The triplets are seated next to the tree waiting for the go-ahead to open their presents. Archie is picking his nose. Padstow is sucking his thumb and Trevor is leaning against George’s leg, having barely left his side since George had carefully cut out the scratchy label.
“So, George, you might be interested to know that the boys are extremely into music now. Archie’s taking piano lessons. Pad’s learning the oboe and Trevor is mastering the tambourine.” Polly points to each of them smugly.
“Excellent,” says George, stifling a yawn.
“Yeah and we’ve got a band and Dad says we’re miles and miles and miles better than you,” Padstow has removed his thumb to make this charming announcement.
Martyn pokes him in the ribs, “No, Paddy, Daddy never said that, did I? I said your Uncle George would love to hear all about your band. Remember?”
“I don’t remember that, Daddy. I remember you said that Uncle George’s band was—”
“Great! I said Uncle George’s band was great!” Martyn’s smile is getting wider and more forced by the second.
“Uncle George’s band is great,” says Trevor to his dad. “Mummy said their last album went to number one for lots and lots of weeks and trillions of people buyed it from their commuters.”
George is beginning to grow rather fond of Trevor. “Computers,” George whispers to Trevor stressing the ‘P’, amazed to hear that Polly says anything positive about him when he’s not around.
“Yes,” says Trevor, “comPuuuters.”
“Of course they did, Trevor,” says Martyn, defensively.
“Yeah well, I bet you rug rats rock too,” says Duncan, “What’s the name of your band? Maybe you could open for us at Wembley next year.”
“It’s called We Three Kings,” says Archie, examining the snot he has carefully removed from his right nostril.
“Figures,” says George under his breath.
“What was that, George?” asks Polly.
“Nothing, Pol. I said Fabulous. Fabulous name for the band.”
“Well, Martyn and I thought if the Jonas brothers can do it, why not the Tabor Triplets? Right, Martyn?”
“Right, Polly,” says Martyn on cue.
The doorbell rings and nobody moves.
“Are we expecting anyone else, Harriet?” calls George’s father, settled in his armchair with his second tumbler of whiskey.
George’s mother comes in from the kitchen wiping her hands on a yellow apron.
“I’m not expecting anyone, are you, Polly?”
“Amelia said she might drop in to say hello, but she did say she’d call me first.”
The doorbell rings again.
This inertia is doing George’s head in. He feels like grabbing the Christmas tree and wielding it around the room.
“Should I answer it then?” he asks.
“I’ll get it,” says Martyn, reluctantly standing up.
“But Mummy,” whines Padstow, “Granny said we could open up two presents and she said we could do it now and we’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for ages.”
“Yes, Father Christmas will be here soon if we don’t do it right now!” demands Archie angrily.
“Not true,” says Duncan, “Father Christmas is having a pint at the pub. I saw him there earlier. He needs to chillax before his big night.”
Polly shoots Duncan a furious glare.
“You’re fibbing!” says Padstow.
“Mate,” says Duncan, “trust me. FC and I are like this.” He holds up two twisted fingers and waves them hypnotically in front of the boys’ faces. “Now watch carefully. Keep your eyes on these two fingers. I’m going to put you to sleep.”
Archie and Trevor are riveted, but Padstow leaps up and shouts.
“I’M NOT GOING TO SLEEP UNTIL I GET MY PRESENTS AND YOU NEED TO GO AWAY! YOU’RE STUPID!”
Brat thinks George, just as Colin walks back into the room followed by—oh God—could it really be? Hardly recognizable, but yes, it is, Amelia Hoffman. Polly’s best friend during secondary school. One of the original Grapefruit Girls.
“Hello boys, Auntie Amelia’s here!”
George had once thought that Amelia Hoffman was the sexiest girl on the planet. Not only did she have luscious breasts and smelled wonderful, but she had long thin legs and a bottom that was just on the right side of curvy. It’s now on the wrong side. She’s painted into black leggings and a gold sequined bustier. Amelia glances nervously around the room and finally settles on George.
“George, what a surprise! I completely forgot you were going to be here.”
