‘Suzie, dear! Merry Christmas!’ Mum hurries into the hall and gives her a warm hug. ‘And Tark—’ She stops in her tracks. ‘Lord …’ She glances anxiously at me. ‘Your Lordship … ness …’
‘Ahm … please, Mrs Bloomwood.’ Tarkie has turned a bit pink. ‘Tarquin is fine.’
Tarkie’s grandfather died of pneumonia a couple of months ago. Which was really tragic and everything, but there again, he was ninety-six. Anyway, the point is, Tarkie’s dad inherited the title of Earl – and Tarkie gets to be a lord! He’s Lord Tarquin Cleath-Stuart, which makes Suze ‘Lady’. It’s all so grown-up and posh I can hardly get my head round it. Plus, they now have even more squillions of money and land and stuff than they had before. Their new house is in Hampshire, only about half an hour away from here. It’s called Letherby Hall and it looks just like Brideshead Revisited, and they don’t even live in it full time, they’ve got a place in Chelsea too.
You’d think Tarkie could stump up for a new scarf. He’s unwinding the most threadbare, ratty old thing from around his neck that looks like it was knitted by his old nanny twenty years ago. Well, it probably was.
‘Did you get any nice Christmas presents, Tarkie?’ I ask.
I’ve bought him this really cool aromatherapy diffuser thing, which I’m sure he’ll love. Well, Suze will love.
‘Absolutely.’ He nods fervently. ‘Suze bought me a rather wonderful Merino tup. Such a surprise.’
Tup? Does he mean tux?
‘That sounds fab!’ I exclaim. ‘Merino is so in right now. You should see the new John Smedley collection, you’d love it.’
‘John Smedley?’ Tarkie seems a little baffled. ‘I don’t know the name. Is he a breeder?’
‘The knitwear designer! You know, you could put a turtle-neck under your tux,’ I say in sudden inspiration. ‘That’s a really cool look. Is it single-breasted?’
Tarkie looks totally at sea, and Suze gives a gurgle of laughter.
‘Bex, I didn’t give him a tux. I gave him a tup. An uncastrated sheep.’
An uncastrated sheep? What kind of Christmas present is that?
‘Oh, I see.’ I try my hardest to summon some enthusiasm. ‘Of course. An uncastrated sheep! Er … lovely.’
‘Don’t worry, I gave him a jacket, too,’ adds Suze, grinning at me.
‘For when I’m out on my bike,’ Tarkie chimes in. ‘It’s absolutely super, darling.’
I already know better than to say ‘Oh cool, a Belstaff?’ Tarkie doesn’t mean ‘bike’ like most people mean ‘bike’. Sure enough, Suze is scrolling through pictures on her phone, and turns it to show me a photo of Tarkie in a tweed jacket, perched on a vintage penny-farthing. He’s got loads of antique bikes – in fact sometimes he even lends them to TV companies as props and advises on the way they were ridden in the olden days. (The only thing is, they don’t always listen. And then Tarkie sees the show on TV and they’re doing it wrong and he gets all depressed.)
‘Why don’t all the children come into the kitchen for some squash and biscuits?’ Mum is rounding up Ernest, Clementine and Wilfrid like a mother hen. ‘Where’s Minnie? Minnie darling, come and see your friends!’
Like a fireball, Minnie rockets into the hall from the kitchen, dressed in her scarlet Christmas dress, the sparkly red pompom hat and a pair of pink fairy wings which she’s refused to take off since finding them in her stocking.
‘Ketchup!’ she cries triumphantly, and aims the bottle at Suze’s gorgeous coat.
My heart freezes.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no. How did she get hold of that? We always put it on the top shelf now, ever since …
‘Minnie, no. No.’ I make a swipe for the ketchup, but she dodges me. ‘Minnie, give it to me, don’t you dare—’
‘Ketchup!’ The stream of red is streaking through the air before I can even react.
‘Nooo!’
‘Minnie!’
‘Suze!’
It’s like Apocalypse Now. I see the whole thing as if in slow motion: Suze gasping and shrinking back, and Tarquin diving in front of her, and the ketchup landing in a massive blob on his Barbour.
I don’t dare look at Luke.
‘Give that to me!’ I grab the ketchup out of Minnie’s hand. ‘Naughty girl! Suze, Tarkie, I’m so sorry …’
‘I do apologize for our daughter’s terrible behaviour,’ chimes in Luke, a meaningful edge to his voice.
‘Oh, no problem,’ says Suze. ‘I’m sure she did it by accident, didn’t you, darling?’ She ruffles Minnie’s head.
‘Absolutely,’ chimes in Tarkie. ‘No harm done. If I could just …’ He gestures awkwardly at the tomato ketchup, which is dripping down the front of his Barbour.
‘Of course!’ I hastily take his Barbour from him. ‘Well dived, Tarkie,’ I can’t help adding admiringly. ‘You were really quick.’
‘Oh, it was nothing.’ He looks abashed. ‘Any decent chap would have done it.’
It just goes to show how devoted Tarquin is to Suze. He dived in front of her without a moment’s hesitation. It’s quite romantic, actually.
I wonder if Luke would take a hit of tomato ketchup for me. I might ask him later. Just casually.
‘Luke,’ says Tarquin a little diffidently as they shake hands. ‘Wondered if I could pick your brains about something?’