Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
We Three Brothers of Whisky and Regret
Jasper
The steak hisses in the pan, the sizzle loud enough that I have to tilt my head towards the phone propped on the kitchen windowsill.
“Are you burning something again?” Geoff’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“It’s medium-rare,” I say flatly.
Theo snorts from his little square on the screen. “In Jasper-speak, that’s one step above cremation.”
I flip the steak and hold up my free hand. “Perfect timing. It’s artistry, actually.”
“You’re cooking a single steak at eight p.m.,” Geoff says. “That’s not artistry. That’s bleak.”
“Says the man who once ate leftover lasagne straight from the dish with a spatula,” I mutter, grabbing the butter.
Geoff raises both hands. “Low point. I admit it.”
Theo grins, but there’s something softer about him tonight. He’s lounging on his sofa, hoodie slightly skewed, hair still damp. Ivy’s probably just out of frame. Lucy’s well into bedtime by now. It’s strange, seeing him settled like this. Like he’s properly landed.
“I still can’t believe we’re not doing a family Christmas this year,” I say, nudging the pan off the heat.
“Blame the parentals,” Geoff replies. “Ditching us for bingo nights and rum punches during Christmas of all times!”
Theo lifts his mug in a sort of tired toast. “Mum said she needed ‘a break from the cold and something turquoise’. Dad just nodded and booked the cruise.”
“They literally live on an island,” I mutter. “Guernsey has turquoise.”
“Not Caribbean turquoise,” Geoff says. “That’s warmer. And comes with butlers.”
“Honestly, I’m fine with it,” Theo adds. “Means I don’t have to cart Lucy and a mountain of plastic to St Peter Port. We get to do our own thing this year.”
“And,” I say, giving him a look, “you get your first Christmas with Ivy.”
Theo tries to hide the smile and fails. “Yeah.”
“Look at him,” Geoff says. “All cosy domestic. Practically glowing.”
“Shut up.”
“Still dragging out the in-person introduction, then?” I ask, slicing into the steak.
Theo winces. “Not dragging. Just... strategically postponing.”
“Because of Mum?”
“Because of Mum,” Theo confirms. “She’s like Guernsey society in a cashmere cardigan. I love her, but I’m not risking Ivy getting the full interrogation just yet.”
“She’s met her on video though, right?” Geoff asks.
Theo nods. “Once. Mum asked if she was a vegetarian and then offered her that weird rabbit stew recipe.”
I groan. “The one with the sherry glaze?”
“Yep. Ivy thought it was a joke. I didn’t have the heart to correct her.”
Geoff grins. “I mean, technically, it is a family heirloom. Just not a particularly good one.”
“I just want things to be calm,” Theo says. “Ivy’s happy. Lucy’s settled. No need to go poking the bear in a Monsoon blouse.”
I take another bite of steak, chewing slowly. “So what about you, Geoff? Any chance of you popping over for a day or two?”
He shakes his head. “Can’t. Got roped into some fancy Christmas Day shoot in New York.”
“Wait,” I frown. “You're flying to New York on Christmas Day?”
Geoff pulls a face. “Christmas Eve actually. Some rich wanker wants me to capture ‘natural, candid magic’ with his genetically blessed children and their Labradoodle in a five-storey townhouse in Brooklyn. I’ll be knee-deep in artificial snow and designer tantrums by breakfast. I’ll be back after Boxing Day. ”
Theo raises a brow. “I thought you hated doing that kind of stuff.”
“I do,” Geoff says bluntly. “It’s soulless, staged nonsense. And the dads always want their watches in shot. Honestly, I’m thinking of chucking it in altogether.”
That draws a beat of silence.
“You’re serious?” I ask.
He nods. “I’ve done alright. Been smart with the money, invested early, didn’t blow it all on sports cars and nonsense. I could quit tomorrow and live off the portfolio.” He pauses. “Might even be better for my mental welfare.”
Theo lets out a low whistle. “So why haven’t you?”
Geoff shrugs. “Maybe I needed one more Christmas covered in fake snow and sequin rage to finally tip the scales.”
I lean against the counter, swirling the whisky in my glass. “Well. When you do retire, I’ll be right there with you. We’ll start a podcast. Call it Men Who’ve Had Enough.”
“You joke,” Geoff says, “but I’d do it. Come with me to New York. We can drink overpriced cocktails and heckle Father Christmas in Central Park.”
