‘Esther! It’s Esther Burton!’
She clatters up the tube station steps, ignoring the male voice behind her. She’s late of course, after reading that thing; that gratitude journal of Miles’s. She couldn’t just run straight out and be normal. For ages she sat there rereading what he’d written, imagining all kinds of scenarios – all involving a naked woman called Tabitha.
Tabitha’s tits. What did that mean? That he’d admired them from a distance? That he’d interacted with them? Feeling sick to her stomach, Esther had rummaged through Miles’s stuff for evidence of what he’d been up to. At least, as much as she could manage. He’s a hoarder. He doesn’t call it that, of course; he says he’s a curator. All those (unread) ancient leather-bound books, the dusty antiques and quirky ornaments (‘objets’, he calls them, pronounced the French way) tell the story of his life, he reckons. ‘It’s not clutter,’ Miles says. ‘It’s a living museum of me.’
‘Tosser,’ Esther mutters under her breath. What about the pants he’d thrown in the direction of the linen basket, and which are lying behind it all furred with dust? Are they part of the Miles Museum too?
With her heart racing, Esther had perched on the edge of the bed, still clutching that damn journal. Take a breath, Chrissie would advise, before jumping to conclusions. Had she misread it? Miles’s writing is awful, all jagged and scrawly, the letters lurching forward as if tumbling drunkenly on top of each other, whereas Esther’s is exceptionally neat. They taught them something at least, at Willow Vale. But no, that was definitely what he’d written. Maybe they weren’t real breasts, attached to an actual woman he’d either slept with or wanted to sleep with, but just some fantasy thing swirling around his murky brain? Or he’d been watching porn (she’s caught him doing that before) and Tabitha was a girl he particularly liked?
While that hadn’t made Esther feel hugely reassured, she was aware that time was rattling on and she really should have set off by now. Her mum can be flaky about lots of things but she hates anyone being late. ‘D’you think your time is more valuable than other people’s?’ she once retorted. But Esther had to try and put her mind at rest. Only then could she go out and put on a smiley, festive face for her family.
So she’d sat for ages googling Tabitha’s tits. Of course it was just load of porn links that came up. None of it reassured her, and she still had a niggling feeling that Miles’s scribblings were probably connected to someone he knew in real life. Esther’s eyes were scratchy, her head thudding dully when she checked the time again. With a jolt she realised they’d all be at the restaurant already, rolling their eyes and complaining about her tardiness. So she quickly stashed the journal back in its box, shoved it back under the bed and rushed out.
‘Esther! Esther! Hey, don’t run away!’ It’s a bunch of boys who are shouting and laughing some way behind her as she reaches street level. She marches along with her head down against the light, steady rain, pretending they’re not there. ‘Hey, Esther! Come and talk to us!’ The boys are closer now. ‘Can we get a picture with you?’
She remembers her dad suggesting that, if she’s stuck for what to say to people, she could switch the focus to them and be nice and chatty, asking questions in order to deflect the attention. But she can’t do that tonight. She doesn’t have it in her to stop and be nice when they’re being jerks and she’s late – so late – already. Luc is probably gnawing a pig’s rectum by now.
‘Stuck-up bitch!’ one of the boys shouts.
‘Leave her alone,’ says another, laughing as if it’s just banter. Esther hates that word. It seems to be used by men as an excuse for being arseholes. It was only a bit of banter! Lighten up! She’s heard that plenty of times.
‘Give us a photo!’ the first one yells again. Something snaps in Esther and she spins around and almost laughs at the gaggle of boys who can only be around seventeen – Charlie’s age, although he’d never behave like this; she’s certain of that.
‘Do your mums know you’re out?’ she snaps.
‘What the fuck?’ the skinny one exclaims.
‘Just leave me alone, would you?’
‘We were shouting at you,’ he clarifies, looking put out.
‘Well, I don’t like being shouted at.’
‘Can we just have a photo?’ asks the heavily built one with a pink baby face and a fuzz of blond hair.
‘Sorry, not now.’ Why is she even apologising?
‘Aw, come on.’ Babyface steps forward and jabs at her wrist. ‘Just one picture, darlin’ …’ His arm flops around her shoulders.
‘Stop it!’ Instinctively, she shrinks away.
‘Just one picture,’ he repeats. ‘Tom, take it, quick—’
‘Leave her alone—’
‘Just fuck off,’ she yells, pulling away and catching the skinny one looking mortified.
‘Fuck you,’ Babyface shouts as Esther hurries away, aware of more abuse being hurled at the back of her head and wondering why not one single person in the vicinity has said anything. To all these people heading out to celebrate Christmas Eve, seeing a girl being hassled means nothing.
