Not Starbucks

4

Not Starbucks

    Over breakfast next morning Isabella admitted: “You were right, Margot: Ben did ask me how old I am.”

    Her relatives stared at her in horror, spoons suspended: in the case of the little ones and Margot over the warming porridge she insisted on—fairies didn’t get cold but in an English winter you still needed a warm foundation—and in the case of Dan over his plate of rose petals and honey. Fairies couldn’t tell lies: it wasn’t a law as such, it was just a given. They were incapable of it. Though according to Dan there was a law as well, just in case.

    “What did you say?” croaked Margot.

    Placidly Isabella reported what she’d said. They sagged, even little Petunia.

    “Yes, well, just keep on being careful,” Margot advised limply.

    “Of course!” she agreed blithely.

    Yeah. Margot tried to smile and failed. What next, for Pete’s sake?

    Next was, as ten-thirty drew nigh, that she wasn’t wearing her heavy winter coat because Ben was going to pick her up and that was always warm!

    Margot closed her eyes in agony. Where did you start?

    “What is it? Your head’s very muddled,” reported Isabella dubiously.

    Margot opened her eyes. “I just bet it is! Look, for a start, humans aren’t warm! Not in the way you mean!”

    “Oh, no, I forgot,” she said placidly.

     Drawing a very deep breath, Margot went on: “And for a second, when he said he’d pick you up he didn’t mean what fairies mean by that!”

    Isabella waved her hand in a whisking gesture, looking puzzled.

    “Yes! I mean no! NOT up, up, and away!” cried Margot.

    “Oh.”

    “Look, it’s not literal, in the mortal realm! All he meant was, he’d collect you.”

    Isabella went on looking puzzled. “Oh.”

    “Not like that time we all collected blackberries with Fairy Bramble and Fairy Briar Rose—or that time we collected moondust with your mother,” she sighed.

    “No? What about that time,” said Isabella, making a plucking motion, “that I came over to visit and we went to the countryside and you showed us how mortals pick blackberries? That was fun, too!” she beamed.

    “No. He will call for you. He will walk up to the house and then he will—well, probably drive you to the coffee shop in his sister’s car,” she recognised. “I think he’d think it’s too cold to walk, he’s a pampered American.”

    “I can keep him war—”

    “He doesn’t know that, Isabella, and for pity’s sake don’t tell him!”

    “No, all right,” she said obediently.

    Margot sighed heavily. “Have you got it?”

    “I think so... When a mortal says they’ll pick you up, it means they’ll walk up to the house. Then they’ll probably drive you in a car.”

    “Yes. Thank goodness,” she muttered.

    “Um, won’t he have to ring the doorbell? Or do I just—”

    “No!” she gasped. “I mean, he will have to ring the doorbell or knock, yes!”

    Isabella smiled her lovely smile at her. “He can’t knock, Margot, darling, you’ve got that beautiful Christmas wreath tied to the knocker!”

    “Mm. Well, uh—” She demonstrated with her fist on her sister-in-law’s bedroom door.

    That usually meant something quite different in the Fairy Realm. Isabella goggled at her.

    “It’s different here,” said Margot heavily.

    “Are you sure?”

    “Yes! Um, I think so. –Yes! Honestly! Now you’ve got me having second thoughts!”

    And third, and fourth. Isabella didn’t say it. “Don't worry, I’ll wear my coat. And sit in a car, just like picking the children up from school.”

    “Exactly. That's human picking up, see?”

    She nodded the cloud of curls very hard. “Mm!”

    “And, um, wear something warm under the coat, dear,” added Margot in a very weak voice indeed. At the moment Isabella was in her lilac tights, of which she was rather fond, and a sort of camisole, composed of bluebell and rose petals.

    “The snowdrop dress?” she ventured.

    “No, that’s a dinner dress. You’d better come and look at my things.”

