by Sue Margolis
“Archie,” Stephanie cried. “Stop that. It’s naughty. He’s only little.”
She scooped Jake up and sat him on her lap, cuddling him and rubbing his head.
“Steph,” Lizzie said, “I tend not to raise my voice or use words like naughty with the boys. It can give them a negative self-image as well as make them reluctant to express their inner frustrations.”
“God,” Cass said, “you sound like you’ve swallowed a bloomin’ psychology book.”
“Maybe I have, sort of. This kids’ shrink came to give a talk to the mums of the children in the reception class at the boys’ school. She really made sense—particularly about the effects of food additives on children’s brains.”
Lizzie turned back to the twins. “Now then, boys, that wasn’t very nice, was it? Say sorry to Jake.” The boys mumbled their sorries. “So, boys, are you feeling a bit tired? Perhaps you’d like to go up to your bedroom and have some time out. You could lie on your beds and listen to some nice music. I bet Jake’s never heard The Nutcracker. Did you tell Stephanie and Cass we’re all going to see it after Christmas?”
“Thunderbirds video! Thunderbirds video!”
“Tun’birds,” Jake echoed, climbing off Stephanie’s lap.
“Dom bought the twins biscuits when they went out shopping this morning. I keep telling him that sugar and additives make them hyper, but he never listens.” Lizzie paused. “All right, Thunderbirds, but only for twenty minutes.”
“Yeah-yeah. Yeah-yeah.” The twins ran into the living room, with Jake in pursuit. Lizzie followed them.
“Additives, my arse,” Cass muttered. “They’re just brats. I’d clout them if they were mine.”
“Believe me, they are not brats.” Stephanie smiled. “Correction. They are brats, but all the kids round here are the same. Proper discipline is so five decades ago.”
“But Lizzie’s just rewarded their bad behavior.”
“I know, but it’s Christmas, she has them on her own practically all the time because her husband’s never here and she’s knackered. You or I would do the same.”
“God, I never want to be a mother. Never ever.” She reached into her bag and took out a packet of weed and some cigarette papers.
“Cass!” Lizzie cried, coming back into the room. “There are children. Please.”
“It was for them. I thought it might calm them down.” Now Lizzie looked not only harassed, she looked horrified, too. “Lizzie, calm down. It’s a joke.” She put the weed back in her bag. “So, Steph, have you told Lizzie about Frank?”
“Who’s Frank?” Lizzie said.
“The actor, Frank Waterman. Fancies Steph.”
“Gawd. How many more times? He does not fancy me.”
“Does, does, does and does.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Lizzie said. “The Frank Waterman?”
Cass brought Lizzie up to speed.
“He does not bloody fancy me,” Stephanie said again. “He’s engaged to Anoushka Holland. You should see her. She’s totally stunning. And rich. They’re buying a house in Gloucestershire. Or they may have said they’re buying the whole of Gloucestershire.”
“God,” Lizzie said, “didn’t I read she’s just been bought out by Theo Fennell for eleven million quid?”
“Eleven point five, actually,” Stephanie replied.
“OK, OK,” Cass broke in. “This is way off the point. The point is, if he doesn’t fancy you, why did he turn up at the Blues Café less than forty-eight hours after bumping into you in Debenhams?” Stephanie shrugged. “It’s simple. He’s got the hots for you.”
“So, do you fancy him back?” Lizzie asked.
“Oh, I dunno. I did once. Big-time. But it’s all academic. When he showed up at the Blues Café, he had no idea I would even be there. You’re both reading far too much into this. We like the same kind of music, that’s all.”
“And speaking of music,” Cass went on, “have you heard anything from those agents you wrote to?”
Stephanie shook her head.
“Oh, well, it’s Christmas,” Lizzie said. “Everything shuts down from now until the new year. You’ll hear something in January, just you wait.”
Stephanie had planned to work at Debenhams right up to Christmas Eve, but in the end she realized she had too much to do, since Christmas Day had now turned into more of a full-scale production than ever. In the beginning it was going to be just her and Jake, Estelle and Harry. Then Pam at The Haven came down with bronchitis and canceled the traditional Christmas Day buffet and old-time dancing. So Lilly was coming to Stephanie’s, as well. Then, three days before Christmas, Dom rang Lizzie to say he was stranded in Japan because Mr. Hashimoto of Matsushita—or it may have been Mr. Matsushita of Hashimoto—had had a mild stroke on the golf range. He wouldn’t now be back until the twenty-seventh.
