“You ate on the plane?” His mum’s perfectly plucked—not by her—eyebrows furrowed. “You did fly business class, didn’t you, Erin?”
Max’s dad reached out to give her hand a squeeze on the table, at the same time as Max said, “Mum.”
Chloe, unhelpfully, rolled her eyes, helping herself to a third helping of rice—unlike the two guests, their mum had not thought to offer either of her own children extra helpings. Max noticed the way Liam shifted slightly as Chloe reached across the table, making sure that her arm did not brush his, and couldn’t help the little smirk that crossed his face. The two of them had been nothing other than polite to each other—Chloe, he knew, was only behaving so because of their parents’ presence, rather than it being her innate nature, like Liam’s—and had barely said anything directly to each other over dinner unless it was part of a group conversation. But Max had seen the way Liam kept sneaking glances at her, the way Chloe was almost studiously ignoring those glances. Not that he was one to talk. Just as he was thinking it, Erin shifted position and, for the third time that evening, he felt her knee, clad in those skinny jeans that showed off her epic legs, brush against his under the table. It was brief enough that it could, theoretically, be accidental, and it was certainly something that would go unnoticed by anyone else at the table. But he was sure, by the subtle yet firm pressure, that it was a deliberate move on her part to let him know that while she might be talking to his mother, her attention was on him. Max picked up his drink—non-alcoholic, sadly—and concentrated intently on taking a sip.
“What?” his mother asked, in a tone of voice that reminded Max almost comically of Chloe. He might have gotten his mum’s looks, but Chloe had her personality, through and through, though each of them refused to see it in each other.
His dad cleared his throat, his eyes on the side of his mum’s powdered face, and he gave her hand another little squeeze. His mum pretended not to notice.
“Economy is awful these days,” she continued, “the food especially, and I wouldn’t wish it on even Mrs. Price on the floor below.” She pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. “Well, maybe her. She had the cheek the other day to ask if our cleaner also did our cooking, and I just know it was a jibe, because she knows full well that we can’t afford both—”
“We wouldn’t want a cook anyway,” Max’s dad butted in. “That would mean we’d miss out on your cooking.” He twinkled at his wife, and Max noticed the way his mother tried—and clearly failed—to hide a smile.
“Hear, hear!” Liam said, in his best impression of a British accent.
“Oh Liam, you’re such a sweetie.” She gave him a warm smile, her eyes softening as if she were looking at her firstborn. She patted her dark auburn hair, as if checking the curls she’d had put in yesterday were still in place. Like her eyes, Max had gotten the hair too, though not the curls, given they were artificial, and he had to admit he was grateful for that—he wasn’t sure he could have pulled off little ringlets. His was a darker version of hers, too, only really truly auburn in the sun.
Liam’s eyes sparkled back, and he raised his glass of pinot grigio in a toast to Max’s mother. Chloe gave Liam a withering look, which he either didn’t notice or chose to ignore, and when she saw Max looking, she mimed gagging into her own wine. Their dad immediately gave Chloe a stern look out of eyes that were eerily similar to hers, and Chloe turned the action into a hacking cough, thumping her chest. Max tried not to laugh.
Luckily, their mum didn’t notice Chloe because she was beaming between Liam and Erin, who said, “Agreed,” with a little smile. Erin took a sip of her own wine, though Max could see her trying to stifle a yawn. She looked knackered—though a polished version of knackered, carefully applied cosmetics blended to cover the dark circles and brighten the pale face he’d seen at the airport, the blue blouse she’d changed into after showering clean and crisp. Plus, she’d done something to her blond hair to make it more…bushy. Though he was pretty sure that wasn’t the word she’d use. He knew she must be desperate to get to bed, but wouldn’t until she deemed it appropriate to leave the table.
Across the table, Chloe put her knife and fork together, sitting back and patting her stomach. “Is there any pudding?”
Their mum frowned. “You’ve just eaten enough for three people.”
Chloe smiled sweetly. “But your cooking’s just so good, Mum. I barely have time to cook when I’m working, you must remember what it’s like, in the early days…” She gave their mother a baleful look, and Max saw his mum’s expression soften despite herself.