Perfect Christmas: The Perfect Disaster Series

by Aimee Horton

  I’m going to have to ask my mother for help.

  So now we’re not having turkey, but we have an assortment of various main courses, which I hope will go with the vegetables. Along with the nut roast, Laura and Oscar are bringing a cottage pie and chicken. Maria is bringing a joint of gammon, and my mother, along with a whole load of judgement is bringing some “nice sausages and a portion of sweet and sour chicken.” It might not be the most conventional of Christmas dinners, but at least there should be enough for everyone.

  We’re going to be OK.

  Now it’s twenty minutes before everyone is due to arrive, and I’m showered, dressed, and attempting to tweak my well-thought-out spreadsheet, replacing things like “baste turkey” with “put cottage pie in the oven.”

  The house is unexpectedly calm, and I feel as in control as somebody can be when their—what I consider to be gourmet—Christmas dinner plans are turned upside down.

  It’s going to be fine.

  Just as I’m getting ready to make another batch of Yorkshire pudding mix, the doorbell rings. Without even having to open the door, I know my mother has arrived. I don’t know how, but I swear the doorbell sounds stressed and anxious. Just how she makes me feel.

  Before I have a chance to prepare myself, the door is open, and our tiny hall is filled with people. My children squeal with excitement at the bags of presents in my dad’s hands. I greet everyone as the twins belonging to Amanda and James burst into terrified squeals at the unexpected noise and unusual house.

  “Why don’t we all go into the lounge?” I suggest, starting to worry how everybody is going to fit into the small room.

  “DARRLINGGG!” My mother sweeps in, handing me two rather-on-the-small-side, freezer bags. “What a catastrophe! I was so looking forward to turkey. We’ve even been having beef on Sundays to build up to the bird.” She takes the glass of Buck’s Fizz Henry has offered her and kisses me on each cheek. “I should have known when you mentioned you had a cat this would happen.”

  “Dirty horrible creatures,” my dad says, turning to Henry and asking for a “man’s drink” instead.

  “It’s not my cat,” I say, for what feels like the hundredth time that day. “I told you on the phone. It’s next-door’s. It keeps sneaking inside.”

  “Well you shouldn’t encourage it,” my mum says.

  Changing the subject, I look at the freezer bags.

  “So erm… How many sausages do we have?” I ask my mother.

  “Four. And a portion of the sweet and sour. Make sure the chicken is heated right through.” I’m about to question how many people she thought we were feeding when she says, “That’s one good thing at least. No turkey means at least she can’t poison us all.” She then makes her way into the lounge and repeats the exact same sentence to Val and Rob.

  “I need a drink,” I say, but before I can open the fridge, the doorbell rings again. As soon as we open it, the house is officially full. Henry’s mum, Maria, and Charles are here, somewhere behind two massive bin liners decorated with tinsel. And behind them are Oscar, Laura and Lexi. The twins, who had just calmed down, start screaming all over again, and Mabel shouts at them to shut up.

  A wave of nausea flows through me, and I take a deep breath before leaning in for kisses.

  Henry’s mother fusses with my hair and hands both children what appear to be life-sized replicas of puppies. “They are just the same as real doggies, except you have to plug them in to charge every night,” she tells the children, as the one that looks like a Dalmatian does what looks suspiciously like a toy poo on the floor. A white poodle with a pink bow starts yapping loudly.

  “I need a drink,” I say again, and this time, as if by magic, my dutiful—and for once, very helpful—husband is by my side.

  “Gin?” he asks, opening the fridge and reaching in for the tonic.

  “You know what?” I say, my stomach lurching. “I actually fancy a Tango—is there one cold?”

  Giving me a strange look, Henry rummages in the bottom of the fridge and pulls out a can. He’s just opening it for me when Oscar comes in carrying foil dishes with cardboard lids, a large freezer bag and a frozen-solid pack of chicken thighs.

  “Voilà!” he says, placing them on the kitchen counter. I grab the Tango from Henry as he leaves with two cans of beer for our guests. Gulping it back, I am relieved as the sugar hits my system.

  That’s better.

  “No gin?” Oscar asks, opening the fridge, and reaching for a beer for himself.

