The steps that lead up to the front door have been covered by a dark red carpet. Otto knocks on the door with a flourish, and a man dressed in black and white opens it wide, greeting them. A dainty woman steps forward with a tray of champagne flutes filled with sparkling gold. Haf and the Calloways all take one, and cheer, clinking their glasses softly together.
‘Just a sip for me,’ Otto says, replacing the glass after a taste and a toast. ‘Now, my dear, I believe there’s dancing to be done.’
Esther giggles, which is truly a sound Haf did not expect to ever hear, and they whisk away down the corridor towards the party.
Christopher leads her after them, following the growing sound of strings and merriment through the house. Through an open and very grand door, there is a literal ballroom. Enormous crystal chandeliers hang from a ceiling painted like the Sistine Chapel. Tables and chairs line the wall, plus there’s serving tables piled with food and a bar set up at one end. Huge windows, fringed with thick dark velvet curtains that hang to the floor, reveal the dark outside. There’s a staircase that leads to an upper level, where people stand drinking and watching the dancers. There’s something Versailles about it all; a glorious riot of excess.
Couples dance in the centre of the room to the music, and Esther and Otto are already out there, dancing together in a moment all their own.
It’s like a ball from movies, from her dreams. But it’s real, and she’s there. It’s kind of impossible to believe.
‘Okay,’ she whispers. ‘I take back all the rich jokes I made about you, because you’re positively a pauper compared to this, right?’
Christopher laughs. ‘Very much so.’
‘Crikey. And I thought your Brita-filter tap gave me class anxiety. They’re all going to think I’m Eliza Doolittle.’
‘Hang what they think,’ he says, laughing as the strings strike up a rendition of ‘Last Christmas’. ‘Shall we dance, milady?’
And right then, it feels like everything might be okay between them. Obviously, they still need to talk, but for now, there’s dancing.
‘Let’s, m’ . . . . m’lad?’
‘I think it’s probably, good sir.’
‘Look, you’re teaching me something new already. I told you, it’s practicallyPygmalionin here.’
He leads her towards the other dancers, and they stand for a moment, her hand on his shoulder, the other in his hand. ‘Do you mind if I lead?’
‘Look at you, Mr Equalitarian,’ she laughs. ‘Get going or I’ll stand on your feet.’
It’s a miracle. Christopher and Haf dance together like long-term partners, their bodies naturally working together. When Christopher goes to spin her, her body reacts instinctively, and the fabric of her dress billows out beautifully. Behind them, they hear some admiring gasps.
It’s trust, she thinks. And love.
They might not be inlove, but they love each other. They’ve weathered so much together already that she knows their friendship is one for a lifetime. A lifetime of being silly on dance floors.
Haf is so happy, right in this moment with him. All the complications of their fake Christmas fall away, and it feels real. Not the romance part, but the happiness, the celebration, the being together.
They trot through the jaunty rendition of ‘Christmas Wrapping’ and only decide to stop for a break and a breath when the quartet take a break too. More drinks and food are brought out to placate the dancers.
‘Come on, we’ve got a buffet to ransack.’ She laughs, tugging at his arm.
‘What rude vignettes are you going to create for me this time?’
‘That would be spoiling it!’
There’s a little queue, so they hang back while the older guests take their time being served by staff. They can wait. They have time. They have all the time in the world.
But her bliss is short-lived, because they’re joined by Mark.
‘Chrissy, my man. Good job on that meeting today. Sorry to drag you in on the holidays, but needs must.’
‘No worries, hopefully everything is sorted now,’ says Christopher stiffly.
‘Capitalism never sleeps,’ Haf mutters.
‘AndHalf, nice to see you again,’ he says, and he wobbles slightly as he goes in for, what she realises in horror is, a kiss on the cheek.