I laugh. “Tempting. But no.”
“Come on. Better than sitting around here eating a steak for one. You are getting broodier by the day. A break would do you good.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’ve got no desire to celebrate Christmas in a hotel room surrounded by over-decorated lobby trees and strangers in matching pyjamas.”
Geoff tilts his head. “Fair. But you really want to spend it alone?”
“Don’t start,” I mutter. “I’m not joining your reindeer-papped misery tour. Christmas Day will be me and a nice steak.”
Theo shifts in his seat. “Well, look. If you don’t want to sit around sulking in your flat with nothing but leftover steak and self-pity for company, at least come to ours for Boxing Day.”
I glance up.
“We bought enough food to feed a small militia,” he continues. “Lucy will be knee-deep in wrapping paper and unicorn slime. You might as well be fed while being forcibly included in a tea party.”
Geoff grins. “Sounds festive. And mildly terrifying.”
“It’s a deal,” I say. “Thanks.”
Theo lifts his mug. “Good. One proper roast and we’ll call it even.”
“Until next year,” I add. “We’ll do a proper family Christmas back in Guernsey. Full on turkey Christmas dinner, bad crackers, and Mum judging our life choices from behind a sherry glass.”
“Sounds horrifying,” Geoff says. “I’m in.”
“Same,” Theo echoes. “I’ll bring the Gaviscon.”
We all raise our drinks in a slightly chaotic toast, then the call fizzles out with the usual chorus of sarcastic goodbyes and one last jab from Geoff about my cooking.
The kitchen falls quiet again.
I finish the last bite of dinner, rinse the plate, and load it into the dishwasher.
That’s when the doorbell rings.
I pause, wiping my hands on a tea towel. It's late. Unexpected.
I head to the door, wondering who that could be, and find Miranda looking at me.
She’s standing on the step in her coat, cheeks pink, hair a little windswept, and her expression somewhere between determined and slightly giddy.
She grins. “I accept your offer.”
I blink. “...My offer?”
“To help me relax.” She gives a small flourish, like she’s presenting a prize on a questionable game show. “You remember. From the world's most mortifying conversation.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you drunk?”
She holds up a finger. “Not drunk. Tipsy. That fine line where your middle-class filter slips just enough for you to act on things you actually want.”
I cross my arms. “Uh-huh.”
“To prove it,” she says, stepping back with exaggerated precision, “I shall now walk in a perfectly straight line.”
And she does—or tries to. It’s not exactly straight. More... determinedly wobbly. But she makes it to the end of the path, spins neatly on the spot, and throws her arms wide.
“Ta-da. Still legally upright.”
I lean against the doorframe. “And this spontaneous sobriety demonstration is because…?”
“I’m saying yes.” She returns to the step, chin up. “To the massage.”
I raise a brow. “Now?”
She shrugs. “Why not? You said no pressure, no expectations. And honestly, it’s either let you knead the stress out of me or go home and alphabetise the spice rack in quiet despair.”
I pause, watching her. “You’re sure?”
She lets out a breath. “Absolutely. I’m going mental. I keep catching myself yelling at inanimate objects. Yesterday I told the kettle to pull itself together.”
A laugh escapes me before I can help it.
“But,” she adds quickly, “at mine. I’m not doing this in your flat. I already had to perform a bloody sobriety test. I'm not adding 'wandering the drive in my dressing gown' to the list.”
“Fair,” I say. “Your flat it is.”
She hesitates. “Right. So... how naked are we talking?”
I arch an eyebrow. “You’ll be covered the whole time. Always. I won’t see anything. Promise.”
She nods, but her nerves are clearly creeping in. “You’re really sure this isn’t weird? I mean, it’s weird. But it’s not weird weird?”
“If you don’t want to—”
“No, no,” she rushes. “Just—if you don’t want to. I mean, maybe this is mad. It’s probably mad. Maybe I should just go back inside and—”
“Miranda.”
She stops.
“Go get ready,” I say gently. “I’ll grab the table and be there in ten.”
Her shoulders drop with a half-laugh, half-sigh of relief. “Okay. Okay.”
And before she can overthink it again, she turns on her heel and heads back across the path, muttering something about clean towels and lighting that doesn’t make her look like a corpse.
I stand in the doorway for a second, then run a hand through my hair and head inside.
What the hell am I doing?