said Molly, and she was relieved to hear her son laugh.
When Max had had a bath and changed for bed and the offending clothes had been washed and draped on one of the reluctant radiators and were giving off a fug of synthetic jasmine, the two of them settled down to watch Elf. This was a pre-Christmas ritual that could not be missed. Max loved the absurdity of a man dressed in an elf costume doing all the things that grown-ups had forgotten they liked to do.
‘Max?’ said Molly, while Max squirmed with delight at the sight of Will Ferrell pouring sweets and maple syrup over his plate of spaghetti. ‘What do you write in your day book at school?’
‘Just what we’ve been doing,’ said Max absently, his attention focused on the screen.
‘Do you always write what has really happened?’ asked Molly.
‘Sometimes, when I can’t think of what to write, Charlie tells me,’ said Max, cracking up at the sight of the giant elf eating balls of cotton wool as if they were candyfloss.
Chapter Eleven
Oliver’s house was full and noisy when Carrie finally made it across the road. The front door was slightly ajar, so she went in without knocking. Although it had taken an effort of will to resist the comfortable sofa and the Friday night pyjamas that had become her habit, she had chosen her clothes with care. She wore a black lace dress with a high neck and tight sleeves, some large gold hoop earrings and the pair of burgundy velvet Max Mara heels that she had bought for six pounds at the Red Cross shop. Her hair was in a loose knot held together with a long gold pin. Oliver had clearly gone to town on the decorations – the halls were not so much decked in holly, but submerged under it – and there was a smell of warm wax and slightly overcooked mince pies.
With a quick glance, Carrie ascertained that both the Roses and the Foxtons had showed up, and were sitting glowering at each other from the opposite sides of the room. Mrs Evans, who was in a permanent state of anxiety about everything from the workings of the council to the workings of her innards, was examining the food very closely. Carrie saw her sniff her crostini before putting it cautiously to her mouth. Emily Foxton, wearing a sequinned dress so small it would have fitted a Chihuahua, was sitting on the arm of the sofa staring at Oliver – or at least she looked as if she was staring at him; it was hard to tell since her eyes were obscured under enormous false eyelashes. The family at number fourteen had brought ALL their children, even the one that still crawled, and she saw with dread that a few of them were clutching instruments. Carrie was very grateful that she only heard the strains of the harp, the tinkle of the piano and the crash of cymbals on her way past the house. She thought they must be a grave aggravation to the people who lived in numbers 12 and 16. Mrs Musical Family spent her time trying to either park or extricate her Musical Prodigy Carrier from Almond Street. She had the flushed, unmade-up face and the wide hips of a low maintenance woman. One that could be heard saying with a mixture of pride and defiance:
‘I never go shopping. I have had this same handbag for thirty-two years.’
Mr Musical Family had the hunted look of a man who yearned for a glimpse of a black stocking and who suffered from extreme tinnitus. The children were pale and pinched after too many hours spent bent over music stands in airless rooms.
Oliver caught sight of Carrie and immediately came over.
‘You’re here. I thought maybe you had changed your mind. Have you got a drink?’
He steered her over to the table and ladled out a generous slug of mulled wine. He was wearing a white shirt tucked into dark trousers and his hair was more groomed than it usually was, combed back from his face and ending in a slight curl over the collar of his shirt. His fingers touched Carrie’s as he passed her the glass of wine, and Carrie suspected that the contact was not accidental.
To her surprise, Carrie found she quite enjoyed meeting and talking to people that she had previously only seen walking past her house or getting in and out of their cars. From time to time as she chatted with her neighbours, she found herself looking at Oliver as he moved round the room and was surprised by the effort he was putting into making everyone feel welcome. At one point Mrs Evans, who had been hitting the mulled wine hard, came over all hot and had to be propped up against some sofa cushions. Oliver went to get her a glass of iced water and sat with her until she felt herself again. Carrie heard her telling Oliver that he had the most wonderfully strong arms.
Every now and again Carrie found Oliver by her side filling her glass from a jug of mulled wine, doing it in such a way that made her feel as if he had picked her out for particular attention. It was something about the way he looked at her; intent and admiring, but also as if she had just said something funny or was about to. She suspected it was one of the tools of his trade, this way he had of making women feel special.
Beginning to feel the effects of the mulled wine, Carrie went over to sit on an upholstered seat that had been constructed into the bay window. The bottom half of the sash was open and the cold air was welcome on her hot cheeks and neck. Outside, a group of girls with tinsel in their hair walked past singing ostentatiously, as girls in groups often do when they are in public, as if they are trying themselves out when it is safe to do so. She remembered suddenly what it felt like to be that age and to be caught up with the sensation of life. The fear in the very centre of you at the thought of being touched, and yet the yearning for it making your skin feel tender in readiness.
Oliver came and sat down next to her. There wasn’t much room on the seat and she could feel the press of his leg against hers.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘Can I get you something else to drink?’
‘No thanks. I think I’ve probably had enough,’ said Carrie.
‘I don’t know anything about you,’ he said, and the genuine curiosity in his voice made her want suddenly and absurdly to tell him what she was thinking. Then she remembered that he was probably a master at the game of asking women the right questions, in just the right way. The man couldn’t help himself. He’d even left Mrs Evans (‘You really must call me Jean’) in a state of heightened excitement about his forearms.
‘I know quite a lot about you, however,’ Carrie said acidly, thinking about the early morning departures of a series of slender and dishevelled blondes.
‘Oh, yes?’ said Oliver in an amused tone, looking at her in a way that made her think he might have seen her peering shamefully out of her window, spying on his love life. She found to her annoyance that she couldn’t stop looking at his mouth, the smoothness of his lips, the way one lip just curled down slightly at the corner. She was aware again of his body pressed against hers, and of her own body responding with an equal pressure, an equal heat.
Just then there was an almighty bellow from the other side of the room, and the crowds parted to reveal Mr Foxton and Mr Rose entangled on the floor. Mr Foxton was sitting astride the other man and with one hand caught up in his wispy grey hair, was banging his head up and down vigorously. Roger Rose had blood pouring from both nostrils. Lydia Foxton, standing next to her husband, her face flushed and triumphant, was inciting him to greater excesses of violence. Greta Rose was talking urgently to the police on her mobile.
Oliver threw himself on the two men and after some undignified scuffling, managed to separate them. He had to partially sit on Gerald Foxton to prevent him from launching himself upon his enemy once more.
‘What’s this all about?’ asked Oliver.
With a trembling hand, Roger