    They went and looked at Margot’s clothes. There was a dark red woollen dress which Isabella rather liked, so as it was a suitable length—mid-calf—Margot agreed that style’d do. And Isabella magicked up one for herself immediately. Margot winced but reflected it was only to be expected, from Titania’s daughter. In it, Isabella positively glowed. Margot repressed a sigh. She herself had rather ordinary brown hair, it did have a natural curl, but that was all you could say for it, and a creamy skin which looked horribly yellow if she wore lilac, certain blues, and many greens. Or yellow. Hitherto she’d thought that dress really suited her. Oh, well.

    He arrived on the dot of ten-thirty. Just as well, because Isabella had taken that literally, too. Margot waved them off, trying to smile brightly but not succeeding. Oh, well, knock on w— Uh, no. Fingers crossed, that seemed to be the same in Fairyland, thank goodness!

    The coffee shop in the High Street was pretty much of a dump. Well, clean, yes. It had tables and chairs, yes. And at this hour of the morning quite a few suburban matrons swaddled in padded coats, padded anoraks, or heavy woollen overcoats. Some of them were wearing headscarves, English-style, like those shots of the Queen at Balmoral. Or maybe he was thinking of that Helen Mirren movie. Whatever. Very English. This undoubtedly meant that both the coffee and the eats would also be relentlessly English. Oh, well. It was this or “Grace’s Garden Tea Shoppe”, I kid you not. Resignedly Ben held the door for Isabella.

    “No, not like your Starbucks at all, is it?” she said in a kind voice, going in.

    Oh, shit, he hadn’t meant for it to show! “I guess,” he agreed weakly.

    “Isn’t that a lovely name?” she breathed, smiling up at him.

    “What, Isabella?”

    “Starbucks!” she breathed.

    He blinked. “Never thought about it. Uh, well, I guess.”

    “I love names with stars in them,” she smiled.

    “Uh—sure.” Well, it went with the Byron bit!

    They found a table okay: the place wasn’t full by any means. There was no indication as to whether it was table service, though there was a small menu provided. Choice of cakes or muffins, right. The affluent matrons around them were all drinking but as he looked for a waitress another pair came in and went on up to the counter. Isabella had already revealed she didn’t drink coffee very often but she liked it sweet with milk, so he went up to the counter, ascertained they did have cappuccino and ordered. Fortunately there was a list on the wall, so he didn’t have to make a fool of himself by betraying his ignorance of English coffee etiquette. That was, if you could be ignorant of something that was clearly almost non-existent. It was espresso, cappuccino, black, or white. Period. Apparently they all came out of the same machine, his black certainly came out of the same machine as the preceding lady’s espresso and Isabella’s cappuccino.

    Isabella smiled, thanked him, admired the froth on top of it—no cinnamon or chocolate had been on offer; Ben swallowed a sigh—and tasted it. “No sugar!” she gasped.

    “Uh—no, sorry. Here it is.” He handed her the bowl holding the little paper tubes.

    She looked at them blankly. “Margot’s sugar just sits in a bowl.”

    “Uh—these never penetrated to your rural part of the country?” he said with a grin. “They’re supposed to be hygienic, I guess!” He added a tubeful of sugar to her cup.

    Isabella eyed it doubtfully.

    “I guess that was about half a coffee spoon, huh? Want more?”

    “Yes, please. So one may take more than one?”

    Boy, she really knew from nothing about the Big Smoke! “Sure, take as many as  you like.”

    “But won’t you have to pay for them, Ben?” the little bell-like voice said. Every time she spoke—now, Ben Anderson was not a fanciful guy, he knew that: reason he liked those political references of Byron’s so much, and the jokes, he guessed—but every time she spoke, he got this vision of pretty little bluebells and, uh, what were those other, bigger ones, again? Also blue. Canterbury bells! That was it.

    “Uh—no,” he said quickly. “It’s included.” Jesus, just how backward were they, in her rural parts?

    Isabella proceeded to put five, count ’em, five tubes of sugar into her coffee! That made six in all, if you could count. Ben watched in horror as she stirred carefully and then tasted the result. “That okay?” he croaked.

    “Yes, lovely, thank you!” she beamed.