“No, you didn’t,” says Polly through pursed lips. “I told you this morning.”
“Oh, did you? It must have slipped my mind.”
Amelia is making her way across the room, clambering over the triplets, towards George, who forces a smile and leans in to kiss her cheek. She has other things in mind though and lunges forward, pushing her ungainly breasts into his chest, as she traps him in a hug. She doesn’t smell like grapefruit anymore.
“Hello, Amelia,” he pulls away.
“Georgie, you’re all grown up. I always knew you were going to be a success. Remember those songs you used to play on your Yamaha? Whenever I passed your bedroom, I told Polly they were amazing. I sensed you had a raw talent.”
Polly guffaws. George realizes that Amelia Hoffman might be responsible for making him feel even shittier than his sister did. She used to mock him mercilessly, until one Saturday night in June when she cornered him at the side of the house as he took the rubbish out. “I’ve always loved you, Georgie,” she had whispered dramatically, “don’t tell Polly, but I’m going to let you kiss me.” Amelia had pitched forward offering him her lips, smothered in slick peach coloured gloss. George thought he was going to pass out. He could smell damp potato rinds and the heady citrusy scent wafting around Amelia’s neck. This would be it. His first kiss. And with the girl he fancied the most. He leaned in to take the permission granted, but just as his lips were about to touch down, she pulled back with a look of disgust. “Psycho boy. I can’t believe you even thought I was serious!”
Brutal. The memory burns.
“Um, Amelia, this is Duncan. Duncan, Amelia.”
Duncan takes her hand and kisses it. “Sounds like you know all of Georgie’s dirty little secrets, Amelia. I’d like to hear more.”
“I wouldn’t,” says Polly, “anyway, the boys were just about to open some presents, Amelia. That is before you arrived, unannounced.”
“I’ll stay,” says Amelia, “I love presents!”
Polly is clearly livid. “Are you sure you can stay? It looks like you’re on your way to a party.”
“Oh, this old thing?” says Amelia, tugging at the gold top. “It was just the first thing I grabbed.”
“Could I be the second?” says Duncan with a straight face.
“I don’t think so, Duncan. Amelia’s married with a lovely little girl and a baby. Aren’t you, Amelia?”
George is enjoying watching Polly bristle.
“Yes, Polly, I’m married, not dead.”
“Neither has stopped me in the past,” says Duncan, finding his lascivious stride.
“Well, aren’t you just the naughty rock star!” giggles Amelia. George reckons he’s in for a long night.
LEXI
December 24th, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles
Lexi has had more green cocktails than she cares to remember. She lost count after the YMCA. She’s back on the balcony now with Lance sitting on a bench underneath the jasmine plant. They’ve danced for an hour and she feels giddy and a bit sweaty. Unlike her, Lance seems to be entirely in control.
“You’re sexy when you dance, you know that?” His arm has found its way around her shoulders.
“Oh God, I’m sure I made a fool of myself!” says Lexi, self-consciously flattening her hair back behind her ears.
“Quite the opposite. You had fun. Looked like you ne
eded it.” They are the only people on the balcony and the party seems to be clearing out. Johnnie pops his head around the French doors. “I knew you guys would hit it off. Lexi, Andrew says you’ve had a run of bad luck in the boy department.”
“Thanks to Andrew,” says Lexi embarrassedly.
“Well, I’m here to tell you,” says Johnnie winking, “Lance is a keeper.”
“I’ll bear that in my mind,” calls Lexi, as Johnnie disappears again.
Lance turns to look at her. “You? Bad luck in the boy department? I find that extremely difficult to believe.”
“Do you always say all the right things?” Lexi’s head is still swimming in jasmine and tequila and she’s wondering if this man is too good to be true.
“Only when I’m not saying the wrong things,” and before he can say anything else, he leans in to kiss her.
