By six o’clock the lasagne was ready to go into the oven. Lizzy had made two long loaves of garlic bread as well, laden with butter and fresh parsley. She wrapped them in foil ready to pop in at the last minute.
She was just congratulating herself once again when her phone rang. It was Hattie.
‘Mum! Kiki says we can go back to hers – they’re going carol singing in their lane. Meg says she’ll drop me back after. But there’s going to be loads of really cool people there. Do you mind?’
‘Oh,’ said Lizzy. She knew what that meant. Kiki lived in a ritzy neighbourhood alongside a handful of minor pop stars and local footballers. Hattie was obviously hoping to hang out with the great and the glamorous. She couldn’t, just couldn’t, tell her to come home. She didn’t want to stand in the way of her daughter’s fun.
‘No problem,’ she said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. ‘The others will be back in a bit.’
‘Love you, Mumma. I’ll text if I see someone cool.’ Hattie rang off. Lizzy could picture her face, alive with the excitement and anticipation of hobnobbing with the stars. The teenage equivalent of a toddler’s excitement at their stocking. It made her feel unspeakably sad.
Never mind, she thought. She’d do the tree with Simon and Luke, and maybe Hattie would be back in time to put the angel on the top – Lizzy was pretty sure Luke had done it last year.
By seven, neither Luke nor Simon had come home. Lizzy frowned and picked up her phone. She’d been so busy singing and dancing around the kitchen to George Michael, she’d missed a text from Simon.
Been dragged out for a drink by the girls in the office. Would be bad form to refuse. I’ll escape as soon as I can. X
She knew, if she phoned him, that he would come straight away. But who wanted to beg? She certainly didn’t. She wanted him to be here because he wanted to be, because it mattered. Because he’d remembered. But he didn’t seem able to remember anything important. Or maybe he was afraid to come home and face the music? She didn’t think so. She wasn’t a scary wife. Or a scary mum.
Though she was starting to feel like one. She could feel resentment beginning to build up. She wasn’t scary, but she wasn’t demanding either, so she thought the least they could do was respect the one evening she’d asked of them.
She was not going to cry. She swallowed down a lump, then dialled Luke.
‘Hey, Ma.’ She could hear pounding bass, but that didn’t help her narrow down where he was.
‘Just wondered what time you were coming home?’ She did her best to keep even a hint of accusation out of her voice. She wasn’t going to mention him forgetting to bring down the boxes.
‘Oh shit. Um …’ She could picture Luke’s panic, visualise him scratching his head under his beanie, looking round at his mates. ‘What time do you want me? I’m at Hal’s. We’re doing all our Insta stuff so we can load it up over Christmas.’
She fought down the urge to scream at him that he should be at home. That he’d promised, only that morning. That he was rude and inconsiderate, and how could a stupid Instagram account featuring stupid baby skateboards be more important than his own family, his own mother?
But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘The others aren’t back. Sort your Instagram out.’
‘You sure?’ He had that uncertain tone that teenage boys used when they weren’t entirely sure if their mums were being sarcastic. Because deep down they still cared for and were still scared of their mums, but it didn’t mean they wouldn’t push it to get what they wanted. ‘You’re really sure?’
He wanted her blessing. She sighed.
‘Totally sure.’
‘Love you, Mumma.’ There it was again: the twins’ stock phrase usually warmed her heart, but now it set her teeth on edge.
She knew he’d forget her as soon as he hung up. Knew his attention would be diverted by whatever he was doing with his mates. Knew that he hadn’t given doing the Christmas tree a second’s thought. A wave of desolation hit her.
Desperation at the doctor’s. Humiliation in the changing room. Degradation in the street. And now desertion. And no one to listen. No one to pour her a glass of wine or give her a hug or tell her she was important.
