The Interview

“Your father would be turning in his grave!” Polly exclaims, passing Whit another bottle of French red for him to open.

Just when I think my cheeks have begun to return to their natural color, Polly’s expression sets me off again. My sides hurt from laughing, and if I were wearing mascara, I’d look like a panda right about now. This family is hilarious and irreverent and silly and just so darned lovely! And oh, man. The thing that Heather said about me being tongued? I don’t know which of us was most embarrassed. She totally didn’t mean it that way, not that it stopped everyone else from rolling around laughing.

“Given Dad was cremated, do you reckon that would make him a snow globe,” Brin asks, glancing across the table to El.

“Whatever will Mimi think of us!” Polly says, throwing up her hands. Not just for theatrics, because she also throws a little beef Ambrosius’s way.

“No table scraps,” Heather complains.

“Darling, I can’t give one without the other,” she retorts as she slips Elvis a little beef under the table.

“Elvis likes to sit next to the weakest link,” Heather says, leaning into me. She’s no longer dressed as Tinker Bell but in black pants and a chambray shirt, her red hair tumbling about her shoulders. She runs the children’s side of a large event company that caters mainly to the offspring of the rich’s party needs. These days, she only dresses up as Tinker Bell, a pirate, or a Disney princess when there are staff shortages, she explained. She’s still hanging out for Jesus. “Wherever we go, I watch the four-legged fiend, weighing up who is most likely to be taken in by his puppy dog eyes.”

“Rheumy, more like,” Whit mutters from across the table. Despite my request that he not sit next to me or across from me, there he is! Polly sits at the head of the table to my left, and Whit is seated to her other side. “Though, with Elvis, it’s probably more like who can I hypnotize with his halitosis.”

“You leave my baby alone!”

“I thought I was your baby?” Archer says, popping a roast potato into his mouth.

“No, you’re my husbot,” she says reasonably.

“That’s not what you called me last night.”

“Archer.” Whit draws out his brother-in-law’s name in a groan. “I really don’t want to hear what goes on in my sister’s private life.”

“Oh, but it’s okay to keep upcasting mine?” Polly complains.

“Yes, because people who fornicate in glass houses…”

“Once! It only happened once in the greenhouse!”

“Once was enough,” Brin says with a full-body shudder. His eyes catch mine. “Should I be thankful she still had her gardening gloves on?”

“And my wellies!” Polly retorts indignantly.

I press my hand to my mouth, trying hard not to laugh. This afternoon has been the best. Sure, I’ve had to loosen the button to my jeans because I’ve eaten way more than I ordinarily would, but it was all so delicious, I couldn’t help myself! Tender, pink roast beef with a dollop of a horseradish condiment hot enough to clear anyone’s sinuses. Honey glazed carrots and parsnips and crispy roast potatoes with insides so fluffy they sort of melted in my mouth. Sprouts are usually a big no thanks for me, but cooked with pancetta, chestnuts, and parmesan? So yum! I’m fit to burst—who even knew cauliflower cheese was a thing? It’s like a gooey, cheesy religious experience.

Whit’s siblings are such a hoot. The dynamic is so cool to watch. Like how his mom just handed him the wine without even looking at him? Things obviously just get deferred to him. Must be that Daddy energy. They all tease Polly mercilessly, but no one seems to think to dish any nonsense Whit’s way. Well, I guess that’s not strictly true, but they seem to respect him. Though I get the impression they’d rather swallow glass than admit it. I’m so glad I came, even if I don’t exactly feel good lying to these lovely people.

It’s been a big weekend. A great weekend, but a lot to take in. Literally, in some aspects. But tomorrow, we all go back to work. Noses to the grindstone, back to everyday life. Whit already made his feelings clear; work is work, he said. No shenanigans in the office. Maybe. Who knows? I might contrive to get him in the supply closet again. But at least we’ll both have our own space soon enough, once this crazy bomb business is over. Meanwhile, I’m just loving seeing this relaxed, slightly goofy, family side of him.

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” Primrose announces dramatically before grinning in Brin’s direction. “Don’t forget how Lavender and I caught you snogging Priya from next door in the tree house.”

“My God,” Lavender huffs. She seems to be the only family member who hasn’t warmed to me. Then again, she doesn’t seem to have a preference for anyone. Slumped in her chair, she twirls the stem of her barely touched glass of wine. “Don’t remind me. I think I should’ve had therapy after that.”

“What?” Brin protests. “We were just kids. There was no inappropriate groping. Well, it was all over the shirt, not under.”

“What base is that, Mimi?” I find Whit’s eyes on me, dancing darkly.

“Base?” I don’t dare look, but I’m pretty sure Primrose’s gaze darts between him and me. “Like teenagers on American TV shows, you mean?”

“Asinine,” Lavender mutters, slinking farther down in her chair.

“Yes, let’s not ever be entertained.” Prim’s reply sounds like the rolling of eyes. “First base is snogging, right, Mimi?”