    Whatever turned you on. Ben sipped his own black, unsugared coffee slowly. It was pretty indifferent but he didn’t have any impulse to sweeten it. He had a feeling his sugar levels were sky-high after that dinner last night.

    “Hey, you know those little round things Dan served last night? As a part of the main course. With the artichoke bottoms and the fresh lima beans—I won’t ask where he got those, this time of year in Britain!” he added with a laugh.

    “He said that you can buy nice ones frozen, here.”

    “Right! Goddit! Well, I won’t tell! What were the ball things actually made of? It wasn’t meat, was it?”

    “No, Dan isn’t fond of meat.”

    Ben had guessed that: all the food apart from the marvellous duck had been vegetarian, and though everyone else had tucked in—Bob scraping the delicious pomegranate sauce off his portion, the misguided idiot—Dan had partaken very sparingly of the duck. “Yeah?”

    “A mixture of nuts, mainly. Those green ones, I’ve forgotten their mor—um, their name.”

    “Pistachios, I guess.”

    “Yes, that’s it. And Brazils, they’ve got very hard shells.”

    “They sure have! One of my fondest childhood memories is of my Uncle Chas trying to crack a Brazil, Christmas! The poor guy turned purple! Dad hadda take it on out to the garage and hit it with his hammer, in the end!”

    “Yes. They’re lovely nuts, though.”

    “Uh-huh: meaty, juicy,” said Ben with a grin. “The nutballs were extra. He’d flavoured them with something, I guess?”

    He was waiting. Isabella licked her lips uneasily. She couldn’t say that what he’d been able to taste was fern root, both Dan and Margot had strictly forbidden her to mention it: it wasn’t eaten in England. Or America, Isabella! Yes, there were countries where it—well, where it used to be eaten— Look, just don’t mention it to anyone! No, nor that carrying fern seeds could make you invisible, in fact don’t dare to mention invisible at all!

    “Um, he told me not to say,” she said lamely.

    Phew! That was all right: he laughed and said: “Oh right, secret ingredient!”

    “Yes, secret ingredient,” said Isabella gratefully, storing it away for future reference.

    Ben had ordered some muffins, which the woman behind the counter now brought over to them. He goggled at them.

    “These are muffins. Little Damian likes them,” said Isabella helpfully.

    “Yuh—uh—buttered English muffins,” said Ben limply.

    “Yes. –Oh! I see! Your American muffins are quite different!” she gulped, getting the picture very vividly.

    “Uh-huh. Well, you can only die once, I guess. You reckon they put real butter on these?” –Never mind the vegetarian bit, most of those dishes last night had been soused in butter, his cholesterol level must have shot up.

    Isabella smiled, picked up the plate and said gaily: “We’ll soon see! Lift your chin!”

    What the—? He lifted his chin and she held the plate of muffins under it. Had she lost it? Was that naïve manner an indication that she was, as the Brits said, a shilling short? Hell, that’d be a real traged—

    “It’s harder to see when a person’s got whiskers, but there’s a definite yellow glow, so it must be real butter!” she said with a little laugh, setting the dish down again.

    “It’s a kids’ game, isn’t it?” he said limply. “Last time I was over it was summer and we took Damian on the Heath with one of Jessica’s friends and her little boy. We found some buttercups growing and she showed us that. Well, an old superstition, maybe, that’s become a kids’ game!”—She was nodding, twinkling at him merrily.—“Gee, for a moment, there, I thought you’d lost it, Isabella!”

    She could see that. “No, I haven’t lost it. –There’s no need to eat them if you think that chol stuff is too high, Ben.”

    “Cholesterol,” he said ruefully. “No, I better not, I do watch my cholesterol level. Uh—and my sugar intake, Isabella,” he added uneasily as she drank some more coffee and then embarked on a buttery muffin. “You do know that too much sugar is real bad for you, do you?”

    Margot had certainly assured her it was, for mortals, so Isabella replied with perfect truth: “Yes.”

    Yeah. Well, not everybody had to take their coffee without sugar, but... “Look, how many cups of coffee a day would you normally drink, Isabella?”

