Free Someone to Watch Over Me by Madeleine Reiss

forgotten they liked to do.
    â€˜Max?’ said Molly, while Max squirmed with delight at the sight of Will Ferrell pouring sweets and maple syrup over his plate of spaghetti. ‘What do you write in your day book at school?’
    â€˜Just what we’ve been doing,’ said Max absently, his attention focused on the screen.
    â€˜Do you always write what has really happened?’ asked Molly.
    â€˜Sometimes, when I can’t think of what to write, Charlie tells me,’ said Max, cracking up at the sight of the giant elf eating balls of cotton wool as if they were candyfloss.

Chapter Eleven
    Oliver’s house was full and noisy when Carrie finally made it across the road. The front door was slightly ajar, so she went in without knocking. Although it had taken an effort of will to resist the comfortable sofa and the Friday night pyjamas that had become her habit, she had chosen her clothes with care. She wore a black lace dress with a high neck and tight sleeves, some large gold hoop earrings and the pair of burgundy velvet Max Mara heels that she had bought for six pounds at the Red Cross shop. Her hair was in a loose knot held together with a long gold pin. Oliver had clearly gone to town on the decorations – the halls were not so much decked in holly, but submerged under it – and there was a smell of warm wax and slightly overcooked mince pies.
    With a quick glance, Carrie ascertained that both the Roses and the Foxtons had showed up, and were sitting glowering at each other from the opposite sides of the room. Mrs Evans, who was in a permanent state of anxiety about everything from the workings of the council to the workings of her innards, was examining the food very closely. Carrie saw her sniff her crostini before putting it cautiously to her mouth. Emily Foxton, wearing a sequinned dress so small it would have fitted a Chihuahua, was sitting on the arm of the sofa staring at Oliver – or at least she looked as if she was staring at him; it was hard to tell since her eyes were obscured under enormous false eyelashes. The family at number fourteen had brought ALL their children, even the one that still crawled, and she saw with dread that a few of them were clutching instruments. Carrie was very grateful that she only heard the strains of the harp, the tinkle of the piano and the crash of cymbals on her way past the house. She thought they must be a grave aggravation to the people who lived in numbers 12 and 16. Mrs Musical Family spent her time trying to either park or extricate her Musical Prodigy Carrier from Almond Street. She had the flushed, unmade-up face and the wide hips of a low maintenance woman. One that could be heard saying with a mixture of pride and defiance:
    â€˜I
never
go shopping. I have had this same handbag for thirty-two years.’
    Mr Musical Family had the hunted look of a man who yearned for a glimpse of a black stocking and who suffered from extreme tinnitus. The children were pale and pinched after too many hours spent bent over music stands in airless rooms.
    Oliver caught sight of Carrie and immediately came over.
    â€˜You’re here. I thought maybe you had changed your mind. Have you got a drink?’
    He steered her over to the table and ladled out a generous slug of mulled wine. He was wearing a white shirt tucked into dark trousers and his hair was more groomed than it usually was, combed back from his face and ending in a slight curl over the collar of his shirt. His fingers touched Carrie’s as he passed her the glass of wine, and Carrie suspected that the contact was not accidental.
    To her surprise, Carrie found she quite enjoyed meeting and talking to people that she had previously only seen walking past her house or getting in and out of their cars. From time to time as she chatted with her neighbours, she found herself looking at Oliver as he moved round the room and was surprised by the effort he was putting into making everyone