GEORGE
24th December, 2009
Stanford in the Vale, Oxfordshire
George is lying in his old bed, in his old room, staring at the black wintry sky outside his old window. The wall is a patchwork of faded blue paint, empty outlines reminding him where his beloved music posters were once taped up. He’s surprised there’s not a crater in the mattress—a carved out space where he spent endless stagnant years, gazing at the ceiling. What an awful night. Amelia was toxic. Duncan got too drunk, too quickly. The triplets eventually opened their presents and then Archie whined relentlessly for more. Duncan called Padstow a “fuckin wanker” under his breath, but Polly heard. And George’s parents looked on disapprovingly, as ever, shaking their heads as if to say, where did we go wrong?
George tries to remember a time when things in this house weren’t so horrible. Flashes of memories spark in his brain like worn-out film reels. Planting strawberry seeds in the garden with his mother. Watching his father tinker with the engine of his granny’s Triumph 2000 on the weekends. Occasionally he’d allow George to assist, and George has never forgotten the pungent smell of the engine oil smeared on the tips of his fingers like paint. Playing hide and seek with Polly and squeezing tightly in the narrow dusty space beneath his parents’ bed. He can’t remember exactly when things began to deteriorate. When his grandmother died his father stopped speaking for weeks. He always looked distracted and George began to feel like a nuisance. George withdrew in response, turning inwards, while Polly came out, shouting and crying at even the most minor of disturbances. It appeared that her tactics were far more successful. His mother was always dealing with Polly while his father spent more and more time locked away. When George turned twelve, already lost in the music inside his own head, his mother tried to explain, “He doesn’t mean to be so hard on you, Georgie. It’s only that his father was always so tough on him. It’s all he knows.” George’s grandfather had died of stroke before George was born.
“But why can’t he be different?” George had asked bravely, knowing as the words left his mouth, that his father most likely asked his mother the exact same question about him.
LEXI
December 24th, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles
Lexi and Lance have been kissing on the balcony for at least five minutes. She is too drunk to gauge how long is too long and the last thing she plans to do is wake up on Christmas morning in the bed of a curly-haired stranger, no matter how white his teeth are. She manages to pull away.
“I think we should call it a day,” says Lexi, “Or should I say call it a night?” Is she slurring her words? Oh God, she’s slurring her words! He’s going to think she’s a slutty lush if she doesn’t pull herself together quickly.
“I’d definitely call it a night, Lexi. A very good night.”
“I like you, Lance. Your hair is so curly and your teeth… your teeth are so white. I mean how do you get your teeth so white? You must use some industrial strength chemical?” Lance laughs.
“I like you too, Lexi. I’m going to make sure Andrew gets you home safely and I’m going to get your phone number and call you. Is that all right with you?”
“Everything’s all right with me, Lance. Everything. Except I’ve crossed everything out of my dictionary. Everything and Perfect. Gone. For good. Promising is still there though. Promising is such a promising word. It’s one of my new favorite words.” Lexi picks up the blue cushion imprinted with palm trees propped at the end of the wicker bench. She wonders if anyone would mind if she laid her head down on it and went to sleep.
Lance looks at her amused and kisses her hand, “Merry Christmas, Lexi Jacobs.” And then he turns and goes inside.
GEORGE
24th December, 2009
Stanford in the Vale, Oxfordshire
George is still up, lying on his bed, looking at the Thesis website. They’ve made some changes recently and he wants to check them out. The first thing that pops up is a video clip from the acoustic concert in LA. He clicks on it, thoughts of Lexi washing over him. Are there any angles on the audience? If he watches carefully, maybe he’ll notice the glimmer of recognition in his eyes when he notices her. A seminal moment captured on film. Something he can show his grandchildren when he’s 80 and regaling them with stories of his rock and roll youth.
“Your grandmother appeared like a vision…” he can picture them now, quirky little kids with scruffy hair and chocolate smudged mouths. A bit like Trevor. Unexpectedly the kid seems to have won him over. Earlier today, George had played Old Macdonald on the out of tune piano he used to practice on as a child, while Trevor had tapped along on his tambourine. Polly had walked in and caught them, smiling proudly. “Isn’t he precious?” she’d asked, and both George and Trevor had replied, “Yes!” at the same time. At least she’s managed to produce one decent boy out of the three. He has to give that to her.