“Right, then you’re coming to my place, no arguments,” Stephanie had said to Lizzie, realizing afterward how much like Estelle she must have sounded.
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, silly. I couldn’t bear the thought of the three of you on your own.”
“OK. Don’t worry about the pudding or the cake. I did mine weeks ago. They’ll be my contribution. Ooh, and I’ll do some mulled wine, as well.”
“You’ve got a deal. Mull away.”
The day after the conversation with Lizzie, Cass rang to say she had meant to spend Christmas with her parents, but was having second thoughts.
“It’s not so bad when it’s just them,” she explained, “but this year my sisters will be there. I know exactly how it will be. They’ll be in the kitchen, peeling spuds in their M&S cashmere polo necks, outimpressing each other with their home improvements. Their husbands will be in the living room, skulking round each other like fighting cocks, trying to work out who got the bigger bonus. The kids will be upstairs killing each other. About twelve o’clock, my dad’s Rotary crowd will arrive for drinks. As I pass round the ham and cheese spirals, a couple of old gits in blazers will grope me and the women will want to know if I’ve ‘found a nice young man yet.’ I’ll wind them up by saying ‘No, a nice young woman, actually.’ My mum will overhear this and it will all end in one of her lectures in the downstairs loo, about my uncouth sense of humor and how Eddie Izzard and his ilk may be popular among the Islington set, but that kind of thing just isn’t acceptable in Tiverton. So,” she finished, “I was wondering if I could come to you instead.”
“More the merrier,” Stephanie had said, not giving a thought to how much extra work would be involved.
Debenhams was fine about her finishing a few days early, since the woman who stood in for her on Sundays was desperate for extra cash and only too happy to do some overtime.
Estelle and Harry had Jake all day on Christmas Eve. Stephanie hit Waitrose as it opened at eight o’clock. Even then, she queued for twenty minutes to get into the parking lot. By half past eight she was wandering round the supermarket feeling like a worm in a tin of fisherman’s bait. Even though she had a list, there were so many people, so much confusion, that she lost track of what she wanted, why she was there and very nearly who she was.
She got home just after eleven. She’d remembered the hand-cooked crisps and pistachios, the booze, the cranberries to make fresh sauce, the red cabbage, the sweet potatoes (which she would roast around the meat so that they ended up all crispy and caramelized and gloriously soft in the middle), the brandy butter, the veggies, the gravlax for the hors d’oeuvres, and the mini pizzas, because the kids wouldn’t eat gravlax. It wasn’t until she sensed there was more space in the fridge than there should have been that the penny dropped and she realized that she’d forgotten the turkey. How it was possible to go out food shopping on Christmas Eve and forget the turkey, she had no idea, but somehow she had managed it. She decided to walk to the organic butcher around the corner. She queued for another twenty minutes.
“Right, what name is it?” the butcher said, barely looking up from his orde
r book.
“Ah. I didn’t actually order a turkey.”
“Sorry. If you didn’t order one, I can’t help you.”
“So, there’s no chance you’ve got one, you know, lying around.”
Sharp intake of breath from butcher. “You have to be joking.”
Stephanie, whose blood sugar was already low because she hadn’t eaten breakfast, could feel herself about to burst into tears. The butcher clearly saw her distress. “What size were you looking for?”
“Dunno. Fifteen pounds?”
“Look, bear with me. I’ll see what I’ve got in the back.”
A few minutes later he came back with a bird. He placed it on the electronic scale.
“That’s eighty-five pounds.”
“Oh, no, I don’t want anything nearly as big as that. It wouldn’t fit in my oven.”
“No. I mean eighty-five pounds in money.”
“What, for a turkey?”
“It’s organic.”
“It should be blinkin’ orgasmic for that price.”
“That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.” She was aware of irritable murmurings from the women behind her in the queue. “OK, I’ll take it.”
