Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
OLIVER
The thing about lying to my grandmother is that she always knows.
Everything.
Always.
All the time.
She is a mystical, all-seeing elf of a woman, who is also twice as plugged into social media as people half her age. The chances she’ll guess that I’m trying to pull the wool over her eyes are significant.
But then, the fact that I’m genuinely mad about Emily and pretending not to be when we’re alone is significant, too.
Hopefully, the two lies will cancel each other out, leaving everyone satisfied.
Or confused.
I’m certainly confused.
It makes sense that my stomach is in knots as Emily and I emerge from our cab and take the turn into Grandmother’s front garden, where twinkling lights dance through the trees above the recently shoveled path.
“Shit, I forgot to ask—is there anything special I should know about British holiday party etiquette?” Emily asks, fingers digging into my arm through my coat, making me think she’s feeling the stress, too.
“I mean, obviously, she’s Lady Plimpton until I’m told otherwise.
And I won’t hug her or compliment her outfit or do anything else repulsively American. ”
I laugh. “No one said hugging and complimenting were repulsive. They just make us uncomfortable.” I shrug. “Until we’re sauced, of course, then anything goes. Who knows, you might end up playing strip snooker with Grandmother before the evening is through.”
She shiver-giggles. “Don’t joke. I’m too nervous.”
I pause halfway up the walk, turning to give her shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “Relax, you’ll do fine. Better than fine. You’re delightful at a party.”
“How would you know?” she asks. “We’ve never been to a party together.”
“But we’ve been to the pub, which is close,” I say. “You’ve already proven you can hold your liquor and cut a serious rug on the dancefloor. And you’re delightful all of the time. I don’t see why you’d be any different at a party.”
“I’m not delightful all the time,” she says in a softer voice, her brow furrowing. “Remember the morning I yelled at you and said terrible things?”
“You didn’t yell,” I murmur. She hasn’t brought up the morning after since…
Well, since the morning after. The fact that she wants to talk about it now seems like a good sign.
It’s certainly an opportunity I don’t intend to let slip through my fingers.
“You spoke in a firm, but reasonable tone. And they weren’t terrible things; they were true things.
I did lie to you, but I don’t plan on ever being that stupid again. ”
“You’re not stupid. You’re…” She trails off with a sigh that sends an increasingly familiar wave of longing rushing through my chest. “You’re wonderful, and I’m having so much fun I—”
Before she can finish, the front door flies open and my grandmother cheers, “Happy Christmas! Oliver, darling, you’re finally here! I thought I heard someone lurking in the garden!”
I turn to assure her that I wasn’t lurking—just pausing for a chat that might have put me out of my “fake relationship” misery, if we hadn’t been so festively interrupted—only to be drowned out by feverish barking.
A beat later, the usual Cacophony of Corgis explodes around her legs, streaming into the garden with the force of a tsunami. The corgi wave hits hard and fast, sweeping Emily and me both into an “avoid stepping on a paw or tripping over a puppy potato” dance as old as time.
Or as old as the corgi breed, anyway…
My grandmother is a corgi devotee. Such a devotee, she invites the Corgi Appreciation Society—and their pack of spoiled fur babies—to her holiday party every year.
I should have warned Emily, prepared her for the onslaught, but thankfully, she doesn’t seem traumatized.
Quite the opposite, in fact. “Oh, my goodness, the precious!” She gasps like she’s just been presented with the one and only, solid gold Labubu. “So much precious!” Then she’s down on her knees in the snow in her lovely dress, collecting paw prints and drool.
“Jezebel, Jasper, come back inside at once,” Grandmother demands of her own, poorly-behaved pups.
Who ignore her, of course, continuing to jockey for pets from Emily or mouthfuls of salty snow.
“You look just like Mr. Biscuit, yes, you do,” Emily coos to a pumpkin-colored creature attempting to eat her hair.
To me, she adds, “I had a stuffed corgi when I was little, Mr. Biscuit the Brave. God, aren’t corgis the cutest things in the entire world?
” She cups another grinning pup’s snout in her hands as the curl eater makes a play for the strands by her ear.
“Look at this face! I could just eat it.”
“I think that one feels the same way about you,” I tease. “Watch your hair. He seems to think it’s made of bacon.”
“Sir Reginald, no!” A sharp voice orders from the door. “Drop that young woman’s hair this instant! No eating between meals. We’ve discussed this!”