    Isabella smiled at him. “Well, none, really, Ben! I hardly ever have it.”

    He sagged. “That’s okay, then!”

    He’d thought, in the chilly watches of the night—funnily enough he hadn’t slept that well—that maybe they’d be at a loss for anything to say to one another, but what with the butter joke and the sugar—well, he had not been at his sparkling best, no, but at least conversation couldn’t be said to have languished!

    And as she then asked him about his work, he found he had plenty to say. She listened with interest, asking some real intelligent questions—almost as if she was reading his mind! He must have been crazy to have imagined there was anything wrong with her, she was bright as a button!

    “So what’s your background, Isabella?” he smiled eventually.

    “Buh-background? Well, very like Dan’s, really,” she said weakly.

    “Sure, both country kids, I get it! No, well school, college—university, you say here. Your subjects?”

    “Floral lore, mathematics, logic and ethics,” said Isabella numbly. Why would a mortal be interested in that?

    Ben grinned. “That’s quite a mixture! Guess the floral lore was kind of on the side, huh?”

    Weakly Isabella replied: “You could say that.”

    “You’re a philosopher, then, Isabella!” he smiled.

    “No!” she gasped in horror. “I—I just studied those subjects.”

    “Yeah, you and a few others like Plato and Aristotle.”

    “I suppose they did, yes.”

    Ben smiled at her. “You’re too modest. So, what are you doing with your mathematics, logic and ethics? You working at the moment?”

    “No,” replied Isabella truthfully.

    “Planning on teaching, maybe?”

    Certainly Father had said she was bright enough to help teach some of the little ones, a bit later on. Once she’d matured a little more. “Well, I might.”

    “It’s not a bad career, but of course the competition’s pretty cut-throat at college level.”

    He carried on for ages about the American universities and the papers the professors had to write and how hard it was to get “tenure”, and how you had to have a presence on the Net these days, and etcetera. Isabella had heard a little bit about this sort of thing from Jessica, because Bob Masters worked at a university here in London, but not very much. She just listened limply.

    “Yes,” she said faintly when he seemed to have run down. “I don’t think I could teach adults. I—I like little kids, though. Um, I went along to Damian’s nursery school one morning and the lady there said maybe I could come and help her next year.”

    “It’s very fulfilling, they tell me, but I never heard of a single country where it pays well, Isabella.” He went on and on and on in this vein. Isabella listened numbly. All the warnings Father had ever given her were justified, very evidently. Mortals really cared about this sort of thing. Pension funds and mortgages and security—he used that word in at least two different ways—no, three, it was very confusing, you had to look hard at the picture in his head to see what he meant.

    “I see. You’re very sensible, Ben,” she said at last in a tiny voice.

    Uh—was that damned with faint praise? It sure as Hell felt like it! Ben cleared his throat and got up. “Yeah, well, it’s a sine qua non, working in New York, especially in my line of work. Being airy-fairy about where your next pay check’s coming from don’t pay the rent.”

    But it did! At least, it meant you didn’t have to pay any— Oh!

    “All right, what in Hell have I said?” demanded Ben grimly, as she just stood there like a stock with a kind of look of—well, frozen horror on her face.

    “Nothing! I mean, it all makes sense now! I can see what your life must be like!” she gasped.

    Could see and didn’t fancy it, apparently. Shit! He’d had this absurd vision of them billing and cooing in his apartment, devoid of all those shiny consumables, likewise devoid of Tracy— It hadn’t been deliberate, at all. What a fool. “Come on, better get you home,” he said glumly.

    Isabella followed him over to the door obediently. “Didn’t—didn’t you say we might go for a little drive, though, Ben?” she faltered. The picture in his mind had been quite clear, the two of them driving along a road together, away from their relatives’ homes, and looking at a frosty field.

    “Uh—yeah. Well, if you’d like to see the Heath in winter? It’ll be real frosty, mind.”

    Isabella nodded hard. “I’d really love to, Ben!”

    Ben began to get that toasty feeling in his toes again. “Okay, sure we can do that!”

