“Of course, dear.” There’s a high chair set up at the table, and Cami coos as Ellen sets her down into it. “That’s right!” Ellen sings. “I made some food for you too, honey! Is she hungry?” She asks me.
“Oh, I was just going to give her a bottle—”
Ellen tuts. “Nonsense. She’s eating solids, right?” I nod, and she smiles. “Then I’d love for little Camilla to have some of her grandma’s food.” She lifts up one of the dish covers.
“What is it?” Sebastian asks brusquely, looking over her shoulder as she produces a plastic bowl of orange mash.
“Oh, just some mashed potato and carrots.”
“Did you put seasoning in it?” He demands.
Ellen looks bemused. “Look at you, acting like you know what’s best for a baby. Of course I didn’t, it’s nice and plain.” She waves me to one of the seats. “Sit down, please.”
I do, and she bustles around the table, serving us all chicken and potatoes. I’m confused. This isn’t how I imagined Seb’s mother at all. Ellen seems thrilled to see her son and granddaughter. I glance across at Sebastian. He’s sitting ramrod straight, not moving to take the cutlery, watching suspiciously as his mother ties a bib around Cami’s neck.
Hm.
“Please,” Ellen says, finally sitting down. “Eat.”
I reach for Cami’s spoon, but Seb shakes his head. “I’ll feed her,” he mutters.
I nod and cut into my chicken, glancing around the dining room for a topic of polite conversation. The walls are covered in pictures of Ellen and Steve, taken all over the world. I see one of them standing in front of the pyramids; the leaning tower of Pisa; the great wall of China.
“Wow,” I say, pushing potato onto my fork, “you guys travel a lot, huh?”
“Oh, yes.” Ellen beams. “Steve and I have always loved to visit new places, haven’t we, honey?” She reaches across and squeezes her husband’s hand. He doesn’t respond, dousing his plate in gravy. She points to a massive, blown-up photograph of them both standing on a boat deck, holding champagne flutes. “That was our very first trip. We’d only known each other for two weeks, but Steve decided to whisk me away on a cruise. It was so romantic.”
“That’s lovely,” I say, scanning the walls. There’s not one picture of Sebastian. Not a baby picture, or a graduation photo. Nothing. “Did you ever go with them?” I ask him.
He doesn’t say anything, offering Cami a spoonful of mash.
“Oh, Sebastian never came with us. He was always tied up in military camp.” She tosses me a sideways look, cutting into her chicken. “I suppose he never told you about that.”
“Oh, he did,” I say cheerfully.
“And it didn’t bother you?” She asks, her voice incredulous.
“Why would it? I have nothing against the military.”
“Well, it wasn’t a regular military camp, you understand. It was a behavioural correctional programme.” She leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Sebastian got into a lot of trouble when he was younger.”
Seb puts Cami’s bowl down with athunk. “Mum. What are you trying to do?”
I gently take the plastic spoon off him.
“What?” Ellen blinks innocently. “If she’s your girlfriend, dear, she needs to know about your past. I’m surprised you haven’t told her already. It’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”
“Well, he must have been a star student,” I interrupt, smiling down at Cami as she waves her hand, trying to grab another bite of mash. “He’s one of the kindest, gentlest, most well-disciplined men I’ve ever met.”
Sebastian gives me a sharp look. Ellen frowns. I feed Cami another spoonful, and she makes little happynom nomnoises as she scoffs it down. “She really likes your food, Mrs Bright. She’s gobbling it up.”
Ellen smiles blandly. “She is a sweet thing,” she says distractedly. “Although, I have to say, she doesn’t really look like you, dear.” She squints at me. “If your roles were reversed, I’d be accusing my son of sleeping with the postman!”
I’ve just taken a bite of potato, and that image makes me choke on my mouthful.
“I mean, really. Do you have some…exoticheritage in your family tree?” Ellen continues delicately. “I mean, you hardly look it, but Camilla here doesn’t look… fullyEnglish,if you catch my drift. And she certainly doesn’t get it from our side. We’re Brits down to the roots.”
I look at Sebastian expectantly. I’m not about to invent a whole racial background just so he can lie to his mother. Sebastian sighs, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and reaches for his glass.