Izzy cautiously. Izzy glanced at the bikini long enough to see that the top and bottom consisted of little more than bits of string with four triangles attached. She stuffed the bikini inside the sarong and made a careful ball until it was small enough to hide behind the toaster. Even in the heat of the Corfu summer it had been difficult to persuade her out of jeans and long-sleeved T-shirts. When she swam in the pool she wore a conservative black swimsuit and a top. It was ludicrous to consider she would ever wear something so skimpy. She rubbed her tummy, loathing the plump childish contours, and breathed in until she could feel her ribs. Then she relaxed again and began reciting one of the mantras she had found on a pro-anorexia website: “Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.”
“What else do I have in here?” asked Foy, rummaging in the bag and pulling out a chess set carved from olive wood. “Where’s my cleverest grandson?” Jake lazily raised a hand from where he was sitting at the kitchen table. Foy pretended not to see him. So Jake stood up and went over to collect the chess set. Foy pulled him close and ruffled his long hair, muttering something about how he was looking forward to being taught how to play by his oldest grandson and how pleased he was that he had been tipped for Oxbridge by his school.
“Pull your trousers up, Jake,” he called out as Jake slouched back toward the kitchen table. Jake made a perfunctory gesture, grabbing the belt loop at the back, but the trousers immediately slumped back down to reveal his underpants.
“Big oversight, Tita! We didn’t get the twins anything,” Foy called upstairs for his wife to come down. Tita slowly emerged. She came down the stairs cautiously, with a sideways step, holding firmly onto the banister because she had recently developed a fear of falling. She hadn’t told anyone this, and people sometimes mistook her slow, dignified descent down stairs and across rooms for imperiousness.
On the floor by the bottom step, the twins feverishly searched in the bag at Foy’s feet, their faces growing redder as the tears pricked. They pulled out an unread copy of The Telegraph , a packet of photographs, and a swollen copy of a novel by John Grisham that had spent too much time getting wet beside the swimming pool. They ignored their grandmother, who was carrying an identically shaped package under each arm.
“They’re wrapped up.” Tita gestured to the parcels.
“Of course,” said Foy. By now it was a double bluff. Tita had clearly done the shopping, and it wasn’t clear whether Foy really had forgotten to bring them something or was pretending to have forgotten. The twins were too worked up to absorb what their grandmother was telling them and continued to skirmish in the bag like stray dogs searching for food.
Tita now stood on the same step as Foy. Beside him, she looked pale. It wasn’t just her skin—she wore a wide-brimmed hat whenever she went outside in Corfu, even if it was just to count how many cars were in the Rothschilds’ driveway—it was the pale linen dress that she had chosen and the pink Elizabeth Arden lipstick that always left comedy kiss marks on people’s cheeks. He was so vital and present. She looked as though she should be staked to the ground to avoid floating away.
Foy took the parcels from Tita and presented them to the twins. They whooped and ripped open the plain brown packaging to reveal two ships hand-carved in wood from their grandfather’s olive grove. One said “Hector” on the side. The other said “Alfie.” They ran around the kitchen table, boats held aloft, shrieking wildly.
“Did you give Nick and Bryony the olive oil?” Tita asked over the din.
“I couldn’t wait any longer,” Foy said apologetically. “What were you doing up there?”
Tita glanced over at him disapprovingly. She pouted petulantly and put a hand on her hip. It used to be her most flirtatious look. Now she looked a little
“What else do I have in here?” asked Foy, rummaging in the bag and pulling out a chess set carved from olive wood. “Where’s my cleverest grandson?” Jake lazily raised a hand from where he was sitting at the kitchen table. Foy pretended not to see him. So Jake stood up and went over to collect the chess set. Foy pulled him close and ruffled his long hair, muttering something about how he was looking forward to being taught how to play by his oldest grandson and how pleased he was that he had been tipped for Oxbridge by his school.
“Pull your trousers up, Jake,” he called out as Jake slouched back toward the kitchen table. Jake made a perfunctory gesture, grabbing the belt loop at the back, but the trousers immediately slumped back down to reveal his underpants.
“Big oversight, Tita! We didn’t get the twins anything,” Foy called upstairs for his wife to come down. Tita slowly emerged. She came down the stairs cautiously, with a sideways step, holding firmly onto the banister because she had recently developed a fear of falling. She hadn’t told anyone this, and people sometimes mistook her slow, dignified descent down stairs and across rooms for imperiousness.
On the floor by the bottom step, the twins feverishly searched in the bag at Foy’s feet, their faces growing redder as the tears pricked. They pulled out an unread copy of The Telegraph , a packet of photographs, and a swollen copy of a novel by John Grisham that had spent too much time getting wet beside the swimming pool. They ignored their grandmother, who was carrying an identically shaped package under each arm.
“They’re wrapped up.” Tita gestured to the parcels.
“Of course,” said Foy. By now it was a double bluff. Tita had clearly done the shopping, and it wasn’t clear whether Foy really had forgotten to bring them something or was pretending to have forgotten. The twins were too worked up to absorb what their grandmother was telling them and continued to skirmish in the bag like stray dogs searching for food.
Tita now stood on the same step as Foy. Beside him, she looked pale. It wasn’t just her skin—she wore a wide-brimmed hat whenever she went outside in Corfu, even if it was just to count how many cars were in the Rothschilds’ driveway—it was the pale linen dress that she had chosen and the pink Elizabeth Arden lipstick that always left comedy kiss marks on people’s cheeks. He was so vital and present. She looked as though she should be staked to the ground to avoid floating away.
Foy took the parcels from Tita and presented them to the twins. They whooped and ripped open the plain brown packaging to reveal two ships hand-carved in wood from their grandfather’s olive grove. One said “Hector” on the side. The other said “Alfie.” They ran around the kitchen table, boats held aloft, shrieking wildly.
“Did you give Nick and Bryony the olive oil?” Tita asked over the din.
“I couldn’t wait any longer,” Foy said apologetically. “What were you doing up there?”
Tita glanced over at him disapprovingly. She pouted petulantly and put a hand on her hip. It used to be her most flirtatious look. Now she looked a little
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