    He helped her into her coat, now beginning to feel very warm all over, and took her back to the car, unaware that his face now wore a wide, pleased, and very naïve grin.

    “I guess it went okay,” Jessica admitted cautiously to her helpmeet, as he collapsed heavily into his big chair with a whisky.

    Bob grunted. “Where is he now?”

    “He had an appointment this afternoon. He must be stuck in town.”

    “You didn’t let him take the car, did you?” he said in alarm.

    “No, he rang for a taxi. He reckoned he was going to take one back. I did try to warn him that at this time of year they’re like hens’ teeth in the late afternoon—”

    Bob sniffed. “Yeah. Can’t be told. He actually say anything about this date?”

    “It was only a coffee, hon’,” she replied on a weak note.

    “And?”

    “Well, he said she’s a real bright girl.”

    “That it?”

    “Well, more or less. He did seem keen...”

    Bob sighed. “Okay, you’ve changed your mind.”

    “No, uh, the thing is, she’s so sweet, I wouldn’t want her to get hurt. I mean, he is very attractive to women, you know.”

    Bob grunted.

    “If you must know, he gave me a dissertation on sensible career plans for young women with qualifications in, uh, maths and philosophy, I think. And then went on to explain what a sensible career plan bloody Tracy’s got!”

    “Ouch.” After a moment he added mildly: “You said bloody.”

    “Okay, it’s catching!” she snapped.

    Bob stared into space for a while. He tried sipping the whisky but still inspiration didn’t strike.

    “Well, say something, Bob!”

    “I can’t think of anything to say. I mean, I agree she’s very sweet. Do you honestly think that, best-case scenario and they do get together, that she’d be right for him?”

    Jessica looked defiant—actually, that look on her mug was exactly like Damian maintaining there was so a fairy at the bottom of the garden, Bob registered drily.

    “Yes, I’m convinced she’s just what he needs! That Tracy’s turning him all dry and sour, Bob!”

    Er... Well, he didn’t strike you as easy-going, these days, no. Whereas pre-Tracy he’d been—well, much more casual, really, both in his manner and in his approach to life: more inclined to let things wash over him and not take everything so seriously. No bloody Armani jackets, either. True, since then his career had taken off, he'd needed to concentrate on work, but... He could be dry as Hell, that was certainly true!

    “See, you can’t say she isn’t!”

    He wouldn’t have dared to, as a matter of fact. “No. Um, look, darling, it’s no use expecting him to be exactly like the little boy you used to know, he’s a grown man, he’s got a very responsible jo— Oh, Hell.”

    “He was such a—merry—little—grig!” she sobbed.

    Bob hadn’t known the expression was in her vocabulary. Did Yanks say that? Well, possibly it was something else she’d picked up off yours truly.

    After he’d got her sat down, calmed down, and, having refused whisky with a shudder—good, all the more for him—sipping a sherry, some Californian muck Ben had donated, she admitted: “He did seem very cheerful when they got back.”

    “Well, that’s okay!”

    Jessica blew her nose. “I guess. He didn’t say he’d asked her out again, though.”

    Probably didn’t want his big sister to know all his business. Oops, she was waiting. “Think he’s a bit busy, darling, hasn’t he got end-to-end meetings lined up until Christmas Eve?”

    “And for Christmas Eve,” she said grimly.

    Yes, well, that was the American syndrome, wasn’t it? Though true, it was an extreme case, this year: Christmas Day fell on the Tuesday and almost everybody they knew was taking the Monday off work. –That reminded him. “Hey, did old Scrooge McLeod say you could have Monday off?”

    Jessica was a solicitor: she only worked part-time for McLeod & Partridge in the High Street, so as she could drop Damian at nursery school at a reasonable time and pick him up mid-afternoon, and as a result of this, bloody Scrooge McLeod took gross advantage of her, more or less blackmailing her into doing twice the amount of work she was paid for. Unfortunately there was no longer a Partridge in the firm to put a brake on the bugger. And he was the last of the McLeods—his grandfather had founded the firm but Scrooge had never produced offspring to carry on the line, the reason being, as all who had ever worked for him were agreed, he was too mean to shell out for (a) a ring, (b) housekeeping for two and (c) anything else a woman might need. Let alone the expense of raising kids and keeping them at school. Scrooge—see?