She looked inside the oven at the lasagne. It was perfectly golden, and around the edges she could see the sauce bubbling up. It needed eating now, this minute. If she turned the oven off and left it, it would deflate, the cheese would turn from gold to brown and the lasagne sheets would be leathery. She turned the knob anyway, then pulled the dish out and slammed it on the kitchen table.
She felt anger bubble up inside her, as molten as the melted cheese. How could they all do this? They knew how much this meant to her. Didn’t they? Maybe she hadn’t voiced it loudly enough. How much she loved welcoming Christmas into the house, with the people she loved best, watching the branches of the tree turn from bare to laden, the tinsel and the baubles catching the light. The scent of apple logs crackling in the grate, mingling with eucalyptus, cloves and cinnamon.
What was she supposed to do? Issue a written invitation?
Bugger them. Bugger them all. If they didn’t need her or care about her, then she didn’t need or care about them.
She had done her very best to behave well, to swallow her disappointment, to bend to Amanda’s last-minute changes, to welcome her mother-in-law despite her misgivings.
Bloody Amanda. How on earth did she still have such control over their marriage? Amanda and Simon had divorced over twenty years ago, yet somehow she managed to have an influence on what went on in their daily lives. Simon still seemed to dance to her tune and not Lizzy’s.
Thank goodness the children were older now. When they had all been smaller, it had been a constant battle. Amanda would change the arrangements to suit herself. She would expect Simon to drop everything in order to have Mo and Lexi when something came up she wanted to do. Yet she would also cancel their weekends with him at the last minute or be difficult about timings, so Simon and Lizzy could never plan anything. Lizzy tried to be patient, because the important thing was for Mo and Lexi to feel secure and loved and wanted, but when Hattie and Luke came along it made it very difficult to be as flexible and relaxed about arrangements. Yet somehow Amanda always managed to make Lizzy feel as if she was the unreasonable one, the demanding one. It simply wasn’t worth putting up a fight, so she always capitulated.
And it was still happening, even now! Everyone was supposed to change their Christmas plans to suit Amanda, who would be swanning off to Val-d’Isère with her outsize Chanel sunglasses and nary a thought for anyone else. Well, Lizzy wasn’t cooperating any more.
She remembered her adolescent fury at some imagined slight when she was thirteen. Preparing to run away, thinking how sorry they would all be. This was a similar feeling: the same indignation and self-pity. But underlying it was a desperate suspicion that she didn’t matter. That if she ran away, no one would care. That they might, in fact, heave a sigh of relief.
They’d manage without her. They could carry on their social lives, not have to worry about her timetable, sort out their own food as and when they wanted it. They might miss her for a nanosecond, the first time they ran out of loo roll or if she wasn’t in to sign for their packages or if they wanted a lift somewhere, but they’d soon find a way to get round it.
She paced round the kitchen, nibbling her thumbnail. Every time she looked at the lasagne, she grew more indignant. Every time she thought about Cynthia sweeping in through the front door, she shuddered. Every time she recalled how Simon had rolled over and given in to Amanda, she ground her teeth with rage.
She grabbed her copy of Delia Smith’s Christmas off the bookshelf, leafed through it until she found the Christmas Day cooking schedule, then laid it on the kitchen table, marking it with a folded copy of the Ocado order due to ar
rive the next day.
She tore a piece of paper out of a notebook. It was hard not to write something self-pitying and passive aggressive, so she went for matter-of-fact.
Hi everyone. I’ve decided to go away for a few day and have some me-time. Everything you need for the perfect Christmas is right here. Delia is foolproof so just follow the instructions. All the presents are in my wardrobe and will need wrapping – Sellotape and scissors in kitchen drawer. Check the fairy lights before you put them on the tree.
Love mum (Lizzy) xxxxxx
Then she went upstairs and started to pack.
Half an hour later, stepping out into the cold air, she still couldn’t believe what she was doing as she trundled her suitcase to the car. She opened the boot and flung it in, stuffing a tote bag full of books in next to it.
