The Party Crasher
Sophie Kinsella
I know I can do this, I know I can. Whatever anyone else says. It’s just a matter of perseverance.
“Effie, I already told you, that angel won’t stay,” says my big sister, Bean, coming up to watch me with a glass of mulled wine in her hand. “Not in a million years.”
“It will.” Firmly, I continue wrapping twine round our beloved silver angel ornament, ignoring the pine needles pricking my hand.
“It won’t. Just give up! It’s too heavy!”
“I’m not giving up!” I retort. “We always have the silver angel on the top of the Christmas tree.”
“But this tree is about half the size of the ones we normally have,” points out Bean. “Haven’t you noticed? It’s really spindly.”
I briefly survey the tree, standing in its usual alcove in the hall. Of course I’ve noticed it’s small. We usually have a huge, impressive, bushy tree, whereas this one is pretty puny. But that’s not my concern right now.
“This will work.” I tie my final knot with a flourish, then let go—whereupon the whole branch collapses, the angel swings upside down, and her skirt falls over her head, exposing her knickers. Drat.
“Well, that looks super-festive,” says Bean, snorting with laughter. “Shall we write Happy Christmas on her underpants?”
“Fine.” I untie the angel and step back. “I’ll brace the branch with a stick or something.”
“Just put something else on top of the tree!” Bean sounds half amused, half exasperated. “Effie, why are you always so stubborn?”
“I’m not stubborn, I’m persistent.”
“You tell ’em, Effie!” chimes in Dad, passing by with a bundle of fairy lights in his arms. “Fight the good fight! Never say die!”
His eyes are twinkling and his cheeks are rosy, and I smile back fondly. Dad gets it. He’s one of the most tenacious people I know. He was brought up in a tiny flat in Layton-on-Sea by a single mother, and he went to a really rough school. But he persevered, got to college, and then joined an investment firm. Now he is where he is: retired, comfortable, happy, all good. You don’t achieve that by giving up at the first hurdle.
OK, so his tenacity can sometimes segue into irrational obstinacy. Like that time he wouldn’t give up on a charity 10K run, even though he was limping, and it turned out he’d torn a calf muscle. But as he said afterward, he’d raised the money, he’d got the job done, and he’d survive. Dad was always exclaiming, “You’ll survive!” during our childhoods, which was sometimes cheering and sometimes bracing and sometimes totally unwelcome. （Sometimes you don’t want to hear that you’ll survive. You want to peer at your bleeding knee and wail and have someone say kindly, There, there, aren’t you brave?）
Dad had obviously been at the mulled wine before I even arrived today—but, then, why not? It’s Christmastime and it’s his birthday and it’s decorating day. It’s always been our tradition to decorate the tree on Dad’s birthday. Even now we’re all grown up, we come back to Greenoaks, our family home in Sussex, every year.
As Dad disappears into the kitchen, I edge closer to Bean and lower my voice. “Why did Mimi get such a small tree this year?”
“Don’t know,” says Bean after a pause. “Just being practical, maybe? I mean, we’re all adults now.”
“Maybe,” I say, dissatisfied by this answer. Our stepmother, Mimi, is artistic and creative and full of quirky whims. She’s always loved Christmas decorating, the bigger the better. Why would she suddenly decide to be practical? Next year I’ll go tree shopping with her, I decide. I’ll remind her subtly that we always have a massive tree at Greenoaks, and there’s no reason to stop that tradition, even if Bean is thirty-three and Gus is thirty-one and I’m twenty-six.
“At last!” Bean interrupts my thoughts, peering at her phone.
“What?”
“Gus. He’s just sent over the video. Talk about cutting it fine.”
About a month ago, Dad said he “didn’t want presents this year.” As if we were going to take any notice of that. But to be fair, he does have a lot of sweaters and cuff-links and things, so we decided to be creative. Bean and Gus have put together a video montage, which Gus has been finalizing, and I’ve done my own surprise project, which I can’t wait to show Dad.
“I expect Gus has been pretty busy with Romilly,” I say, winking at Bean, who grins back.