    “Yes, he had to, John put the hard word on him.”

    John Wainwright was the senior clerk and a very decent fellow, but he had six kids, the oldest two at university and the youngest aged seven, and a wife with a bad back, he needed the job, he couldn’t afford to stick his neck out more than once or twice a year.

    “Good on him. Well, that’s great, darling! Takes the pressure off you! Though Ben was quite willing to shout us all to—”

    No, all right, you couldn’t possibly let your very comfortably-off bachelor brother shout you to a lovely Christmas dinner at a posh hotel when the alternative was to spend three days on end slaving over a hot stove. “No,” he agreed peaceably. "Are you going to make that yummy pie with the nuts this year?”

    Jessica beamed. “Pecan pie! Yes, of course! Ben loves it, too!”

    You’d have to be mad not to. The nuts looked a bit like walnuts but they were much, much nicer. Sweetish? Hard to describe the taste of a nut, really. And they sat in this brown, gooey, soft, toffee-like substance... Oh, boy!

    Jessica then told him a lot at top speed about pastry, with reference to those little boat things of Dan’s last night, but Bob just put a listening expression on his face, finished his whisky and thought dreamily of that nut pie....

    “What?” he gasped, bolt upright.

    “Combine forces!” she beamed. “Yes! The very thing! I’m sure they’ve never had a traditional American Christmas, Bob!”

    Eh? Everybody had turkey, didn’t they, you could scarcely get more American than that, and if she was that keen she could always make a second miraculous gooey nut pie for them—

    “I’m sure they don’t celebrate Christmas properly, Bob: last year they went to his mother’s, don’t you remember?”

    “Uh....”

    “She lives somewhere real odd, somewhere tropical, I think. Well, Fairyland according to your son,” she noted drily.—Bob winced but didn’t point out that there had been two involved and she had wanted the baby.—“I asked Margot what they had, and she said cold salmon mousse.”

    “I like salmon m—”

    “Yes, but for Christmas dinner, Bob?”

    “If it was tropical, probably too hot for anything else.”

    “Oh. Well, yes, maybe—but everyone has air conditioning these days!”

    Comfortably off Americans did, yeah. Bob didn’t say anything. She cited the instance of Lucy and Gordon Everard’s relations in Australia. Okay, palatial pool, steaming hot Christmas din-dins in steaming hot Australian heat, completely air-conditioned throughout, ducted was the word. Oh, really? Fascinating.

    “Mm. But maybe they don’t want to celebrate— They’re not Jewish, are they?”

    That stopped her in her tracks for at least twenty seconds.

    No, she was sure they weren’t, because something about meat and milk together. Not at that dinner last night, there hadn’t b— Cream cheese in the whatsit that had been served alongside the duck! Oh, really? Fascinating.

    “Look, Jessica, they may not want to come. They could be embarrassed by having to refuse.”

    That did it, and she leapt on the phone and rang Margot straight away.

    “Well?” said Bob mildly.

    Jessica sat down slowly, looking sour. “Going to Norway.”

    Oh, really? Fascinating. “I see. Why Norway?”

    “Relations, or friends—no, maybe it’s both. Otto.”

    “Eh? Oh—Otto. Yeah, could be a Norwegian name, I dare say. There you are, then. Actually, isn’t it in Norway that they have that North Pole thing?”

    “What?”

    “No, I mean, it’s an ice cave or something, or maybe an ice hotel, and you can go there and see Santa!”

    “Oh, yeah,” said Jessica weakly.

    “They’ll be taking the kids. So much for not having a traditional Christmas,” he said unwisely.

    His helpmeet stood up, scowling, announced that he wasn’t funny, informed him that Sarah had rung to say that his son had poor little Jennifer convinced that Dan’s Aunty Pippa was a fairy as well, and stalked out.