‘Ugly bitch!’
Esther is running now, trying not to cry because they’re not worth her tears, they’re just idiot boys who probably can’t even get served. They’ll have fake IDs and this is a fun part of their night, to humiliate a girl out on her own. She’s lost now, looking for a stupid restaurant where her mum and Luc will make her try something disgusting like a jellied hoof.
She swerves round a corner, having shaken off the boys as she checks Google Maps. Where is this place? Why couldn’t they just have had a nice dinner at home like normal people? Who even goes out on Christmas Eve? Everyone knows the staff are all desperate to go home and service is shit.
Esther tries to focus hard on the blue dot on the map, wondering what Tabitha of Tabitha’s tits is doing now. Could it be a band? she’s wondering now. Does it have a kind of ironic post-feminist edge to it? Unlikely, she decides. She’s picturing this mythical woman sitting in a chic bar, with a cocktail, when she spots the restaurant across the street. Too cool to display an actual sign, it just has just a tiny menu under glass beside the door. Esther hurries in, her hair all straggly and faux fur jacket soggy from the rain, and sees her mum, dad and Luc sitting at the far end of the restaurant.
She inhales deeply and wipes away her tears with her fingers.
‘Hey, sweetie, we were getting worried!’ Her mum waves and her dad jumps up in greeting, his face breaking into a big, relieved smile. There are hugs all round.
‘You’re soaking, love,’ her dad says. ‘Here, take that coat off …’
She shrugs off the great wet rug and a waiter whisks it away. ‘You’re really late,’ her mum announces. ‘You could’ve texted.’
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ Esther mumbles, pushing her damp hair out of her face.
‘What happened?’
‘I just lost track of time,’ she says feebly.
‘Right. ’Course you did. And your mascara’s run, darling. Maybe go to the loo and sort yourself out?’
‘She’s fine, Rhona,’ her dad says sharply. Sensing an atmosphere building, Esther forces a smile.
‘I’ll do it in a minute, Mum.’ Her mother is wearing a glamorous black dress in a clingy jersey fabric and her hair’s all piled up, artfully undone; she’s obviously just been to the hairdresser. No straggly wet tresses or smudged make-up for her. Esther catches a man glancing at her mother from another table. She doesn’t even notice if anyone’s spotted her and she couldn’t care less.
‘Anyway, you’re here now,’ Luc says, with forced jollity.
‘It’s fine, Est,’ her dad says quickly. ‘Just sit down and relax and we’ll get you a drink.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Esther smiles briskly. Still shaken up by Miles’s journal and those boys jostling her, she busies herself by delving into her voluminous shoulder bag for everyone’s Christmas presents. They’re just little things she’s bought, but carefully chosen: fragrance from Liberty for her mum (she loves expensive scents) and a beautiful penknife with a hand-carved wooden handle for Luc, which she thought would be handy for his foraging. For her dad, who’s the hardest to buy for – because he always says he doesn’t ‘need’ anything – she’s put together a bundle of beautifully illustrated books about animal behaviour from an antiquarian bookshop on Charing Cross Road.
‘Oh,’ she mutters, starting to sweat now. ‘They’re not here.’
‘What’s not here?’ her mum asks.
‘Your … your Christmas presents …’ Her eyes are filling up again. Damn these uncontrollable tear ducts, humiliating her like this. Esther rummages some more but there’s just her purse, keys, some loose make-up, scrunched-up tissues and that particular kind of bag grit that immediately embeds itself under your fingernails. ‘I forgot them,’ she announces. ‘I must’ve left them sitting on the bed. I’m really sorry—’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ her mum says. Esther can tell by her face that it does really.
‘I’m so stupid,’ she murmurs.
‘No, you’re not,’ her dad exclaims. ‘You’ve had a lot on your mind, Est. We can do presents another time.’ He’s already given Esther her gifts to open tomorrow, and her mum has transferred money into her account.
Esther tries to blink away tears. It’s the sight of her dad’s concerned face that’s doing it. Concern not just over the fact that she’s upset about the presents, but that she’s living with a man he really doesn’t like, and doesn’t trust to treat her well.
He’s right, of course. He has an instinct, her dad – about people. Esther knows she should probably listen to him more. But what twenty-year-old really wants to listen to their dad?
She grabs a menu, focusing hard on the tiny lettering. Liver sausage and beetroot; ox tongue, duck blood pudding (she almost retches just reading it) and, as suspected, hoof. Chicken parfait with – ugh – something called cockscomb. Her mum must have spotted it at the same time because she’s asking, ‘I wonder what cockscomb is?’