No one had called her to see if she was all right or tell her they were on their way home. They didn’t have a conscience. They didn’t bloody care. But they’d expect everything to be just as it always was: just as it had been for the past eighteen years, from the satsuma in the toe of their stocking to the tipsy trifle she made on Boxing Day. Well, it was all there ready to be sorted if they wanted it. Ocado was bringing the satsumas and the sherry and the trifle sponges. All that would be missing was Lizzy.
She started the engine, checking the petrol gauge. Three-quarters of a tank was plenty.
Lizzy’s car ate up the miles as she hit the motorway a quarter of an hour later. There was something reassuring about the journey. She had done it so many times in the past, although not for a long time – Simon liked the sun, so they always headed to the airport on holiday – but there was a rhythm to it she hadn’t forgotten. Even now, as she joined the M5 and saw the sign for the South West, she felt the same flutter of anticipation she had felt at sixteen. Then it had meant summer and sunshine and the promise of freedom. Madonna and Hawaiian Tropic and bottles of Bud. White denim cut-off shorts with cowboy boots. Her and Caroline in the back of Caroline’s mum’s Volvo, both trying to be cool, but also trying to be convincingly well-behaved and responsible and adult so she might leave them at the beach hut unchaperoned for a few days …
Now it meant … what? She wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, the butterflies were there. She realised she hadn’t felt them for years. Having butterflies was one of those things you grew out of without noticing: that fizzy warmth in your tummy you got the night before something exciting that stopped you from eating. She had missed the feeling. Anticipation was a big part of any adventure.
And that’s what this was. Her adventure. Her chance to change things. It was the first time she had felt anything positive for a while: the butterflies had shoved aside the sense of unease she’d had for the past few weeks. She felt defiant and elated and turned up the radio.
Chris Rea was singing ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ and she thought: ha! ‘Running Away from Christmas’ more like. She hummed along with her new lyrics, keeping her eye on the speedometer, responsible even in her solo Thelma and Louise moment. Her Honda didn’t care for going much over seventy anyway, but she didn’t want a speeding ticket.
Running away wasn’t going to change who wielded the power in the long run. That was always going to be the person who had no conscience and no consideration for anyone else. But at least for the next few days, Christmas was going to be on her terms. She was going to please herself and no one else, from the minute she woke up. She would eat what she wanted when she wanted, read what she wanted, watch what she wanted, sleep when she wanted … And maybe the penny would drop with everyone else that she was an actual person.
She knew where she was going. Everything she needed would be there. She could see Caroline’s scrawl in her Christmas card: Poor Richard has done his knee in so no coming home for us this year. We were hoping he might recover but he can’t face the flight. So it will be 30 degrees and a poolside lunch for us. I know that sounds luxury but what I wouldn’t give for a snowflake and a roaring log fire … Anyway, feel free to use the hut any time you like. I’d rather somebody got the use of it.
It would be there, the key. She could feel it now, heavy and cold. The lock would be a little stiff. That was the salt. But the door would open eventually, though it might take a little push of encouragement. She hadn’t been there for a very long time. She hadn’t needed to. But she did now.
10
Just before midnight, Lizzy sang along to Jona Lewie as her car snaked down the steep hill towards Everdene.
‘Ba da ba da bam bam, ba da ba da bam …’ That was it. She was going to have ‘Stop the Cavalry’ on the brain for the rest of the night now. She could never get rid of it once she’d heard it. Did she wish she was at home for Christmas?
No, she thought, remembering standing by the bare tree like a spare part, waiting for someone to turn up. Waiting for one single member of her family – she didn’t mind which – to acknowledge her existence.
Everything was shrouded in darkness. Even the street lights had gone off as she drove down the esplanade. Most of the lights in the houses had gone out too. She shivered slightly: she had the heater on, but she could feel the wind buffet the side of the car as it hit her from across the water she knew was there but couldn’t see. All there was in front of her was an expanse of sky and sea, too dark to see the join.