    Bob, alas, had a terrific sniggering fit and then awarded himself a second whisky. The kid would grow out of it, but she couldn’t be told.

    “That sounds rather nice,” said Isabella wistfully as Margot explained what Jessica had rung about.

    “Oh, dear, would you like to go? We promised the kids they could visit Santa this year.”

    “Mm. I’ve quite often been to the Realm of Snow,” she said in a small voice.

    “Of course you have!” cried Margot warmly. “I’m so sorry, Isabella, I didn’t think! –Well, look, dear, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t spend Christmas Day with the Masterses!”

    Isabella brightened. “Really?”

    “Yes, of course! I’ll ring her back straight away.” Forthwith she did so. Jessica was thrilled.

    “Um, there is one thing,” said Isabella, once Margot had stopped congratulating herself. “I’ve never had a mortal Christmas. I mean, I don’t know what to do.”

    “Well—uh—nothing! I mean, just eat and enjoy yourself! –It’ll be turkey, have you ever had that?”

    “No. I had a ride on Timmy Turkey once, when I was little.”

    Margot gulped. “Yeah. Um, well, these are just mortal ones, farmed, you know. And there’ll be—well, all the trimmings! Roast potatoes, that sort of thing. And Jessica’s an American, I expect she’ll make something really special, pumpkin pie or something—yes, and come to think of it, they do something with marshmallows! Pity Dan can’t go, actually!” She laughed cheerfully.

    Isabella smiled a little. “Mm. All fairies love marshmallows.”

    “There you are, then! You’ll be all right!” She looked at her face. “Um, well, I dunno what else to tell you, Isabella. There’ll be a tree, of course, you know about those, don’t you? And presents...” Isabella was looking at her hopefully. “Um, you could read A Christmas Carol, but it is old-fashioned, I mean, it was back in the days when they had goose— I know! That lovely video with Patrick Stewart!”

    She rushed out and found it.

    They were all watching it, the kids as well, when Dan got home. –He did work, there was little point in living in the mortal realm if you didn’t. But it wasn’t exactly a normal job, though it looked like it on the surface. The firm of Prince & Associates had a suite of nice shiny offices in a sufficiently up-market downtown tower building, and advertised their problem-solving services in such areas as debt reduction, employment placement, and legal assistance. There were some genuine qualified solicitors and accountants on the payroll, true, but there were also quite a lot of elves and fairies. It was amazing how many successes Prince & Associates had in court and how many sobbing, debt-ridden persons from the bottom of the heap they managed to get out of debt and find jobs for! Likewise the desperate long-term unemployed job-seekers who came to them. The toy factory was an especially popular placement and so was the chocolate factory. Well, the mortal population had greatly expanded over the last couple of centuries, Santa Claus was very grateful to get some contributions, and everyone wanted chocolate of some kind in their stockings, didn’t they?

    “These are just actors!” he said immediately, with his pleasant chuckle.

    “Yes, we know, Dad,” agreed Ronny, his eyes glued to the screen. “It’s good, though.”

    Amiably Dan got himself a glass of sandalwood sherbet and settled down to watch the end of it with them. “Mortal men’s clothes were nicer in those days, I think,” he concluded.

    Margot gave a loud giggle. “You couldn’t get nicer than Patrick Stewart’s figure in that black suit, that’s for sure!”

    “Yes; I wonder if he’d like to join us?” he said thoughtfully.

    “Nuh— You don’t mean in the Fairy Realm?” gasped Margot.

    “Mm, ’course! He could be a changeling, why not? They’d never notice!”

    “If the fairy that takes his place can act without giggling they’d never notice, I think you mean,” she croaked. “If you’re thinking of him as a gift for your mother, think again.”

    “Father didn’t mind that last one,” he reminded her.

    “No, because he was half Patrick Stewart’s age—mortal age!—and after a while she got bored with him, and sent him back!” she snapped.

    “Was this that Tom mortal?” asked Isabella without much interest.

    “Yes,” agreed her sister-in-law. “He’s an actor, too.”

