‘Think you should keep it in,’ he slurred, but he didn’t mean it. Thank God.
Christmas dinner with butt plug firmly ensconced would not have been fun. It was bad enough having to shift around on my seat to find the least bruised spot to perch on while I helped myself to stuffing and bread sauce. I usually wore a little black dress on Christmas Day, but this time I stuck to a safe trousers-and-sparkly-top combo. Didn’t want any accidental up-the-skirt eyefuls.
Dan had a knowing glint in his eye throughout the meal. He kept asking me if I was sitting comfortably, the git. Luckily, everyone else was oblivious. Everyone, that is, except Weird Great-Uncle Colin, who, despite his tendency to fall asleep halfway through dinner, is like an innuendo-seeking missile.
‘Still working with your difficult young ’uns, are you, Pip?’ he asked, necking back his third sherry.
‘That’s right,’ I confirmed. ‘They’re not all difficult, you know. Most of them want to live good lives. They just don’t know how.’
‘Hmm, well, I know what I’d do with ’em,’ he said. ‘Bring back the birch. Thrash the lot of ’em. That’d put all the drugs and gangs nonsense out of their heads all right.’
I shook my head, preparing my defence, but Dan nipped in before me.
‘Really, Colin?’ he asked, as if hanging on the man’s every word. ‘You think corporal punishment is effective?’
I kicked him under the table. In the process, a particularly painful area of my bottom made contact with the chair frame. Ouch.
‘I know so,’ he said. ‘Works wonders. All those ne’er-do-wells you must pick up every day of the week for … throwing stones and painting on walls. Don’t you wish you could just give ’em a good hiding instead of a caution? What bloody good’s a caution, eh? You’ve been a bad boy, don’t do it again. They do do it again. Don’t they? Eh?’
‘Many of them do, yes,’ admitted Dan. ‘And it is frustrating to see people given ASBOs which they break time and again, with no negative consequences for them. All the same, I wouldn’t want to go back to hanging and flogging. Not for kids.’
At ‘not for kids’, Uncle Colin’s ears pricked up and I felt a wave of heat plunge from my cheeks downwards. Shut up, Dan.
‘No? So who would you hang and flog then, if not kids?’
I pushed my plate away.
‘Blimey, I’m absolutely stuffed,’ I said. ‘Better take a break before pudding.’
‘I wouldn’t hang anyone,’ said Dan. He looked at me, lip curving upwards.
‘I’ll take out the empty plates, shall I?’
It was a relief to stand up, and even more of a relief to get out of the room and into the still of the kitchen.
Dan came in a few minutes later and stood behind me, his hands clasped around my waist, while I dealt with the leftovers.
‘Awkward,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘I thought you were going to give the game away then,’ I whispered.
‘Game? Is it a game?’
I looked up at him, at his earnest brow and his serious eyes. It was the first Christmas Day ever without a stress-related tiff.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not a game.’
And it isn’t.