  “Nah, don’t fancy it for some reason,” I say, removing the lids from the foil containers and looking in despair as I realise that yet again, they’re portions for two people, not nineteen.

  “Not like you,” my brother says, and then he laughs. “Last time you were off gin, you were pregnant with Artie.”

  Laughing, I punch him on the shoulder shaking my head.

  “Daft sod. It’s just stress,” I say, although something starts to tick in the back of my head. But then my mind flicks back to the dinner ahead.

  “Everyone likes Yorkshires, yeah? I don’t need a special oil or anything for the vegetarians, do I?” I reach for the eggs and flour. “Go on through, I’ll be there in a second when I’ve just mixed this batter—then we can exchange gifts.”

  It takes me two minutes to mix another jug of batter, then I stick the chicken in the microwave onto defrost.

  Taking a last slurp of fizzy orange, I grab a champagne flute and head into the lounge in time to see Artie open a massive Spiderman remote control car from Oscar, and Mabel a Range Rover ride-on that needs charging up before she can ride it. Henry disappears for a few moments, returning with a couple of extension wires and multiple plug sockets.

  I can’t believe my two-year-old daughter has a Range Rover before me.

  “We’re going to have to buy a new house just so we have room for all these toys!” I say, and Henry rolls his eyes.

  “Any excuse to bring up a house move!” he says, and I beam at him innocently. I’ve wanted to move for a while. It would be nice for the kids to have their own bedrooms now that they’re getting older. And as much as I love our little terrace, the kitchen is quite old. Plus a laundry room so I don’t have to hide the ironing on our bed when we have visitors would be amazing.

  Just as I begin to dream about double garages and an en-suite, I hear my name behind me.

  “Dottie!” I turn to see Val beaming at me, a gift bag in her hand. “I’m so sorry to land us all on you at the last minute.” She hands me the bag. “Here you go. It’s not much, but your dad assured me you’ll love it!”

  Opening it excitedly—I love a good present—I pull out a bottle of my favourite gin, complete with branded glass, and a little bottle of tonic. “Oh Val!” I say, “You shouldn’t have!” I give her a hug, then head into the kitchen and set the bottle on the counter. Squatting down, I open the oven door and check on the chicken.

  For such a small bird, it seems to be cooking slowly.

  In fact, the oven doesn’t feel that hot. Turning it up a bit, I jiffle some of the baking trays so I can slide the Yorkshire puddings in. Then I set the time so I remember to come back when the oil is hot, before finally checking the chicken in the microwave. It’s starting to defrost, but I put it on for another ten minutes just to make sure it’s totally thawed.

  God I’m hungry.

  Reaching into the cupboard, I feel about until I find the nearly empty bag of kettle chips from last night. I stuff a handful of crumbs into my mouth, then another and another. God they taste good.

  Just then, I hear a rattle of a plate. Uh oh. The chocolate log I’d so lovingly created had been placed on top of the microwave, probably when somebody was rummaging about in the fridge looking for drinks. Without even looking, I know what’s happened. Sure enough, as I carefully pull the plate down, my beautiful chocolate log is a puddle of chocolate sauce and curdled Bailey’s cream.

  I look at it in despair, my eyes prickling with
tears, as Henry races into the room with an empty bottle. He reaches for the kitchen roll.

  “Don’t panic,” he says. “But my mum spilt some Buck’s Fizz on the carpet, and your mum cleared it up with the red paper napkin… ”

  I don’t want to look. I only had the carpet cleaned the other week, and already Mabel took her dirty nappy off on it, and Artie spilt a glass of Ribena over it. Taking a deep breath—come on Dottie, man up—I grab a dish cloth, and with a smile plastered on my face, head to the lounge.

  The two women, obviously already the worse for wear after God-knows-how-many glasses of Buck’s Fizz, are giggling like a pair of school girls on the sofa. And as my mother sees me, she sticks her foot out in a hurry, using it to cover the pink stain on the carpet.