    “Oh, yes: Mother said he was pretty but brainless and not very good at—Ow!” she gasped, clutching her head and glaring at her sister-in-law. “I can hear you, Margot, don’t mind-shout! –S,E,X,” she finished.

    “Sex,” translated Ronny without interest. “Nah, Grandmother didn’t wanna keep him forever. Some of his films are good, though.” He jumped up and began demonstrating leaping off tall buildings with benefit of the sitting-room wall but his mother wailed: “Stop him, Dan! He's ruining the wallpaper!” and he was rapidly brought down to earth.

    “Ow,” he complained, scrambling up rubbing his bum.

    Margot was looking tearfully at the wallpaper so Dan kindly waved his hand and lo! It was as if the horrid torn bit had never been.

    “Well, dinner?” he said kindly.

    Margot looked guilty. “I tried doing that lovely thing of yours with the little green beans and the artichokes, darling—I mean, just the sauce and the vegetables. It looks okay, but I’ll never manage the nutballs.”

    “I keep telling you, just stick to your art, sweetheart,” he replied with his ravishing smile.

    As ever, three kids or not, Margot went weak at the knees when he smiled like that. “No, well, I’ve finished that last commission, I’m all drawn out.”

    “Goosey-goosey gander,” Petunia reminded her.

    “That’s not due till next year, she’s having a rest,” said Honeysuckle smartly.

    “Mm. Well, I’ve got some ideas for the goosey-goosey gander book, Petunia, darling,” said Margot, smiling at her, “but they’re just kind of simmering in my head.”

    “Ooh, yes! I can see them!” she cried.

    Margot winced. Of course she could.

    “Just don’t say that to any of the kids at school, Petunia,” Honeysuckle warned.

    “No! I’m not stupid!”

    “That’ll do,” said Dan, getting up. “If everyone’s very good and eats up their delicious vegetables I might do something very special for pudding!”

    And amidst the cries of “Ooh, what?” the family adjourned to wash hands, set the table without benefit of trays or anything, and just generally prepare for dinner.

    They’d left the video in the player. Isabella ejected it by hand, for the practice. That story had been very colourful and full of movement, with lots and lots of jolly people... Were mortal Christmases all like that? Oh, dear. What if she did all the wrong things and—and Ben decided she was an idiot after all?

    “I WARNED YOU!” came the voice.

    “Don’t, Father,” said Isabella wanly.

    Abruptly he appeared before her, magnificent wings a-quiver. “Come home!”

    “No,” she said, going very pink. “I haven’t really given it a fair chance, yet.”

    “Given him a fair chance, I think you mean.”

    Isabella was pinker than ever. “Um, him as well.”

    “You could use fairy du—”

    “No! I won’t use fairy dust on him, it’s no good unless he wants it for himself!”

    “Very well. –Bertie Beetle has advised me to say,” he said, horribly dry, “that listening meekly to their interminable stories about themselves and their work and feeding them on crème caramel is an infallible recipe for success with mortal men.”

    Isabella bit her lip. “It’s very kind of him, and please thank him for me, but I won't use spells on Ben, Father, it’d be cheating, the same as using fairy dust.”

    “Not exactly the same, in that your spells aren’t infallible,” her father drawled, looking down his nose. Help! He looked just like Ben not fitting in at the dinner party!

    “Possibly part of the appeal,” Oberon concluded in a very mild tone. “But it’s not a spell, it’s just what works with mortal men, apparently.” He paused. “According to Bertie Beetle.”

    “Ye-es... Ben was very pleased when I listened to all that awful stuff about his job...” She stuck her chin out. “All right, I’ll keep on trying!”

    “Trying, with crème caramel. Do that,” he drawled, vanishing.

    Dan came in, looking cautious. “I can teach you crème caramel, it’s not hard.”

    “Thanks, Daniello,” she said weakly.

    “He does say ‘almost very nearly’, like us: that's a sign he’s compatible, Isabella!”

    Yes, but was it an infallible sign? Fingers crossed!

Next chapter:

https://isabelladowntoearth-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/farthest-north.html