She handed over her credit card and prayed it wouldn’t be declined.
About four o’clock she popped in to have a quick cuppa with Mrs. M. She was back home, her daughter Geraldine looking after her.
“Merry Christmas,” Stephanie said, handing her the parcel she’d wrapped in shiny silver paper and tied with fuchsia ribbon. Mrs. M. undid it with extreme care. “Shame to ruin such lovely paper.” Inside was a pretty powder-blue sweater from Marks.
“Oh, now, that’s really modern,” Mrs. M. said, admiring the slash neck and three-quarter-length sleeves. “I love it, darlin’. I really do. Makes such a change from all the fawn cardigans my kids get me.” Of course, she hadn’t been able to buy presents for anybody and was feeling really guilty. “Will you tell Jakey I love him and that I’ll make it up to him as soon as I can?” Stephanie told her to stop worrying and that Jake sent her a big kiss.
“I’ll be back to work in no time, you know. Once I’ve had my hip replacement operation I’ll be sprinting like a teenager.” A flicker of pain crossed Mrs. M.’s face.
Stephanie leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I know you will, Mrs. M. I know you will.”
She’d planned to let Jake stay up late. They would snuggle up on the sofa listening to carols, while the Christmas tree lights twinkled and the flames danced in the grate. Atmosphere-wise, she was going for a Perry Como Christmas special. Instead, Jake fell asleep in the car on the way home from her parents’ and didn’t even wake up when she carried him into the house.
“Come on, Jakey, don’t you fancy some hot chocolate and marshmallows? And we haven’t put out mince pies and sherry for Santa and the reindeer.”
“Want lay-a-bel.” She carried him upstairs, put a nappy on him—he still needed them at night—and then covered him with the duvet and placed his label in his hand. “Singsing,” he mumbled, zizzing the label. “Singsing.”
“Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, had a very shiny nose …”
“No-no. Tomatoes one.”
“But that’s not a Christmas song, Jake.”
“Singsing. Singsing.”
“I went to the circus with my Uncle Jim Somebody threw a tomato at him Tomatoes are soft when they come in their skin But this one half killed him It came in a tin.”
He woke about seven the next morning and came charging into her bedroom.
“Presents today?” he said. He looked the epitome of cute, standing there: eyes wide, one side of his face covered in pillow marks.
“Yes, sweetie. Presents today.”
She thought he might ask if Albert was coming, but he didn’t. She’d told him he couldn’t make it and would come as soon as he could. Jake had seemed happy with that. Stephanie wasn’t too happy with Albert, though. Not only wasn’t he coming, the presents he’d promised to send by special courier for Jake hadn’t turned up.
Usually he would come into her bed for a cuddle, but this morning he was tugging her duvet, desperate for her to get up so they could go downstairs.
He ripped the paper off all the books, puzzles and games, like some kind of wild animal. As she’d hoped, the present he loved most was the Bob the Builder tool belt. Their mutual joy was shattered, however, by the day’s first tantrum.
Estelle and Harry had sent him a wading pool (for Hanukkah, rather than Christmas, but Stephanie had kept it until today for him to open). Why they hadn’t come up with something slightly less season specific, Stephanie had no idea. She did her best to explain to Jake that they would have to put it away until the summer, but he could see no earthly reason why Stephanie shouldn’t fill it with water there and then, so that he could splash around in the living room. In the end, unable to fight or reason with his screams and tears any longer, she gave in.
She covered the carpet in bath towels, blew up the pool and began carting saucepans of warm water from the kitchen into the living room. This was accompanied by Jake stripping off his clothes, dancing and clapping like a leprechaun on Ecstasy. When it contained perhaps an inch of water, she added some bath bubbles. Jake splashed around for a few minutes, maybe. Then he sat down in the bubbles and stayed there for the next hour and a half—serenely munching toast, biscuits and crisps, and watching his Chitty Chitty Bang Bang video.
“What? Albert didn’t send anything for Jake?” Lizzie said, carving a cross into the base of a brussels sprout. She’d arrived just after ten to give Stephanie a hand. The three boys were in the living room (now minus the wading pool), where Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was playing for the second time.