The concert clip doesn’t reveal anything. He cringes watching himself perform, so clicks off and scrolls down to the chat room links instead. Doesn’t every fan contemplate if the band is ever on line? George knows that he used to do that, hoping he might inadvertently get into a conversation with Thom Yorke, about Thom Yorke. He doesn’t do this often, but occasionally he will go on the message board. He’s never posted anything, although he’s been tempted. The first message that pops up tonight says:
Happy Christmas, Thesis! George’s family is so lucky to have him singing round the xmas tree!!!! I’m jealous!! I love, love, love Thesis SO SO much. Radar3girl.
George grimaces. Radar3girl can remain in ignorant bliss. He goes on to get quite involved in an in-depth analysis of Twelve Thousand Words versus Corners and Tables. Bobsyouruncle7 thinks the first album is far superior while Dawnlicious rates “A Suitable Dawn” as one of “the most extraordinarily beautiful songs of all time.”
There is a tentative knock at his bedroom door. It can’t possibly be Duncan, he was drunk enough to have passed out hours ago. Polly and Martyn and the boys had left immediately after dinner. Amelia, thank God, had her own long-suffering family to return to. It must be one of his parents come to berate him about something. Why does he continually subject himself to this torture? The knock is more persistent the second time. George closes his computer and is just about to get up, when the door creaks open.
“You still awake?” Amelia’s sparkling torso appears in the gap. Oh shit thinks George. She’s even worse than his parents.
“I thought you’d gone home?” George looks at her warily.
“I did, but I realized that I’d left my handbag behind so I’ve just popped back to get it. Blonde moment,” she says giggling, walking into the room and sitting herself down on the bed next to him, their shoulders touching. Amelia moves her hand to George’s knee.
“It does bring back some memories sitting here with you, doesn’t it?”
“Not really, because you never sat here with me, Amelia. I don’t think you ever stepped foot in here.”
“Oh, but I wanted to, George… I really wanted to.”
“Whatever. It’s late, Amelia. I’m sure your husband will be
wondering where you are.”
“Let him wonder.”
“Okaay. But I’m also very tired and I’m going to—”
“Kiss me. You’re going to kiss me, George, I know that’s what you’ve always wanted. Ever since you were thirteen you wanted me, didn’t you? You probably spent long nights in this very bed dreaming about me. Well here I am. All yours…” She leans her head on his shoulder and smiles up at him, revealing a red smudge on her front tooth.
What the hell? Why does he always find himself in these situations with women he doesn’t want instead of women he does? Amelia must be delusional. As if he would ever touch her after what she put him through. He takes a deep breath.
“You’re right, Amelia. I did always want you. It hurts to admit how very much.” George turns towards her, and just as she’s about to try and smooch him, he pulls away. “Psycho girl. I can’t believe you even thought I was serious!”
He stands up, filled with a childish sense of satisfaction. Amelia looks suitably startled. “I should have known you’d be the type to hold a grudge. Your loss, George. I’m still the talk of the town. You know they say I used to give the best blow jobs north of Banbury.”
“Tell that to your husband, not me,” says George, taking in the tragic sight of Amelia, slumped on his bed in sagging gold sequins. What kind of a mundane life must she be leading? He hates to admit it, but sometimes revenge really is sweet.
“Do you honestly think you’re above us now just because you’re famous?” asks Amelia bitingly. “Well, news flash, George Bryce, you’re not so wonderful. Keane are much better than you.” And with that stinging insult, she huffs out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
LEXI
December 25th, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles
Lexi is finally back at home after a long day at her parents’ house and a drop in at Tim and Meg’s to deliver gifts. Her father had cornered her by the ham and asked her if she’d consider auditioning for The Amazing Race with him. “Your mother is begging me to choose her, but her sciatica would drag us down.” Meanwhile, her mother had bought her a lacy black camisole and an Italian cookbook. Both presents screaming, if only you had a man to appreciate these. Lance had already texted her first thing that morning, “Have a cool yule, Lexi. Quite the unexpected gift—meeting you…”
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