She swallowed. She realised she had never been to Everdene in winter. She had always known it shrouded in the soft blanket of a pale-grey summer night, not this hard blackness.
She pulled into the car park next to the beach. She turned off the engine and felt a frisson of fear. In her haste she had completely forgotten to bring a torch. What an idiot. Maybe she should sleep in the car and wait until morning? No, she would freeze. It wasn’t that far; she knew where she was going. In ten minutes’ time she could be in the warm.
She had no alternative now, she realised. There wouldn’t be anywhere else to stay in Everdene. No cosy little seaside hotel she could stroll into – they were all shut for the winter.
She tugged her car keys out of the ignition, picked up her handbag and rummaged about in it for her phone, remembering it had a torch – not a very powerful one, but it might help a little. As she burrowed about amongst the pens and combs and packets of Polos, she couldn’t put her hand on it. Then she realised she must have left it plugged in on the side in the kitchen. She hadn’t put it in her bag before she left.
She was in the middle of nowhere, in the pitch dark, without a phone, and no one knew where she was.
Suddenly her impulsiveness felt like foolishness. The adventure had lost its allure. Panic wriggled inside her. What wouldn’t she give to be snuggled up at home in her own bed?
Come on, she told herself. Don’t bottle it now. You’re not afraid of the dark.
She slid out of the car. The wind sliced through her, taking her breath away, as she ran round to the boot and took her case out. Maybe she should just take out her night things? It would be difficult to lug her case across the sand. She opened it swiftly and groped about for her sponge bag and her pyjamas, stuffing them into her handbag. The wind was whipping at her hair and she pulled the hood of her jacket up, threw the suitcase back in and slammed the boot shut.
She set off across the car park. She could hear the waves pounding the beach, determined and repetitive, like a school bully punching a hapless new boy. She felt very small and very alone. This was foolhardy. The beach huts loomed before her, shadowy and silent and unhelpful. There were more of them than she remembered, and she feared she wouldn’t be able to find her way. She trudged on, head down, as the wind whistled between them. Twelve, thirteen … she would know it as soon as she saw it. Only a few more moments and she’d be able to slip inside and get warm.
At last! She saw the familiar balustrade that marked the edge of the veranda. Straight away she was taken back: two teenage girls sitting in their bikinis and cowboy hats, sipping lukewarm
bottles of Budweiser in the early evening sunshine, scanning the beach for talent.
She ran round the back of the hut to the corner where she knew the key was buried. Her fingers burrowed in the cold, damp sand until she found the tin. She pulled it open with freezing fingers.
Empty.
She hadn’t for a moment thought it wouldn’t be there. It was always there. It had been for decades. She stood for a moment, staring down at the empty tin. How could she have been so stupid?
She went back round to the front of the hut, up the steps, and tried the door, just in case. Of course, it was locked. She leaned her head against it and groaned. She remembered with a sick lurch that she had run the petrol tank to nearly empty. The indicator had shown she had thirty miles left when she’d turned off the main road. At the time she had thought it was plenty to get where she wanted to go: she could fill up the next day. Right now, there wouldn’t be a petrol station open for miles. Fifty, probably.
She swallowed down a sob. She’d be found frozen to death the next morning, being pecked by seagulls. Yet again she thought of her bed, the lovely cosy million-tog duvet she’d bought when they did the makeover last summer. Why on earth had she stormed out? Amanda was the drama queen, not calm, placid Lizzy.
Suddenly she found herself bathed in a pool of light from the beach hut window. Lizzy gave a little scream and stepped back, her heart pounding, as the door swung open.
Standing there was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen, his skin like burnished gold in the lamplight, his hair a tangled halo of dreadlocks, his eyes light green and startled.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, his voice husky and gentle.
‘Sorry. You made me jump,’ said Lizzy, her hand on her pounding heart. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.’
Christmas at the Beach Hut Page 6