“Nothing. I mean it’s possible there was some mix-up with the courier company, but it’s unlikely.”
“Anything’s possible at Christmas,” Lizzie said, pincering a stray sprout leaf off her pink-and-white-striped rugby shirt. “Albert’s a lot of things, but he’s not mean.”
“No, but he gets very tied up with his own life and forgets. I know he doesn’t do it on purpose. It’s just the way he is.”
Lizzie wondered if it was too early for a glass of mulled wine. They decided it wasn’t. Lizzie had transported it from her house in two giant orange juice bottles. Stephanie twisted off the top of one of them and poured the wine into a large spaghetti saucepan. It had just begun to simmer, giving off a glorious clovey, cinnamony aroma, when the doorbell rang. It was Estelle and Harry. “But, Mum, I wasn’t expecting you two for hours.”
“Your mother thought you might need a hand,” Harry said.
“That’s sweet, but I did say Lizzie was coming.”
They came into the kitchen. Harry was carrying a Waitrose bag full of Belgian chocolates, truffles and packets of candy for the children. After they’d kissed Lizzie hello, Harry went into the living room to watch TV with the boys.
“I wanted to make sure you had everything under control,” Estelle said.
“Oh, I think everything’s fine, Mum.”
Estelle went over to the turkey, which Stephanie was about to put in the oven. “No, no, darling. You can’t leave it like that. You haven’t greased the inside. What you need to do is gently pull the skin away from the meat. Then you slip your hand inside and smear it with butter. That way it doesn’t dry out. Here, let me show you.”
She took a large Sabatier knife from the drawer and rolled up her sleeves.
“Now then,” she said when she’d finished, “shall I make the sweet-and-sour cabbage?”
“Tell you what, Mrs. Glassman,” Lizzie said, oozing charm and tact, “the twins have been up since six and they’re getting a bit stir-crazy. You and Mr. Glassman wouldn’t take them for a walk in Highgate Woods, would you? I’m sure Jake would come too.”
“Oh, God. Absolutely,” Stephanie said. “Tell him he doesn’t have to take his Bob the Builder belt off.”
“Well, if you’re su
re you can manage. Remember to parboil the potatoes first and shake them afterward. Then the surface gets jagged and uneven and they crisp up better in the oven.”
“Right you are,” Lizzie said.
“You are a genius,” Stephanie said to Lizzie after her parents and the children had gone. “They could use you at the U.N. Security Council.”
After Harry, Estelle and the children got back from their walk, Harry went to fetch Grandma Lilly. They got back a little after one, just as Cass was pulling up in her Z4. Underneath her coat she was wearing a stunning acid green skirt and tight black silk blouse. She was carrying three bottles of champagne and a Harrods Food Hall bag: “Just some pâté and a teeny pot of Beluga.”
Lilly presented Stephanie with a giant box of Milk Tray with a photograph of a Scottish terrier on the lid.
“Oh, and buy something nice for Jakey,” she said, pressing a ten-pound note into Stephanie’s other hand. She was suddenly transported back to all those childhood Hanukkahs and the whiskery old aunts.
The three friends had agreed on no presents for the grown-ups, other than edible contributions and small gifts for the children. But Lizzie, being Lizzie, had gotten presents for the adults, too. Kindling kits. Homemade. Everybody was handed a silver bucket covered in cellophane and topped with a red and green ribbon. Inside were a bundle of twigs neatly tied with more ribbon, corncobs, long matches, dried sage, orange peel and nutshells.
“My God, a Laura Ashley arson kit,” Cass giggled, but only Stephanie heard.
Everybody oohed and aahed and said how clever Lizzie was—even Lilly, who thought it was some kind of trendy bouquet garni.
Cass bought the twins Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare, which Lizzie couldn’t have been more thrilled about. The boys looked distinctly unimpressed until they started flicking through the books. A glistening fake dog poo fell out of one and a patch of gaudy plastic vomit from the other. Lizzie looked distinctly unamused, but the boys had hysterics. Estelle pretended not to have noticed.
“Oh, come on, Lizzie,” Cass said, “it’s Christmas. Lighten up. What did you and Dom get them, a glockenspiel each?”
“No, a puppet theater, actually.”