A woman in what might be the ugliest Christmas jumper in history rushes down the front steps.
Cats in Santa hats peer out at us from her chest as she pants, “So sorry.” She snags Reginald by the collar, tugging him away.
“He thinks anything red is edible. Last week, he ate half my nephew’s Arsenal scarf. ”
“The scarf probably tasted better than their chances this season,” I offer, helping Emily to her feet. There’s snow in her hair and a ladder running up her tights, but she’s glowing.
“Truly sorry,” Cat Sweater offers again.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m—” Emily breaks off at the sound of a pained yip from the edge of the herd.
We all glance over to see a tiny, silky-haired corgi being bullied through the snow. Every time she tries to get to her feet, two much larger dogs knock her over again and snigger about it, proving humans aren’t the only species with room for improvement.
“Play nice, you two,” Emily says, sidestepping the mob. She shoos Lunk One and Lunk Two to the side before scooping up the trembling runt.
The tiny dog burrows into her coat like she’s found salvation in Emily’s bosom, which makes sense.
So did I, small dog, I think. So did I…
“Princess Fluffy Nugget, there you are, darling.” My grandmother’s best friend, Gretchen, appears in the doorway, looking even more thin and frail than she did last year, the poor thing.
She’s nearly ninety, but her former opera singer’s voice still carries as she adds, “My poor little Nuggy. Always the underdog, but such a sweet girl.”
“Aw, Nuggy, you are sweet. I can tell,” Emily murmurs, nuzzling her face into the dog’s furry head while the pup shivers with joy.
Suddenly, an image hits me with the force of Grandmother’s punch: Emily in my flat—our flat—on a Sunday morning.
Coffee in hand, a little runt of our own in her lap, dog toys scattered across the floor as we finish breakfast and debate how to spend the rest of our morning.
Perhaps a walk through the park for ice cream and people watching?
Or a trip to Camden Market, to let our fur baby sniff other dogs’ bottoms while Emily and I peruse the antiques?
The scene is so clear, the longing so visceral, that I have to turn away for a beat to compose myself.
When I do, I catch Grandmother staring at me with thinly-veiled suspicion.
I’m making a mess of things before we’re even through the door. Time to pull myself together and sell this fake romance.
“Happy Christmas, Grandmother,” I boom with forced cheer. “May I present Ms. Emily Darling. Emily, my grandmother, Dowager Baroness Susanna Eugenia Plimpton, terror of Belgravia and president of the Corgi Appreciation Society.”
On the landing, Emily shifts Nuggy to one arm and extends her hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Lady Plimpton. Thank you so much for having me.”
Grandmother takes the offered hand, pressing it between both of hers.
“Oh, call me Suze, and the honor is mine, darling. Always fantastic to meet someone with the good sense to worship the corgi breed as God intended.” She lowers her voice as she adds, “Though now that you’ve picked that one up, she’ll never let you put her down. Princess Nugget is notoriously clingy.”
Emily laughs as she hugs the dog closer. “Fine by me. She’s adorable.”
“Agreed. Now, come in before we all freeze,” Grandmother commands, turning to shoo everyone back inside.
We follow her, corgis streaming between our legs.
“Be warned, Margot’s spiked the punch again,” Grandmother continues, “even though I told her it was obscenely full of rum to begin with. So, watch your intake, darlings. We don’t want anyone passing out under the Christmas tree.
Oh, and Oliver, remind me to get a picture of you in that jumper later.
You’re ridiculous, and I don’t ever want to forget it.
Nearly as ridiculous as your poor mother and her book club. ”
The warmth hits like a wall, a combination of Grandmother’s preference for tropical temperatures and too many bodies packed into every corner.
I’m helping Emily out of her coat without disturbing Nuggy, when my mother calls out from the next room, “I heard that, Susanna. Leave him be. He’s been through enough with the tabloids this holiday. ”
“Never,” Grandmother calls back, good-naturedly.
“Oliver knew what he was getting into when he challenged me at snooker. Just like you and your club knew when you foolish creatures tried to beat me at trivia.” She waves me toward the drawing room.
“Say hello to your mother, Oliver. And remind me to get a picture of her, as well.”
Dropping our coats onto the overflowing pile on the table beside the also overflowing wardrobe, Emily and I head for the drawing room.
Stepping through the doorway, we’re treated to a tableau of my mother’s book club gathered around the piano, attempting to maintain their dignity while green and purple alien antennae blink on and off above their perfectly set hair.