Page 30 of Make You Mine This Christmas

Apparently not.

Haf gulps as she stumbles out of the car. It even smells nice here. Everything is alarmingly neat in the garden, and the cars by the garage shine brightly in the sun. Her Doc Martens crunch almost too loudly on the gravel as they walk towards the shining green front door, decorated with a wreath of holly wrapped in plaid ribbons. The little potted hedges leading up to the front door have glittering gold lights in them, which are starting to twinkle as the light of the day drops.

Haf already feels too messy to be here.

Before she can open her mouth to say anything, the door opens inwards.

Standing inside a small porch area is Christopher’s mother dressed in tailored trousers, a light cream shirt, and a long, flowing cardigan that is almost certainly cashmere.

‘Darling, welcome home,’ she cries, in a slightly raspy but distinctly clipped voice.

Despite being a good foot taller than her, she wraps her arms around Christopher’s neck and pulls him down to her in a quick hug, ended with three firm pats on the back. It’s motherly but restrained, like she has a set time that an appropriate hug should go on for.

‘Hello, Mother,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek as she releases him. ‘Nice to see you.’

As Esther turns her attention to Haf, the similarities between Christopher and Esther, despite the height difference, become very clear. They have the same blueish undertone to their pale skin, offset by rosy pink cheeks. Christopher’s long eyelashes must have come from someone else, but she recognises his smile on her. They share the same tone of light brown hair, but hers is styled in a gentle curl around her chin, revealing a flash of pearl earrings when she moves.

Esther holds Haf by the upper arms, a gesture that’s not an actual hug, but carries affection in it. ‘And, Haf, welcome to our home,’ she says, her crow’s feet dimpling with the force of her smile. The rasp of her crisp accent captures the V-sounding F in her name that English people never usually get right, which warms her heart.

‘It’s really lovely to meet you, Mrs Calloway,’ Haf says, her mouth dry.

‘Please, just call me Esther, my dear. It’s so wonderful that Christopher brought you down to us for the holidays.’

There’s a pregnant pause where Haf gets the distinct sense that Esther is evaluating her. Unsure what to do while still heldby Esther, she raises a hand to pat her on the arm to return the gesture. But as she does, Esther moves forwards, and...

Oh God.

She’s pretty sure that she just patted Christopher’s mother’s boob.

Esther has either not noticed or has the grace to not make a point of it as she opens the adjoining door from the porch to the rest of the house and ushers them in.

‘Come in, come in. Let’s go to the kitchen,’ and she disappears around a corner.

Please say I imagined it, Haf wishes to the universe.Please.

The irony of being worried about saying the wrong thing then possibly fondling one of his parents at the first instance is not lost on her.

The warm air of the house filters into the porch, clove and cinnamon scented. It smells homely and a little fancy, like there’s an expensive Christmas candle burning in every room.

‘Everything okay?’ Christopher whispers, leaning against the doorframe as Haf dumps her bag on the floor. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’

‘You didn’t tell me you were posh,’ she hisses, trying to forget that she might have just fondled his mother. There’s only time for one crisis right now.

‘We’re notthatposh,’ he says, in a way that she knows is affected attempted humility, but comes across as completely clueless.

‘Ugh, Christopher,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘Trust me, this is posh. Not just to me either. I think most people did not grow up in manor houses.’

‘I wouldn’t call it a manor . . .’

She shoots him a dead-eyed stare. ‘Can you not hear it?’

‘Hear what?’

‘The comfortable sound of inherited wealth, Christopher,’ she mutters, hoping his parents didn’t overhear.

Maybe she should have known from his whole vibe, but pretty much all southern people sound the same to her (bar Essex – she watched enoughTOWIEin her uni days to spot that one). Haf can never quite gauge whether clipped southern accents are someone who grew up with Radio 4 on in the house, minor gentry, or just from Surrey. Granted, someone could easily be all three, not that she’d be able to clock that either.

She’d thought he’d live in just a nice big house on a street in the fancy end of town or something. Instead, he apparently lives in a three-storey fancy house that has an extra bit of land just to conceal it from the riff-raff. Or at least random dog walkers.