for toasts, served the first course, taken the first mouthfuls. My aunt and uncle from Mum’s side have joined us. They’ve traveled from Croydon. To listen to them, you’d think they traveled from outer Mongolia and fought off highwaymen on the way in, facing mortal peril. My dad’s brother, my Uncle Johnnie, and his partner Kirsten have somehow given the beige-paint-loving gene a miss. They’re off on a road trip across America. In New Orleans, specifically, when they rang my parents earlier. Whatever genes Johnnie has, I must have them too, a throwback to some early Renfrew relation.
There’s talk of investments, led by my father, with sensible advice from my brother. Everyone looks interested, except me. I’m dying inside.
I gaze at the remains of my meal. At this point, all that’s left are the traces of gravy I used to drown the overcooked roast as I calculated how long I needed to sit here to be polite before I could start clearing dishes and do the washing up.
“Charles,” says Great Aunt May, a cloud of silvery hair floating around her head, “will you join us tomorrow? Your mother said you’ll be joining us for lunch, but I thought you were off to Wales.”
I scowl, not at Aunt May but at Mum’s obvious interference, then try to neutralize my expression as my father shoots me a dark look. Storm warning. I make myself look more neutral.
“Sorry, Aunt May. I won’t be able to join. I’m off to see Carys.”
Mum frowns at me. “Now, Charles. You should come to your Aunt May’s for lunch and spend time with your family—”
“I have to catch a train tonight to Wales.” I stare at my mother. “You knew that already. I told you before.”
“You need to spend time with your real family,” says my mother coolly. “All of us will be there tomorrow. Even Jenna will join us for lunch. We scheduled lunch instead of dinner to include her. And you and a plus one.” She sighs, pained. “You never bring your girlfriends to meet us. At Christmas or otherwise.”
“Charles,” says my father. “Don’t disappoint your mother.”
“Oh, fucking hell.” It spills out before I can smother the words. “Mum, you know I’m off to see Carys. You’d think you’d be happy that I’m going to see my daughter. Your granddaughter, by the way—”
“Charles!” Dad scowls.
“—and as for girlfriends, Mum, you know perfectly well that I don’t bring them because there aren’t any. I’m gay. Or queer. Take your pick.”
My mother presses a thin hand against her forehead. “It’s Christmas, Charles. Don’t ruin it. Think of your Great Aunt May.”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think Aunt May’s shocked about me. It’s not a secret. You and Dad are the only ones in denial about my sexuality. And the reason I don’t bring people home is because you’re always miserable to me, on Christmas or any other day of the year. So no, Mum, I’m not bringing over a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, because I don’t have one, not really. And if I did, I wouldn’t want you to put them through a fraction of what you put me through. Not ever.”
Michael catches my eye. My lips tighten. Of course he knows that there’s someone, but I trust him to keep his mouth shut right now.
I don’t dare mention Ben in front of everyone, not when we’re on the fringe of nebulous new boyfriend territory. He’s too new in my life and too important to risk in the standing family warfare. And confirming they’d never accept any of my boyfriends is a gut blow. My eyes sting with unwanted hot tears.
Mum looks scandalized, her eyes suspiciously wet too. My father’s face has shifted from pink to purple to some color found in no home decor magazine.
“Charles!” my father bellows. “Don’t raise your voice to your mother. Apologize at once.”