  “We can’t take you two anywhere, can we?” I say, forcing myself to laugh. I leave the room without even bothering to clean the stain on the carpet. I dump the remnants of the chocolate log in the bin and stand at the sink counting to ten. By the time I get to nine I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about it, love,” says Henry soothingly. “I’ve Googled it and found a solution. We’ll nip to the shops tomorrow. If everything’s calm in here, why not join us for a second? Come and watch the kids trying to play TWISTER. It’s hysterical.”

  Henry, ever the positive. But he’s right. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I say. I put the defrosted chicken in the oven, and while I’m there, I shake the pigs in blankets and reset the timer. Then I put the cottage pie in the microwave to defrost and check the meatloaf, which is reheating in the slow-cooker. Finally, I grab my glass and head into the lounge where Artie is trying to do left arm green.

  It’s lovely, actually. The rug has been pulled over the stain, and my lounge is filled with laughter. People are lying on cushions on the floor or curled on the sofa, and the children are laughing hysterically as Lexi attempts to help Mabel do left foot yellow. Although I smell a strange odour coming from over by the twins.

  My sister-in-law’s glass is empty, so I grab a bottle of wine and top up her glass. As I set the bottle down, I see a trickle of yellow running down one of the little girls’ legs.

  Please no!

  “Er… Amanda!” I squeak, indicating to her daughter. She jumps and scoops up the child, catching the yellow liquid in her hand. “Bathroom’s upstairs,” I say.

  God, I can’t wait for Mabel to be toilet-trained.

  Cringing, I head back to the kitchen. This is the final run. The Yorkshire pudding, gammon, and cottage pie all need to be in at the same time, and soon the chicken will be out, and we can all sit down. Most of the vegetables are roasting with the chicken, the sprouts are on the hob, and the gravy is ready to go in the microwave.

  Considering this morning’s disaster, I think it’s going to be OK.

  It won’t be perfect, but it will be fine.

  Except—oh God no—I open the oven door and reach in for the tray of oil, and instead of the burning heat making my arms prickle, cold air does.

  Flicking the heat up and down, I realise I can’t hear the fan either.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Walking as calmly as I can across the hall, I poke my head into the lounge. “Hen?” I say, keeping my voice surprisingly level even though I can feel the bile rising in my throat. “Can I borrow you for a sec?”

  Henry stands up and makes his way into the kitchen, and as soon as we are out of earshot, I whisper, “The bloody oven is broken!”

  “What?” We squat in front of the oven, wafting our hands in and out, turning it on and off at the wall. That’s when we realise the microwave is silent, and the light on the slow cooker is off.

  “Shit!” he exclaims.

  Oscar pokes his head in. “Everything alright in here? We appear to be having a slight electrical fault in the lounge.”

  Great.

  Henry and I head back to the lounge. Everyone seems oblivious to the fact that the lights are no longer on.

  “What happened?” I ask my brother, who tells me he went to unplug Mabel’s car and it hadn’t charged, and nothing else had either.

  We go from room to room, trying various plugs and sockets. They’re all off on the ground floor.

  It’s just the fuse gone. Dinner will be delayed, but it’s OK.

  Henry and I check the fuse box in the downstairs loo using my phone as a torch. Sure enough, the fuse switch for the downstairs is off.

  Phew.

  Henry climbs onto the toilet, and balancing precariously, flicks the switch back on. I wait for the lights to turn on and the noises to begin, but nothing happens. I try the light switch. Nothing.

  Shit.

  “Try it again,” I say, desperately, and Henry does. He flicks the switch up and down about five times before climbing down from the toilet.

  “It’s broken.”

  What are we going to do?

  “What are we going to do?” Henry asks, echoing my thoughts. “I’m guessing dinner isn’t cooked enough?”

  “No, no Yorkshire puddings, none of the meat is cooked through and most other bits were due to go in the oven ten minutes ago,” I say in despair. “The potatoes and carrots and stuffing are under a not-yet-cooked-chicken so I doubt they’re safe.”

  “So what do we have?” Henry asks, and even he is beginning to look totally defeated.

  I think for a moment. “I guess we could reheat the meatloaf, nut roast, and sprouts in the microwave upstairs on the landing?” I suggest, thinking that it didn’t sound very appetising.