“Go on, Mimi,” Brin encourages. “You’re our resident expert.”

“Snogging is kissing, right?” prompts Prim.

I can literally feel my shoulders folding inward with embarrassment. This is not the kind of attention I like.

“Yeah, snogging, necking,” El says, joining in

“Copping off,” is Brin’s inclusion.

“Tonsil tennis.” Now it’s Primrose’s turn.

“I always liked smooching myself,” Polly offers.

“No need to tell us that,” Whit murmurs, earning him a slap to his arm. “Go on, Lavender, you have a go.”

Lavender’s eyes flick up, and just when I think she’s about to tell him where to go, she utters, “Sucking face.”

“Eww, but also, good one!” Primrose could literally outsunshine me!

“I suppose that just leaves me and you,” Heather says, turning to her husband.

“We could always go for a demonstration,” he answers, leaning closer only to find the meat of Heather’s palm in the middle of his forehead.

“Not happening,” she sing-songs. “Canoodling,” she adds, turning to the gallery of her siblings. “Your turn, husbot.”

“Swapping spit,” he answers with an unrepentant grin.

“Well, they all sound like making out,” I agree, then give a tiny shrug. “Some nicer than others, but all are first base, I guess.”

“What base constitutes a little over the shirt action, then?” Whit toys with the stem of his wineglass and the look he’s wearing makes me want to melt in my chair.

“I feel like they’ve had this conversation before,” Prim says with a quiet chuckle.

“Purely in the interests of US-British relations, right, Mimi?” If you’d just stop purring your words, Whit, people might not be so suspicious.

“Second base,” I rush on, finding I have to swallow over my suddenly swollen tonsils, “is action all above the waist.”

“Under the shirt or over?” Brin asks. “See, snogging Priya was strictly over.” He makes a grabbing motion with his hand, throwing in a honking sound just for laughs.

Lavender isn’t so amused and makes a disgusted noise. “No wonder Priya changed her pronouns.”

“She did?” Brin seems surprised.

“Yes, they’re now they slash them,” Lavender murmurs. “I wonder if the experience with you left its mark.”

“Is that Lavender cracking a funny?” El presses a pondering finger to his chin. “It’s amazing what life you find when you put your phone down, eh?”

“Leave her alone,” Whit mutters, topping up his mother’s glass. His very happy mother’s glass who has made so many references to how wonderful it is to have almost all her children around her. “More wine, Mimi?” He holds the bottle over my glass in anticipation. I rest my hand over it with a shake of my head.

“But you’ve only had a glass,” El protests.

“It is lovely, but I’m not a big drinker.” I reach for my water glass instead as my mother’s voice echoes in my head. Everything in moderation, Mimi. I’m pretty sure an overload of meat and veggies won’t kill me this once.

“Think she’s nodded off with her eyes open?”

El’s joking tone brings me back to the moment. “Food coma,” I say, lifting my water. “Just a mini one.”

Thankfully, the Whittington clan seem to have lost interest in any explanation regarding the rest of the bases, though I’m not done myself as I slip off my shoe and stretch my foot out. I can’t quite reach third base, but I can run my toes up Whit’s leg. Why? Because I have had so much fun today. I’m so happy he ignored my arguments and persuaded me to tag along.

I don’t need wine to make me feel warm and fuzzy because the way Whit keeps glancing at me makes me feel like that anyway. He wants me. And I want him, always, but seeing him here with his family just makes him all the more perfect.

And who doesn’t want perfect, even if just for a little while?

“…honestly, El. She wasn’t interested!”

I come back to the conversation at Heather’s giggled words.

“She was totally into me.” Elbow on the table, El does the chair-based equivalent of a swagger.

“Really?” Heather scrunches her nose unconvincingly. “And you could tell that just from looking at her in that chainmail bikini?” Oh, they’re talking about Friday night. His exploits with the server? “Because your eyes weren’t exactly on her face.”

“Of course I looked at her face,” he complains. “Eventually.” His siblings all chuckle.

“She gave you her number, then?” Brin throws his napkin across the table at him.

“Not exactly.” Balling it up, he volleys it back.

“But you asked her out?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Well, her lips might’ve said no, but her eyes said—

“Read my lips,” Heather butts in, making everyone laugh again.

The conversation goes on. El taunts Brin with a story from one of his old girlfriends. Apparently, El was dating one of her friends (the term used loosely, I gather, for Polly’s benefit) when she revealed that Brin is nicknamed Noodles within their friend group. Why? Because according to Brin’s old conquest, he thinks foreplay only takes two minutes.

Gasps and splutters break out, Polly wading to the conversation when she comments he didn’t get that from his father. I’m paying attention and laughing along, of course I am, but I’m also watching Whit as he portrays not one hint of what my toes are doing to his leg. The man is supremely cool about my silly seduction.

I make an exaggerated oh, my goodness, I am so full kind of motion as I slink a little farther down my chair. It gives me an inch more leverage.