A passing waiter stops at their table. ‘It’s the fleshy red part on a male foul’s head.’
‘Like a cockerel?’ Rhona asks.
‘Yes, or a turkey,’ the waiter replies brightly.
‘Festive,’ her dad mutters as he glides away.
Is it even edible, though? Esther supposes it must be, unless the aim of this place is to challenge you to consume terrible things. Why not garnish it with some goat’s toenail clippings and pony’s teeth? The menu stops short of bum holes and penises but only just. Esther stares at it, knowing she’ll have to choose something. It has also occurred to her how unfair it is, that the human body can produce tears but lack the ability to suck them back in, no matter how hard you blink or try to think calming thoughts.
‘There’s plenty of plant-based stuff, Esther,’ her mum remarks tartly.
‘I’m not vegetarian,’ Esther reminds her.
‘People think you are, darling …’ Already tipsy, her mother is clearly up for a quarrel tonight.
‘What’re you talking about?’ Esther glares at her, so not in the mood for smart remarks – even though it’s true. On her social media she has aligned herself to a plant-focused lifestyle, simply because brands like Bethani like it. It’s in tune with our values, they’ve told her, and fair enough; her followers don’t expect to see her cramming a kebab into her face.
‘Can we just leave it please?’ her dad says brightly.
‘Yeah, we’re here to have a nice time, aren’t we?’ Luc remarks.
Really? Esther thinks bitterly. I thought we were here to be horrible to me? The restaurant is bustling, filled with happy people all having a great time – apart from them, the dysfunctional family forced together by her mother who doesn’t seem to care about anything apart from managing to get a booking in one of London’s most talked-about restaurants. A ring of tension seems to have been drawn around them. Even the waiters appear to be giving them a wide berth.
Esther catches her dad’s stoical look. It’s a look that seems to say, Hey, it’s all right, Est. Your mum’s just a bit pissed. Don’t rise to her.
Finally, a server drifts over to take their orders.
‘That one please.’ Esther jabs at the menu.
‘Chicken parfait and cockscomb,’ he confirms with a nod.
‘Are you really having that?’ her mum exclaims.
‘Yes? Why not?’ She glares at her across the table.
‘D’you know what that is? Did you hear what the guy said?’
‘Yes, it’s fine, I really fancy eating the frilly thing off a cock’s head, okay?’ Esther announces. Her mum, dad, Luc and even the waiter are all staring at her. She realises too late that she was shouting, and now her eyes are all wet again, threatening to overflow.
‘Esther,’ her dad says, frowning in concern. ‘What is it, love? Please tell us …’ As tears spill down her cheeks he looks round at the waiter. ‘Could you give us a few minutes, please?’
‘Yes, sure,’ the young man says, and quickly scuttles away.
Her mum is staring at her and Luc is repositioning things on the table unnecessarily. ‘What’s going on tonight?’ her dad asks gently. ‘You don’t seem yourself at all …’
‘Is it the menu?’ her mum asks, frowning. ‘Because you don’t have to make a point by ordering the weirdest thing on it. No one’s forcing you to eat a cockscomb—’
‘I know that, Mum—’
‘If you want something plain, I’m sure they’d do it for you. Shall we ask?’ her mother trills, looking around for a waiter.
‘It’s not about the food, is it, Est?’ Luc cuts in. This man, who can spot a tangly ragwort, or whatever the stuff is that he yanks up from riverbanks, is more perceptive than her own mother.
‘Some boys were hassling me on the way here,’ Esther says, staring down at her hands.
‘What?’ her dad barks.
‘Just boys. Three of them. Grabbing me, wanting a photo …’ A sob bursts out and her dad leans towards her and grabs for her hand.
‘Dad, it’s fine. Please don’t make a fuss,’ Esther hisses at him.
‘Did they hurt you?’ her mum asks.
‘No.’ Esther shakes her head. ‘They didn’t do anything really.’
‘They just shouted at you?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Esther nods.
‘Well, I hope you gave as good as you got, darling,’ she says.
‘What did they say?’ her dad wants to know.
‘Nothing really.’ The waiter is heading back towards them, and Esther quickly rescans the menu, deciding now to have the snout terrine. She doesn’t care what it is as long as it doesn’t snort at her.
‘Well, that’s good, honey,’ her mum says, arranging her expression into a beaming smile as she looks around at all of them. ‘C’mon, darling, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s all try and cheer up, shall we? D’you know people would kill to get a table here?’