  “Just meatloaf, nut roast and sprouts?” he asks, as we make our way into the kitchen. “With gravy?”

  I open the fridge and pull out three boxes. “And pizza.”

  ~~~~

  Candles lit, everyone is gathered around the dining table laughing. Laid out in front of us are plates filled with microwaved pizza, breaded chicken and wedges. There are also bowls of Brussels sprouts, nut roast, meatloaf and dishes with frozen garlic bread slices, which have been cooked in the toaster at the top of the landing.

  I can hear the chatter in the dining room while everyone takes their places and corks being popped out of bottles of wine. As I’m carrying the last plate of breaded chicken out of the kitchen, I foolishly pop a piece in my mouth. All of a sudden I feel sick. Quickly, I force the plate into a passing Henry’s hands and run upstairs to the bathroom. I empty the contents of my stomach down the toilet before leaning over the sink and washing my mouth out, panting.

  When the feeling subsides, I sit on the closed toilet with my head in my hands. I really can’t do with being poorly right now. It would ruin today. Because despite all the mishaps, it’s been lovely having everyone here.

  I lift my head, ready to brace myself and go back downstairs. As I do, I catch sight of a nappy bag in the bin, and my stomach lurches again. This time with fear instead of nausea. Oscar’s passing remark about me going off gin flashes into my head, and I remember I couldn’t eat chicken when I was pregnant with Mabel. I start to work things out on my fingers, and as I do, realisation slaps me in the face. I quickly lift the toilet seat and hurl again.

  I’m pregnant.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t think about this now. Standing up, I shake myself and wash my face. I reapply make-up for good measure. Slowly I make my way downstairs and join my guests.

  Henry is standing at the head of the table, holding a glass of champagne. As I sit next to him, he hands me my glass and makes a toast.

  “To Dottie, who against all odds, the neighbour’s cat, the last-minute guests, the supermarket stalkers, and the blown-out fuse, has made us a wonderful dinner, and given us a fabulous Christmas I’m sure we’ll never forget!”

  That’s for sure.

  “To Dottie!” everyone says. “Cheers!”

  Together we raise our glasses, and I set mine down without taking a sip.

  “No champagne, Dots?” Rob asks, laughing.

  “Oh, I’m just hankering after a slice of pizza—let’
s eat already!”

  “No gin and no champagne!” Oscar exclaims. “That’s not the Dottie we know and love. Come on girl, get it down you!” he says, topping up my glass.

  Henry is still standing. He’s been topping up people’s glasses, but he’s now looking at me.

  “No booze, off chicken and eyes bigger than tummy…” he says, slowly. I cringe as I see realisation dawn. I shake my head, hoping he’ll catch on that this isn’t the time for this.

  He doesn’t.

  “You’re…?” he asks, sinking into his seat.

  “I think I am…” I nod looking wearily at him, trying to pretend that there aren’t seventeen pairs of eyes on us.

  “But how?” Henry asks.

  Oscar bursts out laughing. “I don’t think we need that at the dinner table now do we Henry?” Then pushing his chair back, my brother takes the stand. “To Dottie and Henry—for making this a Christmas we’ll never forget!”

  “A Christmas we’ll never forget!” Everyone laughs, their glasses held high. Except my mother of course, whose lips have formed a disapproving line.

  And with that, my stomach flips again. This time, because I can’t imagine how the hell I’m going to cope with three children when I can barely keep two alive. I take a swig of my champagne, spitting it out as I remember I can’t drink any more.

  It’s going to be a long few months… pass the pop.

  A Note from Aimee Horton

  Hello!

  Thanks for reading Perfect Christmas! I hope you enjoyed Dottie’s latest adventures (she’s always up to something, isn’t she?) and got plenty of laughs. If so, I’d love it if you left a review on Amazon. If you do, Amazon will send me a bottle of gin. Just kidding! Even better, your review might help other readers discover it. Just a couple sentences saying why you enjoyed the book will do the trick! Thank you, your words count!

  I’d also like to invite you to join my mailing list to keep up with my latest news and sales on my books, and get a free ebook of Perfect Mix-up (normally $2.99)! You can sign up here: http://bit.ly/aimee-gin-news