But still, nothing

Because that’s the table leg. I curl my toes around definite edges. Yep. I chuckle to myself. I’m trying to get the table leg off.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Whit murmurs, and I startle, thinking he’s talking to me. I breathe easy again when Lavender answers.

“I don’t make wishes because wishes are for suckers.”

“I’m with you on that one,” I find myself agreeing.

“You don’t believe in wishes?” Primrose asks, perplexed. She’s looking at me like she thought I was one of her people. Optimistic, maybe. Bright and cheerful, definitely. I am—I still believe in good over bad and think that most people would be happier if they just smiled a bit more. But wishes? I grew out of that concept a not so long ago.

“I thought you believed in magic,” Whit asks from across the table.

“Hmm.” I press my index finger to my lips and cast my eyes to the ceiling a little theatrically. “I think I said I voodoo.” Because I believe in Whit magic, in his sexual voodoo. I’m also a devotee of what his wand can do.

“I knew it was something like that.” Whit’s mouth quirks, those striking eyes weaving their spell.

“A shop on Camden Road will sell you voodoo dolls.” Lavender looks at her older brother almost as though she’s trying to goad him. “And chicken’s blood for spells and stuff.”

“I hope they’ve got a license.”

She looks mildly disappointed by his answer. Meanwhile, I drag my toes up the inside of a human leg this time. Whit’s leg, definitely.

“Are you thinking of getting a part-time job there?” he asks airily.

“No. My exams are coming up soon, so I don’t have time for work.”

Whit just smiles. At least he knows he’s responsible for spoiling her.

“You okay?” Heather asks as my body suddenly jolts.

“Yeah, fine.” I paste on a smile. Whit just grabbed my foot. I should’ve thought this through because my feet are really ticklish, and I think he’s about to find that out. “I was just thinking about my very first job.”

“I’ve had jobs before,” Lavender puts in, taking offense to God knows what.

“Hanging around festivals isn’t a job,” Brin teases.

“I handed out leaflets—and water and stuff!”

“You look like you’re about to cry.” Heather frowns my way, ignoring them.

“Just a sneeze,” I say, scrunching my nose ridiculously as Whit draws his thumbnail along the sole of my foot. “Oh!” I give my nose a rub when what I really want to do is yank my foot back and kick him with the other one because the cause for violence is real!

“You can sneeze,” Heather says next. “I know Mr. Moneybags over there thinks he’s posh, but the rest of us aren’t.”

“Mr. Moneybags objects to that,” Whit answers as he plays this little piggy with my ticklish toes. I don’t like it, not one bit! But the way he’s watching me, I dig. “You object to it too,” he adds, tilting his head like an inquisitive terrier. “Don’t you.”

“Yes!” I peep. “Just a little bit.” I turn to Heather and hope my wild eyes seem at least a little apologetic. “I knew your brother when he was a poor, ramen-eating student. He hasn’t changed.” I shake my head, less to convince her and more no, no, no, just stop!

“I worked while I was at college.” Whit seems determined to involve me in this conversation. Or make me scream. One of the two. “Do you know what I did, Mimi?”

“Sperm donor?” El suggests, allowing me a reason to bark out a laugh. Oh, that felt so good to get out. Maybe it was a little loud but it’s too late to do anything about it now. I try to twitch my foot away again, but no dice. And when Whit presses his thumb to the middle of my arch, I’m pretty sure my eyes almost roll back in my head. A hot deliciousness begins to pulse along my leg, getting higher and higher until it quivers in a place it has no business being at the dinner table.

The breakfast table, however…

“A donor.” That sounded way more sexual than I intended. “Your brother donated freely and regularly when he was on vacation.” His fingers still, and the room goes deathly quiet. “Not like that,” I add quickly. “I didn’t mean professionally.”

A collective sigh seems to be released, and El pipes up, “Thank the Lord! The world can only take one of that bossy ba—bar steward.”

“I told you there was no swearing at the dinner table.” Primrose laughs.

“What I want to know is where you gathered this intel,” Heather says, sending me a sly look.

“Purely observational,” I answer. “I was just a kid.”

She looks disappointed when Whit says, “Let’s return to the topic of jobs. Brin had a job while he was at university, didn’t you?”

I angle my attention Brin’s way, and he nods. “I had a job in a sandwich place. I got fired for putting my finger in the pickle slicer.” He shrugs. “She got fired, too.”

A groan goes around the table, though Whit and El laugh. They also get bombarded with left over sprouts, much to their disgust.

“No phones at the table!” Polly protests. Brin looks up sheepishly from glancing at his phone under the tabletop, I guess. His attention doubles back comically, though.

“Mimi, aren’t you staying with an aunt in Edgeware?”

I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

“Did you hear about that World War 2 bomb they found?”

“Yeah. How crazy is that?” I’m not sure I’d make a very good actress.

“You know what’s even crazier? It’s just gone off.”

“Off?” I give my head a little shake. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just exploded in someone’s back garden.”

Oh man. This is not good.